Maross

Maross

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Stalking through the various halls of a traditional Japanese home wasn’t very interesting, even to someone who was completely acclimated to bland, absolutely neutral spaces. In his boredom, he had stomped down each corridor at least five times, trying to figure out what He would want him here, bored, for. He’d pried up various floorboards, opened each book carefully, checked each bird, each rock, each spider innocently spinning webs, dangling from proud stalks that were stronger than steel by ratio.

But it was so boring.

Even after all the years of just lying, not opening his eyes, breathing as steadily as he could, trying consciously not to think of anything, not to move, to not damage himself. At least that was constant, but to be ripped once more from the clutches of something familiar and plunged into utterly testing circumstances? It was just too much.

A chakra flare, unbidden, but unnoticed, spiked through the terra-cotta tiles, staining the roof with his signature. When he was unstable like this, he had little or no chakra control, and even less patience. He was born a warrior, raised a warrior, lived a life of struggle and mostly eventual failure, but he tried. Gods, he tried.

He ground his teeth in frustration, trying not to yell. What the hell did He want him to do? What would He want him to do? He would probably tell him to see beneath the beneath, or something else that made equally less sense. A sigh escaped his lips, jaw loosening, and he slumped to the floor. Ever since the disease had ruined him, he was of no use to Him. He had gone off to find Himself a different container, disappointment and disapproval heavy on His lips. It had broken him, crushed him, to be so worthless. To his further disgrace, He kept him alive, for some unknown reason, a kindness the kind of which was never granted, mystifying the other inhabitants of the complex. Even though he was useless, He kept him alive. Perhaps He cared for him.

And that was why it hurt to still be alive. He wanted to return His kindness, his gesture of a softer side never exposed, not for almost thirty years, not even to His right-hand man, Kabuto; but he was of absolutely no use, and it pained him to be so weak. Would that his pain was of some use to Him; but no, the gods would not grant him even that. He had finally found somewhere to place his worth, to pledge his loyalty to, and then…. Then his knees were cut out from under him; he was made a burden onto That which was most precious to him.

He shook, head in his hands, sobbing hollowly, body racked with sadness. Never had he cried! Not even that day, that day when he was told of his disease, that he was rejected as a candidate for containership. Even then, he had simply listened, shoving the anger and pain and the tears to the bottom of his heart, ignoring them for His sake. It hurt! Why did it hurt so? Why--

“Why am I so useless?” he asked the empty house, clutching his head as if it would break into a thousand pieces. “What did I--”

He paused, whipping his head to the left, fingers still digging into the sides of his scalp. Someone was here.

“Tadaima,” called the intruder.

I’m home?

The boy stood shakily, scrabbling at his elbow, which had grown and extruded a small hand-knife, completely by reflex, a reaction to the tightness in his chest. What’s happening? Something is happening, he observed dimly, focused on the person at the door, who had taken off their shoes and thunked inside, not caring if anyone heard them. He took one step forward, testing to see if he could walk, and then another, and another. His face tightened into a frown of concentration, then relaxed completely into a mask of calm, readying himself for various situations he had memorized by brute force from the books about psychology he had read, explaining a normal human’s reaction to various stimuli. He continued to pad his way down the hall and around the corner, into the kitchen, staying in the shadows.

Finally.

The white-haired teenager laid his body flat against the wall, observing the person before him. No people had been in the house for six months now, not even any of the people on the street, whispering to themselves as if no one could hear, shooting the mansion curious looks. Perhaps something on the outside of the house was particularly interesting. He wouldn’t know, not having gone outside himself. Watery teal eyes, flanked on the bottom and sides closer to his ears by red tattoos, darted back and forth, looking startled at the clothes dumped on the floor, the fire started in the fireplace, resting, unsure, on the strangely-shaped items on the table. His namesake eyebrow-tattoos, common among nobles for the last six centuries up until the de-establishment of the feudal system ninety years ago, rose in confusion along with white eyebrows. He gripped his bone knife tightly, frowning in concentration.

The house’s absentee owner looked up suddenly, staring straight into the boy’s eyes, and he cursed inwardly, his face twisting in disappointment that he didn’t fool the house’s original caretaker. He looked so sad that for a moment the nin was disarmed completely, melting into an empathetic puddle.

“Kimimaro, would you like to have some eggs? They’re fresh.”

Kimimaro froze, jerking back in surprise at finding that this person knew his name. But h-he… I-I thought that… His calm melted completely and he slid to the floor, defeated. The man standing above him sighed and tsk-ed as he gently slipped his hands under the other’s arms, then under his knees, carrying him like a wounded deer to the futon in the corner, where he set him down, then sat next to him, legs crossed. He studied the white-haired male for a moment before offering his hand as if he expected to shake with him. Kimimaro studied it quietly for a moment before looking back up at the other’s face with a stare so intense and unnerving that he blinked a moment, then looked down. The slightly shorter of the two saw his hand and realized.

“You grasp it with your opposite hand and shake it. It’s a gesture of greeting.”

Studying his hand unsurely the whole time as if it would bite him, the one sitting on the futon did as he was instructed, and the chuunin grinned, shaking it firmly.

“What… what are you doing here?”

The near-black eyes of the person in questioned widened. “I… I live here…” he explained calmly. “This is my house. And you…” he pointed accusingly at the young man sitting on his futon. “You seem to be a squatter. I saw you in the Bingo Book. Kimimaro, Sound nin. Jounin. Correct?” Kimimaro nodded slowly. “Good. I’m Nara Shikamaru. I’m only a chuunin… It’s not like I could win if I tried to beat you, so I’m just hoping you’re not feeling particularly hostile at the moment.” He squatted, hands on his knees, and stood up, walking back over to the stove where he grabbed the pan, cursing softly, and shook the almost-burnt eggs onto a plate. With a flamboyant whirl, he turned to face his discovery, offering him a plate and chopsticks. “Here you go. Itadakimasu!” he chorused, digging in.

Kimimaro just blinked.

What was he supposed to do with this?

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The beginning of a story. Is it any good?

The title is not a made-up word; it’s made of Latin roots, and it’s perfectly legitimate. Mar- or mare- meaning ‘ocean’ or ‘sea’ and os(s/t)- meaning ‘bone’, as in osteoporosis.

So it means ‘sea bone’.

As you may have guessed, He is Orochimaru.

‘Tadaima’ means ‘I’m home’ and ‘itadakimasu’ is something you say before you eat.

Comment, or I’ll send an angsting Sasuke to talk your head off!