Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto > Base/Line
None of the children of the Sound had families, but all of them could remember their mothers.
For some of them, it was ephemeral. It came to Zaku in the strong smell of alcohol, to Kidoumaru in the very occasional time when Tayuya patted him on the shoulder instead of punched him, to Kin in the snatch of an old song. For Sakon, it was a horrified scream from nowhere that woke him in the night; Ukon comforted his twin, and never spoke of his own, clearer dreams, of a woman's pale, delicate face contorted in horror, begging the ANBU man leaning over her shoulder to take the thing away, to leave it on a hillside to die. Kimimaro never had a chance to remember consciously, nor did he question why Orochimaru-sama's voice was the only thing that made him feel safe and loved.
It was harder on the ones who remembered most clearly. Jiroubou's mother was the only one who had argued against exiling him from the clan at age seven, because there was no way her son had meant to deplete that other boy's chakra to the point where the child was left comatose, and she'd cried when they'd hauled him away. Tayuya scorned his sentimentalism; her own "mama" had burnt her tongue with hot wax every time she'd dared speak harshly or out of turn, and she in turn had thrown a burning oil lamp at the wall of the older woman's teahouse before running off into the night. She never mentioned this to Dosu, whose own calm and practical mother had hidden him in one of the cupboards at age five; from there he watched his father, mad with jealously and rage, cut his wife's throat, set the house aflame, and leave his son to burn and find his own way out.
Orochimaru understood all this perfectly. Children without mothers were lost, like sunflowers without the sun.
The ease with which he became their sun was almost laughable.
= = = =
Challenge was: mothers
For some of them, it was ephemeral. It came to Zaku in the strong smell of alcohol, to Kidoumaru in the very occasional time when Tayuya patted him on the shoulder instead of punched him, to Kin in the snatch of an old song. For Sakon, it was a horrified scream from nowhere that woke him in the night; Ukon comforted his twin, and never spoke of his own, clearer dreams, of a woman's pale, delicate face contorted in horror, begging the ANBU man leaning over her shoulder to take the thing away, to leave it on a hillside to die. Kimimaro never had a chance to remember consciously, nor did he question why Orochimaru-sama's voice was the only thing that made him feel safe and loved.
It was harder on the ones who remembered most clearly. Jiroubou's mother was the only one who had argued against exiling him from the clan at age seven, because there was no way her son had meant to deplete that other boy's chakra to the point where the child was left comatose, and she'd cried when they'd hauled him away. Tayuya scorned his sentimentalism; her own "mama" had burnt her tongue with hot wax every time she'd dared speak harshly or out of turn, and she in turn had thrown a burning oil lamp at the wall of the older woman's teahouse before running off into the night. She never mentioned this to Dosu, whose own calm and practical mother had hidden him in one of the cupboards at age five; from there he watched his father, mad with jealously and rage, cut his wife's throat, set the house aflame, and leave his son to burn and find his own way out.
Orochimaru understood all this perfectly. Children without mothers were lost, like sunflowers without the sun.
The ease with which he became their sun was almost laughable.
= = = =
Challenge was: mothers
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