Scion

Disclaimer: This story utilises characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelisations, comics or short stories is intended by KuriQuinn in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All plot and Original Characters except for those introduced in the canon books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn. (© KuriQuinn 2016- )

Warning: This story is largely made up of OCs. Although Indra does make an appearance, the story is written about his children, who are all my creation. If you want to use them, ask permission.

Author's Note : This isn't exactly new, but it was only posted on tumblr. Since tumblr is now doing stupid things and I'm worried I might lose my stuff because their system for flagging inappropriate content is complete shite, I'm backing up everything. Ao3 and Quotev will have my NSFW stuff, as well as the Dreamwidth account I've linked to tumblr. Everything else will be uploaded here, ao3 and wattpad. This takes place in the Samsara series.

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インドラの子供たち

One day, Father suddenly freezes in the middle of morning lessons, turning paler than ten-year-old Nirami has ever seen him.

"Shachi," he breathes, his eyes going unfocussed.

Nirami and her next younger siblings, Rishaba and Ributi, stop what they are doing at the sound of a name that has been forbidden to be spoken for months now. Little Ributi, not even five years old when they lost Mother, cranes her neck around exchitedly, chirping, "Where's Mama, Papa? Where's Mama?"

Over on the engawa where their nurse is minding them, the twins hear her and start to look around as well, becoming frantic when they can't find her. Even little, toddling Midumi begins to fuss in the nurse's arms.

"Stop that," Rishaba orders, shoving his little sister.

"Ow!"

"You're making them upset. You already know Mother is dead."

"Not dead." Everyone stares up at Father, who gazes upon them like he momentarily forgot they were there. "I sense her chakra. After such a long time, it can only mean one thing: she was taken and hidden from us." His expression darkens. "I will get her back."

He leaves them without another word.

Not another is needed, however, because when Father says he will do something, he always does.

"I wish I could go with him," Rishaba mutters. "I'd kill the bastard who took her."

At eight years old, he is a scrawny waif, whose eyes burn with anger.

For three days they wait together with their minders, an heavy and expectant tension hanging over them. When Nirami can endure it no longer, she slips out to the cave on the edge of the settlement.

It's dark and cooler than she likes in there, but she simply wraps her cloak tighter around her and lights the lamps within. A well-worn piece of wood is propped against the wall, and she busies herself with remixing colours from ochre, charcoal and animal fat. Using her fingers, she draws broad stylised figures on the damp stone.

Nirami likes to paint; it calms her.

She missed it in the cold winter and throughout the damp spring, when it was impossible to come to this place. It's the only spot in the new settlement where she can come and be alone, and paint her pictures without having to worry about younger siblings messing it up.