They had said he would be known for miles around, when he joined the academy. Obaa-san said so, when she was prompted, or needed to motivate him. When he talked with his sister, she always giggled at how he was named after shogi and cities, cackling when he tried to retort with what her name meant, which wasn't much of an insult, given its meaning.
She had always been a free spirit, bold and ever-changing, like her name. She’d never keep her husband , the older women said, relics of the not-so-distant past, but Daitan didn’t care. She was content with fishing. Happy, even. She once said, late one night, that the only thing she’d give up fishing for was him. He told her how he, to, would give up everything for her. She’d chuckled, told him not to be so glum. That Taki needed more smiles.
She died a week ago, from refusing to bed with a noble. He had to be held back from attacking the man. Looking back, he realized that might have been the time his doubts started.
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Two years later, he joined the beginnings of the academy, though it was little more than a renamed civilian school at this point. He excelled, and the academy that shared his age wrote his name on a plaque. They said it was an honor.
It was only a year before the ceremony that he graduated. He had graduated a year early, only that late because the new elders didn’t want a civilian-born to excel, to graduate faster, and grow further than their own children.
He didn’t care. He had long since surpassed them.
He was only 9 years old when he killed his first human.
He didn’t hesitate.
The people on the streets said his soulmate would never love him, not really.
He thought that it was fine.
The day of the Ceremony arrived.
He was escorted in, still wearing his mission clothes. The priests were terrified of him, the monster in a child’s skin. They handed him the salt without even saying the rights. When he snapped it, he smelled ashes and pine. In moments, the Smell disappeared, and he caught the scent of a second. Maple syrup and daisies, he thought. For a few moments, waves of doubt crashed over him. For a few moments, he wanted his soulmates to hold him, to talk to him, to love him. When the salts were put away, he couldn’t smell either of those deliciously tempting Smells.
It was fine. It was stupid of the monster he was to have such dreams. No one would love the monster they whispered about on the streets. No one in this village at least.
When he walked out of the Sacred Place, he heard the whispers, running along the same trails they always did, with the same people who always muttered at it again. It was fine, though.
He’d been the assassin the village loved for what felt like a long, long time. Now that he reflected, however, mind clear from the salts, it had only been a year.
In a year, and a ten year old had killed almost twice what men twice his age had accomplished. His path was paved with blood, and it started with hers.
(child, she had whispered. brother, she had murmured. he didn’t know how she could still be so kind to him, after all he’d done. he didn’t even know she was dead until he saw her head on a pike, false accusations placed upon her name. he wept, that night, letting salty tears of sadness run down his face for the first time in his life.)
His soulmates would be right to hate him.
(miles away, two little boys snapped salts of their own, smelling sea salt and citrus. they told themselves they would find their soulmate, would keep their soulmate, no matter what. They meant it.)
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He was 18, now. He was sent on an assassination for his new target, the first and only God of Shinobi. After the target had killed his men, he let him go. The man refused to kill him. He thought that it was stupid of a target to let their assassin go, especially after he’d already bled this much. He’d die soon, anyways, if he were normal. But, regardless, he limped away, back to the village. It would be rather hard to kill him, anyways, he lamented, what with the thing the village elders had put into his gut. The elders wanted results.
They didn’t let him learn how to use it much, but that was fine. He would earn the privilege of knowledge in time.
(the man turned to stop him after he smelled the Scent, but he was gone, taking the smell of sea salt citrus with him as well. the man felt empty. he realized, then, that he may have killed his own soulmate.
when the man got home, he was so far in grief that he failed to notice his longtime friend staring at the blood on him with more intensity than normal. the friend, however, had hatred brewing in his gut.
because he could smell sea salt citrus in the blood.)
He had stumbled back to Taki, reported to the elders what had happened, and they blamed him. They blamed him. They threw him into the place many other traitors had gone, where he’d thrown traitors himself.
(but he wasn’t a traitor, no, the thing that took his body growled. it was them. they betrayed him. why couldn’t anyone see that?)
With his chakra sealed, he was at the mercy of those inside. And they wanted him to pay.
A week later, he broke out, taking the scrolls on his technique for himself. He killed the elders with his new power. No one, no place was safe from his attacks. The prison was destroyed, completely.
(Obaa-san had died not even a day after he was imprisoned. it was a ‘suicide’. he knew better.)
He dedicated himself to the dollar, the ryo. He took up bounty hunting, and grew to be feared. Looking at himself in the bingo book, he was satisfied. For his killings, he’d earned the rank of S. He was happy. He, once more, had a purpose.
(but not enough, the thing inside him had crooned. not enough, never enough, not until we find them, our soulmates. he ignored its whispers. his soulmates wouldn’t want him anyways.)
He was undisturbed for decades. However, all good things come to an end.
He was approached by a madman wearing peace as a thin veil to his thoughts. He was given an offer. The offer would allow him to continue hunting, and it wasn’t like he had a choice, anyways. He would die if he said no. The man was mad, but he was a monster. One strong enough to rival the thing in his gut.
He killed most of his assigned partners. They were spies, anyways.
One day, they brought in a new man. The man was to be his partner. He assumed this one wouldn’t last a week.
The man’s name was Hidan. He was absurdly dedicated, especially to his religion, and liked mass killings. They couldn't have been more different if they tried.
Neither of them had found their soulmates.
(he wondered, if he’d taken up that religion, had a bit of faith, would he still be here? )
Two years after the introduction, they officially were a thing. He had no experience dealing with this sort of feeling, but Hidan didn’t either. They learned together.
(Hidan made him promise to cause chaos when he died. in return, Hidan said, he’d do the same for him.)
A year later, Hidan was killed in revenge for some Nara Shikamaru's teacher. After the Nara realized what both him and Hidan had, he didn’t follow through. The Nara let him go. He retreated with Hidan’s body, and gave him a proper burial. When the madman told him his full plan, he didn’t hesitate. He accepted.
(he wished he’d been ended with Hidan. It would spare him the heartbreak.)
The Fourth Ninja War began. He made sure the Nara regretted the decision to leave him alive.
(somewhere on the other side of the war, a group of nine was set on bringing him to the light. he didn’t care.)
Finally, the end came. The stage for the revival was set. He didn't remember much about the man he was helping revive, and honestly didn't care much. He just wanted chaos, at this point, he only wanted to fulfill Hidan’s wish. He was fending off the most of the resistance with an army of white at his back and an army of black to his front. He and his hearts killed thousands, fueled by rage and power.
Finally, he heard the last word of the summon be said. The snake-like man who’d helped them stepped back, admiring his handiwork. He finished with his fight, standing atop a mountain of bodies. He idly noted only his pants were still intact; his shirt was in tatters, and he'd never really fixed his cloak.
The summon flared.
A man's vague outline could be seen against the light.
A wave of smells crashed over him, humming with power, rich and exotic. Ashes pasted themselves to the back of his mouth, and a nostalgic scent wafted around him. He registered that his soulmate was the one they were summoning. He should have paid more attention to the man’s name.
He turned, taking in the loose hair, rough armor, and the redredred eyes of one of his soulmates. When their eyes locked, he barely noted the maniacal grin spreading across Madara's(his soulmate, his) face. He was sure he had the same type of grin.
For the first time, he felt right.
And for the first time since Hidan’s death, Kakuzu felt alive.