some sort of time travel au where sakura decides that she wants nothing to do with anything and lives in the forest and everyone thinks she’s a witch or forest spirit.
Sakura
frowns up at the head of the Uchiha clan, fighting the urge to cross her arms
defensively. She hates politics and she hates being drawn into the drama.
There
is a reason she lives in the middle of nowhere.
“Hedge
witch,” Madara says, snapping his fingers.
Sakura
turns her gaze on him, eyes crackling with fury. “What did you call me?” she
asks softly.
Madara
pauses, red eyes surveying her. “Hedge witch. Is that not what you are?”
Sakura’s
hands and arms light with blue chakra, sizzling in the air. She sees the way
his eyes widen and his Sharingan spins. “You show up on my doorstep asking for
assistance and you choose to insult me? Arrogant swine,” she murmurs, stepping
closer to him. She takes satisfaction in his wary steps back, understanding
that she is a threat. “Do not presume that your authority extends to my home. You
are gravely mistaken.”
Madara
clears his throat, expression stormy. “You have a reputation as a witch of this
forest. I took it to mean that you must be a hedge witch. No one outside the
developed nations uses chakra so well.”
Sakura
scoffs. “How often have you travelled outside the walls of your village? Anyone can access chakra, though they
often don’t recognize it. The grizzled fishermen use it to keep their ships
afloat in storms, the travelling merchants keep their goods fresh and clean
with sealing chakra, and medicine women pair healing chakra with herbs from the
land.” Her eyes are hard and distant. “You assume much about a world you barely
understand.”
“I
mean no offense…” Madara begins, hands raised. He wishes that Hashirama was
here in his stead. He is the better negotiator with the common folk.
Sakura
shakes her head, her smile a knife’s slash. “You still don’t understand. I’ve
been searching your eyes for a hint or a trace of humility, yet I’ve found
none. I will speak no more with you today. Come by again when you’ve corrected
your presumptions.” So saying, she slashes her hand down, a shimmering wall of
chakra rising and pushing Madara away from her property. “Goodbye,” she says,
closing the door of her modest home.
Madara
eyes the thatched roofed home, built as it is against a tree. He rubs the spot on
his chest that tingles still from her chakra. A curious smile lights his lips
as he moves away, a bounce in his step.
We Are What We Feel 