Three years turning into four. That year flowed like the turbulent waters of the rivers cutting through Kirigakure—sometimes calm on the surface, the mist-kissed air carrying the faint scent of salt and earth, but always with strong currents beneath, carrying changes that I hadn't anticipated. My body had gained shape: legs longer, capable of running across the courtyard without falling every step, the cool stone beneath my feet grounding me as I chased shadows in the dim light. Hands that held the brush with growing firmness, the wood smooth and warm from constant use, ink staining my fingers like badges of persistence. The calligraphy my mother had taught me for a year had become part of me, fluid strokes dancing on the paper like jutsus in formation, the sharp metallic smell of ink mingling with the damp humidity that clung to everything. My secret chakra training progressed in the shadows, leaves and stones stuck to my skin under my clothes, a constant tingle against my flesh, a reminder of the power I was cultivating, the energy humming like a distant storm. But that year was more than personal evolution; it was the year I truly rooted myself in this crazy family, leaving behind the echoes of Erick and embracing Arashi as if I'd never been anyone else. It was the year I started to love this life, seeing it not as a prison, but as a collective shield, a web of bonds that protected even in the storms, the warmth of shared hugs cutting through the chill mist.
Everything started to change visibly right after my third birthday. The compound, with its damp stone walls that glistened like sweat under the lanterns, and echoing corridors where footsteps sounded like whispers, always pulsed with life, but that year, the air seemed heavier, charged with anticipation, like the moments before a heavy rain when the mist thickens and the world holds its breath. Three of the wives—Miyu, the second, with her serene smile that lit up her face like a soft lantern; Akemi, the seventh, full of energy that bubbled like a spring; and Nagi, the ninth, with her stories of the sea that carried the salty tang of waves—announced pregnancies. At first, nothing changed externally; the bellies hadn't rounded yet, but the buzz began, a low hum of excitement and care that filled the common rooms. I saw it in the whispered conversations in the courtyard, the stronger scent of medicinal herbs wafting from the kitchen like a comforting fog, the mothers exchanging complicit glances over steaming cups of tea. "Take care, Miyu," Hanae, the first and informal leader, would say, her voice steady as she passed a hot tea, the steam rising in curls that carried the aroma of ginger and honey. "No efforts." It was fascinating to observe how the clan adapted, like a living organism responding to a new cell, the air alive with the soft rustle of skirts and the gentle clink of cups.
For the first time, I saw the treatment given to the pregnant women up close, the way the compound transformed into a protective nest, the air thick with the scent of soothing oils and herbal brews. The mothers gathered around them like hens guarding their chicks, an instinctive and fierce sisterhood that wrapped me in its warmth even as an observer. Hanae, with her practical strength that felt like the solid stone underfoot, took on the role of chief guardian, massaging swollen feet with heated oils, the aroma of lavender and mint filling the humid air, cutting through the constant dampness like a ray of sun. "Lie down, Akemi," she would order, her voice firm but laced with affection, while preparing hot compresses that steamed gently, the heat rising to warm the room. "Your feet look like swollen clouds—let me ease them." Akemi would laugh, a bright sound that echoed like bells, reclining on the bench with a sigh of relief, her hand resting on her belly as the warmth seeped in, relaxing muscles I could see tense from carrying the extra weight. Nagi, with her maritime origin that brought the faint scent of sea salt to her clothes, shared seaweed teas for nausea, the salty and earthy flavor lingering on my tongue when I tasted a sip hidden, pretending to play nearby. "Drink slowly," she advised Miyu, who smiled gratefully, her protective hand on her still flat belly, the tea's steam curling up like mist within mist.
It was a prosperous relationship, full of companionship that I didn't expect in such an unusual structure, the air alive with the soft murmurs of support and the gentle touch of hands helping one another. Ten wives, from varied origins—slums with their gritty resilience, pleasure houses with elegant grace, subordinate villages with earthy wisdom—united not by forced friendship, but by a shared need for survival that bound them tighter than blood. They exchanged recipes for swelling, the kitchen filled with the bubbling sounds of pots and the spicy aroma of ginger roots boiling, stories of past pregnancies shared over needlework, laughter about the father's moods that lightened the heavy air. "Remember when I carried Daigo? Isamu brought fresh fish every week, his face all serious like he was delivering a mission report," Hanae would tell, her voice warm with memory, and the others would laugh, a chorus of joy that filled the room like sunlight piercing clouds, adding their own anecdotes with animated gestures. There was no visible jealousy; instead, a mutual support that fascinated me, a tapestry of emotions—concern in furrowed brows, joy in shared smiles, relief in exhaled breaths. "If one falls, we all fall," Rina, the elegant fourth wife, said once, her voice soft as silk as she helped Nagi to stand up, her hand steady and warm. It was as if the entire clan pulsed with this protective energy, the pregnant women at the center, surrounded
I inserted myself into all this subtly, my small presence weaving into the fabric of their daily rituals. At three years old, I "helped"—bringing damp cloths that smelled of clean water and herbs or teas steaming with comfort, babbling words that now formed simple sentences, my voice high and innocent but my mind sharp. "Mama, hot tea," I would say, handing a cup to Miyu, who smiled and pulled me into a hug, her arms soft and enveloping, smelling of herbs and light sweat, a comfort that wrapped around me like a blanket against the chill. Her embrace was warm, her heartbeat steady against my ear, a reminder that this family, strange as it was, offered protection I hadn't known in my past life. It was no longer Erick observing from the outside, detached and analytical; it was Arashi, part of the nest, feeling the pull of these bonds like roots taking hold in fertile soil. That year, I left the past name behind, like old skin shed in the mist, sloughing away with each shared moment. It dissolved in the shared laughter that echoed through the halls, in the casual touches—a ruffle of hair, a hand on the shoulder—in the sense of belonging that grew slowly but surely, like vines climbing the stone walls, tenacious and alive.
My brothers were the heart of this transformation, their presence a constant whirlwind of energy that pulled me in. Daigo, now eleven, was the model genin, returning from missions with stories that made the younger ones' eyes widen like full moons, the air thick with the scent of sweat and earth from his travels. "First real payment," he announced one evening in the common hall, the smell of dinner—grilled fish sizzling on the fire, rice steaming with a nutty aroma—still lingering. He handed a handful of coins to the mothers, the metallic clink bright and promising in the dim light. "For the clan. It's not much, but it helps." Pride filled the environment like the warmth from the hearth, wrapping around us; Daigo was no longer the only provider besides the father, his contribution a small but significant lift to the burdens that weighed on the family. He lifted me on his shoulders afterward, his laugh rumbling through his chest, the feel of his solid muscles under my legs a pillar of strength. "Little shark, one day you'll bring more than me." His shoulder was broad, smelling of sweat and the faint tang of blood from a recent scrape, a reminder of the dangers he faced, and I was starting to admire him not just as a brother, but as a protector.
Rokuta, nine years old, was the brother I "fought" with—play that involved rolling in the courtyard, the damp earth sticking to our skin like a second layer, the mist cooling our heated faces. "Come on, Arashi! Show your teeth!", he provoked, his voice booming with excitement, pretending a fight with exaggerated growls. I "attacked" with soft fists, feeling the heat of the filtered sun on our skins, the grass prickly under my knees, the laughter bubbling up from my chest unbidden. He laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the walls like thunder, and helped me up with a strong pull, his hands rough from training. "You're tough, huh?" The feel of his grip, firm and brotherly, stirred something in me—affection, real and raw.
Nao, seven years old, was the quiet one, but shared calm moments that grounded me—sitting next to me during calligraphy, showing his strokes with a focused intensity, the fresh ink smell sharp in the air, the brush whispering against paper. "Look, like this," he said, his voice low and steady, demonstrating a curve with precision. We practiced together, the younger ones like Kenta and Hajime scribbling next to us, the hall full of laughter and ink smudges that stained our fingers black, the air alive with the soft scratches of brushes and occasional giggles when a stroke went wrong.
Calligraphy became collective, a shared ritual that bound us. My mother expanded the lessons, gathering the smaller ones—me, Haruto, Toma—for group sessions in the common room, the air thick with the metallic tang of ink and the faint humidity that made the paper curl slightly at the edges. The sound of brushes scraping was rhythmic, almost meditative, a counterpoint to the distant clangs of older siblings training outside. "Control the flow," she charged, circulating like a sensei, her footsteps soft on the stone, her presence a steady anchor. I led subtly, my precise strokes inspiring the others, the feel of the brush in my hand familiar now, the ink cool and slick. "Arashi does it pretty!", Kenta exclaimed, imitating with enthusiasm, his small face scrunched in concentration, ink smearing on his cheek like war paint. It was pure companionship, our ink-dirty hands touching in sticky high-fives that left marks, the laughter warm against the chill air.
The pregnant women added layers to this tapestry, their presence infusing the compound with a new rhythm. I saw Miyu resting on a bench in the courtyard, her belly beginning to round gently, the mist beading on her skin like dew, the mothers around her—Hanae massaging her feet, the oil slick and fragrant with lavender, the scent cutting through the salty air like a fresh breeze. "Feel the relief seep in," Hanae said, her voice calm and reassuring, her hands kneading with practiced care, the pressure releasing tension I could see in Miyu's relaxed sigh. Akemi laughed nearby, telling jokes to distract from the discomfort, her energy infectious, the sound of her giggles light and bubbling like a stream. Nagi brought teas, the steam rising in aromatic curls, the brew's earthy flavor lingering as she handed the cup. "Drink slow, it settles the stomach," she advised, her hand lingering on Miyu's shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. It was prosperous, a cycle of care that touched me deeply—the air filled with the soft murmurs of support, the gentle touch of hands, the shared emotions of concern and joy creating a cocoon of warmth against the village's cold cruelty.
I "helped" in these moments, toddling over with a damp cloth that smelled of clean water and herbs, or a cup of tea steaming with comfort, feeling the heat radiate through the ceramic against my palms. "Here, auntie," I'd say, my voice high but steady, and Miyu would smile, pulling me into a hug that enveloped me in her warmth, her belly a soft bump against my side, her heartbeat a steady drum through her clothes. The feel of her embrace, the scent of her—herbs and a faint floral soap—stirred something protective in me, a budding love for this extended family.
That year, I loved this life truly. Protected by these strange bonds, but real and unbreakable. Erick was a fading shadow, dissolved in the mist; Arashi was the root, digging deep into the soil of this clan. The companionship among the mothers was the soil—rich, nurturing, their friendships a network of roots intertwining. Hanae and Miyu sharing quiet talks in the evening, the lantern light casting golden hues on their faces; Rina teaching Akemi graceful movements to ease back pain, their laughter soft in the dusk; Nagi and Yori exchanging sea and garden lore, the air filled with stories that wove us all closer. It was a unity born of necessity, but blossoming into genuine affection, a warmth that chased away the perpetual chill.
My brothers deepened this sense. Conversations with Daigo became treasured—him sitting with me after missions, the scent of sweat and blood faint on his clothes, telling tales of patrols in the mist, his voice low and steady, eyes serious but kind. "One day, little brother, you'll join me out there." The weight of his words stirred ambition and fear, but also belonging. Rokuta's rough play—tackling me gently in the courtyard, the grass damp and cool under us, his laughter booming—built camaraderie, the feel of his strong arms lifting me a promise of protection. Nao's quiet companionship during calligraphy, the ink's sharp scent mixing with our concentrated breaths, fostered a bond of shared focus.
At four, my birthday overflowed with praise, the hall alive with the aroma of feast—fish sizzling, rice steaming—the mothers' voices a chorus of admiration. "So talented!" they cooed, fingers tracing my neat characters, the paper smooth under touch. "His calligraphy is beautiful—such steady hands for his age, the strokes flow like water!" "Smart boy, speaking full sentences, reading simple words already, his eyes light up with understanding." I basked in it, the warmth of their hugs enveloping me, their scents—herbs, ink, earth—mingling, emotions swelling in my chest: gratitude, love, determination. But my mind lingered on the stones hidden under my shirt, the chakra pulsing like a heartbeat, a secret fire burning brighter.
This family, strange and fierce, was mine. And I would protect it as it protected me.
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