Desolation of the Caged Bird Chapter 31 - The Child of Prophecy

Change was the only poison given to men in unequal measure.

When he was younger, that poison had tasted e’er so sweet, that he suckled upon it as though it were an antidote, a medicine to an incurable condition. It saved him from the mindset he lacked and allowed him to thrive and survive, even as he witnessed his sensei hand over the mantle of Hokage to his teammate. He imbibed it in great measures; he drank it to stupor, but it was no antidote. It was always poison. Day after day, as his organization in the shadows of Konoha grew, that poison festered and seeped and rotted him, but he had, at the time, still believed he and it were the sweetest antidote that world, that Konoha, needed.

The Namikaze boy disagreed.

A wheezing cough escaped the man’s lips, and he struck his chest once or twice, swallowing down the phlegm that threatened to spew forth. He adjusted the glasses upon his eyes, raising to book slowly towards his face. The absence of sunlight for years had necessitated the need for such a thing, as had the seals that lay attached to his back, his legs, and his arms at all times, restraining the flow of chakra. Seals that had been placed by the command of the Namikaze boy.

He lifted the book in his hands. Memoirs of the Old Guard. A collection of half-gathered autobiographies by those of his father’s era, the men who fought for life and sustenance in a world ravaged by war. In the days before his imprisonment, he would have scoffed at the notion of reading such a thing, dismissed the idea of shinobi leaving behind records and accounts that spoke of their deeds in life, their fears and regrets.

Now, as he sat in a room, surrounded by books, he could only slowly turn page after page, musing on a simple truth.

Change was the only poison given to men in unequal measure.

Wetting his fingers with his tongue as he turned the page, the thought came to him how he did not hate the Namikaze boy for his decision. At first, certainly, confining him to house arrest had filled him with rage and fury, and sealing his chakra and depriving him of even the tiniest glimmer of sunlight had left him burning with a yearning for sweet comeuppance, for a retribution that would never come.

Rather, now, he held a great deal of respect for him. Admiration, indeed, for him. They were kindred spirits, in ways, despite how vastly different their approach to protecting their village was. Were he in the man’s shoes at the time, discovering the existence of a covert black ops unit under his nose, mercy would never have crossed his mind. A complete annihilation, a total and thorough extermination, that and only that would have been the judgment he would render. 

Such a decision, of course, would have been folly. Namikaze’s actions, which he had first seen as a characteristically foolish kindness, had been anything but. Death would be a reprieve, not a punishment. For were his head to have lain on a chopping block, his crimes read aloud, and his final moments approaching, he would meet his demise with the belief he had done his all for the sake of his village, sacrificed his all for the glory of his people, it would have been a death he could close his eyes and accept with shuddering delectation. 

Rather, confining him to his home, depriving him of chakra, and assigning a guard to watch him at all times, remaining ever in the darkness, seeing neither the browning leaves of autumn nor the white snow of winter, neither the booming flowers of spring nor the brilliant sunshine of summer, destined to rot and wither, his legacy that of ignominy and insignificance, he understood the Namikaze’s intentions. 

Sparing him was no mercy. 

It was the greatest punishment.

The only activity that was allowed of him was to read. That forbearance, at least, the Hokage had not been cruel enough to deprive him. Any book he desired was brought to him. His guard, one, singular, ANBU, the same guard who had been here from the very beginning, the same guard who acted as a final line of defense, not only against him, but against all of Konohagakure no Sato's enemies, stood behind him, clad in his mask, the red glow of his Sharingan only subtly visible.

Once upon a time, he coveted those Sharingan eyes for his desires. The ultimate genjutsu, it was called, to place one under an illusion to which they themselves would remain unaware, ever puppeted, ever guided by invisible strings they could not see. Now, those eyes observed him at all times, and that technique he once desired served as both carrot and stick. Carrot, for it remained ever at hand, and stick, for the Namikaze boy had given permission for that technique, Kotoamatsukami, to be used upon him, with a cruel, final order to be given to him, an order that would erase all that he considered to be ‘him.’

Others would have considered such methods excessive, but he and the Namikaze understood that this was the greatest way to suppress him. It was why he did not hate the Namikaze boy. It was why he admired the Namikaze boy. The world saw his goodness, his kindness, but they misunderstood him, as did his village of Konohagakure no Sato, as did Hiruzen's brat of a student, the man’s mentor.

Not a single one of them truly understood Namikaze Minato.

The man’s mentor was worst of all. Truly, it surprised him that the child whose interests had only been skirts and women, breasts and sex, had grown such leaps and bounds. That it was that man, who ended up being his undoing, and that fool, who led to his ruination.

Truly, undoubtedly— 

Change was the only poison given to men in unequal measure.

Flipping slowly through the book, he did not need to glance upwards to feel the presence of a person who had not been there prior. The Flying Thunder God Technique was his sensei's invention, long before the Namikaze boy adopted it and improved it. Slowly, he lifted his gaze towards the blond-haired man late in his forties, whose chin was now filled with a rough golden beard, and whose eyes and features that had once shone clearly held a dark luster.

Slowly, he waved for his maidservant, the only one he was allowed in lieu of his deteriorating health, and a table was provided between both of them, as she gracefully poured tea for his guest. As she departed, he rubbed his chin, tracing over the ‘X' scar that had been marred upon it, and he drank in the features of the man before him.

“War has done wonders for your temperament, Namikaze."

“And imprisonment has done wonders for yours."

Had such a jibe been given years ago, it would have stung at his pride. It would have angered him, stoked a fire of hatred deep within him. Alas, even the most fervent of flames were snuffed by time’s relentless chill. Senectitude gave way to acceptance of serendipity, and acceptance of serendipity gave way to magnanimity.

Words, however potent, however sharp, were but blades being driven into a man who was already pronounced dead.

“Shisui-kun, leave us.”

“Hai, Hokage-sama.”

The tell-tale sign of the Body-Flicker Technique being used left the room with a light faint breeze. A moment later, there was no one present but himself and the Namikaze boy.

“Congratulations are in order," he provided. “You will either be the greatest Hokage in history, the one who fended off the world, or you will be the last Hokage in history, the one to whom Konoha's downfall is attributed."

He sipped slowly.

“Your legacy will not be forgotten."

Namikaze shook his head. “I've never cared for legacy."

“That's where you differ from your mentor and his mentor before him," he retorted. “Hiruzen cared for legacy. A trait he passed on to his students. Your teacher, Jiraiya, sought disciples to carry on his legacy. Orochimaru pursued immortality to have a perpetual existence as his legacy. Even that child is very vocal about spreading medical ninjutsu as her legacy..."

He placed the cup down. 

“But even you must have something you wish to be remembered for. When others search your name in the history books, what is the first thing you wish to see etched beside the name, Namikaze Minato?"

“Peace."

“Peace?" he fell silent. He chuckled. “Even still?"

“Even still."

The words were uttered with such conviction that they would have fooled anyone else. Anyone who knew him. His wife, his teacher, his students, and his children. However, he was not fooled. He, Shimura Danzō, saw what was said, and saw what was not said.

He rapped the table between with a finger.

“Akimichi Choichi had a saying his ancestors lived by."

He leaned forward.

“Peace is but the brief satiety between hungers."

He steepled his hands.

“The Akimichi Clan of old believed that hunger is endless. That you have eaten yesterday does not mean you will not need to eat today, and that you eat today does not mean you will not need to eat tomorrow. In the Era of Warring Clans, they had more mouths to feed than grain. During a great famine, they would scrape the bark off trees, boil it with water, and season it with salt and drink till their bellies swelled. During that famine, mothers would press pillows against their children's faces, deeming it a more merciful fate than to allow the vicious venom that was true, unutterable hunger."

The Namikaze boy smiled at him. A soft, dry chuckle came. “You’ve grown more eloquent."

“You have given me over a decade with nothing but books and my thoughts as company,” Danzō rasped, chuckling in turn. “Every day I do nothing but read. I read, and I see, and I understand.”

“And what is it you’ve understood?”

"That no one remembers history. That we all are repeating it, endlessly. Every last one of us. You as well.”

He paused.

“No, having not been born of any clan lineage, you cannot be blamed for your ignorance," he shook his head. “You do not see how Konohagakure no Sato, how this village, was a mistake.”

The Namikaze boy smiled. There was a profound lack of humor to his amusement. “That is the conclusion you have come to after years of isolation?”

“It is the conclusion I have come to, after years of thought,” he countered. “Konoha was founded by the Senju and Uchiha, the two strongest clans. They were already at the pinnacle of the world when they allied in the name of peace. The Senju had stopped feeling the ache of starvation, for they had Hashirama. The Uchiha had not experienced the raw horrors of famine, for Madara would burn the weak and pillage them. They were forces with no equals but each other, and their child, the result of their union, a Shinobi Village, was an infant born of privileged parents."

He set down the book, Memoirs of the Old Guard.

“Hashirama likely did not understand this, to his final breath. He did not understand why war was so quick to break out. He was clueless as to why the shinobi villages were so quick to raise their blades against each other. Why? He must have asked, like a Daimyo atop a throne, baffled as to why the starving peasants raised their pitchforks against each other."

Slowly, Danzō pointed, with a long, bony finger.

“Like you, he sought peace. And like you, he failed to understand why war had reigned undisputed across the lands. The fundamental cause, the true reason, the purest reason: hunger."

“The world does not starve any longer.”

“We hunger for more than food, Namikaze,” Danzō scoffed. “We hunger for power. We hunger for fame. We hunger for resources. We hunger for legacy. We hunger for the things we lack that others have. Konoha's rise, our success, our greatness, stokes the hunger of others. So they have gathered, as I knew they would, with saliva dripping on their wretched fangs to feast on a fattened sheep.” 

He sneered, withdrawing his finger.

“A fattened sheep, diseased with the stupidity of a hope that they can live in harmony with starving wolves."

Danzō shook his head.

“Fool others as you wish, but there is no need for such methods with me. As you watch those you had hoped to foster goodwill and kindness surround you on all sides and slowly suffocate you, as you watch our people die for no other reason than bearing the sin of excellence, do you truly, in your heart of hearts, still wish to sue for peace?"

The Namikaze boy did not respond. 

This was the first time.

“Before today, you rarely placed any value on my words."

“Before today, I did not need to."

“What has changed?"

“I can no longer tolerate the spy I cannot find.”

Danzō snorted. “There are always spies one cannot find.”

“Not like this,” Namikaze shook his head. “The spy knows things only a select few can possibly know. It learned information I told only a handful of people, including my wife and my Sensei. I have not stepped foot on the battlefield, not once, in ten years, because every time I plan to do so, the enemy makes movements ahead of time as if anticipating me. Retreating, fleeing, and preparing something. What it is they are preparing, I do not know.”

“Did you not create some method of sensing such things? Chairs that revealed the emotions of others?”

“I did.”

“And despite this, you have yet to identify the spy?”

“Whoever it is that has betrayed Konoha does not have any Negative Emotions associated with that betrayal. They do not consider it a betrayal.”

Danzō looked at him oddly. “You appear certain it is not me.”

“You and my sensei are the only people in Konoha I do not suspect.”

“Me?”

“Because of the Kotoamatsukami.”

Danzō went stiff. 

“Not knowing if I did or did not, if your decisions are truly yours, or if everything you do and think is what I wish for you to do and think, is the only guarantee I possess against you.”

The Namikaze finally reached for his tea.

“Regardless, I do not have to worry if you are the spy.”

The man sipped, and both men fell into a long silence.

“I have kept a lot of individuals away from the battlefield because of the spy. This war has dragged on longer than needed because of the spy. Every time we make a move, our enemies anticipate it. Certain shinobi vanish mysteriously from critical areas they were meant to defend, secret transport routes necessary for logistics are constantly revealed and attacked without warning, and deploying our strongest Shinobi to capture strategic points is always met with counterforces of either enemy jinchūriki or entire squadrons of elite Jōnin.”

“Konoha is strong, and despite losing a war of information, despite the unexplained disappearances, despite our enemies combining forces, we have managed to hold on for ten years rather than face a humiliating defeat. But— but!”

The Namikaze boy gripped his cup hard, chuckling.

“My son will be graduating today, as will my youngest daughter. When I was younger, I swore I would create a world where my children did not have to fight in wars. Now, I am the Fourth Hokage, and I have done nothing to change the very cycle I was born into.”

His knuckles whitened.

“The toads and sensei said I was destined to be the Child of Prophecy. That I would save the world. I believed it. As an orphan from humble beginnings, greatness and heroism had always been things I desired. Things that proved my existence. For a time, I believed I was that Messiah spoken of in prophecy, that I would bring peace to the world and make all my loved ones happy. There was a time I wholeheartedly believed it.” 

The cup shattered in his hand. Fragments of ceramic fell to the ground, as did scalding tea, and as did drops of blood. The Namikaze boy either did not notice it, or he did not care.

“I had conveniently ignored the fact that the Child of Prophecy was said to either save or destroy. Now, I understand. I understand that what I will leave behind is only destruction.”

“You?”

“Ten years ago, I delivered a parcel to the former Wind Daimyō within his bedroom. In doing so, I guaranteed his death. His replacement sought to end the man's bloodline, and Lady Shijimi was caught in the crossfire.”

“You have spoken of this, Namikaze.”

“Her death was a false flag operation,” the Namikaze boy added. “Lady Shijimi had made arrangements for her passing, and one of her letters told me that if she died, it was her husband's doing, because her husband was scared of me. He was afraid the ‘Whisper in the Wind’ would enter his ears. Having seen my actions lead to the death of his peer an entire country away, he was terrified that if Konoha did not have an external enemy to fight, it would turn inwards against him. That I would turn against him.”

Danzō probed. “Would you?”

Namikaze smiled. 

Danzō didn’t believe it. He could not believe it. 

“You would turn against the very support that keeps the system of shinobi running?”

“A support that keeps wars continuing for the sake of profit, and a system that perpetuates endless death, violence, and hatred,” Namikaze shook his head. “Yes.”

“Then he was right to declare war,” Danzō admitted. “It was only that he never anticipated that others would follow suit, others who were more scared of the ‘Whisper in the Wind’ than he.”

“Is it not farcical?” 

“How so?”

“I’ve done nothing but seek peace as desperately as I could. In striving for peace, I've brought only war and death. I’ve brought destruction and ruin. In not wanting to lose anything, anyone, I am losing everything and everyone. I’m a terrible teacher to my students, a stranger to my son, an absent father to my daughters, and to my wife…”

The Namikaze boy glanced at his right hand, which dripped with blood.

“I cannot look at her. I cannot hold her. I am afraid I will destroy her, as I've destroyed everything I touch. She is the one thing… the one person I love too much to risk destroying.”

He clenched it and ran the hand through his hair, streaking his golden hair with a line of red.

“If I am truly prophesied to destroy this world, if that is my destiny, the least I can do is ensure I do not destroy Kushina with it.”

Danzō laughed. He laughed, but the force of his laughter brought him into a wheezing, dry, bitter cough. He coughed and hacked, striking his chest with his fist.

“Do my words amuse you, Shimura-san?”

“If you wanted words of affirmation, you would have gone to your sensei. If you sought someone to dissuade you of your belief that your destiny is one of destruction, you would have gone to Hiruzen. To come to me, there is only one reason.”

Danzō rasped. “You do not wish for affirmation, and you do not wish to be dissuaded. You seek absolution. What is it you possibly need me to absolve you of?”

The Namikaze boy laughed softly.

“You were one of the few people who championed the Will of Flame. Do you still do so?”

“I do. “

“Why?”

“The Will of Flame is Madara’s Legacy, as the Will of Fire is Hashirama’s. The Uchiha call it the Curse of Hatred, but it is only a small part of it. Whilst the Will of Fire speaks of a desire to cherish, fight, and protect the village, to protect one’s loved ones, it is an ideology best suited for times of peace.”

“In times of war, it is the Will of Flame, the desire for vengeance against those who have wronged you, the conversion of love you feel for your comrades into hatred for your enemies, the desire to raze all who stand against you, all who have hurt you, that keeps you going through grief and bitterness and despair. It is what soothes the ache in your chest as you stand over the corpses of the ones you could not protect.”

“The belief that our flame must spread to the corners of the world, that the world must be baptized and cleansed with fire, so none may ever rise up against us, so none may ever challenge us, so none may ever hold a candle to us, so our people will have no need to perish further… it inspires, and it motivates, and it stirs within all in Konoha the very thing we have forgotten in the years we have spent as a fattened sheep.”

Danzō rasped.

“Hunger.”

The Namikaze boy steepled his hands together. He sat there in silence, for minutes, without a word, and Danzō did not say a word in turn. Finally, as the minutes turned, Danzō asked curiously.

“Why are you asking about Will of Flame?”

“It may be the only way to end the cycle.”

“The cycle?”

“The Cycle of Hatred.”

“Cleansing the world with fire will end the cycle of hatred?”

The Namikaze boy smiled. A dry, empty, hollow smile.

“There cannot be a Cycle of Hatred if there is no one to continue it.”

Danzō’s heart leapt into his throat.

“That would go against everything your teachers have taught you.”

“It would,” he admitted. “But I see no other way. The world will continue to wage war against itself, until it cannot. Peace demands I erase the lines, but the lines are how people know who they are. They will always draw dividing lines in the sand. Again, and again. There will always be an Us and there will always be a Them. And as long as there will always be an Us and Them, there will always be a cycle.”

“But if I draw a new line of Us and Them, if there is a greater enemy, an enemy that forces the world to come together, to unite as one against or risk destruction, an enemy that everyone must put aside their differences to defeat, an enemy that takes upon all the hatred… the entire world would be one ‘Us’ and that enemy will be the only ‘Them.’”

Danzō swore. “And once that enemy is defeated, once that threat is gone, how long do you believe it will take before war breaks out again? A day? A month? A year at best?”

“As long as that enemy lives, the world will know peace.”

“A fragile alliance created due to a fear of mutual destruction is not the same as peace, Namikaze!”

“It is the closest thing the world will ever know to it.”

Danzō’s danger senses were ringing. All the alarm bells were ringing.

“You would destroy your legacy.”

“I already told you,” Namikaze Minato shook his head. “I never cared for legacy.”

Silence spread between them. Danzō coughed and hacked. His chest was burning. The seals holding him in place were glowing. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

“You… you… Has the thought not come to you that the prophecy is mistaken, that there is another? Just because that fool of your mentor whispered into your ear since you were a boy that your destiny is to save or destroy the world does not mean it must be true… it could… There could be…”

“You've lost all your eloquence.”

“Namikaze…!” Danzō wheezed. “Peace is an unattainable dream… Namikaze— don't… don't… no… Konoha’s… golden… age… You will be… the greatest sinner! The greatest sinner, Namikaze!”

Minato got up from his seat and slowly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you have any requests, Shimura-san?”

As the man’s hand lay on his shoulder, a morbid, final, bitter acceptance washed away the surge of panic. There was only a dry, choking, wheezing laugh that came.

“Was I ever…” Danzō rasped. “Were my actions… mine?”

Minato gave him a pitiable smile.

I see.

Shimura Danzō, a man who was once known as the Darkness of Shinobi, closed his eyes. 

Indeed—

Change was the only poison given to men in unequal measure.