Chapter Text
If you asked Kairi, Wednesdays weren’t just the best day of the week—they were the only day worth waking up for. Her mother, of course, would disagree. She would roll her eyes, let out one of her trademark exaggerated sighs, and deliver a sarcastic remark about how anyone soliciting her daughter’s opinion was clearly begging for misery. But Kairi’s mother didn’t have to spend half the week juggling a toddler who had somehow mastered the art of chaos and a job so dull it felt like her soul was slowly being chipped away. So, in this particular debate, Kairi’s opinion reigned supreme.
Wednesdays might start earlier than she liked—dragging herself out of bed before the sun even considered rising, prepping her best dishes, and hauling a sleepy toddler across half of Konoha—but they came with a reward: escape. A reprieve from the monotony, from the isolation, and from having to be the sole adult in a conversation consisting largely of toddler babble and toy negotiations. Wednesdays were for laughter, for camaraderie, and for being among people who didn’t require her to filter every word. They were, without question, her sanctuary.
This morning was no different. The air already clung heavy with the relentless heat of summer, its dry weight pressing against her skin like an unwelcome blanket. Navigating the labyrinthine streets of the village, she caught the faint aromas of early cooking fires—charcoal smoke laced with the subtle saltiness of steaming rice and the earthy tang of miso. Somewhere further along, the sharp clang of a vendor’s bell rang out, the crisp note slicing through the murmurs of early risers. Her sandals scuffed against the uneven dirt path, her steps steady despite the weight she carried.
Manahimeko was nestled against her, limp with the boneless heaviness of a child not quite awake. The toddler’s cheek was warm against Kairi’s shoulder, and her small fingers clung tightly to the fabric of her yukata. Her hair, tousled from sleep, clung to her damp forehead in unruly strands, and her breaths came slow and rhythmic like the tide ebbing at a distant shore. Though she was light as a breeze, the heat radiating from her small body only added to the oppressive warmth, sticking the cotton of Kairi’s yukata to her skin. Shifting her grip, Kairi pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Manahimeko’s head, her lips brushing against strands of dyed black hair.
“Almost there,” she whispered. The little girl stirred, murmuring something unintelligible before burrowing closer into her mother’s shoulder. A flicker of affection tugged at Kairi’s lips, softening her expression despite the weight of the morning.
The thought of the day ahead buoyed her steps. A younger version of herself would have been racing down these streets, her joy bubbling over in bright, unrestrained laughter. Even now, she felt a quiet hum of excitement stirring within her as she adjusted the woven basket slung over her arm. Just a few more turns. Soon, she’d step into the embrace of her Wednesday haven, leaving behind the weight of the week’s loneliness. For a few precious hours, the world would feel lighter.
Her destination was her favourite place in Konoha. Technically, it was a training ground—though it went mostly unused, despite its prime location near the administrative centre. Not enough suiton users in the village. Nestled against the cliffs that bordered the west side of Konoha, it was home to the only lake within the village walls.
Its waters stretched still and glassy in the early morning light, reflecting the warm golds and pinks of dawn like a mirror of molten metal. At its southern edge stood a vivid red torii gate, its reflection shimmering in the ripples stirred by the lake’s soft current. Behind the gate, a grand waterfall cascaded down the cliff face, its roar muffled by the distance, creating a mist that caught the sunlight in tiny rainbows. To the east, a narrow stream carried the lake’s overflow back to the Naka River, its gentle burble mingling with the symphony of the waking day.
By the time Kairi arrived, the lake’s shores were alive with activity. A few hundred people had already gathered, their presence transforming the quiet training ground into a vibrant tapestry of life. Blankets in every imaginable shade of blue were spread across the grass, many laden with intricately packed breakfasts. The rich aroma of rice balls, pickled vegetables, and sweet azuki-filled buns wafted through the air. Most of the people wore traditional clothing in varying shades of blue. Their hair was tied back with colourful cloths, each family’s pattern a unique marker of their shared heritage.
Children dashed about the lakeshore, squealing as they splashed in the shallows or chased each other across the soft grass. Their laughter rose in peals that echoed against the cliffs, mingling with the sound of the waterfall. Nearby, teenagers loitered with practiced indifference, their expressions torn between amusement at the younger children and a reluctant acknowledgment that they had once been just as wild. An elder sat cross-legged on a blanket, his voice rich and steady as he spun a tale to an eager group of wide-eyed children.
Kairi lingered on the edge of the gathering, letting the atmosphere soak into her. The sounds, the smells, the sights—it was all so achingly familiar and precious. Around her, greetings were exchanged in warm, accented voices that carried a rhythm she had known her entire life.
These were her people—the remnants of Uzushio.
Here, surrounded by that exuberance, Kairi could finally relax. Here, she could let herself be Uzumaki Kairi without reserve.
A soft squirming against her shoulder broke her reverie. Manahimeko was waking, stretching her little limbs as her eyes blinked blearily against the bright morning light. Her dark eyes widened as they took in the colorful scene before her. She let out a small gasp, then began wriggling with more determination, her tiny hands pushing insistently against Kairi’s shoulder.
“Down!” she demanded, her voice thick with sleep. “I wanna go down!”
Chuckling, Kairi shifted her grip and gently set the toddler on her feet. “Alright, but stay by the lake, okay?”
Manahimeko barely waited for the words, toddling off with unsteady enthusiasm, her small form quickly disappearing into the crowd of familiar faces. Kairi watched her go, unbothered. Here, among their people, Manahimeko was safe in a way she could be nowhere else.
She glanced over at the elder still telling his tale. He spoke of Uzushio, painting a picture of fearless whirlpool riders and seals so powerful they could calm raging storms. Even some of the adults had paused to listen, their gazes distant as if the elder’s words had pulled them back to memories of their own.
This was why she cherished these gatherings. For all the grief and pain their people carried, they had held on to something precious: a community. A place to belong. A family for her daughter.
At 21, Kairi was the eldest of the youths, while her mother, at 55, was the youngest of the elders. An entire generation stood missing between them, lost in the flames and blood of Uzushio’s fall. That absence had carved a hole in their community, one that could never be truly filled.
But here, by the lake, surrounded by laughter and voices that carried echoes of home, the ache dulled just a little.
She remembered the night her world had shattered.
It had all started with the alarms—a shrill wail that tore through the stillness of night like a blade. Kairi had been just eight years old, nestled in the warmth of her narrow bed. Her parents had burst into her room, their faces pale and tense. Her mother’s voice had been urgent but steady, her hands pulling Kairi upright and slipping a heavy coat over her shoulders. Her father had already been armed, his face as stoic with his blade strapped to his hip and the familiar seals adorning his forearms like a second skin. His eyes, usually gentle, glinted with the sharpness of impending danger. Kairi’s heart had begun to race, not fully understanding why. All she knew was that something terrible was unfolding.
Her older brothers were already at work, moving with practiced precision. Jinpachi, the eldest at sixteen, had his armor on, his expression grim but determined. Haruki, his twin, was carefully inspecting his sword, his every motion slow and deliberate. Ryoji, still just a boy at thirteen, fumbled with his weapons, his hands trembling as he tightened the straps of his kunai pouch. The air in their home was thick with an unspoken tension—everyone knew the gravity of the situation, but no one dared speak of it outright. Kairi could barely hear Jinpachi’s voice, low and hushed, but the words pierced her all the same: “We’ll hold them. We have to.”
That moment would haunt her forever, the last time she saw any of them. Her father stood tall, poised and confident, while her brothers, so young yet determined, wore the fervent resolve to protect what mattered most. She wished, with every fiber of her being, that she had taken the time to hold them, to speak to them longer than the rushed goodbyes they’d exchanged in that final moment.
But her mother hadn’t let her linger. “Come, Kairi,” she’d said, her voice tight as she took her daughter’s hand and led her away from the chaos. “We’re going to the shelter.”
The walk through the darkened streets had been a blur—a surreal blend of confusion and disbelief. The village, usually so alive with the sounds of everyday life, was now eerily silent, save for the hurried footsteps of families rushing to safety and the distant roar of the sea crashing violently against the cliffs. They had descended into one of Uzushio’s underground shelters, a place designed to withstand the worst. The cavern, reinforced with seals that had been passed down through generations, was cramped but sturdy. Other families had already gathered there, faces pale and drawn under flickering lamplight casting strange shadows on the walls.
Then came the waiting.
Kairi had clung to her mother, the only source of comfort in the strange, suffocating silence. Her mother’s normally steady hands trembled slightly as they gripped her, a quiet reminder that no one was immune to fear. The whispers of prayers passed between the families, voices low but insistent. The elders spoke of the seals—how they were ancient and unbreakable, how they would protect them until help arrived. Some of the mothers tried to hold onto normalcy, cooking in the dim light, their hands moving mechanically as if to prove they still had control over something. Others attempted to distract the children, gathering them together for lessons to keep their minds occupied. The routines became their armor against the uncertainty, even as the world outside seemed to hold its breath.
And then came a dull rumble—a sound that would forever be etched in her memory. The vibrations of the earth beneath her feet told Kairi everything she needed to know. Fighting had begun, somewhere far off but close enough to feel the shockwaves.
Her memories scattered as a voice pulled her back to the present.
“Kairi-san!”
A boyish voice called from behind her, brimming with enthusiasm. Kairi turned, startled for a moment before she saw him—a young teen with messy black hair and a bright, infectious grin.
"Iruka-kun, I haven’t seen you in a while," she greeted him, her tone warm.
But when he reached her, her smile faltered. It was impossible to miss the bandages wrapped across his nose and the top of his cheeks, covering the marks of a recent injury. The sight caused a knot of worry to tighten in her chest.
“What happened?” she asked, concern overtaking her voice.
Iruka shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I was on a mission in the Land of Tea...”
As the words left his mouth, Kairi’s heart ached. They were so few of them left and now their children, too, were starting to fight and bleed for Konoha.
She swallowed, pushing down the flood of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her, focusing instead on Iruka’s presence, the warmth of his youthful energy.
Yet even as she tried to shift her focus, her mind raced. The ghosts of the past lingered, and the weight of all they had lost pressed heavily on her chest.
The barrier seals held for three weeks.
But in the end, help never came. Hope gradually faded, replaced by a cold, hollow resignation. There was no more room for fear, no time for despair. The Uzumaki were alone. No one would come to their aid. Not Konoha, not anyone. They could only count on themselves.
The genin and non-combatants, like Kairi and her mother, were sent ahead through the treacherous whirlpools that separated Uzushio and the land of Fire. It was a desperate gamble, but it was the only chance of survival they had left. It was a place where the raging currents would tear apart any ship that dared to navigate through them. Where the chakra cost of water walking would discourage everyone sane. Nobody ever accused the Uzumakis to be reasonable.
It took them three days and three nights to cross the aptly named Forbidden Sea. As they water-walked through the dangerous whirlpools, the chakra demands were crushing—each step pushing their limits. The entire time, Kairi had clung to her mother’s back. From her perch, she saw a few Kiri-nin start following them, confident in their water affinities. The arrogant fools drowned far before they reached the shore. Only Uzumakis and their deep chakra reserves, forged by generations of living in harmony with the very elements that sought to destroy them, could hope to survive. And survive they did. Every last one of the escapees reached land. Crying tears of exhaustion and running on their last forces but alive.
Back in Uzushio, the Uzukage and the remaining adult shinobi had stayed behind, sacrificing themselves to cover their escape, and, most of all, to power an array of seals seared in the foundations of the village at its inception. The last Uzushios fighters put all their remaining chakra into them. Feeling them weakening, Kiri and Kumo sent all their remaining forces for what they thought were the last push. And that’s when the Uzukage activated the self-destruction seals.
The Uzumakis died as they lived, in a chaotic conflagration of untamed power. The shock-wave swatted the attacking fleet against the reef and the fires burned for days. Whatever was not destroyed by the explosion was consumed by the flames. In the end, there was nothing to pillage, nothing to loot, only the scent of ashes in the air and an island slowly sinking into the ocean. All Kumo and Kiri got for their efforts was a pyrrhic victory that cost them more than they could lose and got them none of the secrets they came to steal.
Try as she might, Kairi could never remember the sounds of that night. But the images remained, forever seared in her mind. She saw the adults go back to their feet while their eyes were still reflecting the afterimage of the explosion. She watched the silent tears fall down their cheeks with the slow realization that everything they had known was gone. That the only viable way was forward.
And so, they ran. Through the night, through the day, pushing their bodies to the breaking point. Exhaustion gnawed at their bones, but still, they ran. The days blurred together as they fled from the destruction of their home. The people of Uzushio had always been known for their resilience, and now, in the face of annihilation, that was all they had left. They carried with them the weight of loss, the whispers of their ancestors, and the unyielding will to survive.
Years later, when the children of the survivors would gather to learn about the fall of Uzushio, they would call it the Weeping Fugue. It was the only fitting name for those days, when nothing else mattered but the salt of their tears and the feel of the ground under their feet.
Once, in the dead of the night, crushed under the silence of the absentees, her mother would admit that she knew what would happen after they fled. But that there was a world of difference between knowing and understanding, and that she discovered it too late.
Kairi never dared ask her mother if she would have preferred to stay behind with the rest of their family. The thought was too painful. It was a truth Kairi wasn’t strong enough to face.
Iruka’s voice broke the silence once more, bringing Kairi back to the present.
"Kairi-san?" he asked, his tone softer now, a hint of concern in his eyes.
Kairi blinked, shaking herself out of the memories. She forced a small smile, despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her. "Sorry, I got lost in thought," she said, trying to regain her composure.
Iruka seemed to understand more than he let on, though. He didn’t press her for more. Instead, he grinned, his youthful energy filling the space around them like sunlight as he regaled her with the tales of his heroics.
Iruka’s father had been the one in charge of leading their escape. He knew the whirlpools and currents around their island home better than anyone. She remembered him well. He had a steady presence but cried easily. He used to say sorrow is a quiet stream, but joy is a fountain to be shared. He met a pretty chuunin from the barrier corps, a bright-eyed woman with an infectious smile. Their whirlwind romance had been like a breath of fresh air in a time otherwise suffocated by grief. Iruka’s father had somehow found the courage to embrace happiness again, showing the way forward once again.
Kairi could see echoes of his parents in Iruka, in his broad smile and mischievous eyes. But she could also see the weight of their memory in the tense lines of his shoulders. She wondered if the Uzumakis were doomed to suffer.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of excited voices. A trio of young children dashed up to Iruka, their faces lit with enthusiasm as they chattered animatedly about jutsu and their training. Kairi watched them for a moment, a soft smile curving her lips as the children, full of innocence and hope, eagerly sought his attention. She let them have him, turning away to find a place to settle for the day.
She quickly realized, however, that there was no space left in the sun. It seemed she had arrived too late. The blankets and mats were already scattered, a patchwork of colors across the grassy ground, and the best spots were already claimed.
As she searched for an empty spot, Kairi couldn’t help but feel the ever-present discomfort of being surrounded by Konoha’s towering trees. After over a decade of living here, she still wasn’t used to how bloody tall they were. The trees seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky, their thick trunks rising up like silent sentinels. It was jarring in comparison to the landscape of her childhood.
Uzushio had trees, of course, but nothing like these. Their island had no towering oaks or majestic pines that reached into the heavens. Instead, they had palms, fruit trees, and, most of all, an abundance of flowers. She spent her childhood surrounded by vibrant colors—delicate yellow jasmines, sweet-smelling pink honeysuckles, and bright orange bougainvillea that twisted up the white village walls. And of course the blue as far as the eye could see, infinite sky and infinite sea. In comparison, Konoha was just so…green.
It was thick, overwhelming, and verdant in a way that made her feel closed in. She missed the open air, the sense of space that had defined her childhood. Konoha’s dense forests and thick foliage—while beautiful—felt like a prison in comparison.
“What do you have against the poor trees anyway ?”, the familiar voice of her mother asked from her right. She had a sixth sense for Kairi’s moods. She always seemed to appear at her side whenever a complaint was about to leave her lips.
“They block the sun,” she muttered.
Her mother raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the complaint. “They bring shade.”
Kairi shot her mother a deadpan look, knowing that she would never let her grumble in peace. Her mother had always been the type to make light of everything, even when Kairi was at her most melancholy.
The older woman’s grey hair was loosely braided, and her face was prematurely aged. Deep lines for deep sorrows. But her eyes remained as bright and intense as they were in Kairi’s childhood.
“One would think you’d have learned to appreciate greenery by now. You live in a forest,” her mother said with a gentle smirk, her voice dripping with the affection only a parent could offer.
Kairi sighed dramatically, slumping a little. “I didn’t sign up for this much greenery,” she muttered, but there was no real malice in her words.
Kairi’s house was deep within the Nara lands. It was a quiet place, with sprawling trees that stretched tall, their branches entwined in a permanent, heavy canopy. The air was thick with the scent of earth and moss, the distant murmur of leaves rustling in the breeze providing a constant backdrop. But Kairi never felt at peace here—not entirely. While the Nara thrived in the cool embrace of the forest’s perpetual shadows, she still longed for the relentless sun of Uzushio.
“Don’t give me that look. How many times do I have to tell you? You have to adapt. We live in the village hidden in the leaves. The village certainly won’t change for you,” her mother said, her voice tinged with a rare sharpness, tired of repeating herself.
The words stung each time. Kairi knew the truth in them, but it didn’t make the bitterness go away.
The memories of those first days in Konoha were as vivid as ever. They had run for four days and four nights, fleeing through unfamiliar terrain, barely pausing to rest. Their bodies had been exhausted, their minds numb from grief, but they had pushed on, desperate to reach the safety of Konoha’s walls.
When they finally did, Mito-sama had been waiting for them. The legendary Konoha matriarch had sensed them coming. Kairi would never forget the raw despair that had crossed her face when she understood the full extent of the tragedy.
Mito-sama welcomed them into Konoha with warm hands but no words of comfort. She knew that nothing could mend the gaping loss they all felt, and it was this understanding that spoke louder than words ever could. Only time could hope to dull the pain.
Of the twenty messengers sent by the Uzukage, none had reached Konoha.
At least it was the official version served to them. But Kairi remembered Haruki. Her brother had been as fast as the winds and he had flying summons. He was the first one sent to ask for Konoha’s help as soon as Kiri’s ships cropped up on the sensors’ range, even before they emerged on the horizon. Nothing should have stopped him. And if he had fallen on the journey, they would have found his body somewhere along the way.
Kairi never spoke her suspicions aloud, but she wasn’t the only one who felt the sting of doubt. But they never had a chance to search for the truth.
Mito-sama passed away a few weeks after their arrival, and with her, all the promises made to the refugees. The memories of men were short. Oh! they raged war in their names but it did not stay their hand when the opportunity for betrayal came. While Kiri and Kumo went in strength and numbers to crush them, Konoha killed them with kindness.
Shell-shocked, reeling from the loss of everything they had ever known and in the midst of another bloody war, they did not notice until it was too late, already caught in a subtle web of exploitation. The civilians were welcomed with open arms, housed in the clan compounds, fed, clothed, and sheltered. The clans did not put much effort in hiding their intention of breeding the Uzumakis ‘s vitality and deep chakra pools into their lines.
Their few surviving shinobi were assumed too young to know much of the Uzumaki’s secret techniques but were still easily assimilated into the Konoha forces. All of them were encouraged to change their name, officially to protect the last of the Uzumakis from being hunted in the field.
And as time went on, Kairi watched, helpless, as the village that had promised them refuge slowly began to swallow them whole, erasing all traces of the Uzumaki legacy while reaping the benefits of their strength.
In the quiet moments when Kairi allowed herself to feel the weight of all she had lost, she couldn’t help but long for a bygone era.
Uzushio had been a family strengthened by time, an island full of vibrant Uzumaki, their power as wild and untamable as the seas that surrounded them, seals woven into every aspect of their lives. Uzushio had been chaos in the most beautiful, exhilarating way, a whirlwind of colour and sound.
And here they were now, landlocked and scattered in Konoha, their legend dimmed after only twelve years, a footnote of History. They were forced to dull their edges and hide their colours, lest their hosts start remembering why two nations sacrificed thousands of soldiers to crush them and decide to finish the job.
Kairi had not seen the sea since that day. There were times that she could almost feel the heat of the sun on her skin again. She could almost hear the distant call of seagulls above the crashing waves, the wind tugging at her hair, the salt of the air filling her lungs. She could imagine standing at the water’s edge, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the ocean reflecting its fiery hues. The sense of peace and freedom she had once known seemed so close, so tangible, that it physically hurt to remember it.
And then she opened her eyes to towering green and the injustice of it all weighted over her shoulders again.
Her daughter had never seen the sea. She would never know the beaches where generations of Uzumaki children played before her. She would never race her cousins across the black sand beaches, the burn of the sand on her feet as she tried to outrun the waves. She would never spend long, lazy afternoons collecting the seashells used to produce the purple dye that made Uzushio’s fortune. She would never share her first kiss while the last rays of the sun set the waves ablaze in a symphony of red and gold. So many staples of island life that she would never know to miss. The heartbreak of that truth lingered in her chest like a weight that never quite lifted.
Gasps echoed around her and Kairi’s gaze snapped back to the lake. Maybe Manahimeko would never get to enjoy everything Uzushio once offered but she was alive.
...and she was standing on the lake.
Her daughter,not yet three years old, was water walking. No hesitation. No fear. The child had simply run, without a care, her little feet striking the surface of the lake with perfect ease. Not a single ripple broke the surface. She was walking, or perhaps dancing, across the water as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
A stunned silence descended upon the crowd. Conversations had stopped. All eyes were on the toddler, their disbelief palpable. Here was a child—barely out of infancy—displaying chakra control that far surpassed the abilities of teenagers six times her age.
Kairi’s heart swelled, her emotions bubbling over, and for the first time in years, a laugh—loud and full of joy—burst from her chest. She was not the only one. It was a laugh of pride, of relief, of love. A laugh that echoed across the lake, a sound that had been buried under the weight of years of grief and loss.
They bowed their head and kept their voices muted. But it took more than that to tame an Uzumaki. Their spirit survived. And their legacy lived on.