Title: Diem Ex Dei (Part 1)
Genre: General, Tragedy, Romance (?)
Characters: Pein (Nagato), Yahiko, Konan, Madara (Pein/Konan)
Rating: PG-13 (T)
Warnings: Violence/tragedy. Um, maybe very very vague sexuality (in the second part).
Summary: . . . but Konan knows, and Nagato knows, that this is life, and life is pain, and life will always be pain, and there is no point in believing it can ever be otherwise. The most they can achieve is to temper their misery. And they do. They tolerate it, wear it as only those whose lives have been defined by loss can: with silence, with resignation, without complaints. And so it would have been for the remainder of their days, had Uchiha Madara not come to them during the course of the next evening.

Disclaimer: Don't own Naruto. Much of this is very, very strictly from my imagination.

It is like this:

He is smiling. His eyes – eyes like she has never seen before or since, and will never see again – are glinting; she has pushed his black hair back, tucked the stray strands behind his ears.

There is sunshine behind him. Their friend is laughing, nearby; rough, boy's laughter. It is that rare time of year when the dry season comes to Rain Country, when the storms go south to visit the desert.

She smiles a little, and chews her lip. He looks nice, she thinks. Awkward and shy; his sleeves are a little too long, and his hair still hangs in that way that tends to make him look even smaller, more distant, but there is something healthy about the world today. She can see it in his eyes. His face has colour, and birds are singing in the sky.

For a few weeks, the land is green and pure. They walk together, all three of them, but she and he – when Yahiko is not looking, curl their smallest fingers together, and grace each other with secret looks, and both are unsure of what they are implying, but they are willing to assume it is nothing but play.

They share a language of smiles and laughs, theirs alone.

The air is fresh. The world is newly born. They have been trained now. They will be all right. The children walk and breathe in the air and forget the hunger which has tormented them.

The sky is so bright. When she looks up, white butterflies have risen.

(From what land did they come, those butterflies?)

She opens her mouth, but does not speak, and finally – with the kind of jerky movement which suggests he has been planning this all along and has just now worked up the courage to act on his desire – he grabs her hand.

Their eyes meet. On days like this, they can allow themselves these cautious hopes.

And, without words, they tell one another of their dreams for the future – for a future.

This is what Konan remembers.

She folds another crease.

No, she supposes. Her mind is embellishing.

The butterflies, at least, must be a fabrication. Time is tricking her.

It is like this:

The sky is grey. The rains have begun to emerge again.

They stumble into Amegakure, prepared to sell themselves as shinobi. The city is so vast and powerful; it should frighten them, but it does not. They have what they have been taught, and they have one another. In their minds, there is little that can touch them.

Here is where her memory begins to blur around the edges.

There were dogs. She remembers the dogs. Barking in the distance, as Yahiko declares his intention to steal food for them.

"But we're here now," she says. "We don't have to do that anymore, Yahiko. Let's just wait, okay? We don't want to get ourselves in trouble."

She looks back at Nagato, expecting him to agree. He nods. His hair has fallen over his face again, and he again looks timid and unhappy, like a soaked puppy.

Yahiko looks between them both.

For just a moment, a change overtakes his features – the expression of someone who has swallowed something foul. Then, it is gone, leaving Konan bewildered.

He knows. And she knows he knows. That is not surprising; it was never a secret, really, but what she never could have anticipated is what she sees in his reaction.

I never knew you -

She is sorry.

Yahiko shrugs and laughs. "Sissies. We're not going to get any money tonight. You guys want to starve, or what?"

He turns.

Suddenly, Nagato speaks up.

"Wait, Yahiko! Let me go with you. I'll - "

Yahiko shakes his head fiercely. "Back off, Nagato," he says, with a sternness which surprises Konan. "I don't need your help. I can take care of myself!"

Nagato does not move. Although his power is the greatest among them, he is docile; his will is not as strong as his friend's. Softly, he says, "Yahiko . . . I really think you should let me come along. I just want to protect you."

Yahiko's grin is full of sadness.

"I know, and that's the problem! I don't need your protection, Nagato. Didn't you tell me Jiraiya-sensei talked to you about growing up?"

Nagato looks down.

"Yes."

"Yeah, well, how can I ever grow up with you always acting like this? I can't be an adult until I learn to fend for myself, Nagato, so thanks, but no thanks. You and Konan stay here. Take care of her, all right? Don't worry about me. I'll be right back."

Konan watches Nagato carefully. She can see from his body language that he wants to protest, wants to insist that his friend not depart from their presence, but as usual, his will bends – and this time, perhaps guilt has a hand in it, though Konan does not know for sure – never knows, even to this day.

Whatever the reason, Nagato's shoulders slump.

He acquiesces.

Yahiko winks and runs off, leaving Nagato and Konan to sit and wait.

"Konan," Nagato says.

She regards him.

"Do you think we – do you guess we made him feel like - "

"I don't know."

"Mm . . ."

She looks down, makes another flower. This one is crooked, and not very pretty. Hastily constructed.

She's embarrassed by it, but when she hands it to Nagato, he takes it, all the same, and lies, and tells her it is beautiful.

An hour must have passed, and Yahiko has not returned. The first stirrings of sunset are appearing.

"I should've never let him go alone," Nagato declares. His fists are balled. Konan can hear his frustration with himself. "I think we should go find him, Konan."

He looks back at her.

"I'll protect you," he assures.

I'm not worried about myself, Nagato, she almost blurts.

She is shivering now; her clothes are thin and her skirt leaves parts of her legs exposed. She bends a little, tugging it downwards, but it is not sufficient.

They scurry down the alleys, him ahead. Konan trips and scrapes her knees. Her hair blows around her face. The rain falls, steady now, splashing her nose.

The sky is blackening.

What comes next is hard to call forth from the confines of memory, eclipsed as it is by the trauma that follows.

Dogs are barking, and the wind is growing loud. It growls about them.

They have run down the main streets now, not caring who might scowl upon them in this condition.

The following movements are a jumble, and Konan is an origami piece folded, folded, folded; she remembers a crash, a clanging, and Nagato calling for her, and suddenly the streets are filled with men, and weapons, and screams, but the screams are muted by the dogs and the wind and the orders being shouted, and the dogs and the wind, and the dogs and the wind.

Beneath the endless rain.

Konan hears her voice. It is an echo of itself, groggy and muddled; the syllables are heavy on her tongue, dragging their way out with difficulty.

Otherwise, it is silent. She realizes this, and jumps.

A hand fists her hair and yanks backwards.

"Nagato!" The word on her lips.

She hears a laugh. It is not Nagato's.

It is a man's laugh, like sandpaper.

Gradually, Konan becomes aware of her body, of the ache spreading through it; one pool of ache concentrates in her temple, where she has been struck. She thinks she feels herself wince.

The world is still solidifying, emerging from the shadows.

"Let them go!"

That is Nagato.

Konan jerks to attention. A thick arm is around her waist, and the rain is pouring into her open mouth.

She knows, in an instant, that they have not escaped war. War has found them.

"Konan?" she hears, in a frightened tone, and she turns as much as she can, and there is Yahiko, bound, ropes burning his wrists, turning them red.

Her own are in a similar condition. She can feel it.

She never forgets the look on his face in that moment, even after all that follows.

Nagato is standing there, before them, and he's shaking.

"Let them go!" he calls, again. His voice breaks.

Konan feels the ground scratch her bare feet as she's jerked backwards.

One foot slips. It takes a moment to register that there is nothing beneath it.

It takes a moment more to realize that she is on a ledge, on a building, beaten and bruised, still waking up, in the arms of her captor, and half of her body is being dangled over the edge.

In the fog of her mind, it occurs to her, far away, that she should be afraid of her impending death, but she sees only Nagato shaking, and Yahiko's face.

Nagato rushes forward.

Suddenly, Konan feels stone under her feet once more.

He stands back. She knows he fears that a sudden movement will result in her being thrown to her death.

Nagato is powerful; he is very powerful. He learned every jutsu that Jiraiya-sensei taught them. But Konan sees in his eyes that he doubts himself, that he worries he has no hand motions fast enough and no jutsu strong enough to prevent this.

"So this little thief is with you guys," one man says, the words given in Nagato's direction, and then he looks to his companion, and he pulls Yahiko up. Yahiko's defiant expression does not falter, save for his eyes, which briefly flicker with fear, uncertainty.

Something inside of Konan twists at the sight.

If she can just touch her fingers to one another; her wrists are tied together, so it shouldn't be hard, but they won't reach, they won't reach, they won't reach -

Shinobi in war have no amusement in their lives, and their humour is the humour of the grave; the joy of the corrupted – the wretched – comes only from the misfortunes of others. They are their toys now, Konan knows. Their amusement.

"What'll you give us for them, huh?"

"I – I'll let you live. That's what I'll give you. If you hurt them, I – I'll kill you. I will . . . "

Nagato's words are undermined by the tremors wracking his body.

Yahiko, by contrast, is still, and quiet, grimacing. Tough little boy.

(Like he always thought he was supposed to be.)

"Heh," he says, looking up at the one who grips him. "I'll never give up! I'm not a baby, and you don't scare me! Nagato and I, we'll - "

The fist collides with his cheek. Konan thinks she hears a crack.

This is the first time that she remembers to scream.

In front of her, Nagato takes the opportunity to begin forming hand signs.

One man leans close to the other, whispers something quickly; do they take him seriously? - Konan wonders, and then she hears:

"Here, kid. Think fast."

and

"Pick one."

-their terrible grins, and the suffocating noise of the storm-

She is released. A push on her back, and she sees Yahiko beside her.

The world shifts. Directions mean nothing.

And they are falling.

Nagato never finishes his jutsu.

Before she dies, Konan thinks she is glad that she did not see him in that final moment.

She closes her eyes.

And dies.

A hand clasps her forearm.

I never touched the ground, she realizes, and thinks she is not dead.

Nagato is holding her.

He has made it in time to save her.

But.

Yahiko.

Her lips form the word.

"Don't look down, Konan," Nagato whispers. "Don't look down."

He is looking down. He never stops looking down. Down, down, down.

Their angle allows his tears to fall onto her face, like warm rain.

He could have escaped, could have fought back, were it not for her. He could have saved Yahiko, were it not for her.

The evening replays in her dreams, countless times.

Nagato is pulling her up, drawing her into his arms. They are both stunned. They are both doomed.

He closes his eyes - rinnegan, what have they ever done for him? - and the kicks begin, thundering through him, reverberating, and she feels every blow, but Nagato is soundless, resigned, and finally, finally, Konan is sobbing, breaking apart, because Yahiko is dead, Yahiko is really and truly dead, and now Nagato is going to die all around her, and Yahiko could have lived if she were not there, and Nagato could have lived if she were not there, but she is there, and he is going to be beaten to death even as he cradles and protects her, and she sobs, uselessly, and begs him to abandon her.

Please, please, please, Nagato. Let me go. You need your hands for your jutsu. Please, Nagato, run. Please. Please. Oh, God, Nagato.

If anything, his grip on her tightens.

"No matter what kind of pain I have to go through," she hears him breathe.

The pain goes through him, into her.

The agony is in the slowness, the terrible slowness that lets her feel each blow, lets her know he is inching closer, closer, closer, and she is in his arms, cannot move, and she will be forced to feel his last breaths, and the waiting is worse than the deaths, worse than anything that has come before.

She wants to shove him off, fight them herself so he can get away, but they are outnumbered, cornered, trapped, and suddenly, he is torn off her; her clothes are torn, her skin is scratched, her nails break on the ground as she is dragged backwards. There is laughter above the storm.

Konan tries to pull herself up, tries to stand. Ropes begin to tear against the concrete.

She manages, at last, to touch her fingers together. On instinct, they work in harmony, producing the series of steps that will lead to a jutsu.

Paper slices through the remaining rope fibers binding her wrists.

She is free.

The skin of her fingers chafes. She hears her ragged, panting breaths, and then she sees Nagato – sees, in one clear instant, the first blade slide into him, through him.

Konan turns, and flails, and kicks, no longer caring what happens to her, because she has nothing left to lose but her life.

Origami shuriken fly. Blood droplets strike her face.

She'll kill them. She'll kill every one she can. She knows.

The rain is pouring, blurring the faces of those who have abducted them; they are shinobi of Amegakure, having sold their souls to the war, and Konan knows, sickeningly, that this will be the most fun they will have all month.

She sees the hilt of the sword coming at her.

Then, she sees nothing at all.

"Someday," Nagato begins, "when we grow up, you know . . . we'll get married."

Konan giggles. "Aren't you thinking a little too far into the future?"

He blushes. The moon is bright, showing a dark, heavy blush, and he gnaws his lip and messes with the hem of his tunic.

"You're such a good person," she says; this time, she is very serious.

"Well, so are you. You and Yahiko are the only good things that have come out of this war. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I think I'd die if I didn't have you guys."

She is still serious.

"Don't say that. Let's not talk about that kind of thing, Konan."

She leans close, at once. Crosses the distance between them. Her hands hold the step they are sitting on, gripping it tightly, and her lips almost brush his skin.

Nagato pulls back.

"Not yet." He grins mischievously. "It's not time yet. We have to wait until the moment is perfect."

She blinks. "When will that be?"

Nagato looks like he is thinking hard.

"Hmm. I'm not sure. But I think we'll know."

He shifts a little, fidgets.

"Maybe," he starts, finally, "when the war is over, and when the rain ends, but for good."

"I think she's - "

A voice, connected to nothing.

"Hyori!" Quicker. More urgent.

My name is not Hyori, she thinks she says, but maybe she only imagines that she says it, because the voice does not respond.

"Hyori, I think she's waking up. Come here, quickly!"

Konan groans and begins to sit up. A hand touches her shoulder, gently tries to ease her back down. She understands, once again, that she is alive, and she understands, once again, that she should not be.

"Water," she chokes out.

"Don't move too fast, child," the voice - soothing, soft and male - says. "You don't want to upset your injuries. Here."

Konan feels a warm substance that she knows to be blood; it trickles down her forehead, dips over her eyelid, and catches in her lashes. She cannot contain her moans as the pain makes itself known, creeping forth from the corners of her consciousness and filling her body. Her limbs feel heavy, swollen. They drag. Her head is throbbing. Feels like the pain is trying to burst out of her body, through her cranium, through her skin.

Another body enters the room. Konan hears its soft footfalls, smells them (like lye soap, clean but not perfumed; simple), feels its full, warm nearness.

Her hands grip the sheets.

A glass is pressed to her lips. She can taste its coolness.

"Drink," she is told.

And she does.

When the glass is empty, drawn back, Konan fists the sheets harder, and utters the name that no amount of water can prevent from burning her throat dry: "Nagato."

"That must be the other one."

The words are spoken from one of the strangers to the other, but Konan catches them. Her eyes widen.

"This is a house of healing," says the male stranger. "I am Suwayamaru, and this is Hyori."

He indicates the female.

"We are medic-nins," she adds, "but poor ones. We don't have many fancy supplies here. We set this place up as a charity, to give relief from the war."

War can never be escaped.

Konan inhales. Her tired eyes survey the room. Sparsely furnished. Hers is the only bed. One night-stand, no furniture besides. Now that her senses are awake and alert, she is aware of the rain beating against the walls and the rafters. Through it, around it, like another music threading through the first, she hears the rumbling moans of the sick, the aching, the dying and the barely-living.

She wants to ask about Nagato. She does not do so, cannot do so. She fears the answer, and knows what it will be.

Still dazed, Konan rubs her broken lips together, bites them, looks downward into her lap, and that is when she shivers, when the tears begin anew. She is one mass of shivers, alone with the injured and the ill, in this dark place, in the shadow of the rain. Her hair clings to her face and irritates her eyes, until its tips are wet, also.

I am dead, she thinks.

Her parents, her friends, Jiraiya-sensei, Yahiko.

Nagato.

Nothing remains.

Hyori's hand comes down on her shoulder.

"Your friend is alive."

These are words Konan could never have anticipated. They shatter her reverie – shatter her tears, shatter everything.

"Take me to him."

It is not lost on her that the woman's face says that Nagato is dead, no matter that her words contradict the sentiment.

"You are still healing, girl," Suwayamaru says. "You ought to stay in bed for now."

"Take me to him," Konan repeats. "Please."

Sore as she is, she stumbles out of bed and crashes against the ground. Konan lifts herself onto her hands and knees; her head still screams like there's a spike of metal behind her eyelids, jamming itself into her bones. A more muted pain is budding in her ribs, and she thinks one is broken, if not more, but it does not matter; none of it matters. This pales before what Nagato must be enduring.

What Yahiko has endured.

"All right." The medic-nin named Hyori helps Konan to her feet. "I will take you to him, if it should give you comfort. But, girl, you should know that he is . . . he is not in good shape."

Konan has already figured this out.

She is quaking inside, terrified of what will be left of Nagato when she sees him again.

But whatever it is, he is alive; Konan has already been told that he is alive, and that is more than is true of – no, she will not think of him; still too raw. Konan must overcome her fear, must be near Nagato no matter what, because he needs her support, because no matter the condition of his body, he is Nagato, who protected her – who tried to protect them - through his pain.

The future lies down a lightless hallway, but the present is even worse; lonely, with the ghosts and the rain.

So Konan goes to him.

On bare feet, robes sweeping her thin legs. She sways; her toes catch, and she would trip, were it not for Hyori helping her. Konan's arms wrap around her chest and sides as she tries to ignore her wounds; the pain is all about her now, fluttering, like it has settled, seeped in. Like it belongs.

She feels dizzy and light; her graceless motions feel graceful, as if she is a spirit; an angel.

No. Konan is only a girl, making her way across the dusty floor, down a path that feels like it will not end in hope. Her vision is still so spotty that she can barely see ten paces before her.

Half-delirious, she is abruptly halted; hears a key turn in a lock beside her, and then she is pulled, gently, into a room.

Konan notices the smell, first and foremost. It is the odor of heavy medicine and cleaning solutions, trying and failing to mask the stench of blood and decay.

The smell is worse, somehow, than the sight.

The room is bare, except for one night-stand, and beside it, one bed covered with thin white sheets. Under the sheets is the outline of a form – a swell, a human body, unmoving.

Konan can still hear the rain.

Without hesitation (though she hears a voice behind her, speaking up, halted and unsure, and she knows the medic-nins wish to warn her once more), she goes to the side of the bed, to Nagato's side, where she belongs.

Where she has always belonged.

Closer now, she can see that the sheets are stained dark. Nagato is heavily bandaged. Even his face is covered, and perhaps this is the one kindness fate has given her, because Konan is not certain she could stand to see the pain she knows is written upon his features.

"They . . . I am sorry," Suwayamaru says, "but I will not lie to you about the severity of this. He was run through with a blade, but that did not pierce any internal organs. However, that is only the beginning."

Konan closes her eyes.

"Your friend. They held him down, and set fire to him. We think we got to him quickly, but even so, with the amount of tissue damage he has sustained, it is a miracle that he is still breathing."

"He may not last the night," Hyori interjects. "It will be very surprising if he makes it through the next few days, and even if he does, there is only so much we can do for him. He will never be able to live a normal life, and should he survive, he will always need someone to care for him."

The next words – Konan cannot remember, later, which of them speaks, or if they both do, as everything has become surreal - "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She does not answer.

She has no words.

So she kneels before the bed, and presses the side of her face to the empty space beside Nagato, and rests, eyes open, like this. Nagato does not stir; does not open his eyes. Konan breathes in.

She is waiting for him.

She will always wait.

Over the next few days, nourished by bread and water and slices of fruit, Konan's body recovers from the assault. Days and nights blend together, tapering into a somber rhythm that has no sense of time, no sense of place, only the feeling of being in motion or lying still. She dreams rarely, and each time, she sees Yahiko; hears Nagato telling her not to look down, sees Nagato's stricken face, imagines Yahiko's body.

She wonders, in the earliest hours of the morning, when the dawn light is heavy about the earth: what must it have felt like, to have knowingly made the choice to save one friend and not the other? What must it have felt like, to look down, to see your friend die – to know that they died because you did not choose to save them, to know that this was Yahiko's final vision in this world?

There had only been time to save one of them. She had been closest.

The guilt that she is alive and Yahiko is not – that she lives because Yahiko has died – is an ache Konan knows she will never recover from.

And yet, compared to the hell Nagato must be in, it is nothing.

She visits him, constantly, but she does not think he knows her.

Nagato knows nothing but pain.

She helps, carefully – so carefully – to clean him and replace his bandages. He is still raw. His skin is no longer smooth and pale; it is burnt an angry red, blistered, and pieces of it have sloughed off, revealing tender layers that can do nothing but hurt. What is left of his black hair eventually falls away.

Konan wishes she could hold him, but to touch him would only cause greater suffering.

So she sits near, and waits, and watches, and speaks to him, and sings to him, and tries to comfort him; the boy who has suffered for her.

One day, Nagato sits up, suddenly, and Konan rushes to his side.

His eyes open, his lids having somehow remained intact.

"Yahiko," he says, the syllables little more than puffs of air.

Konan shakes her head.

It is true that they found Nagato quickly, or else he would be dead. The burn is worst in his lungs, in his throat. She can hear the havoc that the flames and smoke have wreaked upon his insides. His voice is raspy, wheezing; he struggles around the word.

And when Konan shakes her head, Nagato grows still.

The medic-nins attempt to compensate for his loss of fluids. Once he has woken, he remains awake. Nagato sits up, and will not cease sitting up, even when he is encouraged to lie back down.

He does not speak again.

If Nagato would cry, or scream, or indicate life through sound, it might have been less frightening, Konan thinks.

He does not.

He stares out the window, into the grey and silver twilight curtained by rain and cut by red sunset.

Konan no longer tries to talk to him. She knows he will talk first, when he is ready.

If he can ever be ready again.

She sits at his bedside, folding flowers and birds and trifles, and Nagato looks down at his hands, where the rotten skin peels about the fingernails.

Quietly, they pass the time. Quietly, time passes them.

Orphans, they wait, without hope, in an infinite universe of pain.

After their lives have ended. Before their afterlives have begun. This is the interlude.

In the world of ninja, the human machine creates and is re-created. The space of one battle may see to it that a shinobi's life ends, or is altered forever. So it is that Konan and Yahiko and Nagato become Konan and Nagato; so it is that, in less than an hour (though it feels more akin to a small eternity), the children's lives are once again ruined; their hopes are left behind, washed away in the flood, dropped far, far below, with Yahiko, in that place and that time and that incident which Konan can never entirely envision. It is a dream.

But not to Nagato, who saw everything, who remained awake through the pain.

Konan suspects that, for him, what comes after is the dream.

The rinnegan eye, as she understands it, allows for an enhanced acuity of vision.

So he must have seen every detail.

She does not think he will forget a single one.

Konan never asks. Nagato never volunteers his memories.

Like a season changed, Konan, Nagato, and Yahiko become Konan and Nagato. Nagato loses his beauty and power; trapped now in a withering body, and no one knows to what extent he can recover, but Konan knows, and Nagato knows, that this is life, and life is pain, and life will always be pain, and there is no point in believing it can ever be otherwise. The most they can achieve is to temper their misery. And they do. They tolerate it, wear it as only those whose lives have been defined by loss can: with silence, with resignation, without complaints.

And so it would have been for the remainder of their days, had Uchiha Madara not come to them during the course of the next evening.

"I'm amazed," says the stranger in the doorway.

Konan turns, slightly.

"That he is still breathing is surprising enough in its own right. That he's conscious and sitting up is nothing short of spectacular."

You don't know anything, Konan thinks, without malice – because he does not.

Throughout the week or so that she has been there, Nagato's organs have begun to fail; after his initial peak, in which his eyes opened, his health has plummeted.

More tubes have been added to his body, such that they run through his nose, down his throat, pumping nutrients. They pierce the veins in his arms and filter the waste from his kidneys. And still, Nagato will not move, will not speak, will not look in Konan's direction – or anyone else's.

Filled with medication, monitored hourly, and given medical jutsu, Nagato is a conscious corpse. His bloodshot rinnegan eyes stare, ever and always, out the window.

Though he looks for all the world as though he is awake and present, Konan knows he is neither.

"Although," the stranger continues, "I suppose I should have expected no less from the destined child."

This catches Konan's notice, and she turns fully, giving the man the whole of her attention.

He is dressed all in black, with a black cowl, and a hint of black hair peeking out.

What strikes her the most, however, are his eyes.

They are powerful, those eyes. Commanding eyes. Menacing, and ruthless. Konan knows war. Eyes like that come before the war, and create war.

"You are not going to ask who I am?"

"You will tell me, if you want me to know," she answers, without hesitation. "I am more concerned to know what you are here for."

"A smart and bold girl, she is." He pulls up an empty chair and sits beside her, folding his arms at his chest. "The answer will surprise you. I am here to find god."

God has abandoned these lands, Konan almost says, or, I don't pray anymore. I don't believe in any god. Instead, she says, "I don't know what you're talking about. This is a house of healing, not a place of worship."

"Are there places of worship left around here, I wonder? Does this land still have need for gods?"

Konan does not answer.

A gleam lights the man's eyes.

"You said I would tell you who I am, should I want you to know. I will tell you. I am one who makes gods."

"This has nothing to do with me," Konan replies. She is too tired to be having this discussion. Whether he is mad, a liar, or telling the truth, she is not interested in matters which do not concern her. All her time is given to tending Nagato; she scarcely has time enough for matters which do concern her, let alone this.

"It has something to do with you, and everything to do with that boy."

"You're here for Nagato." It is not a question.

The stranger places his hands on his knees. "There is a story," he begins, "of the rinnegan. Do you know of it?"

"Yes. It is a very powerful eye technique."

Jiraiya-sensei had told them that.

"It is, but that's only the start. I suppose," and his eyes begin to narrow, now, "that your sensei neglected to mention that there are legends and prophecies concerning the rinnegan. It belonged to Rokudou Sennin, the Sage of the Six Paths, and these six paths are the key to your friend's revival."

At this, Konan feels her heart skip faster.

So the stranger – Madara – stands, and informs her of his name, and tells her what Jiraiya has not. The next one who appears with the rinnegan is the object of a prophecy; he will bring peace to the world, or grind it into dust.

"The destined child," Madara says, "and he's lying there before you, being fed through tubes. But what would you say – what would you do - if I told you that I could give him new bodies, a new identity? What would your response be, if I insisted that I can make this boy into the god he was intended to be?"

Konan grips the wood of the chair and holds it tightly.

She cannot be sure if he is telling the truth; he has given no proof, no sign that he is all that he says, but his eyes insist that he is, and such eyes cannot hide their power.

Her life has taught her that nothing comes without a price. Often, that price is beyond what she believes herself capable of tolerating. She considers this briefly, weighing it in her mind, but Konan dismisses this misgiving quickly, for she has already lost everything, and what would she not give to have Nagato's comfort? He cared for her, shielding her at the expense of his own pain.

"Anything," she says. Her mouth is dry. "I will do anything you wish, if you can free Nagato from his pain."

There is no hesitation in her sentiments. No doubt.

When Madara smiles, it is not like a smile at all. This is what Konan thinks as she watches his lips curve. It is like a blade, like a sneer, like something unhappy that writhes beneath the skin, and the skin obeys a command to smile, unwillingly, but there is no joy in his eyes.

After all that she has seen and endured, Konan still must resist the temptation to shudder.

"Smile, girl. This sad face does not suit you."

She watches, weary and wary, as he approaches Nagato's bed.

"You children think you have died? Well, then. Today, you shall be revived as an angel, and he shall be a god."

The smile widens, and Konan feels as though it slices her like paper.

"What god," Madara says, "does not grow more powerful from death and resurrection?"

There are six paths of pain. More precisely – and Uchiha Madara is nothing if not precise – this is a jutsu which splits the soul six ways, fitting it into six bodies. There are religions which argue that God is three into one; or one into three, or both, simultaneously. Now, Nagato, orphan with the rinnegan, is to become one into six, and six into one.

Six bodies, and Madara is true to his word as he provides them, and Konan does not ask where he gets them from, but one, the final one, gives her pause.

And it gives Nagato pause.

"He would wish it," Madara insists.

It is impossible to say what state of awareness Nagato inhabits.

Madara talks with him, often, while Konan sits patiently and folds her hands in her lap, watching, trying to discern whether Nagato's mouth moves, and whether words emerge from it, or only broken noises.

His voice is gravelly from the tube that cuts him. His eyes are vague, revealing nothing.

But he must be capable of understanding, at times, because there are moments when his eyes become keen and bright, alert, and now, to words Konan cannot hear, Nagato nods.

"Even fallen, and dead this short time, your friend's body will be easy enough to repair. Easier than yours, because he did not fall far enough to break him into pieces. His spine is what snapped."

Candlelight flickers, folding the shadows on Nagato's bandages, as Konan folds paper, folds her dirty skirts.

They go along with this, because they have nothing left to lose, only their lives.

In the wooden room, amid the moans and cries of those who are suffering, carried through open windows by the night wind, in the middle of this great war, Uchiha Madara aligns the bodies (and no one stops him, no one cares; he has walked right into this place, and none have questioned him, because there is a war, and people are busy, too busy to care), and presses his fingers together.

It looks more like some forlorn, unholy ritual than any jutsu.

But it is a jutsu.

Konan looks at Nagato. Nagato looks at Konan. And Konan's heart thunders, because Nagato is not just looking in her direction. He is looking at her. Looking at her.

They see one another in this final instant.

They thought they had nothing left to lose.

They had forgotten – or not considered – their souls.

For to children such as they, what were souls but promised aether, intended to rise to a place they had no faith in?

A soul, by definition and irony, is something you only understand and know in its absence.

Even then, you go a while without certainty; the eyes and the body grow restless and tired, the mind wanders, and desires, joy, are lost, and there comes a day when you see a mirror, and do not know anything behind the face it contains, and you hold a precious object, yet regard it as dead weight in your hands, and there is no sentimentality.

Or you watch a precious person, one you think you have loved all your days, and know you love him, because memory tells you that you have loved him, and in all your memories, and brain, there is the knowledge that you have loved him, should love him, and love him.

And yet you hear your mind telling you this more than you feel it, and you wonder what is left of that man, that love, and yourself. Life becomes a series of whispers by that voice, telling you what you feel.

This is when you realize, finally, what you have lost.

This is when Konan realizes, finally, what she has lost.

Six bodies. Six kinds of pain. Yahiko's, Konan knows.

Madara informs them that Nagato's soul will be dominant, but for this jutsu to work, Nagato's original form must remain alive. He cannot say if the other souls will be present at all, " - but he will absorb their pain. The pain of each body. He will not be merely Nagato, but something more."

Nagato, and pain. But to Konan, she cannot doubt, he will still be Nagato.

The worst comes when the jutsu finishes, when Madara's hands are still.

Konan leans forward. Madara grabs her shoulder and pulls her back.

"Watch," he says, looking down at her expectant face.

That is when Nagato screams.

Madara's nails dig into Konan's skin as she tries to lunge forward, tries to break away.

"Patience." His voice contains traces of disdain, irritation, and amusement.

Nagato tears at himself suddenly, tears at the tubes, and the boy who has been quiet, so deathly quiet through all that has come before, is now screaming, his eyes wet with tears - no, you shouldn't cry; don't cry, Nagato, because you still have to save your fluids - and then, then. Then.

His body crashes onto the floor.

The sound makes Konan feel sick.

Konan turns on Madara, furious, wanting to hit, wanting to hurt, because he promised; he promised, but, "Patience," he says again. "It's not over, Konan. Look."

She does.

Nagato's body is not moving. It is like there, like a wrapped cadaver.

"He's not - "

And then she sees.

While Nagato lies flat upon his stomach, another body moves.

It -

Her fingers tremble, but reach forward, as if to touch.

"Yahiko?"

But it is not. It is not. She knows it is not, but she cannot stop herself, cannot help but ask.

Arms stretch, and Konan knows it's coming, knows what is in store, has been told in great detail, but her eyes are still wide, and still, by the light of candles, in the tiny, suffocating room where no one cares (no one cares), Yahiko's body – repaired now, whole, and smooth – looks up, looks at her. Looks at her. And.

And she sees concentric circles.

The look in his eyes is the one he wore on the day he went mad.

"Konan." When he speaks, it is with Yahiko's voice, but Yahiko never used such a wavering, uncertain tone. "Konan," he repeats. "There you are."

Madara lets Konan go.

She crosses the distance between herself and Nagato-in-Yahiko (who looks like Yahiko, but is Nagato – Nagato), and there is no time for them to be awkward, no need, because their arms wrap around one another's bodies, and they embrace.

She hears his heart. His skin is warming against her.

For a moment, this is all that matters.

(And everything that has come before is - )

(Everything that has come before.)

Other bodies are moving. Shadows lengthen on the walls, stir in the light, pass before Konan's eyes.

(Nagato's does not.)

"This village is yours." Madara's voice is deep and low and rumbling, confined thunder, rolling with a tremor of excitement. It lifts them, that voice. Holds them. Elevates them, even as Konan thinks she hears in the tone the fate that shall bind her for the rest of her days. "The country is yours. The world is yours. All you have to do - "

All you have to do.

" - is pave the way for me."

1. Second half (which is done and which I'll post tomorrow) is the actual P/K half, obv. This was just the set-up. Yay for made-up, bullshit backstories. XD;

2. OC names came from psycholullaby, because I'm a bit crap at naming random OCs on a whim. As an amusing/dumb side-note, I think Hyori actually comes from the singer, Hyori Lee. XD; No idea about Suwayamaru.

3. With Konan saying stuff like, "You have no idea what happened to us after you left, sensei . . . " and Pein talking about, well, pain, and living in an infinite universe of pain, am I the only person who got the vibe that something like this happened? Not this exact idea, obviously. XD; I don't know his canon story, yet! But this was what his godly rambling immediately made me think of, so I wrote it. I don't pretend that it's likely in any way his actual story. XD It's just an example of a manner in which their stories could be embellished, I suppose?