A Hogokage's Harvest [P]

Spoiler:

The crisp autumn air bit lightly at Ayato’s face as he stepped onto the main thoroughfare of the Hidden Star Village. Hallow’s Eve was fast approaching, and the village had been transformed: street vendors lined the lanes with bright orange pumpkins, fragrant apples, and squashes of all shapes and sizes. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting a flickering glow on the cobbled streets. Children ran about in early costume attempts, practicing their roles in the twilight of a rapidly cooling October day.

Ayato adjusted his haori, which was embroidered with the Hyuuga clan’s crest but made practical with added pockets for scrolls and sealing tags. As he scanned the crowd, he caught sight of a small boy standing with furrowed brows in front of a display of pumpkins, arms folded in a pose that would’ve looked defiant if he weren’t so slight.

“Lord Hogokage!” The boy’s voice squeaked with excitement and authority beyond his years. He marched up to Ayato, who found himself amused by the child’s serious expression.

“Quite the eye you’ve got, lad,” Ayato said, leaning down to his height. “You must be a little warrior in training.”

The boy grinned, flashing a toothless smile. “I need the perfect pumpkin,” he said. “Only you can help me find it.”

Ayato’s brow raised in intrigue. “The perfect pumpkin, you say?” He gave the boy a solemn nod. “Lead the way, and let’s see what we can find.”

As they walked between the vendor stalls, Ayato felt memories of his youth creeping into his mind. He recalled his desperate hunts in the autumn markets, though he had never sought a mere pumpkin but rather small mementos of his childhood—a polished rock, a carved figure. He remembered the thrill of finding something just right, how each object had felt like a piece of his identity.

Though small and determined, the child scrutinized each pumpkin with an intensity Ayato found oddly endearing.

“This one’s too round,” the boy said of one, dismissing it with a wave of his tiny hand.

Ayato picked up another. “How about this one? Sturdy, not a blemish in sight.”

The boy shook his head. “Too orange. It should be… I don’t know, not that orange.”

Ayato suppressed a chuckle. The boy’s standards reminded him of the high-stakes selections of his life as Hogokage, where the right or wrong choice could mean life or death, peace or war.

At a corner stall, they found a pumpkin that Ayato thought might satisfy the boy's criteria. It was tall and slightly crooked, with a grayish hue around the base and a long, twisted stem. Ayato knelt beside it, gesturing to the pumpkin with a theatrical flair.

“Behold,” he said, putting on his most dramatic voice, “The very pumpkin you seek. Neither too round nor too orange. And with a twisted stem that speaks of untold stories.”

The boy approached it cautiously, his eyes widening as he reached out a hand to touch its rough surface. After a moment, he nodded solemnly.

“Yes,” he declared, as if anointing it, “this one will do.”

Ayato clapped the child on the shoulder, smiling. “Then we’ve found your pumpkin, haven’t we?”

The boy grinned up at him, and at that moment, Ayato saw the joy of a child who believed his desire could shape the world. It reminded him of his long-ago, quiet pride when he first began understanding his power to shape fate.

[WC: 580]

Spoiler:

After safely delivering the prized pumpkin home, Ayato prepared to part ways when the boy’s mother approached him her hands clasped tightly before her. She appeared as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, her eyes shadowed yet filled with gratitude, burdened by countless worries that lingered like a dark cloud over her heart. The faint aroma of the pumpkin lingered in the air, blending with the earthy scents of the village at dusk—a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within her. The absence of her husband weighed heavily upon her, a loss that had stolen the laughter from their home and left her struggling to fill the void.

“Hogokage-sama, might I ask a favor?” she began, her voice barely above a whisper as if she feared the weight of her request might shatter the fragile calm of the evening. She glanced between Ayato and her son, the boy’s eager face a bittersweet reminder of the joy that had once filled their lives. “Finding a costume for him has been… difficult.”

Ayato nodded, sensing the unvoiced plea. He had seen this woman many times in the village, her spirit unwavering despite her trials. He knew the boy’s standards were as precise as those of a master craftsman, and already, he could envision the hurdles ahead.

“Consider it done,” he replied, offering a steady smile forged in the fires of leadership. “We shall not allow a mere costume to stand in the way of joy. After all, what is a holiday without the thrill of transformation?”

The child tugged at Ayato’s sleeve, his eyes brightening with newfound excitement. “I want to be something scary,” he declared, his voice rich with youthful innocence. “But… you know, different. Not like the other kids.”

Ayato glanced down, taking in the boy’s earnest expression. A fleeting memory flickered through his mind—his childhood spent scouring the forest for the perfect branch to fashion into a sword, daydreaming of becoming a hero while others donned their standard costumes. The longing to stand out, to be extraordinary in a world that often rewarded conformity, resonated deeply within him.

“So, you seek a guise that will send a shiver down the spine of the bravest shinobi,” he mused, his voice low and thoughtful. “A costume that embodies daring rather than convention. Let’s go to the market and find something that matches your bold spirit.”

With that, they stepped back into the bustling village, where the twilight air buzzed with the spirit of the approaching holiday.

The marketplace was alive with a glow that made every shadow sharp, and every corner feel haunted. Stallkeepers cried out their wares with the enthusiasm of battle, haggling as if their lives depended on it. Ayato moved through it all with a calm that came only from years of guiding his village through far harsher trials. The boy’s small hand tugged him onward as they wound past the sellers, searching for each elusive part of the costume. Ayato understood that these small moments mattered as much as the weightier ones; peace was delicate, and guiding the young through these childhood rites kept hope kindling even when the darker realities of life loomed.

As they navigated the stalls, Ayato’s gaze drifted from the boy to the faces around him. Many villagers regarded him with respect and wariness, but the look of pure trust on the boy’s face affected him most. It was humbling, he thought, how children offered their faith without hesitation. How few in his line of work would look to a leader with the same confidence as this child?

The boy’s murmurs brought Ayato back to the task at hand. “Nothing too wolfy, nothing too wizard-y… maybe something like an ancient shadow?” he mused as if conjuring a legend of his own making.

“An ancient shadow,” Ayato repeated with an approving nod, recognizing the determination in the child’s eyes. He had seen that spark in his finest shinobi—a glimmer of uniqueness that he had clung to as a young man.

They found scraps of dark cloth and a mask with hollow eyes, somehow inviting and ominous. The old woman who sold it claimed to have painted the mask herself, and Ayato could see in the cracks and crevices a craftsmanship that spoke of dedication and care. She met his gaze with a knowing nod, conveying that there was no finer work than passing down something lasting.

Once the costume was pieced together, Ayato returned to admire the boy. Beneath the cloak and mask, the child’s posture changed—he stood taller, his smile hidden but evident in the gleam of his eyes. Ayato thought it not so different from donning his uniform and armor, feeling the weight of duty settle upon him. It transformed a man, even a young one.

The boy glanced up at him, his voice laced with anticipation. “What do you think, Hogokage-sama?” There was a hesitation as if the boy needed Ayato’s approval more than the costume itself.

Ayato knelt to meet the boy’s gaze, his voice steady yet warm. “This costume is fit for a shinobi—and for you.” He let the moment linger, allowing the gravity of his words to settle. “Tonight, you won’t just wear it; you’ll carry every dream you dare to dream. That’s a powerful thing.”

The boy nodded solemnly, his eyes widening as he absorbed Ayato’s words. Then, with sudden eagerness, he whispered, “Can we… scare someone with it?”

Ayato laughed, an unguarded sound that surprised even him, a moment of lightness he hadn’t realized he missed. “There’s no better time for fright than on Hallow's Eve, or so the saying goes. You, young shinobi, have my blessing to spook with honor.”

As they walked through the marketplace, weaving between vibrant stalls, Ayato felt a sense of purpose settle in his chest. This quiet duty—guarding a child’s fleeting happiness—was one he found he cherished more than expected. He noticed a few older kids hovering near the cheaper costume racks, eyeing the makeshift pieces with hungry eyes. Yet, when their gazes landed on Ayato, they quickly looked away. Whether it was respect or fear that kept them at a distance, he did not particularly care. Tonight, he was more than the Hogokage; he was a keeper of one child’s joy, a moment of pure service not for the sake of the village but for the fleeting wonder of youth.

They returned to the child’s home as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the streets in shadows. Before Ayato left, he looked at the boy and saw not just a child but a young warrior in his first armor, poised to face the world’s mysteries. Ayato offered him a final nod, a promise unspoken in his gaze.

For Ayato, it was but a chapter in his long tale, yet he knew it would likely become a story the boy would tell for years to come.

[WC: 1145]

Spoiler:

When the night of Hallow’s Eve arrived, Ayato stood before the family’s door, a sentinel cloaked in gentle darkness. His cloak billowed around him, woven from rich shades of sand and oak that captured the essence of autumn. The muted tones blended seamlessly, evoking the warm, earthy palette of the season.

Emblazoned on the back was the emblem of his branch of the Hyuuga clan—a white flame, a potent symbol of their heritage and resilience. Established nearly twenty years ago by Hibari Hyuuga, this house had once been regarded as one of the clan's less influential branches. Yet the flame signified a quiet strength, a reminder of their enduring legacy. Over the years, it had grown in significance, producing a member who ascended to the esteemed rank of Great Kage—the longest-serving one, if memory served. Ayato wore that legacy like a mantle, a testament to the trials faced and the victories won.

Some of that mantle had nearly been soiled by a rogue mochi ice cream he’d snatched from one of the stands. After all, if he couldn’t indulge in a few treats himself, what kind of Hogokage would he be?

The night was thick with the mingling scents of roasted chestnuts and spiced cider wafting from nearby homes, echoes of laughter spilling into the streets where families gathered to celebrate. The boy’s mother greeted him, her face drawn and weary yet reflecting relief and trust. She had implored him to accompany their son through the bustling streets for the evening’s festivities, their obligations weighing heavily upon them like stones in their pockets.

“Thank you for doing this, Hogokage-sama,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It means more to us than you could know.”

Ayato inclined his head, feeling the weight of her gratitude settle heavily upon him. “There’s no need for thanks,” he replied, his voice a blend of warmth and resolve. “This role has never been about seeking gratitude. I owe you and your son a debt for all your husband sacrificed for our village. His courage and dedication should never be forgotten.”

The air within the house was thick with the fragrant scent of incense, wafting through the open door like a comforting embrace. Ayato’s gaze drifted to a small altar set against the wall, where a picture of a young man in a crisp Hoshigakure uniform was framed, vibrant against the flickering candlelight. The uniform, pristine and proud, seemed to stand sentinel itself—a reminder of the lives once intertwined with dreams of peace and protection.

“He was proud to serve,” the mother said, her voice trembling slightly as she followed his gaze. “He always believed in protecting the village and ensuring a better future for our children.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, a reflection of the unyielding sorrow that accompanied her memories.

Ayato nodded, his heart heavy with the shared burden of loss. “And he did just that,” he murmured. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter that had once filled their home, the fleeting moments of joy now shadowed by grief. A fleeting smile crossed her face, quickly overshadowed by sorrow.

“I worry for him,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “How do I guide him in a world so full of troubled days?”

“Ensure he knows he is not alone,” Ayato replied, conviction firm. “I will be here to help. It is our duty to carry the light forward, even when the night feels the longest.” His words hung in the air, a solemn vow amid the backdrop of celebration outside.

As Ayato stepped into the night with the boy at his side, the sounds of revelry enveloped them, a stark contrast to the heavy emotions that lingered in the doorway. The mother remained there, her silhouette framed by the warm light spilling from within, her heart filled with sorrow and hope, a flickering candle against the darkened sky.

As they ventured from door to door, the air vibrated with laughter, the rustle of autumn leaves crunching underfoot, and the occasional yelp of fright as one child leaped from behind a bush, their playful ambush startling the unsuspecting. Each home they approached welcomed Ayato with a blend of surprise and reverence. The villagers were caught off guard by their Hogokage mingling in the crowd, an unusual sight for a man accustomed to the weight of leadership and power.

“Watch out for the older ones,” Ayato advised as they turned a corner, his tone layered with the wisdom of experience. Whispers of mischievous teens concocting plans far removed from innocent revelry had reached his ears. “Stick close to me.”

The boy nodded, clutching his candy sack with fierce determination. They made their way to the next house and the next, each doorstep yielding a bounty of sweets. The boy’s excitement was palpable with every handful collected, drawing Ayato briefly back to his childhood—a distant memory of joyful Halloween nights spent with friends, his mother’s voice urging him to return home before the shadows deepened.

Blissfully unaware of the older kids lurking nearby, the boy’s innocent joy seemed to draw their attention like a beacon. Ayato sensed the danger lurking in their hollow laughter as they prowled the neighborhood, fueled by restless envy. The absence of the boy’s father weighed heavily on Ayato’s heart, making the child an easy target for their cruel jests.

With each step closer, Ayato felt the tension rise. The boy’s candy sack appeared too heavy for his small frame, and Ayato was compelled to intervene. Without a father’s guiding hand, the child bore not only sweets but also the weight of loneliness.

“Not on my watch,” he thought, steeling himself to ensure that the night remained a celebration of childhood, not a reminder of its crueler facets.

Lost in these thoughts, he caught sight of a shadow flitting through the crowd—an older figure weaving between the costumed children with unsettling grace. Ayato narrowed his eyes, instinct sharpening at the hint of mischief in the air. He placed a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder, nodding discreetly toward the shadow.

“Stay close. I’ll handle this,” he assured, his tone low and firm.

As they continued their path, Ayato remained ever watchful—when the teenagers drew near, one bold enough reached for the boy’s candy sack. Ayato’s voice sliced through the jovial ambiance like the keen edge of a drawn blade.

“Enough of that,” he commanded, calm yet unyielding, each word carrying the weight of authority.

The teenagers halted, surprise flickering across their faces, then stumbled back, muttering curses as they faded into the night’s embrace. Ayato allowed himself a faint smile; fear was not his primary weapon, but he recognized its utility when necessary.

The boy gazed up at him, wide-eyed with awe. “You scared them off, Hogokage-sama!”

Ayato offered a reassuring squeeze on the boy’s shoulder. “Even on nights like this, a shinobi must protect those in their charge,” he replied, his voice tempered with warmth.

They made their way to the last house, the boy’s sack now brimming with treats—a veritable treasure trove of sugary delights. As they turned toward home, the child looked up, his smile sleepy but sincere, his eyes drooping with the weight of the night’s excitement.

“Thank you, Lord Hogokage,” he murmured, his words trailing off as he succumbed to the comforting warmth of Ayato’s presence.

When they arrived at the boy’s doorstep, Ayato felt a soothing calm envelop him, a rare stillness after the gentle challenges of the night. Each moment had proven fulfilling in ways that rivaled even the grandest battles he had fought. He bid farewell to the boy’s family with a nod and a faint smile before attempting to slip into the wynds of the village he had vowed to protect.

Yet, as they stood at the threshold, the child's face was shadowed by a look of contemplation. “Hogokage-sama,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “Where is my father? Is he coming back?”

The boy’s mother, lingering just inside the door, exchanged a sorrowful glance with Ayato, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “He’s not coming back, my love,” she murmured, her voice thick with grief. “But remember, he loved you dearly.”

Turning her gaze to Ayato, gratitude pierced through her sadness. “Thank you for tonight. You’ve given him something precious.” The weight of her words settled on him, a reminder of the bond forged between duty and compassion.

At that moment, Ayato understood that the boy deserved the truth, however painful. Life was rife with harsh realities, yet it need not extinguish the wonder of youth. Crouching to meet the boy’s gaze, he spoke with quiet conviction. “Your father was a hero, you know. He fought bravely for our village. His spirit lives on within you. Always remember that.”

After offering his words of comfort, Ayato reached into the depths of his cloak and produced a small wooden figure intricately carved in the likeness of a ninja. With its tiny hands poised in a stance of readiness, the figure bore the marks of age—a testament to its journey through many hands before finally finding its way to the boy. It served as a charm of protection, a talisman meant to guard against the shadows lurking in the night’s corners.

“Take this,” Ayato said, pressing the figure into the boy's palm. “It has watched over many, and now it shall watch over you.” The boy's eyes widened with wonder, his tiny fingers curling around the smooth wood as if it were the most precious treasure in the world. In a world fraught with uncertainty, perhaps the essence of those we love never fades; it merely transforms into something enduring—a flicker of light in the darkness that would guide him forward.

Ayato’s thoughts turned to the brave men and women who had once fought by his side—warriors whose laughter had once filled the air but now lingered only in memory. Some had been parents themselves, fighting for the village and the future they hoped to pass on. Their loss left more than empty spaces on the battlefield; it left small faces looking up with wide, questioning eyes, navigating a world without the ones they’d leaned on most.

Each absence had etched its mark on Ayato, shaping him in quiet, lasting ways. Those faces and dreams, the bonds they’d forged through conflict and the resilience they shared, stayed with him, tying him to his promise to guide those left behind.

Today, Ayato had helped one child find a spark of joy, knowing full well that others carried their quiet burdens. At that moment, he resolved to keep his door open more comprehensively, a reminder that even small gestures could help weave together a brighter world.

Above, the Hidden Star lights glimmered, steady and distant, a reminder of lives and dreams that had come before. As he strolled through the peaceful streets, Ayato reflected: tonight, he hadn’t just been the Hogokage. Perhaps, in some way, he’d become a keeper of simple hopes—a reminder that not all victories were forged in battle but often bloomed in quieter moments, closer to home.

“We light the way,” he whispered, letting the words linger in the cool night air. He chose to forgo the first part of the Hoshigakure motto—“Through war or cunning”—for it felt a burden too heavy for this moment. Tonight was not about the chaos of conflict or the sharp edges of strategy but about illuminating the paths for those who wandered in darkness.

For the sake of the children—and in honor of those who had come before—he’d keep a steady hand on the torch, ensuring no child walked alone. Despite losing his parents young, Ayato had been lucky to have others who’d stepped in, guiding him with quiet strength, shared laughs, and the occasional stern lesson. They'd taught him that a true leader didn’t just forge a path; he ensured it was lit brightly enough for others to find their way. Now, he’d try to do the same, keeping the road ahead a little warmer, a little clearer, and a little less lonely for all who traveled it.

[WC: 2017]

Approved