Swift as a Coursing River (MadaNaru)

Chapter 4: A Curse of the Heart

Important: There will be two perspectives starting at this chapter. Here is how I will organize it so that you know what's going on.

Naurto:

General text is regular.

'Thoughts'

Flashback(s)

Minato and Kushina:

Minato and Kushina's view will be completely in italics

'Thoughts'

Flashback(s)/Dream(s)

He sat there for such an inordinate amount of time, relishing the feeling of rain on his skin, soaking into his clothes, and representing his sorrows in a refreshing manner. He gazed at his reflection in a pool of water, he could hardly see the strong person he knew himself to be.

He was a free man, he was free to himself, but his father, his mother weren't. His father, he was a brave noble man, who cared for his family, his neighbors and his country, who cared for him regardless of his disgrace to him. His mother, a kind woman who would do anything for her husband, a woman who wanted the best for him though cruel as it may be, a woman who was firey at best and a demon when angered, but gentle and caring even then.

No, he was a free man, but his family needed help, he cared for them to much, he would not forgo their needs for his own.

Finally, with stiff muscles, and a tight chest he set out with a purpose, bare feet on the cold muddy soil he didn't care, his limbs were being filled by an inner fire that he knew lay beneath all of his doubt, all of his fear and uncertainty.

Their ancestral shrines' stone floors were cold, the tombs lay there like forbidding landmarks of a dangerous path he would never retreat from. He lit the incense and let it burn, something he commonly would eschew was praying, he didn't believe in higher miracles. Yet this once his hands clasped together and his head bowed with less than respect and more of determined defeat. Still he let his hopes for his family linger for a moment before he turned and ran into his home, his breath catching, but the tears he held back, knowing there was no place for them anymore.

The warm air of his home was no comfort now, he could easily recognize his father's memorial room of sorts, the sword still hung on the wall sheathed in its leather and silver casing. It was almost foreboding now, yet a feeling of anticipation lifted in him and he took it down with steady hands. He unsheathed the sword, and gently with his non dominant hand lifted a fine lock of his hair, beautiful, long and silken, it proved his worth.

The sword glinted in the moonlight, a fitting shine to a deadly weapon, it was without hesitation that he brought it to his hair and sliced. Close to his face cutting his bangs short, he cut close as he dared to his neckline.

It proved nothing anymore, it was simply dead hair on his floor, and he carelessly stepped over it as he moved to the old wardrobe. He moved the doors apart quietly, careful not to wake anyone.

There he saw his father's old armor. It was pristine, just as he remembered from when he was a child, eager for his father to show him training tricks dips and divots as he weaved around the garden with his smooth feet and quick pace, all with a large smile his eyes crinkled in happiness the love for himself, his family and who he was. He hadn't done such a thing for years, and until this moment he had all but forgotten his silent wonderings to the garden to watch his Dad train and be happy.

If he could bring something back for his father, if he could do that for himself, then all of the turmoil he knew he would undertake would be far more than worth the price.