Welcome back to the rewritten version of Disciple! I do hope I've caught all mistakes of the previous version. Kiyomi's character has been rewritten to better reflect the person I meant her to be.

If you dislike the idea of people defecting from the clans before the formation of the shinobi villages instead of (every single person) staying together, then this story isn't for you.

Rated T: Violence and language. The rating will rise to M as the story progresses.

Warnings: Dark fic, cult-like mentality, brainwashing, abuse. These will apply for the duration of the fic, but mostly in the beginning chapters. If there is something I believe to be truly uncomfortable, I will place a warning at the top of the chapter.

Genre: Adventure/Angst/Drama/Tragedy. Frindship/Romance to a lesser extent. Possible Spirituality.

Inspired by: Rising Sun (朝日) by Petrichor in May.

Disciple

Samsara

"You, who have come before a God, weep no longer.

Wander no longer, for I will set you upon the right path.

Fear the darkness no longer, for I will teach you to walk in it.

I will tell you no lies, for Gods require none.

Bleed for me, and I will show you peace.

Despair not, for you are my disciple now."

Lying upon the ground, blood seeping through her clothes and life leaving her, she realizes she is a liar. How long has she internally proclaimed to not fear death? At least a decade, surely. People around her run in a mad frenzy, all colours and screaming voices, scrambling around and over each other wildly. They claim to be boldly unafraid and desensitized; after all carrying guns of their own makes them immune, does it not? Ha. How easy another human with no reservations to pulling the trigger can shatter those pathetic ideals.

The horror in the air is nearly palatable. Now all they can do is fear death as she once believed she never would. After death there should be nothing. She's content to fade into nothingness. Obscurity has always been her safety blanket.

But it won't be the case, and she knows it. She doesn't have enough strength left for tears, having been sickly and weak all her life. The bullet has taken away whatever little she possessed to begin with.

Yet here she is, cold terror tearing into her soul at the prospect now facing her. Her fear isn't like theirs, though, whose belief that there may be an eternity of hell and brimstone awaiting them, or the end of existence that she so desperately desires.

She's terrified because she thinks she's done this before. The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming.

Her belief, her personal Samsara, that she's already lived a thousand lives and will live a thousand more until she's learnt what the higher powers that be deem acceptable and free her from the cycle. Fragments of things past—far too old for someone so young to remember—press down on her memory, now that death is at hand again.

She won't remember them when it restarts.

No please, why me?

Someone is shaking her, begging, probably her mother, but she is too far gone to say sorry, I'll get it right next time. I promise I won't fail again, I'm sorry.

The world is greying, the noise dimming and the fear spikes higher, adrenaline pushing her body to live that fraction longer, but there's only so much more to give.

Everything is so clear now, at the end. Please don't let it be the end. I don't want to start again.

There is a quiet exhale, hazy eyes falling to glass.

It is the end.

Where am I going now?

.

.

It's tight, it's hot, and so dark. The sound of deafening drumbeats is maddening, like an infinite army marching to war. Each aspect is painfully unbearable, and it goes on this way seemingly unending (in reality it's only nine months).

She's claustrophobic, and it drives her straight into insanity. She tries to scream for months on end and can't, unable to breathe, fluid filling her lungs instead. She kicks and punches limbs that initially never move, and when they start, it's never right. No matter how hard she hits, the prison never breaks.

Her only comfort is a slow, warm hum, gently building at the core of her being and spreading outwards. It mostly stays centered though, and it's almost never enough to distract or soothe her.

Sometimes she thinks she hears voices, so she howls at them, curses them for caging her like this, screeching at them to free her because what right do they have?!

Let me out, let me out you bastards, how dare you—LET ME OUT!

One day, the voices listen. Her prison shatters violently, contracting over and over again. Suddenly there's no more liquid and no more air, she can't breathe! It becomes tighter, so much tighter, and she thinks she's dying again not so soon PLEASE NO—

(Very unfortunately, or fortunately, she doesn't realize she's being born.)

Blistering cold hits her so unexpectedly, the fierce pressure gone to nothing. At first it's so insanely disorienting she doesn't know what to do, but then she hears the voices, louder and no longer dulled. The world is blurry and wholly unrecognizable. So she hacks the remaining fluid out of her lungs and screams like she's never screamed before.

Somebody shouts.

There is the feeling of being wiped down oh so softly and she is wrapped in something fuzzy. Then someone is speaking quietly—she's not sure if it's to her—a giant something cradling her tiny body. She doesn't understand, can't comprehend it. The drumbeats she heard in prison are back, but this time… they aren't so bad… She begins to quiet, listening intently to them.

With each steady ba-bump, her shrieking lessens to soft hiccups, then to nothing at all.

A woman's voice whispers foreign words to her, lovingly, soothingly. Her head is stroked tenderly. It reminds her of someone, but it's hard to remember.

She doesn't remember why she was screaming again. Why had she been screaming? Why had any of… anything… bothered her?

Her mind goes mostly blank as she restarts. There are some things, tiny things, she won't let go of. She might remember them, she might not.

"My darling, my beautiful girl, you look just like me," cooed over and over, some slight changes to her songbird mantra. The humming inside the woman is as strong and bright as the sun. It's mesmerizing.

The woman makes her feel safe, and she gives in. How could anything hurt her now with this warrior angel protecting her?

The part that isn't her baby brain is too small to convince her otherwise.

(If only she could have known.)

.

.

It is midday when the child finally enters the world. With a final sharp scream and hefty push, the baby unceremoniously comes out. Kiyomi, a frail mess of overly pale skin and tangled crimson hair, collapses back against the bedding with an exhausted sigh as the midwife quickly scoops up the child.

Tetsuo's hawk-like stare pins down the midwife's every move to ensure she's attending to his firstborn in the proper fashion.

The baby's piercing scream shocks the room's occupants. That awful kind of scream is reserved for death alone. Already, Tetsuo finds himself disliking his firstborn. It should not matter; he's planning on having many more, but the thought of having a firstborn so weak? It disgusts him in a deep, primal way. Weak Natsume children are worthless, and as the heir apparent and soon to be head of the Clan, he can never have that.

After a tense moment, "It's a girl, Tetsuo-sama," with no congratulations or acknowledgement to the mother.

"I've already seen as much," Tetsuo replies, eyes alight with scorn, the disappointment and coldness in his blazing red Sharingan broadcast like a death-sentence.

The squirming infant continues to wail like the Shinigami itself is coming for her.

Kiyomi sits up in a panic, struggling to rise from her bed. "My baby—is my baby alright?!"

"Calm down," Tetsuo orders his wife with more force than necessary.

She stops dead for a second, then shoots him a scathing glare wrought of magma and hatred.

"You bastard," she snarls, body sparking visibly with chakra. Her lengthy red hair churns a wicked storm behind her, trembling with her chakra. "That's my child! How dare—"

"This little girl is completely fine," the midwife interrupts delicately. "Fully healthy, especially strong lungs…" She murmurs the last part. "Would you like to hold her, Tetsuo-sama?"

"No," he declines offhandedly, but Kiyomi sees the twinge of his lips, a small tic that indicates he is heavily displeased. "You heard Chie, wife. Do you care to hold your daughter, or spend the next day in a genjutsu for your insolence?" Tetsuo raises an eyebrow, otherwise looking as neutral as he has throughout the whole experience.

The outrage on Kiyomi's face grows, twisting it into something monstrous, as does her killing intent. She will surely be punished for it later, but can't care less. The filthy son of a bitch…! He will not be the ruination of another piece of her fractured life! (Her fractured sanity, but she will never admit this.)

Sweat beads on Chie's brow and she swallows anxiously, praying an all-out war won't break out in the birthing room.

Hinging on demonic, the young mother turns to the midwife and forcefully says, "Give her to me."

With fraying nerves, Chie's glad to hand the newest member of the Order of the Six Paths to her mother. "I will be waiting outside should my presence be required again." She bows to the new parents and wastes no time leaving.

Kiyomi cradles her crying child carefully against her chest, settling herself back into the bed. "Why hello my darling, my beautiful girl," she coos affectionately, wretched anger draining from her face as she beholds her daughter for the first time. Tears fill her eyes as she strokes her daughter's small head, covered in wisps of red darker than her own. The baby whines and settles in a startling record time, cuddling back against her mother.

Soon enough, the child is entirely silent.

Both of Tetsuo's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Perhaps he's been too quick to judge? Perhaps this child will have merit after all.

The tears brimming in Kiyomi's eyes overflow and make hot trails down her cheeks. She tries not to sob outright and curls in on herself, shielding the small bundle in her arms. It's not fair, it's just not damn well fair! "My dear, my beautiful girl," she whispers as quiet as she can, not wanting her "husband" to hear, loathing and madness writhing through her chest at the thought that this monster is the father of her child. "I promise I won't let this place ruin you." Her thin shoulders begin to shiver, soft, manic giggles burbling from her lips. "You look just like me… I promise, I promise…" she trails off into sorrowful nothings and wholly inappropriate hiccupping laugher.

"Let me see," Tetsuo grips Kiyomi's shoulder and pulls her upright. He will not let this insane woman destroy something that has the potential to be so important.

She glares at him again, however muted, and discreetly wipes her face.

Tetsuo looks over his daughter with scrutinizing eyes. Her hair, what little she has of it, is a deep blood-red. Fitting. He wonders if it will lighten or darken with age. He'd have preferred her with hair as black as his own.

At least he can see little spikes forming, and knows she won't look exactly like an Uzumaki, thank Rikudō Sennin-sama.

With two fingers, Tetsuo pries open a shut eye, earning a gurgling shriek from the baby and a shocked gasp from his wife. His lips turn down in disappointment: eyes as blue as her mother's. Then again, what he wishes to see would be nothing short of a miracle of god.

He considers for a moment, then simply says, "Akane."

Kiyomi stares at him vacantly and tilts her head, not comprehending, until—

Did he mean—? No, he couldn't! Her jaw drops. "You can't be serious! That's so-so—do you know how many of my—"

"The matter is closed. I am her father and have named her accordingly."

Letting go of his child, Tetsuo steps back into a corner of the room, resuming his watch on Kiyomi in case she tries anything again. She will be reprimanded later for being so disrespectful. Eventually his new seal will be finished and his wife shall be unable to carry on as she does now.

Ah, and Akane's eyes. Hmph, well. In time, he'll make certain they'll be as red as her hair.

"It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not." – Gandalf