New Moon

Prologue

MORING

Mornings for Hyūga are tiresome. They woke at seven, ate breakfast, practiced clan blessings, prepared. Everyone strode with a severe face and stiff posture. No one smiled or said Good morning, what are you doing today? They nodded, silence their greeting. An outsider would suffocate in heavy air and terse walls. Dogs, the lively animals they are, would run at first glance. The Hyūga thought nothing of it.

Please understand: they're decent enough people. Just—folk are flawed. The Hyūga more so.

But, in this tale, the Hyūga played a small role. Instead, it focused on a girl, or a woman, who sought to be a Hyūga. But, as civilians are not shinobi, moths not butterflies, she's not Hyūga. She is too kind. The Hyūga meet many traits, but not kindness. They shudder at its mention. Hinata, on the other hand, is kinder than a nun. The Hyūga could never accept her.

It's this that caused a tragedy that people dared not gossip.

THE LONELY

War is lonely. It snatched lives for comfort. Tens turned into hundreds, hundreds into millions—then they were numbers. People sympathize with war because they are lonely too. The Hyūga isolated Hinata. For company, she struggled and suffocated and endured. She was lonely, so she found war.

THE MEDIA

In 17th December 968 Konoha Weekly printed its 82nd edition. The article read, "Today, we give our condolences to the Hyūga. At 7:25 am, a bomb exploded. Someone planted the bomb months ago. We are unsure of the attacker. Seven Hyūga died. The bomb injured Hyūga -san's children, Hyūga Hinata and Hyūga Hanabi. Stay tuned and we'll update you soon."

Yes (surprise, surprise), it was a bomb. Ironic, isn't? A bomb sneaked into the Hyūga manor, despite their all-seeing eyes. The eyes they boasted and bragged. What's more—they were the village's only bomb detectors.

The Hyūga manor was among many tragedies. The bomb snagged district 23: a hub of civilians, workplaces, factories and civilian resources. But the media ignored that—truly, they ignored hundreds—for seven Hyūga. Hyūga who snarled and spat on poverty. It's unbelievable enough it's laughable.

They silenced pets who searched streets day and night for their owners. They shunned families. Families that lost their belongings to taxes and, despite this, donated piggy-bank savings to the war. For children whose smiles fed life into the stale air? They shoved them into a pit and shovelled dirt on their memory.

But—please—forgive them. War makes people selfish.

HOPE

Some people declared they heard it ticking. Others said they 'predicted' the explosion. That, however, is bullocks. There was no warning, an eerie silence. It was as unexpected as they came. When it exploded, hysteria devastated many. But confusion robbed the people of their hope.

You see: the war was (finally) finished. The Hokage signed a treaty and proclaimed peace. For five months, everyone relished in steady harmony. People forgot the taste of impending death, their dread of heavy silence, the stunk of paranoia. Flimsy as their grasp was, they caught hope—terrifying, wilted hope.

The bomb stomped on their hope.

For Hinata, she had so much hope that it destroyed her.

THE SKY

The sky knew.

Sometimes the sky is smiling.

Other times it is warning.

On occasion it is lying.

That morning it was mourning.

THE BOMB

It destroyed her home, her only photo album, her gowns, her grandma's bridal ring (a gold, white topaz ring with garnet [her grandmother's birthstone] in its crown), her savings, a nursery that she nurtured an hour every night, and keepsakes of her mum. Now, she thought, it will consume me too. She's right. Its flames—how they roared and bellowed and rumbled! —inhaled her. Its breath cradled her skin and hissed menace into her ears. Come to me, it said. Its smell slapped her. It reeked burnt wood, smoke, and ugly glee.

Hamstrung by its venom, her body refused to move. Her limps liquified and her brain mashed, like boiled potatoes. Every thought was incoherent and groggy.

She could've fought back. But here's the truth: some people, more than less, delude themselves to believe the last-minute courage. They deceive themselves because the constant stories and plays shoved in their face. They laugh at Prince Charming and The Captured Princess, but they believe the soft-pedalled stereotypes. How is a final courage any more believable? When people see a little-tougher, little-bigger enemy, they wither into themselves, like a flower cowering from Winter. Hinata abided by this truth.

Indeed—she shrivelled, cowered, grovelled. She was, more or less, dust; too-harsh a breath and she dwindled.

And she would've died. However, through a fug of smoke, dirt and paper flakes, she saw her sister. She lay with her back facing the world. To Hinata, it was surreal sight. Her sister: the strongest, the fiercest—the favoured daughter. Yet, there she was, cowering and crying, screaming loud enough that it flew over the chaos. Hinata, touched by despair and hoisted by love, ran. The flames had licked her legs, and she felt its touch, like swarf or shavings, nailed into her skin as she ran.

This was, of course, not courage. It was not heroism, nor bravery. It was compassion and only that. Courage, you see, requires the act of saving one's self or another. She did neither.

But, for a girl like Hinata, courage was unnecessary—her love was plenty.

Collapsing, she shifted Hanabi's head to her lap. Her hand smoothed over her hair, and sweat and a ghoulish tint seasoned her skin. Hanabi's eyes closed enough that wrinkles and high-cheek bones showed. Her tears mixed with sudor. Hinata eyes surveyed her for injuries. She gasped. Hanabi's shirt consisted of tatters that smothered her back here and there. Amongst the mess, blood poured. It tarnished her skin red—grim red, almost black. Like dark, dark chocolate.

Hinata hands went to her back, trying to stop the blood-flow, and she felt Hanabi's skin, sticky and like minced meat.

"Oh Hanabi," she breathed. She brought her closer, her hands still clutching her back, and rested her head on hers. She whispered words of comfort. (Hanabi watched their house, alit in destruction and flames, and her eyes bled gold. She muttered, her voice trembling from choked breaths, Why, why, why?)

When the great beast towered over them, Hinata brushed Hanabi's baby hairs and kissed her forehead. Even with her eyes closed, tears spilled. Hanabi stared, her gaze unfocused as if she awoke from a nap.

The rescue team arrived minutes later, with words (the only words) that Hinata loathes, "Don't worry: we're here now."

The doctors admitted them to a hospital for two weeks and declared Hanabi a civilian. For two weeks, Hinata hated herself. Because Hanabi was special, meant for great things—not her. Why not me? Hinata thought. Her father, his lips pressed and gaze frigid, commanded, "Starting from now, you are heiress." She would be a Hyūga.

And that thought, Hinata found, was terrifying.