Chapter 9: Smoke Among the Shadows
In which grief takes shape in small habits, and deer prove wiser than men.
Naruto's retreating form disappeared beyond the gates of the Yamanaka compound, the shadows of dusk folding around him like a heavy cloak. Ino sat in silence, watching the spot where he had stood, the soft rustle of the garden trees the only sound that filled the still air.
Beside her, her mother, Ayame Yamanaka, gently reached over and placed a hand atop her daughter's. It was a light touch, not seeking to comfort with words but to remind her she wasn't alone.
Ino inhaled deeply and let the breath out slow, watching the koi ripple through the surface of the pond in lazy arcs. "He blames himself," she murmured. "He doesn't say it aloud, but I could see it in his eyes... or—his new ones."
Ayame nodded, her pale blond hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, her elegant features drawn in a quiet kind of sorrow. She had cried, of course—just once. Alone, in the greenhouse. But like most Yamanaka, her grief had refined itself into an inward stillness. For them, mourning wasn't just about tears. It was about memory.
"He thinks he stole something sacred," Ino continued, her voice tight. "But if he hadn't done it—if he hadn't taken Sasuke's Rinnegan—the world wouldn't have woken up. We'd all still be trapped in that illusion. Father would've died in a dream, never even knowing he was gone."
Ayame squeezed her daughter's hand, her thumb brushing against Ino's knuckles. "People forget that choices like that are never easy. They only see what they fear—power that doesn't look like theirs, eyes that don't belong." She paused. "But I saw Naruto. The way he stood. How he bowed before leaving. That boy carries more weight than any of us can imagine."
Ino nodded slowly. "He tried everything to save Sasuke. I know he did. But in the end… Sasuke died like the rest of them. Like Father. Like all the others."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Ayame's arm slipped around her shoulder, gently drawing her close. Ino leaned in, resting her head against her mother's shoulder, her long hair falling like a curtain between them and the rest of the world.
"I thought I'd grown used to loss," Ino whispered. "After Asuma-sensei died, I thought... I'd cried enough to never cry again. But this... this was different. It was Father. My father."
Ayame closed her eyes. "I know."
"I screamed, Mama," Ino admitted, voice shaking now. "I screamed and tore my room apart. I didn't want anyone to hear me, but I had to do something. I felt like I was drowning. Like I couldn't breathe."
Ayame held her tighter. "That's what grief does. It tears holes in places we didn't know could hurt."
"It wasn't until I came back here," Ino said, looking at the pond, "to his place... the spot he always sat in... surrounded by his ridiculous swan flock and his ugly little yellow tulips... that I felt like I could breathe again. Like he was still here."
Ayame smiled faintly. "Your father always did love that absurd little corner of the garden. Said the swans kept his chakra calm. I told him they were noisy pests."
"He said they were majestic," Ino replied with a faint laugh, blinking away the fresh tears that had snuck up on her. "And that they judged people silently. Like your mother-in-law."
They both laughed at that—quiet, bittersweet laughter tinged with memory.
The sky above them darkened further, soft stars beginning to blink into life across the velvet canvas of night. Somewhere in the pond, a frog croaked. The flowers nodded gently in the breeze.
After a long pause, Ayame spoke again. "You're right to worry about Naruto. But you were also right to tell him you trust him. That kind of trust... it matters."
"I just hope he can forgive himself one day," Ino said. "He doesn't deserve to carry everything alone."
Ayame looked at her daughter with proud, quiet eyes. "Then remind him, as often as it takes. That's what your father would've done. And that's what I see you doing, even now."
Ino didn't answer right away. She simply reached out, plucked a small yellow tulip from the planter by the pond, and laid it gently in the water.
"For you, Dad," she said.
The flower floated across the surface, joining the moon's reflection, and drifted gently out of sight.
Her mother gave her hand a squeeze.
"He would be proud of you," she said simply.
They sat there for a while longer, neither speaking. The sun had dipped below the trees now, and the garden was bathed in twilight. Somewhere far off, the village was stirring to life again—hammer strikes and voices rising as rebuilding efforts continued. But here, in the heart of the Yamanaka compound, peace lingered like perfume.
It was peaceful. It was whole. And it was filled with the love of a father who had left his daughter the strength to bloom.
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The Nara compound, tucked between groves of shadowed pine and fields that danced in the late summer breeze, bore an air of stillness that felt both ancient and immediate. Here, grief was not loud. It did not cry or wail or rage. It sat quietly beneath the trees, folded itself into the evening air, and spoke only when necessary.
Naruto made his way down the familiar stone path, the setting sun casting long fingers of light that broke through the canopy above. The air was cool and smelled faintly of pine needles and moss. The compound was mostly quiet, save for the gentle clatter of wooden wind chimes and the murmur of conversation inside the main house.
Using Sage Mode came so easily now that it felt like breathing. He sensed Shikamaru's chakra before he even saw him—low and steady, coiled like a thoughtful breeze. Next to him was a warmer, sharper presence: Temari. The two of them sat beneath a wide-branched oak, its shadow reaching far across the courtyard, as if trying to shield them both.
Shikamaru leaned back against the trunk, his arms resting over his knees in that familiar, lazy pose. But Naruto could tell it wasn't ease—it was exhaustion disguised as indifference. Temari's hand rested on his arm, not for her sake, but his. That small touch—barely visible—spoke of deeper comfort than any words.
Naruto stopped at the edge of the courtyard, hesitating. A strange feeling settled in his chest—something close to relief. He hadn't realized until this moment just how much he needed to see someone alright. Someone not breaking, not crying, not lost in the storm.
Shikamaru was grieving, yes. But he was still Shikamaru. Quietly broken, perhaps, but not crumbling.
Naruto turned, intending to leave and not disturb them—until a familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"Oi," Shikamaru called, not even glancing up. "If you've come all this way just to leave, that's way more troublesome than actually saying hello."
Naruto blinked and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Heh. Didn't wanna intrude."
Shikamaru sighed and finally looked up. "You're not intruding. Come sit before you give yourself an ulcer."
Naruto chuckled and stepped forward, offering a respectful bow to Yoshino, who sat nearby speaking with an elder. She nodded, eyes red but steady, her strength unmistakable. The kind of woman who had raised both a husband like Shikaku and a son like Shikamaru.
When Naruto lowered himself onto the grass beside his friend, the silence that fell was natural—not awkward, but restful. For a while, they said nothing. Just watched the wind move the leaves, the sky shift toward violet, and the shadows grow longer.
Finally, Naruto broke the silence. "I stopped by to pay my respects to your dad. He... meant a lot to all of us."
"Yeah," Shikamaru muttered, his voice thick with fatigue. "To me too."
Temari glanced at Naruto and gave a small nod before excusing herself, giving the boys space.
Naruto hesitated, then said quietly, "He died a hero, Shikamaru. So did Inoichi. Without them, we might not have won."
Shikamaru gave a dry laugh. "Yeah, but funny how heroism still gets you dead."
There was no anger in his voice, just that deep, bitter understanding that came with surviving a war. Naruto didn't argue. He knew that truth better than anyone.
Shikamaru turned his head slightly, eyeing him. "You've been running yourself ragged, haven't you?"
Naruto gave a small shrug.
"I'm not blind, Naruto," Shikamaru continued. "You've got that look again. The one you had after Jiraiya died. Like the world's falling apart and you're the only one holding it together."
Naruto didn't reply, and for a long moment, the wind did the talking.
"You need to stop," Shikamaru said. "Stop taking on everything. You think because you've got all this power now, it means all the responsibility is yours. But it's not."
Naruto looked at him, confused but listening.
"The people who caused this war? They're gone. The ones who failed to stop it? Most of them are gone too. The adults made their choices. Some good, some bad." Shikamaru sighed, rubbing his temples. "You've got time. Learn from all this. Grow. Then, when it's your turn to lead, then it's your responsibility not to let it happen again. But now? You're just a guy who fought his heart out. And that's enough."
Naruto stared at him, emotion swelling in his throat. "I just... I don't want to let anyone else down."
"You won't," Shikamaru said simply. "You've already saved more people than you can count. And even if you mess up one day, which you will, we're not going to abandon you. We're not deadweight. We're your friends, remember?"
Naruto laughed, brushing at his eyes. "Shikamaru... you really suck at being sentimental."
Shikamaru smirked. "Yeah. Told you it was troublesome."
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As the final light of day faded into dusk, a calm stillness settled over the Nara clan compound. The fields that stretched beyond the main courtyard were bathed in silver moonlight, and among them wandered the Nara deer—graceful, serene creatures moving with the quiet dignity of old souls. Their hooves made no sound against the grass as they meandered between the trees, seemingly untouched by the weight of human sorrow.
Under the wide-branched tree, Naruto and Shikamaru sat shoulder to shoulder, the hush between them now companionable. No grand speeches. No dramatics. Just quiet breaths and shared space. It was, in its own strange way, exactly what Naruto had needed.
Temari returned a few moments later, arms folded and brow lifted in that very specific way that could silence even a Kazekage. She said nothing, merely resumed her place beside Shikamaru with a small sigh.
For a while, they simply watched the deer.
One particularly bold fawn ambled close to where they sat, pausing just a few paces away. Its ears twitched, nose raised as if sensing the tension in the air. Shikamaru tilted his head toward it with a soft grunt.
"Even they get it," he muttered. "They come here when it's quiet. Smart creatures."
Temari smirked faintly. "Smarter than most humans."
At that, Shikamaru finally leaned back against the trunk and slipped a hand into his vest pocket. With a well-practiced flick, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
Naruto raised an eyebrow. "You're back on those?"
Shikamaru gave a slow shrug, the kind that somehow said don't ask stupid questions without ever opening his mouth. With a soft click, the lighter flared to life, casting brief illumination across his face. The first puff of smoke drifted upward and caught the breeze, curling into the air like a ghost.
Temari immediately wrinkled her nose. "Seriously?" she muttered.
"Temari," he said simply, not looking at her, "I need something right now."
She huffed but didn't say more. She understood. This was Shikamaru's version of crying—tobacco and silence. As long as he wasn't spiraling, she'd let it pass.
Shikamaru turned his head slightly. "Want one?" he asked Naruto, holding out the pack.
Naruto blinked, looked at the offering, then shook his head. "Nah. Tried one once. Tasted like burnt ramen and regret."
Shikamaru gave a soft snort of amusement. "Burnt ramen and regret. Sounds about right."
One of the deer pawed gently at the earth nearby, prompting all three of them to glance over. It raised its head, exhaled through its nose with a sound that somehow managed to be both disdainful and disappointed, then trotted off into the dark.
Naruto grinned. "Even the deer disapprove."
Temari looked pointedly at Shikamaru. "Told you. Stinks."
Shikamaru waved a hand lazily. "Let the deer judge. I'm past caring."
Naruto watched his friend exhale another stream of smoke, the orange ember pulsing faintly in the dim light. "You really miss him, huh?" he asked quietly.
Shikamaru didn't respond right away. He just stared out over the field, eyes tracking the movement of the deer. Finally, he spoke.
"He was always... there. You know? Not loud. Not flashy. But I always knew if I messed up, he'd be one step ahead, already fixing it."
Temari reached over and squeezed his hand. He didn't pull away.
"Now," Shikamaru said with a dry chuckle, "I'm the one who's supposed to be one step ahead. Troublesome."
Naruto smiled sadly. "You'll be fine. You always figure it out."
A soft breeze stirred the leaves above them. For a moment, all was still.
Then, with a grunt, Shikamaru flicked the cigarette into the grass, crushed it under his sandal, and leaned back.
"One more for the night," he muttered. "But tomorrow, I'll deal with it. All of it."
And in the quiet, with deer grazing nearby and grief settling like mist, three warriors sat beneath a tree and let themselves be. Not as legends. Not as leaders. Just as people—with pain, and flaws, and a little too much smoke in the air.
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The Akimichi compound, nestled in the lush outskirts of Konoha, was alive with sound and scent and sorrow.
Unlike the still silence that haunted the Nara residence or the subdued melancholy of the Yamanaka garden, grief here roared and burned like a hearth fire. The courtyard buzzed with voices—some sobbing, others reminiscing loudly. Children clung to their mothers, clan members embraced one another, and amid it all, the smell of roasted meats, savory sauces, and bubbling stews wafted through the air. It was a paradox: a feast in mourning.
But that was the Akimichi way.
They didn't mourn with silence—they mourned with food, with togetherness, with stories passed around the table like ladles of soup. Loss, in their tradition, was not just a wound—it was a reason to remember and to eat in honor of the life that had been lived.
Naruto passed beneath the tall wooden archway of the Akimichi gate, bowing respectfully to the guards who recognized him with soft nods. He felt the weight of the place immediately—the laughter that didn't quite reach the eyes, the cheerful clinking of dishes that couldn't quite mask the sorrow.
In the open courtyard stood a large table surrounded by clan members, but Naruto's eyes went straight to the kitchen, where Choji stood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring a pot almost as large as a barrel.
His mother, Lady Haruna Akimichi—a woman of impressive stature and even more impressive kindness—stood beside him, directing the seasoning with a mother's precision. Her eyes were red from tears, but her movements were steady, purposeful.
Choji looked up just as Naruto entered, and for a brief moment, the two friends simply saw each other. No words were needed.
Naruto approached the hearth and sat on the wooden bench beside him.
"You're cooking," Naruto said lightly, offering a small smile. "Never thought I'd see the day you didn't just wait at the table."
Choji huffed out a quiet laugh, one hand still stirring. "Dad used to say a real man knows how to cook his favorite meal… just in case he ever needs to pass it on."
His voice caught slightly, but he didn't stop stirring. The pot simmered, thick with a rich pork broth and slices of marinated daikon—the signature dish of Choza Akimichi.
Naruto watched the steam rise and said nothing for a while. There was something sacred about this moment: a son honoring a father not with weapons or words, but with tradition.
Haruna placed a hand on Choji's shoulder, gave Naruto a tired but grateful smile, and excused herself to serve the clan. She knew this moment belonged to the boys.
"I wish I could've done more," Choji said suddenly. "I was right there, Naruto. Right next to him. And still…"
Naruto shook his head. "You were there, Choji. That's all anyone could've asked. He died proud. He died fighting. Like a true shinobi—and like the best kind of father."
Choji exhaled shakily. "It hurts, though."
"I know."
A few heartbeats passed, and then Choji ladled a generous portion of stew into a bowl and handed it to Naruto.
"He'd want you to eat," he said, forcing a smile. "He said you were too skinny."
Naruto took the bowl and gave a light chuckle. "He wasn't wrong."
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The stew was hot and hearty, the kind that wrapped around your ribs like a blanket. It wasn't fancy—nothing that would've earned a prize at a festival—but every bite tasted like something real. Like family. Like the kind of dish you only eat when the person who made it knew the recipe by heart, not by measurement.
Naruto, though not particularly hungry, lifted his spoon without hesitation and began to eat. The savory broth warmed him from the inside out, and for the first time in days, something other than duty filled his chest. It was a small thing, a quiet moment, but he welcomed it like an old friend.
Beside him, Choji's spoon moved more slowly. He stared at the swirling broth as if trying to find something hidden in its depths.
"Dad always said that food is how you show love," Choji said, his voice barely above the bubbling simmer of the pot. "He cooked this whenever I was sick. Or scared. Or when I failed a mission and thought I wasn't good enough."
Naruto swallowed a mouthful and looked over at his friend. Choji wasn't crying. His expression was too still for that. It was the kind of stillness that came after too many tears had already fallen.
"He believed in filling people up with warmth when the world left them cold," Choji added, then smiled faintly. "He'd say, 'A full belly is a shield, Choji. Never let someone grieve on an empty stomach.'"
Naruto nodded. He could see it—Choza Akimichi, towering and broad, ladling soup into bowls like a general arming his troops. The man had been fierce, yes, but his heart had been even larger than his frame.
"You're doing him proud," Naruto said quietly.
Choji looked down at the bowl in his lap. "I hope so. He always told me to be strong and kind. Not one or the other."
"You've always been both."
Choji glanced up, and for the first time that day, his smile reached his eyes.
They sat like that for a while—no grand speeches, no heroic vows. Just the soft clink of spoons, the quiet hum of grief, and the gentle strength of companionship.
Naruto's thoughts wandered. As Choji spoke, painting a picture of his father through stories and food, Naruto felt a familiar ache tug at the edges of his mind. Jiraiya.
It had been a long time since he'd talked about him. Too long. He used to speak of his old teacher with pride and laughter, eager to share the wild tales and embarrassing moments. But somewhere along the road—between Sasuke, the war, the growing weight on his shoulders—he had let the stories fade.
He'd locked them away, thinking perhaps that forgetting would help the pain dull faster.
But Choji wasn't letting go of his father. He was honoring him, keeping him alive with every story, every spoonful of stew.
Naruto realized, with a quiet pang, that he had been wrong. Letting memories fade wasn't strength. Remembering—that was strength. Carrying someone with you every day, even when it hurt.
"I used to think I'd never be like him," Choji said, breaking the silence. "He was always so… larger than life. Not just physically. You felt safer when he was around."
Naruto glanced sideways. "You are like him. You make people feel safe, Choji. You've always had our backs. Even in the worst fights."
Choji blinked, taken aback. "You think so?"
"I know so."
Choji's lips twitched. "You're not just saying that because you want another bowl?"
Naruto laughed, the sound sudden and light. "No—but I do want another bowl."
Choji chuckled too, and the sound was thick, shaky, but real. The sort of laugh you only manage when you're finally letting go of just enough sadness to breathe again.
As the last rays of sunlight slipped behind the trees and lanterns began to glow along the compound path, the two friends sat together, bowls empty, hearts just a little fuller.
The war had taken many things, but it hadn't taken this—the bond between them, the memories they still carried, and the promise, unspoken yet understood, that the stories of those they had lost would never fade.
Some legacies weren't carved into stone.
They were cooked in kitchens, told beside firelight, and remembered in every bite.