I own nothing.

Everyone waited for the day it would happen—the day he would be bruised, the day he would bleed, the day he would feel broken bones, the day he would die. All those days came and went like sand being swept from a house with no doors, and in the end, none of it mattered at all.

Gaara was still alive. He had been bruised, he had bled, he had felt his bones snap, and he was still alive. He had come so far, changed so much, and no one had expected him to survive as long as he had. Everyone knew that the sand had a great deal to do with this; the sand had always been at Gaara's beck and call, always been ready to attack or defend. The sand had always been there, and even after the Shukaku was gone, it was with him still.

What no one could know, what no one could ever know, was the truth of the sand's intentions. No one, not even Gaara, knew just how much his continued existence depended on the sand's protection.

Both of the jinchuuriki of the Shukaku before Gaara were capable of manipulating sand for the purposes of war. Just like Gaara, they could use the sand to crush their enemies and hold back foreign armies. They could cut through the lines and decimate hundreds without breaking a sweat.

Neither of them possessed an absolute defense as Gaara did, though. No. The previous two jinchuuriki were just as likely to be nicked, cut, stabbed or killed as the next man; the only reason they weren't was because no one could get close enough to them to try. The sand never once attempted to protect them from harm.

Of course, neither of the two previous jinchuuriki had had the Shukaku sealed into them via sacrificing the souls of their mothers. And the sand would always protect Gaara, even if the 'mother' he called for was a demon with the rabid rage of untold eons boiling in its gut.

The sand always protected Gaara. When kunai flew through the air towards him, there was always a wall of sand rising to block them. When the feet of a Leaf genin tried to make contact with his flesh, there was always sand between him and Gaara, even if it wasn't always enough. When he tried to press a scalpel against his wrist when he was little, just to know what pain felt like, the sand was always there, holding back the blade.

You think there will be no one there to help you, but you're wrong.

You think there will be no one there to save you, but you're wrong.

You think there will be no one there to stop you, but you're wrong.

Gaara never knew why. How could he? He thought the sand's protection was a gift from the demon, an attempt to keep its host from harm. After the Shukaku was extracted from him Gaara could only assume the fact that he was still possessed of mastery over the sand was just a side-effect, a relic of his life as a jinchuuriki that would never go away. The truth was beyond comprehension and when he did find out, nothing could have been more wonderful, or more terrible.

It was her. It really was her, like Yashamaru had said all those years ago.

And sometimes, Gaara thought he could hear a voice in the wind when he was in the desert, the sands hitting his face. He could never make out any of the words and he just thought it was the wind howling out of the wilderness, but it was always there, like there was someone walking behind him, just out of sight.

"No matter what happens, I'll always protect you, Gaara!"

She had meant it. It took Gaara sixteen years to realize this, but she had always meant it. And the sand always protected Gaara.

Just like she promised.