Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto > If Only
Brought Him Back
1 reviewJiraiya wished he was an Uchiha. He could have gained the Mankeyou Sharingan.
0Unrated
Author's note: Hmm, be warned allusions flying right and left. This was meant to be much, much, much shorter (only 300 words or so). And Jiraiya was still alive at the end. Dunno what the hell happened. The only other thing I've been doing is reading Girl Genius again, and Novocaine's work. Novocaine's more Lewis Carrollian style might have contributed to the poisoned Jiraiya section. But I hope not too much. If you want, Jiraiya can still be alive, just unconscious. He'd like that, a nice fairy tale ending.
Also, further note on the after life. We know from the Edo Tensei business that there is a general concept of Hell in the Naruto'verse. And that at least the Sandaime and Oro-chan are Shintoists. But Jiraiya is a Buddhist. Why did I decide arbitrarily to make a man so attached to his wine and women, to say nothing of all the damage he's probably done as a shinobi, a Buddhist? Because I'm certain that there is a part of Jiraiya that does seek enlightenment, and quite frankly Buddhism has been so incestuously weaved with Shintoism in Japan, that it doesn't really matter that I forgot Jiraiya might be Shintoist until five minutes ago.
General disclaimer: Borrowed Jiraiya and Orochimaru. I am likely to do so again in the near future. I do not own them. Kishimoto does. Ignore my fannish actions, oh benevolent lawyers.
~ ~ ~
The expression was shocked. Jiraiya had expected, well, he wasn’t sure. Anger, maybe. The familiar, rigid mask of pain, perhaps. Peace, unlikely, but the Frog Hermit would have been glad to have seen it. Shock and surprise didn’t belong on that face. It belonged to the genius Orochimaru, after all, and before that to someone who must have fought all their life, and was too jaded to be surprised at death. That’s what Jiraiya hoped, anyway, as he stared at the severed head. He hoped that the body belonged to a fighter, someone who had lost their innocence, their life long before his fellow Sannin wrapped the copper coils of his eyes around the body, and took it. Jiraiya didn’t want to think that it had just been some beautiful child with killing grace, and naïveté still intact. He had been told about Kimimaro.
He could feel the outer layer of skin already rotting away. It would peel and pulp and rip, white and lilac revealing coarse real skin. Pale from the blood lost, but not as pale as Orochimaru truly desired. Jiraiya knew that with a little shaking the black wig will fall away. But he didn’t want to just yet. The grand fireball he used on his former friend’s body left only a smoking ruin of what was once the most dangerous man in the world. He had to save the head so that he could remind himself of a promise he made long ago.
“You bastard,” he snarled at cracking visage in his lap. The purple tongue was lolling out of the mouth so unpleasantly. Orochimaru was rotting, and obsessed, and so fucking ugly, why hadn’t he been able to see it? He’d wanted the respect of this /thing/. “You know what, you gay sonuvabitch?!” His own shoulders were shaking because the sannin, who he would have been shaking around if everything was the proper fairytale it should have been, didn’t even have a borrowed body left anymore. “You know what, you sneaking, slithering, aging, ugly /bastard/?! They. Are. Better. Than. We. Are.”
He couldn’t believe the hate that was suddenly coursing through him. It was a roaring beast of flame that chewed on his intestines; that made him glare into the shocked, surprised face. The face that normally wore only the elegant passions of anger, smugness, and cruel pity.
“Naruto. Is. Better. Than. Me. Sakura. Is. Better. Than. Tsunade. And you know what, you farking little play-acting puppet?! You better have taught Sasuke to be better than you. Because if you didn’t you’re gonna fucking ruin it! And when I storm into Hell it won’t be to bring you up before Buddha, and Tsunade, and Sensei, and plead for your worthless, rotten, twisted soul. Plead for a reincarnation that will. Let. You. Know. What. It. Is. Like. To. Love. When I storm into Hell, if Sasuke’s there and not in Konoha, I’ll sit down right next to you buddy, pay for my sins, and then leave you burning and alone. ‘Cause if you ruin this for them, if Sasuke isn’t better than you are, if he doesn’t know enough to come home, if you twisted him so bad Naruto and Sakura can’t pull him back from your abyss, I will make you suffer in every way imaginable. It’s a promise, Orochimaru-kun. Just like I promised Tsunade and the Third I’d bring you back. Well, I brought you to Sensei, at least, you cold hearted, traitorous, hateful leech! And Tsunade and I will come up behind you, just like old times. And I don’t care how fast you try to slip away from us. You aren’t fast enough under the eyes of Heaven. I’ve brought you home, Orochimaru. I’ve brought you home!”
The sun set. Jiriaya stood, and tossed the rotting, shattered face into the air. The seals of the grand fireball formed, and the head was incinerated. There would be no coming back without escaping the judgment of Heaven. Not this time. The old man breathed out heavily. He hoped the Uchiha boy Naruto cared for so much (and that boy was a very different person from Uchiha Sasuke who’d betrayed his friends and his village for revenge) would approve. He winced. He didn’t even have the strength to summon a tadpole at the moment. And he needed to get to an antidote specialist like Tsunade fast. Oh so very fast, indeed. Letting Orochimaru’s attacks and their poison get into him had been very, very stupid. But then he’d always been the stupid one hadn’t he? Good thing Naruto was better than he was. Naruto could make it a fairy tale. Where best friends were best friends. Not back-stabbing, skin-shedding evil BASTARDS.
Jiraiya fell. Why couldn’t Orochimaru return the favor at least once? Just once? And try to catch him. Maybe it was revenge for the fact that Jiraiya had always been too late to catch him. Maybe, the snake’s final embrace was too much. The fangs sank in deeper. He’d wait for Tsunade to come. Sure, being the Fifth ate up her time, but she’d always have time for him, right? Time to think about him? Orochimaru always made the time, even when he was telling Jiraiya that he was stupid. Tsunade never had made the time.
Jiraiya continued to fall into Orochimaru’s abyss. He wished he was an Uchiha. He’d always wondered what the Mankeyou Sharingan was like. Funny. It shouldn’t be like this. He’d killed hundreds. Hadn’t always wanted to, but that’s what you did. He’d killed hundreds, and a snake would finally do him in. But, who would be able to meet him, and listen to his story, about the nothing man who would be king. About how his face had been burned away, and all that was left was rolling plains, stretching away. About how he’d been the lord of snakes. About how looking at his kids, his precious, twisted works, made them all despair.
Jiraiya. Hit. The. Ground.
No one asked the ero-senin if he was all right.
Also, further note on the after life. We know from the Edo Tensei business that there is a general concept of Hell in the Naruto'verse. And that at least the Sandaime and Oro-chan are Shintoists. But Jiraiya is a Buddhist. Why did I decide arbitrarily to make a man so attached to his wine and women, to say nothing of all the damage he's probably done as a shinobi, a Buddhist? Because I'm certain that there is a part of Jiraiya that does seek enlightenment, and quite frankly Buddhism has been so incestuously weaved with Shintoism in Japan, that it doesn't really matter that I forgot Jiraiya might be Shintoist until five minutes ago.
General disclaimer: Borrowed Jiraiya and Orochimaru. I am likely to do so again in the near future. I do not own them. Kishimoto does. Ignore my fannish actions, oh benevolent lawyers.
~ ~ ~
The expression was shocked. Jiraiya had expected, well, he wasn’t sure. Anger, maybe. The familiar, rigid mask of pain, perhaps. Peace, unlikely, but the Frog Hermit would have been glad to have seen it. Shock and surprise didn’t belong on that face. It belonged to the genius Orochimaru, after all, and before that to someone who must have fought all their life, and was too jaded to be surprised at death. That’s what Jiraiya hoped, anyway, as he stared at the severed head. He hoped that the body belonged to a fighter, someone who had lost their innocence, their life long before his fellow Sannin wrapped the copper coils of his eyes around the body, and took it. Jiraiya didn’t want to think that it had just been some beautiful child with killing grace, and naïveté still intact. He had been told about Kimimaro.
He could feel the outer layer of skin already rotting away. It would peel and pulp and rip, white and lilac revealing coarse real skin. Pale from the blood lost, but not as pale as Orochimaru truly desired. Jiraiya knew that with a little shaking the black wig will fall away. But he didn’t want to just yet. The grand fireball he used on his former friend’s body left only a smoking ruin of what was once the most dangerous man in the world. He had to save the head so that he could remind himself of a promise he made long ago.
“You bastard,” he snarled at cracking visage in his lap. The purple tongue was lolling out of the mouth so unpleasantly. Orochimaru was rotting, and obsessed, and so fucking ugly, why hadn’t he been able to see it? He’d wanted the respect of this /thing/. “You know what, you gay sonuvabitch?!” His own shoulders were shaking because the sannin, who he would have been shaking around if everything was the proper fairytale it should have been, didn’t even have a borrowed body left anymore. “You know what, you sneaking, slithering, aging, ugly /bastard/?! They. Are. Better. Than. We. Are.”
He couldn’t believe the hate that was suddenly coursing through him. It was a roaring beast of flame that chewed on his intestines; that made him glare into the shocked, surprised face. The face that normally wore only the elegant passions of anger, smugness, and cruel pity.
“Naruto. Is. Better. Than. Me. Sakura. Is. Better. Than. Tsunade. And you know what, you farking little play-acting puppet?! You better have taught Sasuke to be better than you. Because if you didn’t you’re gonna fucking ruin it! And when I storm into Hell it won’t be to bring you up before Buddha, and Tsunade, and Sensei, and plead for your worthless, rotten, twisted soul. Plead for a reincarnation that will. Let. You. Know. What. It. Is. Like. To. Love. When I storm into Hell, if Sasuke’s there and not in Konoha, I’ll sit down right next to you buddy, pay for my sins, and then leave you burning and alone. ‘Cause if you ruin this for them, if Sasuke isn’t better than you are, if he doesn’t know enough to come home, if you twisted him so bad Naruto and Sakura can’t pull him back from your abyss, I will make you suffer in every way imaginable. It’s a promise, Orochimaru-kun. Just like I promised Tsunade and the Third I’d bring you back. Well, I brought you to Sensei, at least, you cold hearted, traitorous, hateful leech! And Tsunade and I will come up behind you, just like old times. And I don’t care how fast you try to slip away from us. You aren’t fast enough under the eyes of Heaven. I’ve brought you home, Orochimaru. I’ve brought you home!”
The sun set. Jiriaya stood, and tossed the rotting, shattered face into the air. The seals of the grand fireball formed, and the head was incinerated. There would be no coming back without escaping the judgment of Heaven. Not this time. The old man breathed out heavily. He hoped the Uchiha boy Naruto cared for so much (and that boy was a very different person from Uchiha Sasuke who’d betrayed his friends and his village for revenge) would approve. He winced. He didn’t even have the strength to summon a tadpole at the moment. And he needed to get to an antidote specialist like Tsunade fast. Oh so very fast, indeed. Letting Orochimaru’s attacks and their poison get into him had been very, very stupid. But then he’d always been the stupid one hadn’t he? Good thing Naruto was better than he was. Naruto could make it a fairy tale. Where best friends were best friends. Not back-stabbing, skin-shedding evil BASTARDS.
Jiraiya fell. Why couldn’t Orochimaru return the favor at least once? Just once? And try to catch him. Maybe it was revenge for the fact that Jiraiya had always been too late to catch him. Maybe, the snake’s final embrace was too much. The fangs sank in deeper. He’d wait for Tsunade to come. Sure, being the Fifth ate up her time, but she’d always have time for him, right? Time to think about him? Orochimaru always made the time, even when he was telling Jiraiya that he was stupid. Tsunade never had made the time.
Jiraiya continued to fall into Orochimaru’s abyss. He wished he was an Uchiha. He’d always wondered what the Mankeyou Sharingan was like. Funny. It shouldn’t be like this. He’d killed hundreds. Hadn’t always wanted to, but that’s what you did. He’d killed hundreds, and a snake would finally do him in. But, who would be able to meet him, and listen to his story, about the nothing man who would be king. About how his face had been burned away, and all that was left was rolling plains, stretching away. About how he’d been the lord of snakes. About how looking at his kids, his precious, twisted works, made them all despair.
Jiraiya. Hit. The. Ground.
No one asked the ero-senin if he was all right.
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