Land of Lightning
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Iyashi’s office always smelled faintly of crushed mint and antiseptic. Even when the windows were open and the breeze from the Hidden Cloud’s high cliffs swept in, the scent clung stubbornly to the shelves and the pale blue curtains. She liked it that way. It made her feel like she was doing something useful. Necessary.
She stood hunched over the wide counter by the far wall, her gloved hands working a stone pestle in steady circles — the rhythmic grinding of the herbs into a fine paste was as soothing as it was familiar. The salve she was mixing was meant for burns—hers, mostly—and she’d spent years perfecting the formula. It hadn’t come easy. In the early days, nothing worked. The itching was unbearable. The tightness in her limbs, the raw flaring pain beneath the surface of her skin—it felt like punishment carved deep into her flesh.
The war had ended ten years ago, but the fire still lived in her nerves.
Her body, from collarbone to knees, was a map of charred memories. Severe burn scars wrapped her like a second skin. She kept them hidden beneath thick bandages, changed and rewrapped daily with a ritualistic precision. The skin still burned, still itched, still festered on bad days. But this salve—the one she now ground so carefully with shaking but stubborn hands—gave her back some measure of peace.
Its key ingredient, the one that had finally made the difference, was beeswax—rare, golden, and difficult to obtain in its purest form. She got it from Kaoru of the Kamizuru Clan, one of the few people she trusted with something so personal. The wax acted as a protective barrier, locking in the healing herbs and softening the brittle edges of her scarred skin. With it, she regained range of motion. She could sleep without scratching herself bloody in the night. She could stand upright, shoulders back, without feeling like her own skin might split open from the strain.
The mortar and pestle rocked with quiet rhythm. Every rotation of her hand was an anchor. Behind her, a mountain of paperwork waited for her attention: requisitions for field kits, injury reports from training squads, a letter from the Raikage’s office she hadn’t yet dared to open. Iyashi ignored it all in favor of the mortar and pestle. If she kept her hands busy, her mind had no room to drift. Busy, she felt focused, safe — no space to remember the screaming, or the smell of scorched flesh and earth, or the way the battlefield had looked ten years ago when the war finally ended.
An apprehensive knock at the door broke the rhythm. She didn’t turn. “If it’s about the supply list, I’ll have it filed before sundown.”
“Iyashi-senpai…” The voice belonged to Renji, one of the junior medics. Timid, but persistent. She didn’t stop grinding. “You weren’t scheduled to be here today.” He sounded like he’d drawn the short straw.
“I’m aware,” she muttered. The paste was almost perfect. Just a little more.
“You’ve been here since dawn,” he continued, his voice low and apologetic. “Everyone… well, we think you should go home. Just for today.” She could practically hear him wringing his hands.
She didn’t answer. The salve was nearly ready—creamy, golden, tinged green from the crushed herbs. Another ten jars and she’d be set for two weeks.
Behind her, she heard the telltale rustle of backup. More medics hovered at the threshold. They were being gentle, but they’d clearly planned this. Someone had sent them. Probably the head doctor. Coward.
With a sigh, she finally turned. Her pale pink eyes were calm, cool, as unreadable as the ocean in a storm. “There’s more work than hours in the day. If you want to be helpful, you can fetch me more bandage rolls.”
Renji flinched, but he didn’t back down. Brave kid. She respected that. “Ma’am… with respect… you need rest. The hospital will still be standing when you return.”
Iyashi wanted to argue. To say that rest was for those who didn’t wake up screaming. That her body didn’t rest, no matter how still she lay. That the silence of her apartment was louder than anything she’d heard on the battlefield. But she looked at their faces—soft, young, unscarred—and knew the words would fall on ears that hadn’t yet heard the war cry in the wind. Iyashi felt the old irritation rise in her chest, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the weariness that had settled in her bones.
“Very well,” she said at last, her voice flat. She set down the pestle and removed her gloves with careful precision, wincing slightly as they tugged against rough skin. “If it will ease everyone’s minds, I’ll take my leave.”
Renji brightened. “Thank you, Iyashi-senpai.”
She ignored him as she gathered her haori and pulled it around her shoulders. The corridor beyond her office was bright with afternoon sun. Too bright. She felt exposed as she stepped into it, as though everyone could see that she didn’t belong anywhere but at her workstation.She exited outside into the late afternoon, the stone beneath her feet warm and solid.
The village bustled as always—shinobi moved along the rooftops, children darted between the stalls, and the mountain breeze tugged at her jacket like a curious hand asking ’where to next?’ But Iyashi stood still, uncertain. She was always uncertain when she wasn’t working.
What did people do with time off?
Iyashi had no idea.
She turned in the direction of her apartment, every step feeling more like an exile than a reprieve. As she walked, she pressed her palm over her chest, trying to quiet the restless ache beneath her ribs.
Maybe, she told herself, she could stop by the apothecary on the way home. Refill her stocks. Prepare for tomorrow. She heard they had a new shipment of camellia oil, and she was nearly out. Or maybe Kaoru had fresh wax, and they could trade stories in silence. Anything, really. Anything to keep her hands moving, to keep the past quiet.
The salve had made life bearable. But work—work kept her alive.
She stood hunched over the wide counter by the far wall, her gloved hands working a stone pestle in steady circles — the rhythmic grinding of the herbs into a fine paste was as soothing as it was familiar. The salve she was mixing was meant for burns—hers, mostly—and she’d spent years perfecting the formula. It hadn’t come easy. In the early days, nothing worked. The itching was unbearable. The tightness in her limbs, the raw flaring pain beneath the surface of her skin—it felt like punishment carved deep into her flesh.
The war had ended ten years ago, but the fire still lived in her nerves.
Her body, from collarbone to knees, was a map of charred memories. Severe burn scars wrapped her like a second skin. She kept them hidden beneath thick bandages, changed and rewrapped daily with a ritualistic precision. The skin still burned, still itched, still festered on bad days. But this salve—the one she now ground so carefully with shaking but stubborn hands—gave her back some measure of peace.
Its key ingredient, the one that had finally made the difference, was beeswax—rare, golden, and difficult to obtain in its purest form. She got it from Kaoru of the Kamizuru Clan, one of the few people she trusted with something so personal. The wax acted as a protective barrier, locking in the healing herbs and softening the brittle edges of her scarred skin. With it, she regained range of motion. She could sleep without scratching herself bloody in the night. She could stand upright, shoulders back, without feeling like her own skin might split open from the strain.
The mortar and pestle rocked with quiet rhythm. Every rotation of her hand was an anchor. Behind her, a mountain of paperwork waited for her attention: requisitions for field kits, injury reports from training squads, a letter from the Raikage’s office she hadn’t yet dared to open. Iyashi ignored it all in favor of the mortar and pestle. If she kept her hands busy, her mind had no room to drift. Busy, she felt focused, safe — no space to remember the screaming, or the smell of scorched flesh and earth, or the way the battlefield had looked ten years ago when the war finally ended.
An apprehensive knock at the door broke the rhythm. She didn’t turn. “If it’s about the supply list, I’ll have it filed before sundown.”
“Iyashi-senpai…” The voice belonged to Renji, one of the junior medics. Timid, but persistent. She didn’t stop grinding. “You weren’t scheduled to be here today.” He sounded like he’d drawn the short straw.
“I’m aware,” she muttered. The paste was almost perfect. Just a little more.
“You’ve been here since dawn,” he continued, his voice low and apologetic. “Everyone… well, we think you should go home. Just for today.” She could practically hear him wringing his hands.
She didn’t answer. The salve was nearly ready—creamy, golden, tinged green from the crushed herbs. Another ten jars and she’d be set for two weeks.
Behind her, she heard the telltale rustle of backup. More medics hovered at the threshold. They were being gentle, but they’d clearly planned this. Someone had sent them. Probably the head doctor. Coward.
With a sigh, she finally turned. Her pale pink eyes were calm, cool, as unreadable as the ocean in a storm. “There’s more work than hours in the day. If you want to be helpful, you can fetch me more bandage rolls.”
Renji flinched, but he didn’t back down. Brave kid. She respected that. “Ma’am… with respect… you need rest. The hospital will still be standing when you return.”
Iyashi wanted to argue. To say that rest was for those who didn’t wake up screaming. That her body didn’t rest, no matter how still she lay. That the silence of her apartment was louder than anything she’d heard on the battlefield. But she looked at their faces—soft, young, unscarred—and knew the words would fall on ears that hadn’t yet heard the war cry in the wind. Iyashi felt the old irritation rise in her chest, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the weariness that had settled in her bones.
“Very well,” she said at last, her voice flat. She set down the pestle and removed her gloves with careful precision, wincing slightly as they tugged against rough skin. “If it will ease everyone’s minds, I’ll take my leave.”
Renji brightened. “Thank you, Iyashi-senpai.”
She ignored him as she gathered her haori and pulled it around her shoulders. The corridor beyond her office was bright with afternoon sun. Too bright. She felt exposed as she stepped into it, as though everyone could see that she didn’t belong anywhere but at her workstation.She exited outside into the late afternoon, the stone beneath her feet warm and solid.
The village bustled as always—shinobi moved along the rooftops, children darted between the stalls, and the mountain breeze tugged at her jacket like a curious hand asking ’where to next?’ But Iyashi stood still, uncertain. She was always uncertain when she wasn’t working.
What did people do with time off?
Iyashi had no idea.
She turned in the direction of her apartment, every step feeling more like an exile than a reprieve. As she walked, she pressed her palm over her chest, trying to quiet the restless ache beneath her ribs.
Maybe, she told herself, she could stop by the apothecary on the way home. Refill her stocks. Prepare for tomorrow. She heard they had a new shipment of camellia oil, and she was nearly out. Or maybe Kaoru had fresh wax, and they could trade stories in silence. Anything, really. Anything to keep her hands moving, to keep the past quiet.
The salve had made life bearable. But work—work kept her alive.