43 Interlude - Mother: In Life and Death

"Your God is a fragment of your imagination." (Twenty Fifth Baam, Tower of God)

xxx

-Prologue-

Before the concept of deities became scarce—at the times when human civilizations were less advanced and the gods were of great importance—the idea of sacrifice was a natural, most common thing. Food, objects, life… exchanged for a higher purpose, an act of propitiation and worship.

Human sacrifice, regarded as the ultimate form of devotion, had its roots deep in prehistory and the evolution of human behavior; appearing so long ago that it's doubtful anyone could be aware of the date. It was born in ancient times from desperate needs for miracles and safety—to appease gods, spirits, and dead ancestors; to change the course of nature.

A life for a life.

A life for a higher power.

The king of Shinar, Nimrod, was the first man to seek power for its own sake. From this will to power came cruelty and decadence. A prophecy of the imminent birth of his enemy prompted Nimrod to mass infanticide, burying the bodies in the foundations of his great buildings. For the followers of the god Baal, life was also about the exercise of power. They believed that if they performed the correct religious practices—sacrifices and magical ceremonies—they could compel their gods to do their bidding.

Following their ancestor's tradition, the Uchiha too, seek power from the Gods in their shrines, exchanging the blood of their enemies for knowledge, power, and glory. Most of those deities were gods of war such as Iwainushi no Mikoto, the cat warrior god; or major deities such as Izanagi and Izanami, and their children: Susanoo, Amaterasu, and Tsukuyomi. They did not worship Gods and Goddesses of rice or agriculture, nor those of life and fertility. They were a clan of warriors, and it was a warrior's honor to die with their blades on their hands. Though now times had changed, and the old ways were seldom remembered by each passing generation.

Mikoto did not think of these details as she held the body of her infant son. The body was cold at the touch and it was strange to realize that it belonged to her barely-eight-month-old son. Her son, so lifeless, quiet and so cold.

Using dry leaves, twigs, and a slab of stone for a makeshift altar, Mikoto gently unwrapped Hideyo's wool blanket—still smelling faintly of milk and the baby's own sweet fragrance—and laid him on the raised dais. The baby's head lolled limply to the side.

Mikoto flinched.

She knew this day was coming, sooner or later. They had no cure and her son had been suffering for months. It's not like she had more faith than others, rather, Mikoto could not bear the thought of letting him go. It was like giving up, accepting the end.

What little medical records they could gather of infants with the same symptoms showed that they never survived a one-year mark, let alone adulthood. The healers had offered to help her baby reach the other side, but Mikoto had firmly refused.

Every mother believes her child to be different from others.

She simply wanted her little boy to live.

It wasn't much.

Standing by the grey podium at the center of the temple, surrounded by her carefully picked offerings, still slumped paralyzed and helpless under the thrall of her newly evolved sharingan, Mikoto felt lost and hopeless. But she was a mother, a mother that believed her child to be important.

Mikoto unsealed her family heirloom, a long sword that had belonged to her father, his mother, and all the firstborns before them; and the jewelry that she had received on her wedding day, a set of necklace, earrings, and bracelets. There were no other personal artifacts worthy of attention in her house. Her family lived and died by the swords.

Mikoto laid the artifacts at the foot of the shrine's podium, in front of several oni-masks that were hung beneath three connected symbols of the Uzumaki clan, under all of which were ornate, black flames.

No mortals could heal her son, thus she turned to the deities instead. And not just any deity, specifically the Uzumaki's patron deity—the same deity that granted the clan their legendary longevity, if her redheaded best friend's tales were to be believed.

The God of Death, Kushina had whispered, the Death Deliverer.

Before her mind could hesitate, Mikoto quickly fastened the Shinigami mask on her face, shuddering when an otherworldly sensation immediately took over her.

The pain she experienced as the spiritual body anchored itself to her flesh was indescribable.

Everything felt cold.

Sinister.

With bated breath, Mikoto watched as a transparent appendage, not quite resembling a hand, pierced through her belly and hovered over her child's prone body.

She gasped when Hideyo's eyelids fluttered as if the boy was merely dreaming. Behind her, the Death God exhaled its icy breath and the babe's shadows twisted, turning into something vaster, more timeless, and deeper than any ocean. It was as if his being was warped in poisonous hate, a hate so old and virulent that it curdled and congealed into a stinking, staggering contempt.

"Tōʻēḇā ph'nglui mglw'nafh."

She almost jumped, ears ringing in pain.

What…

The mother gathered all her willpower and forced her head to move, to see better over her shoulder at the speaker. Peering through two round eyeholes, Mikoto's eyes widened at the sight of the being. Pale, ghostlike skin, wicked teeth, and two horns protruding from the white hair, a skeletal frame beneath the strange floating fabric it wore. With beads held in one hand and a knife in the other, it oozed an aura of unreachable, unimaginable power.

"I…"

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Toʻēḇā wgah'nagl fhtagn!"

The Uchiha matriarch squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered.

"I don't—"

She felt so cold.

"I don't understand…"

Her tears betrayed her, trailing down her sunken skin. She was a weak, desperate woman. Hope was having no shape nor thought in her soul. Every second, her child's body was getting colder and colder and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Bring back my child," she commanded. Anything left of him—good or bad. "Take me in his stead."

Be merciful, please! His time has not come!

"I will go wherever you lead me to. I will forgo everything if you let him live. I offer you my death and those of my enemy. My blood is yours, my soul is yours, my life onward is yours. As long as my son lives..." Mikoto pushed her stiff fingers together in prayer, begging. "Please!"

Once again, spiritual hands passed through her body, pushing and coiling beneath her skin. The being's gleaming knife then materialized in her now numb hand.

"Toʻēḇā fhtagn."

Without preamble, the knife swung in a graceful arc across the room, cleaving her offerings in their stomachs, releasing their souls for the God to devour. Blood pooled beneath her feet and splattered against her face.

The sharp tip of the knife then turned inward, grazing her abdomen. The shrine hummed and her grunt was quiet as the blade found its destination in her stomach. It hurt for several long, agonizing moments, but Mikoto did not scream. The thud of her body hitting the floor was dull.

The Shinigami Mask dislodged itself from her face, falling beside her sprawled form. Her tunic was drenched in her own blood and everything ached. Malice slithered up her spine and danced in spiteful shivers over the back of her neck. In the dark, the God of Death whisked her soul away.

What would become of her other children? Mikoto thought faintly.

"...m...s… rry…"

Outside, a whisper in the grass moved in tides. Shadows appeared beneath the new moon, gloomy and mysterious.

On the altar, the baby wailed.