Chapter Text
The Hyuuzu Clan’s reverence of fire was steeped deeply in the abilities they trained in amongst their clansmen, but it was also part of their spiritual practices: upon death, every member of the clan is ceremoniously burned on a pyre at their funeral. A fourth of their ashes are left buried in their village for their comrades and neighbors to mourn them, but the remaining ashes are taken to a necropolis situated on the Land of Fire’s north-western border.
Jiro Hyuuzu made it a point to take a yearly pilgrimage to pay respects to his mother’s ashes, and sometimes he brought his begrudging daughter along with him–though he was in the midst of training her for something larger than a yearly respect to a lost loved one.
“I really don’t wanna be here,” Hyourin groaned as she saw the gates to the necropolis loom through the trees. “I’d rather you go back to putting me through–”
“The most brutal training of your life, I know,” Jiro finished his daughter’s complaints with a finger to his lips. “Remember, can’t say what it is out loud because it’s super-secret.”
“Okay, I’ll put it this way,” Hyourin hissed, “I’d rather be drifting into unconsciousness on the ground wondering if I have a concussion than sitting in a dusty, dark tomb that smells weird and is full of the ashes of my dead family members.”
“We’ll only be here for a day, give or take.” Jiro reassured. “Even if you don’t want to offer your memorials to your grandmother, or your great-grandmother, or your great-great grandmother, or your…”
Hyourin quieted as her father went on. “I get it. Fine.”
“Thanks, kid,” Jiro reassured. “I’ll have you flat on your ass and full of chicken curry as a reward in no time.”
Above-ground, the necropolis had a large estate not uncommon on properties owned by the Hyuuzu clan. It was there to house visiting members of the clan to pay their respects and deliver remains, as well as those in the clan who had taken up tending to the necropolis. The undertaker that greeted them was a younger man than Hyourin had expected–he could have only been two or three years older than her, with long silver hair and warm golden eyes. He was dressed in the ornate hakama that marked him as one of the elite undertakers of the necropolis.
“Taihou-sama,” he greeted with a bow, “It’s an honor to meet you and your heir.” He straightened his back and gave an even more courteous bow to Hyourin, who regarded him with a frown of disapproval and a roll of her eyes.
“Please, no need to be formal, I’m here all the time,” Jiro said with a wave of his hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, what’s your name?”
“My name is Hiroshi, Jiro-sama. I only came to the necropolis within the past year to become one of the ash-tenders.”
“You seem to be doing a fantastic job based on the clothes and armor they’ve given you,” Jiro said with a clap on his shoulder, “Then you should know I come here every year around this time to leave a prayer and some offerings at my mother’s ashes, and this year I’ve brought my daughter as I’m in the middle of training her to be the next Taihou.”
“A very brutal regime she seems to be taking in stride.” Hyourin scoffed and looked away.
Jiro gave a sympathetic smile to his daughter and whispered to Hiroshi, “She’s recently lost a close friend of hers. I think the distraction is good for her, but she’s not in the greatest mood. I’m trying to be as emotionally gentle as I can be, so forgive me if she’s rude.”
“Then allow me to get you into the necropolis without further ado, Jiro-sama. Your quarters and a nice dinner will be waiting for you in the evening.”
“I want tonkatsu curry with big chunks of potato, the big pork buns, and a warm bath,” Hyourin said immediately.
“That can be arranged, Hyourin-sama,” Hiroshi said with a nod. Hyourin could tell she’d irritated him, even through his very polite demeanor. It gave her a lift of levity, even if most of her moods for the past three months were mostly described as shitty.
The necropolis itself was below-ground, in a massive chamber that was always being expanded upon. Each village was given its own chamber, so that immediate family members could be buried together. Konohagakure’s chamber was the largest, as it had the privilege of being the largest branch and the most important one.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since we came to put grandmother’s ashes away,” Hyourin muttered through the silence. “The big statue is new.”
In the middle of the chamber stood a statue of a woman–the resemblance to Hyourin and her grandmother was very strong in her features. Narrow, piercing eyes with curled hair, armor reminiscent of that worn by the founders of her village, raising in one hand a flaming katana and brandishing a massive war fan behind her back in the other. A massive urn–larger and more ornate than any of the others in the chamber–sat between the statue’s legs, along with a mounted katana reflecting the light of the braziers surrounding it.
“She looks badass,” Hyourin mused aloud.
“That,” said Jiro, “would be your great-great grandmother, Tsukinowa Hyuuzu. Whenever we talk about the Matriarch, that’s who we’re talking about. The entire structure of the clan is based on her decrees and she earned us the political power we have today.”
“Badass,” Hyourin repeated, “How did she make the sword get set on fire like that?” She’d be capable of taking the Fire Dance to another level if she could channel the flames through her tessen, if there was a trick to it to be learned.
“The katana was made special for her,” said Jiro, “it was tuned specifically to her chakra and only lit when she willed it. No one has been able to light it up again since she died.”
“Aw, fuck,” Hyourin swore. “Do we know the blacksmith who made it? Is it like a special technique that still exists somewhere? C’mon, I gotta get a pair of fans that can do that.”
Jiro shook his head. “We don’t know, kid. Being a nomadic clan that only started writing most of our family history down in records when the Shinobi villages were founded, we only have the oral stories about it to go off of. All we know is it was a gift from a blacksmith whose life she saved, nothing more.”
“Well, shit,” Hyourin muttered. Jiro gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before he went off to the corner where Tsuki Hyuuzu’s ashes were kept.
She stood staring directly into the reflective light of the sword. It was barely above her forehead level, she could easily grab it. She’d be careful.
Something simply compelled Hyourin to grab the sword and hold it in front of her face.
When Jiro turned back around, he was met by the sight of his daughter holding a flaming katana in front of her face with a look of awe locked in her eyes.
“Why did you pick up the katana, Hyourin?” was the first thought he was able to vocalize.
“I dunno,” Hyourin said, her eyes locked and mesmerized by the flames. “I had a gut feeling to grab it.”
“And how did you get it to flame?”
“I dunno, dad!” Hyourin shouted, “It just started doing that when I touched it!”
Jiro ran a hand through his hair, “Holy shit,” he muttered, “My daughter has a presence strong enough to match the Matriarch.”
“I’ll put it back,” said Hyourin as she began to return the katana to its stand.
“That’s–wait, you don’t have to.” He ran and grabbed his daughter’s hand.
“No,” said Hyourin, “this was a dead woman’s sword, I shouldn’t have grabbed it.”
“No, no,” said Jiro. He slipped the sword from Hyrouin’s hand and held it in his own. The flame dancing along the blades immediately dissipated. “Don’t you see?” He grabbed his daughter’s hand again and made her hold the sword, the flame immediately returning to its edge. “The rule was always, when Tsukinowa died: if the flame returns to dance on the edge of my blade, return it to its rightful owner.”
Hyourin looked at the base of the statue. Sure enough, there was an entire plaque that had that exact phrase written on it.
“Oh.”
“This is a huge fucking deal, Hyourin.”
“Yeah. Yeah I get that.”
Everything after was a blur to Hyourin. There was a lot of chatter and excitement amongst the tenders to the necropolis. Lots of people were speaking to her in awe, but she wasn’t sure what to think. Suddenly, she had to learn a new weapon–a good distraction from her other problems, a new layer of brutal training to get accustomed to, an honor amongst her clansmen, and yet…
Even as baskets of pork buns and several plates of aromatic tonkatsu curry were placed along a table in front of her, the flaming katana now sat across her lap in its saya, something felt off to her.
The attention was too much while she was still mourning him, that’s for certain. She tuned it out, the chatter all bled into the same background chatter one would hear at a busy market. Her eyes fell on the stars in the sky she could see out the windows.
Whatever same gut feeling had pulled her toward the sword, was now pulling her towards something else.