Chapter: A Candle in the Rain
Outside, the sky was its typical gray, the sort of soft, indefinite drizzle characteristic of Amegakure. The rain itself was a fixture here, as regular and ubiquitous as breathing. But today, in the muted heat of the orphanage nursery, things were different.
Lighter.
Softer.
Kagerō blinked open to the scent of something sweet, and not the standard mashed fruits or formula. His green eyes transitioned to the morning light passing through the pale curtains, rivulets streaking across the glass in a soft rhythm.
There it was, perched on the little table next to the crib area: a wee cake.
Wobbly in form, lopsided in frosting, and topped with half-melted candies pushed into the sides by little, clumsy fingers.
But it was perfect.
His eyes opened a little wider. The shock wasn't in the cake itself, he had overheard the kids whispering the day before, attempting to be covert while shoving sweets under their pillows, but in the attempt.
The intent.
A dozen of the little toddlers gathered around the table, cheeks puffed with anticipation, eyes shining as they watched Mera place a solitary candle in the center. The candle teetered precariously. It wasn't burning. They didn't have any matches.
But the idea was there.
"Kagerō," Mera's voice whispered from the doorway, a bit winded. She was carrying two newborns wrapped in cloth, and another tied to her side with a sling. Her hands were full, her hair disheveled, and her apron stained with formula and the disarray of a morning rush. But her eyes were warm. "Happy birthday, little soldier."
He sat up in his crib, dangling his legs over the side as he yawned and rubbed at his eyes.
Two years.
It had been two years since he'd opened his eyes on this earth. Since the seal had been branded into his neck. Since he'd first known the burn of chakra, the sting of venom, and the odd warmth of Mera's humming as she rocked the babies to sleep.
He fell off the crib, coming down with practiced facility. He was moving controlled, cautious. Not stiff like a grown-up doing a child act, he'd adjusted by this time, but cautious, thoughtful. Kagerō had always walked as if he knew where he was going and never made unnecessary trips.
The other children scampered around him with joy, pushing small gifts into his hands. A scribbled drawing on a leaf. A piece of smooth stone. A red button. A handful of crushed candy.
"Happy Birthday, Kage-nii!" a girl named Riko beamed, tugging on his sleeve with syrup-stained hands.
"Yeah! You're two now! That's like. almost a grown-up!" said Yuta, the loudest of the lot.
Kagerō smiled at them softly, the smile natural on his face for all the turmoil of thought that was going on behind his eyes. "Thank you," he responded quietly, his voice firm but gentle.
To them, he was simply Kage-nii. The big brother.
Since the day he had learned to crawl, he'd assisted Mera in small gestures. If there was a crying baby, he'd tug her apron strings softly. If someone had been soiled, he'd scrunch up his nose and gesture. He'd rock cribs when her arms were laden, and give his blanket to sleep when another child couldn't.
It wasn't always a matter of being efficient. It was about steadiness.
Mera, for all her strength, was stretched thin. And Kagerō had long decided that if he had to survive here, it would be not just with skill, but with goodwill.
And so, Kage-nii was born.
A little boy with dark, curly black hair that used to be so long now, all grown wild and silky with the dampness. His green eyes always observed, always saw. His calm, quiet demeanor was like an old soul trapped in a child's body, oddly reassuring.
"Blow out the candle!" someone chirped.
"It's not even lit," another said.
"Pretend!" Riko commanded.
Kagerō leaned over the wonky candle. The others leaned over as well, faces tense.
And he blew.
They cheered like he'd summoned a jutsu.
Mera laughed, exhausted but joyful, and stepped closer as she gently rocked the newborns. Her voice lowered to a murmur only Kagerō could hear. "You've grown so much, haven't you?"
He looked up at her, holding one of the candy-smeared paper drawings in his hands. His lips twitched upward again. "So have you," he replied, deadpan.
She blinked. Then laughed, again. "Smartass."
But her face softened. Her eyes rested on his face, his longer hair, his serious eyes, the faint burden that never seemed to lift from his shoulders.
It frightened her sometimes. That he wasn't actually a child. That he carried something older, heavier.
She didn't realize how correct she was.
"I just hope." she began, then faltered.
Kagerō cocked his head. "What?"
Mera smiled and shook her head. "Nothing. It's your birthday. You don't have to worry about anything today."
He didn't believe her. He never did.
But he nodded nonetheless.
She leaned forward a little, balancing the baby on her arm with practiced ease, and laid a soft kiss on his temple. "You're still just a little boy, Kagerō. It's okay to be one. At least for today."
Kagerō didn't say anything.
He turned around to the other children, allowing himself to be tackled into a hug of sticky hands and warm laughter.
And for a fleeting instant, just for this day—
He allowed himself to be two years old.
_________________________________________
The scent of sugar still lingered in the air.
The cake was already devoured. Or rather, destroyed in a mess of sticky hands and laughter. Kagerō had just succeeded in pulling Riko off his back when it occurred.
A figure came into the room. Sudden. Weighty.
The atmosphere changed.
A wave of chakra tension swept through the nursery like a tempest, closing down the laughter. All the children looked toward the door through which stood a figure that cast a severe shadow across the wood floor.
The same man.
Kagerō saw him at once.
He donned the Hidden Rain flak vest, the same rebreather mask hanging off his jaw, and a chilly countenance like damp steel. His eyes were impassive. But they latched onto Kagerō with a purpose that was too intense for any ordinary call.
Kagerō got to back up one step before the jonin shifted.
His hand shot out, swift and without ceremony, hauling Kagerō up by the back of his tunic as if he were some rogue cat. The instant shift in weight caused Kagerō to grab the jonin's forearm reflexively, eyes pinching tight, not in terror, but in measured, icy calculation.
The jonin sneered.
He set two fingers to Kagerō's forehead. There was a soft ripple of chakra through the contact spot, and his face flashed with shock.
"Genin-level chakra already," he grumbled, voice rough and pleased. "I knew you were special when we marked you."
The hand on his tunic clenched.
"Now, prepare to move to the Shinobi Ward. Your training starts."
The room erupted into chaos.
"No! You can't take him!" Riko cried, holding his leg.
"Where's he going?! Why now?!" another screamed.
Mera advanced, voice shaking. "He's only two—! That's too early!"
The jonin spun, his sneer slow and deliberate. "Don't get too sentimental, caretaker," he spat, the word dripping with contempt. "You think orphans are raised for sentiment? They're war fodder. Raised just long enough to wield a kunai. Trained just enough to die in place of those who are important."
His words cut the room like a kunai against glass. Cold, brutal and final.
Kagerō didn't blink.
But something moved in his chest. Not anger, not sorrow.
A determination that pushed against his ribs like armor being hammered within his skin.
The jonin regarded him once more, his voice strangely paternal, near proud. "Forget this place, boy. It isn't part of the life that lies before you."
Kagerō gazed back at him.
He was two years old. Little. Barefoot.
Smudge on his face from crumbs.
And yet, deep within him, he knew.
He knew more than the jonin would ever comprehend.
But forget?
How could he possibly forget this place?
The warm food. The hushed concerns of Mera at night. The first time a baby stretched out to him rather than her. The patter of rain against the nursery window when the world outside seemed a distant land.
He couldn't forget.
And he wouldn't.
This place wasn't just his beginning.
It was his purpose.
His purpose to grow.
His reason to fight.
His reason to win.
Because if this was the world of war, then he would be its specter. Its blade. Its secret cutting edge.
He faced the children.
His siblings.
Their cheeks were smeared with tears, bewildered, frightened, not old enough to know what this actually was. But they held on to him in any case.
Kagerō smiled at them faintly. It hurt the fear like sunlight cutting through clouds of storm.
"I'll come back," he told them.
His voice, barely more than a whisper, silenced the room
"I'll make it so none of you ever have to leave this home."
Then he turned to Mera.
Her eyes were glassy. She suppressed the tears with a will he was all too familiar with, her back rigid, her jaw locked. But when he put out his hand and gently touched her hand, she fell to the ground, arms wrapped around him as if she never wanted to release him.
"Kaa-san," Kagerō whispered, just loudly enough.
She shattered.
A choked sob broke out of her as she buried her forehead against his shoulder. "You're still just a child," she whispered. "It's too early... It's too early for you to leave…"
But Kagerō had already accepted it.
Early or not, he had to go.
And one day, he would come back.
As something more than a branded orphan.
As something greater than fate.
He stepped out into the room with the jonin, the noise of rain thundering in his ears louder than it ever had been before.
And behind him, the warmth of a home gradually faded, until it became a promise