Hisa was brought up on the bone grinding, the blood spilling and the sweat pouring of hard work. To be silent and to be demure, to follow the rules of the world crafted around her.
The shrine was her home.
Home was such a fragile concept.
.
.
She was not the first newborn to left upon the steps of the shrine, there was nothing outstanding or unusual to the naked eye. Hisa had grown in the arms of her brothers and sisters, her uncles and aunts. Those who cared for the temple, who cared for the shrine.
On her knees, she scrubbed. Hands blistering and knees scabbed, she tirelessly worked.
(What am I working for though? She would ask herself silently.)
A small but coy smile playing her lips, her clothes torn and ripped, they were worn.
"My! What a helpful little girl," some would croon, gnarled hands over wrinkled lips.
Hisa took pride, she took to the vices which those from the temple tried to wash from the shrine. Nimble fingers and their lighter pockets, she was kind in her takings. Only from the cruel, from those who took but gave nothing back, those who refused to leave anything for the spirits. The whispers greeted her, agreed with her and when she gave the taken coins to the temple, they didn't question their good fortune.
It was only when suspicion grew from those victim of the shrine; their pockets forever lighter - her brothers and sisters, her uncles and aunts, the people she thought of as family, laid the blame on her so readily. The cold winter wind slipping down her spine.
Her nimble fingers and coy smiles were no longer welcome, the coin she gave them was good but it couldn't carry on, not forever.
Her blistered and calloused hands took her meagre belongings, small childish frame heaving the weight of her own survival as she left.
(I hope your greed crushes you, she whispered before departing.)
.
.
"We don't need another mouth to feed."
"Street rat."
"Burden."
The sound of a door slam was becoming an echo in her mind - like the soft whispers which had followed her from the shrine. Hisa offered her work, her labour to all those who would listen, if only for shelter and a meal a day.
She grew up with little but she would not be reduced to nothing.
The blacksmith, a scarred and unkempt man by the name of Aoi, took one look at her calloused palms and swept her under his wing. He was twisted and layered with thorns, with a limp that required a cane but the strength in his arms almost seemed to make up for what he lacked.
"You will take orders, you will polish and sharpen my tools and the weapons," he said.
She parroted her duties.
He remained unimpressed, would continue to be until the waif proved her worth.
The polish was pungent in its smell, it was thick and claggy. Hisa used an old rag to mask the stench, wrapping it around her nose and mouth. It was the slick sounding of a blade being sharpened that became a balm, the crisp drag of a blade against the whetstone sent shivers down her spine and brought a smile to her lips.
In a way which scrubbing shrines hadn't.
Home quickly became a blade.
.
.
The Senju and the Uchiha were at war.
It became increasingly obvious that the small village, the settlement which she'd stumbled upon ― blue and starving and abandoned ― was in the midst of their battlefield. Their soldiers strolled through with misplaced arrogance, the threat of conflict looming over them like a storm.
Hisa watched carefully and Aoi placed a hand on top of her head.
"They are boys pretending to be men," he told her quietly. "Their blood fills the fields and they don't see any shame in it."
"Do they know they get their weapons from the same place?"
He was the only blacksmith in their settlement. Aoi had seen better days and she dreaded the crossfire which they'd be caught in when the Senju and Uchiha crossed paths on their land. Aoi's fingers twisted in her hair, leathery skin stark against the dark teal of her hair.
"Sharpen the axes, girl," is all he says.
The sound blades would soothe her hackles though and instead, she carried on her watch, staring after the two Uchiha soldiers who wandered past. If they paid her any mind then all they would see was coy smiles and frayed clothes, she went relatively unnoticed otherwise. So they strolled past their shop without pause. Hisa's hand slipping from where it gripped the knife tucked in her obi. The whispers curling around her ears, tugging her in every which way and the brisk winter chill served to make her retreat into the meagre warmth of the shop.
"Sharpen the axes."
She nods to herself, the axes were better than a mere knife after all.
.
.
Hisa was not a girl to many.
She was 'boy' and 'brat' and 'peasant' but never 'girl'. It was unsafe to be a girl, to be small and fragile and a pinnacle of femininity in times of war. Aoi gave her thick pants to wear and a mask which would cover the bottom half of her face. Hair shorn close to her scalp, as if it would hide the lumps and bumps that were forming in the early ages of womanhood.
She was the boy who carried the weapons without breaking a sweat.
She was the brat which practised for hours a day with the blades.
She was the peasant who delivered their goods and took their coin.
The Senju and the Uchiha were threading through their small community more often, they were pulling the civilians into a war which they didn't belong in. No man's land was quickly becoming a mass grave. Victims were dropping and their small village was being destroyed. Hisa watched as the families fled for their life, to seek out refuge elsewhere until so little remained.
If Hisa worked a little harder, if she spent a little longer with her blades ― cutting deep into her skin, the mulish set of her jaw, the defiance lit in her like a beacon― then no one said anything about it. Aoi continued to craft his weapons, continued to sell to those who came in need, whether they were Senju or Uchiha. He played the game and held his cards against his chest.
(It's only a matter of time, she whispered to herself.)
(Time is running out, the whispers murmured back.)
AUTHOR NOTE: Will I ever finish a story? probably not. I have a vague idea where I'm going with this, it's not like anything I've written before I don't think. It's very much in bits and pieces. Let me know what you think.