The Walking vol. 2

The thing about losing is that it does not necessarily always hurt. Normally, a loss is painful; if you try as hard as you can, you really put your all into it, and your best is blatantly insufficient, it can be at least vaguely deprecating to one's ego if not completely confidence shattering. The thing about the loss Roku had freshly suffered was that it did not hurt at all, and although he had walked the longest distance he had ever traveled and went to rather painstaking lengths for the hope of a better place and a better future, there was no pain. The fire in his chest had gone out, and instead of the creeping emptiness and aching regret that he had expected, it just felt like the journey was directed elsewhere.

Roku camped, and after he awoke, another walk commenced.

This time, there was no destination but a direction; the boy awoke early in the morning, and the sun was shining directly into his unshaded eyes. A disgruntled harrumph and a swift flick of his shades lead him to walk in the opposite direction, eastward bound. Slowly but surely, the course drifted toward the north, keeping Roku hidden in the forest for the duration of his walk. And the walk was just as boring as it had been last time, if not more so. At least on the way to Konoha, there was still some urge for self-betterment and a deep-seated hunger for power, and he could think about what to expect, what he had heard of the village, and what he would try to work on when he got there. But with that plan kicked into a wall and crumpled in a wastebasket, the most he could hope to do was draft a new one. That was rough when he did not even know exactly where his feet were going to carry him but that was ok.

This time, regardless of the destination, Roku would train because counting on a solid destination would be pointless when every village, every place, really, was liquidated by time and change. What could remain consistent in the young shinobi's own life was his drive, his willpower to improve, and the ambition that had grown out of the frailty and isolation of life as it was. Training alone was boring and rough but it was doable at the very least, it was better than just walking and walking and walking and walking for days on end.

Being made to think to oneself for indefinite and infinite periods of time was rough, even and especially for someone so young, and although he was not yet aware of just how much so, it would begin to have a profound impact.

The trees stopped looking just like a forest and started to look like trees. 

The bark was defined, each crevice in the wood meant to look quite exactly as it did, and each branch grew and twisted in the perfect fashion. Every individual body of flora grew by some form or pattern, but they were also uniquely picturesque. The trees were bodies of thick wood sheathed in bark skins crafted personally over time, and the grass was a constant mob of non-uniform growth that spread, occasionally crawling and creeping up other plants. Everything was green and brown and blue, the organic life blossoming around him and the sky the only company he had. 

Looking at himself becoming disorienting after only another couple days of travel from the Leaf. In the midst of this sea of life existed a pale black and white shape, steps crunching over leaves and twigs. His skin looked almost like marble, such a pale white with undertones of black, lines of shadow running under his flesh. 'Like a ghost,' he thought over and over again to himself. 

Thoughts and ideas became strange, like different liquids in the cauldron of his mind. Everything ran together, the days were all the same and what slight variation existed in his daily ponderings was forgotten but for the impression of different colors. Roku's mental state became so tumultuous that he forgot how to speak, coming out of practice with no necessity to exercise his vocabulary, and his gait became a strange off-kilter sort of walk. 

Still, he made fair progress toward his destination. Roku walked fast. Although he was unaware, his crooked steps would carry him to the Land of Iron. If there were any place to find discipline and strength, it had already denied him. 

He had only needed to camp once. 

His hunting, a quick location and subsequent fatal puncture of a gazelle, allowed him to integrate what nutrients and fresh meat were necessary for growth; he left a pile of shredded meat and blood and fur decorated with bones in his wake. 

After he awoke, he adopted a sort of stumbling tap dance for a period of time. It degenerated from a sort of rhythmic walk into a stumble, and from there only recovered into a skipping galloping pattern. It was then that he decided, with what remained of his ability to control himself, that he would need to retrain himself to move and walk and talk. 

"Up." The p sound was far too emphasized, like pillows clapping together in a muffled puff. "Down. Why... does the letter, u? Sound so strong." It was like he had adopted an accent from some far off thespian, and it was rather completely unhelpful. The strange nature of his off-balance stumble in the beginning of his consciousness had helped bring his steps back to normal, but Roku could hardly pronounce his name without sounding like an older man who could hardly understand the concept of the sounds put together. It was helpful that he did not speak much.

"Roku. Roku. Roku," he repeated to himself before moving to certain soft and hard vowel sound, remastering the basics of his language under the beginnings of a gentle snowfall, the smallest signal that he had shifted to another climate.

Travel to the Land of Iron

Approved.