Age Nine to Ten
Tsunade and I wrote to each other every week for a year.
I told her about my training—the endless circles, the chakra chains, the taijutsu forms that left me bruised and breathless. I told her about Kushina—her tantrums, her laughter, the way she would follow me around like a shadow. I told her about my father—the growing coldness, the obsession with my eyes, the fear that lurked beneath his silence.
She told me about Konoha—the towering trees, the carved faces on the mountain, the markets full of fresh vegetables and handmade crafts. She told me about her own training—the medical texts she devoured, the cadavers she dissected, the techniques she invented. She told me about Jiraiya (loud, annoying, secretly kind), Orochimaru (creepy, brilliant, probably evil), and Nawaki (enthusiastic, reckless, determined to be Hokage).
We argued about everything. Which village had better food. Which clan had stronger techniques. Whether the Second Hokage's policies were wise or foolish.
"You're stubborn," she wrote once.
"I'm persistent," I wrote back.
"That's the same thing."
"No, it's not. Stubborn is refusing to change your mind when you're wrong. Persistent is refusing to give up when you're right."
"And you're always right?"
"Always."
"You're impossible."
"You're impossible too."
I looked forward to her letters the way I looked forward to sunrise. They were the best part of my day.
One night, after a particularly bad training session with my father—he had broken two of my ribs and hadn't even apologized—I wrote her a letter that was different from the others.
"Tsunade,
Do you ever think about the future? Not the near future—tomorrow, next week, next month. I mean the far future. Ten years from now. Twenty years. What do you want your life to look like?
Sometimes I think about it. I see myself as the leader of Uzushio, protecting my people, keeping Kushina safe. I see myself strong enough that no one can hurt the ones I love.
But I don't see much else. The elders say I will die young. Sometimes I believe them.
Do you believe in fate?
—Ren"
Her reply came the next morning.
"Ren,
I don't believe in fate. I believe in choices. My grandfather was supposed to be the God of Shinobi, the uniter of nations, the bringer of peace. He died anyway. His choices didn't save him.
But his choices saved a lot of other people. That's what matters, I think. Not whether you live or die. What you do while you're alive.
Ten years from now, I want to be a medic-nin. The best medic-nin. I want to save people who can't be saved. I want to make death optional.
Twenty years from now, I want to be happy. I don't know what that looks like yet. But I want to find out.
Don't let the prophecy control you. You're not a prophecy. You're a person.
—Tsunade"
I read the letter again and again, until the words were etched into my memory.
"You're a person."
It was such a simple thing to say. But no one else had said it to me. Not the elders, who saw me as a tool. Not my father, who saw me as a weapon. Not even Kushina, who saw me as her protector.
Tsunade saw me as a person.
I wrote back.
"Tsunade,
Thank you.
—Ren"