The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the cracked clay roof like an endless dirge. The air inside the hut was thick with the smell of damp straw, blood, and smoke from a dying fire lamp... enough to show how small and frail the place truly was.
On the mat in the centre lay Hayami. Her long, dark hair clung to her cheeks, matted with sweat. Her lips were pale, trembling as she drew in sharp, uneven breaths. She pressed her hands to her belly, trying to control the pain that came in waves strong enough to twist her whole body.
The old woman beside her... Midori... crouched low, her back bent like someone who wanted to be ground to earth. Her skin was thin and sagged like wrinkled parchment over bone. She had delivered so many children in her lifetime that she'd stopped counting after fifty. The war had made sure most of those children never reached adulthood. But still, she helped. Still, she stayed.
"Hayami, push!" Midori barked, her voice sharp but trembling with effort. "Push, girl! The baby's almost out... I can see the head!"
Hayami gritted her teeth and bore down with everything she had left. Her nails tore into the mat beneath her, her breath catching as another contraction tore through her body. The muscles in her legs quivered uncontrollably. Her entire world narrowed to pain and survival.
She felt her dignity slipping away... the way her body betrayed her, releasing what it could no longer hold. She was too far gone to care. Tears mixed with sweat on her cheeks. The smell of blood and feces mixed into the damp air, making her gag. It is natural to lose control over rectum muscles during pregnancy.
Midori didn't flinch. She'd seen it all before. War didn't allow luxury for disgust. "Good," she muttered, adjusting her hands carefully. "Good, Hayami. Just a little more."
Lightning flashed again, and for a brief moment, the old woman's face looked carved out of stone... lined, focused, ancient.
Then came a sound... wet and plop. The baby slipped free, limp and pale in Midori's trembling hands. Hayami collapsed back onto the mat, panting, her body shaking violently. The pain had stopped, but the silence that followed was worse.
Midori's eyes narrowed. She cut the umbilical cord quickly and removed the placenta, wrapping the infant in a scrap of clean cloth. But the baby didn't cry.
Hayami's heart lurched. "Why isn't he crying?" Her voice cracked, panic rising. "Why... why won't he—"
"Quiet!" Midori stopped her getting tensed, holding the baby upside down with practised hands. She slapped the soles of his feet once. Twice. Nothing. Then harder, the flat of her hand striking the tiny chest with a force that made Hayami wince.
The sound was harsh... brutal, almost cruel... but it was the only way. The lungs were still filled with amniotic fluid, suffocating the child before it even began to live.
"Come on," Midori muttered. Her voice softened, pleading now. "Breathe, little one. Cry."
Another strike. The baby's chest jerked, and for a second, nothing happened. Then a faint cough... a tiny, gurgling whimper which forced the pale liquid out. Air. A shaky inhale.
And then... a cry.
Weak, raspy at first, then louder, full of life and defiance. It filled the hut, drowning out the rain, the thunder, the fear.
Hayami let out a sob that was half laughter. Her hands reached out instinctively. "Let me hold him," she whispered. "Please."
Midori nodded and laid the child in her arms. The warmth of his tiny body hit her chest, and the tremor in her hands stopped. She looked down... at his small, wrinkled face, his clenched fists, his eyes barely open... and felt something heavy and luminous in her chest.
She'd brought him into the world. In the middle of hunger, cold, and grief... there was life.
Midori began to clean the blood, urine, and feces, her movements slow but deliberate. She wrapped the placenta in cloth, buried it beneath the floor using a small earthen jutsu to fold the soil over. The technique was old and simple, used by Iwagakure women for generations... an unspoken prayer to the land, returning what gave life back to the earth.
The room smelled now of birth… iron, clay, and rain. A smell she would remember forever.
Hayami rocked the child gently, tracing the curve of his cheek. "He's warm," she murmured. "He's really warm."
Midori smiled faintly. "Of course. He is alive."
The old woman leaned close, inspecting him. She checked his grip reflex... placing her finger in his hand and watching how he clung, with surprising strength. Then, holding him upright, she let her hand hover away for a second. The baby swayed but reached instinctively to steady himself. Midori nodded. "Reflexes are fine."
Hayami exhaled shakily, her relief almost too much to contain.
But the moment didn't last. Outside, thunder cracked again, and the walls shuddered slightly. From far away, muffled under the sound of the storm, came a dull boom... like rocks breaking. Explosions.
The war wasn't far. It never was.
Midori's face darkened. "The front lines are close tonight."
Hayami clutched the baby tighter. Her husband had left six months ago... drafted by the Tsuchikage's orders to fight on the northern border. He hadn't sent a letter. No messenger had returned from his unit.
"They said it was a quick mission," Hayami whispered, almost to herself. "He promised he'd be back before the rice harvest. She worked hard to keep the field alive and the rain would have destroyed everything."
Midori didn't answer. She wrung out a towel, wiping blood from the floor. "War doesn't care about promises, He should have been dea-" she said softly.
Hayami didn't reply. Her eyes were fixed on the tiny rise and fall of her son's chest. "He'll come back," she said, more firmly this time. "He will."
The old woman sighed. "You remind me of myself when I was your age," she murmured. "Same words. Same hope. I waited too."
Hayami's gaze lifted. "Did he come back?"
Midori shook her head slowly. "No."
Silence settled between them, broken only by the steady patter of rain.
Hayami looked down again, her voice trembling but stubborn. "Then I'll be the one who waits until he does. I won't stop."
Midori didn't argue. She simply covered the small fire with clay to keep it smoldering and moved to the doorway. The storm wind howled through the gaps, and she pulled her shawl tighter.
Behind her, Hayami began humming softly... a tune from her childhood, one her mother used to sing when the rain flooded their village. The baby quieted almost instantly, his small face relaxing.
Midori turned back to watch them. In that dim light... a frail mother holding her newborn in a war-torn hut. Hope you will survive till the end. Huh. Maybe I am asking for too much.
Hours passed. The storm softened to a drizzle. The old woman dozed in a corner, her knees pulled up for warmth. Hayami hadn't slept. She just sat there, the baby resting on her chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart against her skin.
The roof leaked in two spots. Drops hit the floor with slow, rhythmic plunks.
Hayami whispered into the darkness. "Deidara. That's your name."
She'd said it before, but now it felt real. She smiled faintly. "Your father chose it. He said it meant something about greatness… about leaving a mark."
She laughed under her breath. "He always had dreams too big for this place."
Her smile faded. The war had taken everything... food, homes, names. Even the will to dream. But as she looked at her son, something flickered inside her chest. Maybe that was what her husband meant... not fame, not strength, but legacy.
A faint cry from the baby snapped her from her thoughts. She shifted him gently, pulling aside her torn robe. He latched weakly. Midori stirred awake at the sound and opened one eye.
"Good," she murmured. "He's feeding." Then she sighed. "You need to eat too, girl. Milk won't come from air."
Hayami glanced at the corner of the hut, where a small basket sat with half a loaf of stale barley bread. "I'll manage," she said quietly.
Midori didn't press. She knew the look... the quiet desperation of surviving on belief alone.
Outside, dawn began to break, pale and reluctant. The rain eased to a morning mist, and from far off, smoke rose in thin lines across the valley... battle camps.
Hayami turned her face toward the faint light filtering through the cracks. "He'll see it," she whispered. "He'll see his son."
Midori said nothing. She watched the young mother's profile... the exhaustion, the defiance, the fragile hope... and something in her chest ached.
"You rest," the old woman said finally, standing with a groan. "I'll fetch water."
Hayami nodded, though she didn't move. Her eyelids fluttered but refused to close. The moment she did, she knew she'd dream of him... her husband... and wake up to an empty bed again.
Midori stepped out into the morning, her feet sinking into wet earth. The storm clouds were breaking apart now, revealing streaks of blue. The mountains in the distance looked like sleeping giants, their peaks hidden in fog.