Chapter Text
Temari’s vision drifted in the darkness until something broke through, thin as morning light. A little boy sat cross-legged on the floor of a messy bedroom, toys and half-open books scattered around him. His red hair barely peeked over the cover of a book he held, Medicinal Herbs Used in the Harukaze Clan . He couldn’t have been older than seven, scribbling careful notes in clumsy handwriting.
An older boy stepped in, brown-haired, brown-eyed, not the eyes that haunted her. This was different. A memory, distant and gentle, and it wasn’t hers. “What are you reading, Akahebi?” the older boy asked, dropping down beside him, voice teasing but soft.
“Mom and Dad said I need to start learning about our clan if I wanna get strong like you!” Akahebi said, looking up, eyes bright.
The older boy laughed, pushing himself to his feet. “Good idea, little bro.” He threw a few playful punches and quick kicks into the air. “My jutsu is unstoppable!”
“Shiraga!” a woman’s voice called from another room.
“Yes, Mother?” Shiraga replied, glancing back at Akahebi with a grin and a wink.
“Come in here, and bring your brother.”
Akahebi closed the book, his amber-brown eyes catching the light, softer then, not yet the sharp yellow they would become. Shiraga offered his hand, and the little boy took it without hesitation. Together they walked out, Temari trailing after them like a silent ghost tethered to a memory.
The hallway opened into a small kitchen, the air warm and smelling faintly of dried herbs. Books and vials lined every surface, plants hung from the beams overhead, their leaves brushing the brothers’ hair as they passed. Jars of powders and strange roots crowded the shelves, catching the orange glow of afternoon sun streaming through the windows. The whole room felt wrapped in nostalgia, golden and quiet.
“Look what your father found,” their mother said, stepping forward, brown hair catching the light. Her amber eyes glowed with quiet pride as she held out a woven basket. Inside were white, purple, and yellow trumpet-shaped flowers.
“No way!” Shiraga blurted out, reaching for the flowers before she pulled the basket back, laughing.
“What? What is it?” Akahebi bounced on his toes, trying to see inside.
“You haven’t been studying enough, mister,” she teased, wagging a finger at him.
“They’re called Datura flowers,” Shiraga explained, carefully lifting a yellow bloom by its stem, the jagged leaves drooping below. “They’re used in healing salves… but they can also cause powerful hallucinations.”
Akahebi stared, wide-eyed. “They’re beautiful.”
Shiraga handed the flower to him, his voice dropping just a little. “Be careful. They’re also some of the most dangerous flowers that exist.”
Temari watched the way the little boy's fingers curled around the delicate stem, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if even at that age he understood how easily beauty could turn to danger. This was not the man she knew. This was a child, amber-eyed and curious, his face still soft with innocence. The same look in eyes that she sometimes saw him wake up with.
Shiraga ruffled his brother’s red hair, laughing under his breath. “Come on. Mother’s going to show us how to grind the seeds.”
Their mother smiled, gentle and tired in the way of a shinobi. “Remember,”she began, but before she could finish, the boys finished her words in unison, their voices bright with youthful certainty “We are healers, we don't harm unless necessary.”
The mothers laugh echoed through the vision a s their father stepped into the room. His hair was a striking, unruly red that caught the last of the evening sun, and a faint scar traced his cheek “exactly.”
What had happened to that boy, the one who thought they’re beautiful? When had wonder soured into cruelty? The vision began to fade at the edges, colors draining like ink dropped into water. Temari fought to stay, to see just a little more, to remember for him what he might have forgotten. But the memory blurred, dissolving into darkness, leaving only the echo of a child’s voice and the ghost of flowers that could heal, or harm. She felt the bitterness of loss, not her own, but his
The memory blurred, colors smearing at the edges, then slammed into something darker. Temari felt herself pulled forward, dragged into another vision, like being yanked underwater. The light was gone. Smoke choked the air, curling black against the walls. The same kitchen, but the warmth had drained away, replaced by the stink of blood, ash, and burned herbs.
Akahebi was older now, maybe ten, he was crouched under the table, knees hugged to his chest, eyes wide with terror. His small hands were streaked with soot, shaking so badly he could barely keep them over his mouth to stay silent. His wide eyes were fixed on the horror before him, his mother, motionless, her body pooling in dark, thick blood that stained the floor beneath her.
Outside the kitchen, chaos raged. The walls shuddered with explosions. A man in dark shinobi gear kicked open the door, splintering wood across the floor. His kunai dripped red.
Akahebi’s breath caught in his throat. His amber eyes reflected the fire swallowing the ceiling beams, the dance of blood and flame. “Shiraga!” Akahebi’s voice cracked, so quiet, hoarse with smoke.Then he saw him.
Shiraga crumpled against the wall, chest heaving, clothes scorched and torn. Blood pooled beneath him, so dark it almost looked black in the firelight. His brown eyes, the same gentle eyes, searched the room until they locked on Akahebi’s. Shiraga tried to speak, lips parting, but blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth instead. His hand twitched, as if trying to reach out.
Akahebi crawled out from the table toward his brother but another explosion rocked the house. Shelves crashed down, glass shattering, petals and powders spinning through the air like falling snow. Akahebi flinched, tears streaking tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
The attacker turned toward Shiraga, raising the kunai higher, and brought it down. Akahebi screamed. The sound ripped out of his chest raw and broken, louder than he’d ever screamed in his life. Akahebi turned back and pressed himself deeper under the table, small shoulders shaking uncontrollably. His eyes were locked on Shiraga’s lifeless face, mouth still open as if frozen mid-word. And in that moment, something inside Akahebi split, a thin thread of innocence snapping forever. Temari saw it, that moment of breaking, raw and absolute. A heart that had once called flowers beautiful cracking under the weight of blood and betrayal.
Then, through the roaring flames, through the ringing in his ears, a voice cut through, sharp and filled with sibilance. “All that loyalty, all that love… and look where it left you.”
A figure stepped into view, face half-hidden by a scorched hood. Their kunai dripped with fresh blood. They crouched so their eyes were level with Akahebi’s, hidden under the table. “The clan that made you is gone,” the stranger murmured, voice strangely calm amid the chaos. “You don’t belong to them anymore.”
Akahebi’s small hands clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms, blood mixing with soot. His heart pounded, desperate, terrified. Akahebi’s lips parted, but no words came. His gaze flicked to Shiraga’s lifeless body. The boy he had loved more than anyone.
The attacker’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost kind, “Belong to me instead.” his head tilted up, yellow eyes flashed. Orochimaru.
For one breath, Akahebi saw it, the promise of never being alone again, of becoming something feared and needed. His heart twisted, caught between the memory of his brother laughing, his mothers warm hugs and his father hunched over brewing potions.
Temari felt the raw ache of it, that desperate, unspoken craving to belong to someone , to something , even if it meant becoming a monster. And just before the vision shattered, Akahebi’s shaking head stilled. His wide, tear-streaked eyes lifted to meet the stranger’s, and in them glimmered something that wasn’t innocence anymore, but wasn’t strength, either. Just a desperate, broken hope. His gaze dropped, and he saw a datura flower lying beside him, scorched and half-crushed. He clutched it to his chest as he reached out and took the stranger’s hand.
The vision cracked apart, splintering at the edges like glass forgetting how to hold an image. All traces of Akahebi were gone, only darkness now. Empty. And Temari was alone again. She felt the weight of those eyes before she saw them. Now she was the one trembling.
“Even you didn’t have love like that as a child,” the brown eyes said, calm, almost pitying.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to hear it, trying to tear herself out of this place, willing the darkness to let her go.
“Face me, you coward.”
Her chest tightened. She forced herself to breathe, forced her eyes open, but before she could meet them, light burst through, so bright it burned. She winced, blinking hard as shapes swam into focus: the sterile white ceiling, harsh fluorescent lights humming above her, the cold bite of metal under her back. Machines beeped steadily at her side. She tried to move, but her arm wouldn’t budge. She looked down, thick straps pinned her wrists and ankles to the table. Panic flared, sharp and cold.
A sound caught her ear. She turned her head and saw a young woman with short pink hair, scribbling something on a clipboard. The girl glanced up, and startled so hard the pen clattered to the floor. “Oh! You’re awake!”
Temari just stared, breathing ragged, still caught between worlds, trying to decide if this was real or just another hallucination. The pink-haired girl recovered quickly, stepping closer. “I’m Sakura,” she said, voice firm but not unkind. “Head of the medical team here in Konoha.” Her green eyes studied Temari carefully under the harsh light. “And you’re Temari.”
Temari’s brows furrowed, confusion tightening her chest. Her voice felt trapped in her throat.
“I remember you,” Sakura added softly, a small, almost surprised smile tugging at her lips. “From the Chunin Exams.”
She glanced over at the medical ninja, she looked familiar but Temari couldnt tell for sure. “Where am I?”
“Konoha, medical center.” Sakura’s face tightened, “technically you are my patient but you are also a prisoner.”
Temari’s memories started to come back to her, Akahebi had left her there, had left her with him. She was shocked the brown eyes hadn't killed her. “What did he do to me,” she snapped.
“That's what i've been trying to research.”
“So,” Temari rasped, her voice rough but steady, “you patch me up… then decide what to do with me?”
Sakura didn’t flinch, but something in her eyes flickered, regret, maybe, or recognition of what it meant to stand on opposite sides. “My job,” she said quietly, “is to keep you alive until they decide.”
Temari felt her chest tighten. She didn’t know if it was fear or fury, or something colder that had been creeping in since the shadows took her. “And what do you decide?”
Sakura’s gaze hardened, the softness stripped away, replaced by the calm steel of a kunoichi who had seen too much to pretend. “That depends,” she said. “Are you going to fight us the moment you can stand?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said.
Sakura’s expression barely changed, but her fingers curled around the clipboard just a little tighter. “Then decide carefully,” she murmured. “Because there are people here who still believe you can be reasoned with… and there are others who don’t.”
The machines beeped steadily beside them, counting heartbeats in the silence that followed. Outside the door, Temari could sense more chakra signatures, guards, alert and waiting. The door slammed open shaking the metal tray beside her. Brown eyes swept across the room, sharp and cold, fixing on Temari with the same suffocating familiarity she’d just clawed her way out of. Her breath caught, panic tightening in her chest. She jerked instinctively, bucking under the leather straps, but they held, biting into her raw skin.
He walked toward her, each step unhurried, controlled, coiled power in every motion. But his gaze wasn’t on her yet, it pinned Sakura instead. “She is awake then,” he said, his voice calm and smooth as glass, but undercut with something colder.
Sakura didn’t back away, though her shoulders stiffened. “She only just regained consciousness,” she said, her tone carefully professional. “She needs time to stabilize before you question her.”
His eyes flicked to the faint tremor in Temari’s hand, the sweat at her temple, the wild beat of her pulse visible in her throat. His mouth curved, almost amused, almost pitying, and then the warmth vanished.
“What's your name?” he said, grabbing the clipboard out of Sakura's hands skimming over the notes.
Temari couldn’t speak; her mouth felt dry, her throat raw. Her hand strained against the leather strap, reaching for the metal tray just inches away. Shikamaru was still distracted, eyes scanning the notes in his hand. Her fingers brushed across the cold steel surface, searching blindly, until they found a pair of scissors. Heart pounding, she curled them into her fist, hiding them in her shaking hand.
He looked back to her, “What’s your name?”
She clenched her jaw, “Temari.”
He scoffed, “not the Temari I knew,” he said as he handed the clipboard back to Sakura.
She glared at him, searching his face but avoiding his haunting eyes. All she could remember was the torture, the abusive words, the screams of Gaara that he caused. And now, she was strapped to a table at his will. Her fist tightened around the scissors as he took a step towards her. Right when his leg came into view she stabbed him in the upper thigh.
The sharp clang of the metal hitting the floor echoed through the room. Shikamaru’s breath hitched, eyes narrowing in shock and pain as he stumbled back. His hand gripped the upper part of his thigh where the scissors had pierced through the fabric and flesh. Temari’s chest heaved, adrenaline flooding through her veins. Her jaw was set, but her eyes burned, not with fear, but with fierce resolve.
Sakura dropped to her knees beside him, quickly tearing open a roll of bandages. “It’s not deep,” she said, voice tight as she pressed cloth to the bleeding wound. Shikamarus winced as Sakura pressed harder on his thigh.
“You think that was smart?” he rasped.
Temari was breathing heavy, the straps creaking as she tried to break free once more. “Don't talk to me like you know me,” she spat.
“I don't,” his breath hitched as Sakura cinched the bandage around his thigh.
Sakura glanced between them, “Shikamaru you need to stay still.”
He ignored her, eyes glaring at Temari. “At least not anymore.”
Temari's fingers clenched until her knuckles turned white “go to hell.”
He exhaled slowly, his voice softening “already there,” he paused “because of you.”
His brown eyes bore into her, unblinking, and something inside her buckled. She turned her head sharply, staring at the wall, trying to push him out of her mind. But the darkness behind her eyelids wasn’t empty, it writhed with memories. The past bled into the present until she couldn’t tell which was real anymore. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Her breathing quickened, chest heaving against the restraints, but she couldn’t stop the memories flooding back. Shadows stretched around her, whispering doubts she couldn’t silence.
“Get him out,” Temari spat, her voice edged with panic.
“What?” Shikamaru snapped, disbelief twisting his features. “You’re a prisoner. You don’t get to make demands.”
“GET OUT!” she screamed, jerking violently against the straps until one slipped just enough to give her arm a few more inches of freedom.
His eyes flicked to Sakura, confusion and something closer to worry flashing across his face. Without a word, he pushed himself up, limping slightly from the bandaged wound, and stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Sakura stepped closer to the table, her gaze flicking over Temari’s bruised skin and the dried blood at her hairline. Moving to the cabinet, she retrieved a small jar of salve and pulled on a glove. “I’m going to put this on the wound on your neck,” she said softly, her voice careful, almost gentle.
Temari didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall, the world around her blurring at the edges. She felt herself slipping, drifting somewhere far from the cold metal table and the sting of her restraints.
How could Akahebi have left her? The man who spoke of loyalty like it was sacred, who promised she’d never be alone again. How could he have abandoned her here, left her with Shikamara, the one who had broken her before, piece by piece? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense anymore. And in the cold silence between Sakura’s careful touches, a deeper fear settled in Temari’s chest: what if no one was coming at all?
“How long was I out?” Temari rasped, her voice low and rough.
“Twelve hours,” Sakura replied, professional and measured. Temari blinked hard, trying to push back the fog in her mind.
“Does that Akatsuki member do this to you often?” Sakura asked carefully, her gloved hand hovering near the bite.
Temari’s head snapped toward her so fast Sakura flinched, her fingers slipping from Temari’s neck. “He doesn’t do anything to me,” Temari spat, the words burning her throat. She hesitated, her gaze shifting toward the door, voice dropping to something colder, rawer. “This is his fault.”
“Shikamaru?” Sakura asked, her brow furrowing.
Temari’s eyes darkened, fury and fear twisting together, something murderous lurking just beneath the surface. “Yes,” she breathed, her jaw tightening. “The one with the brown eyes.”
“Do you remember what happens when he bites you?” Sakura’s voice wasn’t gentle or pitying, it was detached, clinical, like a medic extracting facts from a patient.
Temari hesitated, then nodded once, not trusting herself to speak.
Sakura turned away, crossing to the cabinet. The faint clink of glass broke the silence before she held up a small vial of pale liquid. “I gathered some of the poison from your neck,” she said, studying it with unsettling calm. “It’s derived from a flower.”
Temari’s chest tightened, her breathing quickening despite herself. Memories scraped at the edges of her mind, the rush of darkness, the burn under her skin, the suffocating weight of hallucinations that felt too real.
“A flower called Datura .”