Konoha had long been both the largest and the strongest of the hidden villages, a strength sustained in no small part by the food supplied by the Shido clan. The total economic independence provided by being completely self-sustaining allowed the growth of the village to outmatch even the growth of the titanic trees planted and grown by the first Hokage to protect and hide it. It was the youngest brother of that First Hokage who founded the Shido clan, and if the Hokage and his progeny were the backbone of the village as the legacy of the first, then the Shido, the legacy of his brother, were its sustenance. But unlike the progeny of the First, the Shido clan were not Shinobi, and knew nothing of combat, or of war; these pursuits they left to their Konoha brothers and sisters and instead devoted themselves and the considerable powers of their heritage to life. It was a contract of mutual symbiosis, servant and protector, and under the shield of that contract the Shido Clan had passed unnoticed and unnoticing through the years of war and bloodshed, working in their own simplicity to preserve the Konoha way of life. But in their pacifism they grew arrogant, and in their arrogance was weakness. In the world of the Shinobi the scent of weakness carries like blood in salt water, and the Shido new nothing of sharks.

It was spring again. The green had begun its slow birth, rising up from the white and brown patched earth even as the furry creatures of the woodlands made their first furtive entrance unto the new world. A robin was seen, red-breasted and beautiful against the backdrop of the winters lingering chill. That was always a good sign: it meant that soon they would begin the planting.

In a field of damp earth, half covered by snow and open to the vast vault of the blue sky there was growing a tiny green sprout. It was just grass, not a plant of any value or capable of supplying sustenance to the civilized man, but kneeling over it, his hands cupped about the fragile shoot as though it were the most precious thing in the world was a small boy. It was to be a day of blood and death, but this moment, wrapped in the innocence of a child’s wonder at life, would remain untouched.

Shinme focused. Buried within the soft soil beneath his fingers he fancied he could feel the quest of the hungry roots reaching for water, feel the ache of the tiny leaf as it strained upwards towards the sky and the life giving light of the sun. In his young eyes he saw its spirit wrapped in a terrible struggle: life fighting to live. The din of his father and brothers working to clear the bracken from the field was a near silence to the mighty roar of that tiny spirit’s battle cry to the world, a roar that swept over Shinme like a tsunami and left him floating in the warm presence of life.

“Live!” cried his spirit, resonating in tune with the tiny seeds challenge, and unnoticed the word tumbled from his lips.

“Live!” he cried again, reaching out within his mind to the heart of the mighty child plant, and the word echoed through the trees. Around him his father and brothers stopped their work and turned to look in surprise and amusement, watching as the four year old boy rose to his feet, shouting in his young voice again and again, “Live! Live! Live!”

The relatives smiled. In ten years time they would still be telling the story: already they could see Shinme’s adolescent face redden in the reflection in his soup as they shared the mirth at dinnertime. Then their amusement deepened as the small boy clasped his hands before him, the image of the First Hokage in the ink drawings that adorned the clan’s ancestral shrine.

“Little Shinmechan!” laughed Ichigo, the oldest of his cousins. “Already he loves the plants!” and the others joined him in his laughter.

“But Shinmekun,” said Makoto, an uncle with concern in his voice as he approached the intently focusing child. “The ‘birth of trees’ technique belonged to only the Shodaime, and you cannot perform it with only one hand seal! If you want to make the plant grow,” he rested his hand on the boys head, “you give it water, and tend to it, and most importantly,” he held up a finger, “you give it love.”

“But you watch!” said Shinme’s father, scooping the still silent boy into his broad shouldered embrace. “Shinmesan is strong! Perhaps he will learn the Shodaime’s technique; think what a great leader he would make for the Shido clan!” Many faces laughed at this, and others came forward to ruffle the boy’s hair and pinch his cheeks, smearing dirt on his face.

“But come, back to work!” cried Makoto, “there is much to do yet before the evening meal.”

“And you will help too, won’t you, Shinmesan?” said his father, placing the still stern faced boy on his wide shoulders, “Hold tight, and don’t let go!”

With those words the work began again, and it was not for many hours that they spoke again of anything but earth and weather, of soil and root and bough.

At last as the sun neared the blue rimmed horizon and the shadows of the trees stretched long crooked fingers across the damp turned earth there came walking with a sound of wood on wood clacking Shinme’s mother, the Sakura blossom of the Shido clan. She walked like the solemn east wind dancing across the cold field, and at each few steps struck the wood claxon in her hands and called in her clear voice, “Return! Return! Your work is done this day! Come and eat, for food is ready! Come and wash away the dirt and sweat and soil!”

Then men came, tired but happy, wiping sweat from their brows in the chill evening. Shinme leapt from his father’s shoulders and ran, arms open, to his mothers laughing embrace. She lifted him, spinning and said in a whisper, “what has my Shinmesama, my lord Shinme, conquered today?”

He hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek and she smiled her white smile.

“Mother,” he whispered to her, “I can do the Shodaime’s technique. I know I can.” The words were just a murmur, but they carried in the cold air and the men listened. Many voices laughed to hear, but some of the wiser looked hard at the young boy, and wondered.

“We will tell you all about it,” said Shinme’s father, kissing Sakura on the cheek and tousling his son’s hair. “Shinme tried mightily today!”

“I will show you,” said the boy, squirming free of his mothers arms.

“Not now!” she laughed, taking them each by the hand and leading them back across the fields. “Tomorrow Shinmekun, and everyone will be so surprised!”

Shinme considered this as he walked in his mother’s shadow, her hand held tightly in his. A foreboding passed for an instant across his young heart like a dark cloud before the sun, and he looked up at his parents smiling faces, but in the glow of those smiles his fear melted away. “Tomorrow.” he said then, his tone firm.

“Then we will wait eagerly,” said Ichago, who had been listening, “Shinmechan, until tomorrow!”

But at the evening meal as the clan gathered, the story was told again and again; and Shinme sat solemn faced amidst knowing smiles and bubbling laughter, pinched cheeks and tousled hair.

And then there was where there had not been before, a shadow of a man; black as pitch, dark as fear. It sprung from the darkness of the window open to the night, and in the instant of silence before breath is drawn in terror it struck. A thousand needles flew like fragments of nightmare and a wordless anguish filled the sudden furious silence of the room. Sakura, swift as the east wind dancing, a wordless cry upon her lips, flung herself upon her beloved son. Shielding him with her body as a dozen dark slivers found their mark. Shinme looked into his mothers eyes uncomprehending, and saw the death god staring back.

“Run,” She whispered.

Out the back door he flew like a sparrow, swift as his short legs would carry him. A cry echoed in the night behind him, full of sorrow, and left unfinished. Shinme ran as terror gripped him, unheeding, unthinking except to run. He felt the power form within him, and focused all his soul into his legs, the instruments of his flight. His heart thudded in the darkness as the forest bracken bit and tore at him, wild in his fear. He stumbled, and was up again, sobbing, running, weeping, terror and tears mixing to run like blood across his face. And then, in an instant, the fear left him, and he was all alone.

The forest stretched away around him, dark and quiet as it always was. It was the forest he had laughed in, the place he played on summer days, suddenly familiar again, suddenly home. He closed his eyes and let the gentle forest sooth him, he felt the roots beneath him, the boughs above: the network of life that had always sustained him. He drew strength from it now. And then he felt it, the foreign presence, bloodstained, moving fast. Faster then the north wind biting, a presence full of fear and menace, it was following his trail. He ran again, but this time with a purpose. Down into gullies he ran, and struggled through caves between the tree roots, under briars he crawled, and through all the secret places of the forest; the secret places he had played in now protected him, the sheltered bosom of the forest. Yet the terror followed him, nameless, faceless behind a mask. It left no traces to be seen, no glimpses in the darkness, nor shadow moving in the tree branches, nor footfalls on the bank, and yet the enemy stalked him, meticulous and cunning. He felt its hateful presence, felt the blood in the wind.

At last his breath failed him. Too tired to continue hiding, he let his feet carry him out into the open, into a field half covered by snow. He sank into the cold dirt and lay panting, looking up at the starlight. The moon was a sliver of light in the darkness; it was just another night. He thought of his mother, thought of her laughter, and her quick dancing step. He remembered the laugh of his father, and the grins of uncles and aunts. Already they were fading. His father’s words struck him: “Hold tight,” he’d said, “and don’t let go!”

At a presence Shinme looked up, and saw his enemy standing in the moonlight, eyes like pools of darkness, amidst the turned earth. Shinme wept for his family, for his mother’s smile, for his father’s laughter, for their blood he smelled in the air. He looked into the eyes like pools of darkness, and saw the death god staring back.

Then he saw it, there in the soft earth by his enemy’s feet, the tiny shoot growing, and his own words echoed in his head. “Live!” he had commanded, how could he forget it now, when such a fragile creature struggled with such a mighty longing: life fighting to live? He looked then and saw, on the dark man’s pant leg, tiny burs had stuck. He closed his eyes and felt them, on his enemy’s shirt, in his hair. He had followed Shinme through the briars, under the roots of trees, and down the secret paths in the bracken, and life had done its work. Shinme’s hands formed the seals before him, he’d done it once before: a seed had become a seedling, a tiny life had been born. But now a calm was on him and he knew what must be done. The words formed in his mind, and his voice whispered them on the wind.

Too late the pools of darkness narrowed, to late the nameless dread. Suddenly the burrs were growing, questing roots barrowed deep, anchored his feet to the ground, tangled in his hair, reached into his eyes, tore apart his flesh. His scream echoed in the darkness, until the roots took his throat, and he was left there growing, a monument to dread.

Shinme lay on his back in the soil. He felt them coming, the man’s companions; swifter then the move of darkness across a sunset land. He knew that they would find him, lying in the field. But he had not the strength to fight them. He had no longer the strength to move, and fear had taken its toll. He rolled unto his belly there in the dirt, and wept. He wept from the bottom of his ravaged heart, great sobs that shook his small body as if it were a very little boat on vast and stormy sea. Lost in his grief he did not see them, the other three that came; he did not see the battle that raged amidst the trees nearby.

At last he felt a kindly hand rest upon his back, and he looked up into a kindly face, touched with sympathy and concern. He felt his tears dry up. This new man was a giant, subtle and strong, and he wore the garb of a ninja, there was blood upon his breath. But his face was the face of a father, and his smile was gentle and kind. He lifted easily the child, who trembled in his arms, and swift as moonbeams moving, he bore the boy away.

In the weeks that followed, the story filled the village with fear and wonder. How the Shido clan had been slaughtered, in the darkness, in cold blood. How the enemy had slipped past their defenses, to commit their dirty work. People spoke with wonder and pity of the single child who lived, but they offered no consolation to the young and shattered heart. And, over time, even the pity faded, and Shinme was left alone.

He went to live with his distant cousin, the Godaime, legendary as a healer, as a leader. For months he lived in darkness, weeping every night and sulking through the days. And then one day he vanished from all his usual haunts, and after a moments panic, they found him in the dojo, pounding a bloodstained target with knuckles worn to the bone. From that day forward his tears were gone. He followed the path of the Shinobi, training with a grim determination that troubled his guardian’s kindly heart. Often she would find him studying in her library, his still young eyes poring over documents of healing, designs of the human form.

“I will remake the Shido.” He said when she asked him, and would say no more.