He sat aloft, so high above the sky watching in fascination. Occasionally he would fall beneath the sea and ocean, mingling with the waves as a being of water. The air he lay upon and rested himself, he ate from the heavens, bathed in the oceans slept within the sky, and drifted into the stars in boredom. Still lack of reason remained. Years or months it took for him to be given new task: This by a tall standing man of both height and power -though ability he knew not of- with hair of flowing tree bark and skin of upturned soil, each part of the man a brown of earth, his robe however was made woven of grass and moss intertwined and though he seemed a product of the land below, His gaze was gentle in comparison to his hardened earth tones.

As years, later decades, furthered into centuries and millennia he was tasked to perform a duty he did not fully grasp. A miserable bringing havok and wreck, and through those same millennia he had come to the conclusion that the other was of kindness unto mortality. However, he asked such brutality of him, tarnishing the land he cherished and the humans he so protected to his breasts as children of his own.

In this understanding, it left with a bitter misinformation and oxymoron so intergrained that Madara -as was himself- could not comprehend Hashirama as he so once thought. Whence he had asked for a reasoning he had been given a simple kindness with gentle demeanor only belonging to the fellow God -as none could portray as he- and asked a question, accompanied by a vague quotation of wise words never failing the man as he spoke in wisdom and years yet warmed with child wonder and passion, a touch only lingering in the softest of touches. Hashirama was as a mystery Madara knew unsolvable. Though now, after centuries of allowing his curiosity to fade, the fellow persisted to ask him that same question as when he had asked for reason of purpose.

"What for do you think disaster brings in harmony." In lack of answer he never gave response, for it was known to him than anything not befalling perfection would displease the fellow god of Earth and soil.

He knew well his ability, what he conjured was mere destruction, yet it gave nothing. Still Hashirama asked it of him every few moons. Always looking for the answer he could not give.

Once he had looked to himself in wondering.

Swept down to a small mass of water and looked to himself, thinking he would meet features as Hashirama's own. Instead the self he found was a man -he had presumed- with very long reaching hair the colour of deep devastating clouds as he so often controlled, spiking behind him as the strikes of lightning he so made. Skin not of black but of softened cloud, left over from devastation, greyed by water but not darkened with threat. His eyes were tinted with the day a bright red and in night he found them as the star filled sky. It was strange to have reckoning with oneself on a level never considered. Though he appeared little like the only other God he knew -though there were others as he was aware- it was comfort rather then devastation. This: he knew not why.

Morning greeted him with a responsibility to perform. So, he did sweep the skies with his hand, gathered the waters with the other, and contorted the winds with his fingers. In this case he could not remain idle for a Hurricane he controlled, and they unlike tsunamis or thunder storms required him inside them for stability.

He settled overtop the land he ruined. Already homes were destroyed, everything was flooded. People screamed.

As was normal.

"In the eye of the hurricane there is quiet." Something spoke to him. With no one about him, left him to look down, though he could see none for his disposition left him to high. "For just a moment." It was a voice, such that only a mortal could speak in truely.

A mortal unintentionally speaking towards a God. What could promote this, he knew not, he grappled with answers, each nonsensical in line.

They were centermost. In the eye as so described, were the winds bellowed but nothing else, the sun shone above more as an omen then comforting embrace of warmth. Tone so sorrowful in resonance, but yet, gratified. "A yellow sky."

This time, residing in the form of a mortal: he walked to that whom had spoken staring above with tears cascading and a smile so vague one could hardly fathom it there at all. Perplexed by the oddity. Humans creatures as like animals seeking their life with desperation not befitting dignity. So entranced upon what lurked above, now stilled from Madara's own lack of presence. They were young, least for that body of a human.

"You are not afraid?" He could not speak in mortal dialect, through eyes stared shocked into his own, before more tears fell, but so did words.

"Of course, I do not wish to die. I am terrified. But still, it is so calm right here." Something struck lightning within him at this mortal speaking. Shone as the brightness of the sun, with the glimmer of rechid Tobirama's seas of blue, and skin likened to Hashirama's own. There was so much destruction about, even the ground underfoot was made swamped with water sweeping from the town. "Aren't you?" Came the return. Madara was fascinated, not for the question, but by the curiosity, the ambition to gaze unto the yellow sky rather then run for shelter, to wish for contentment. Evermore the way this youngling had spoken in direct with a God.

Upon whim, he gave to a decision not wise for one of his age. Walked forth to the mortal, gaining a look of confusion by his flowing robe made by layered rainfall for which a small human could not understand. "Stay within the eye, and I can promise you'll live."

"How could you promise such?" He smirked and certainly didn't divulge instead he made bid onto his promise by kissing directly the mortal, sealing his deal. Creating the final opposition, though he knew it not.

Casting well eyed manner to his eldest friend whom could not consume alcohol without being plagued with detriment. He had retired for the night only to be swarmed by such individuals intoxicated with the ideal of depriving him of limited rest. He knew them well, men of good manner typically. Though they did rejoice in their conduct of impeaching unto his person the beseechment of their company late into the waxing hours of day.

In particular calling to him for the the simple matter of advice, which he would gladly give should it not come when he was most restless. The advice they so desired was commonly best given by women of prestige; flanked by men of designated virtue and sheltered expressions displaying a petty lust and devotion only gracing those with a woman containing animorious knowledge and a charm belonging to those who could not lose what they held dearest.

Fore in a reason unknown unto even he, his mind possessed a wisdom in how to seduce those of the fairer sex, or indeed a man: this for the circle of women he maintained under the key of true friendship. Though to hold himself within a candid and unapologetic sin, his eyes were to linger longer on a well sculpted man then the curvaceous and thinning bodies of women. Of course this could not become a privy to any but himself, though there were plenty possessing of good conduct, it remained such an obscurity that he could not trust in any.

Today, among his guests were Sir Jiraiya, a man having received a Knighthood upon saving the King with the wit of vitreous nature. A kind man, offered the position of baron, but had turned away from the title under the vast perusement of women -as he was so known for. He'd settled for the heart of the Dame Tsunade, a respectable woman of considerable independence not inclined to leave such positioning for a man, even if he were of equal standing. So, he'd been tasked with the arduous position of mentoring a man, so famed by knowledge of his charmed conduct; that Naruto ever remained in awe of his inability to confront the woman he had motion for. He was also the gentleman in the room unable to contain his drink.

Another was a son of the orphanage who had begotten him with the challangeful task of wooing the Lady Hinata, daughter of Lord Hyuga. A highly respected member of the aristocracy well understood for wanting not a marriage for his daughter, be that arranged in high society or for love. Naruto would have deemed it impossible, had they not already proved themselves inthralld with one another. What he struggled with was the problem that her father remained.

Lastly was Mrs. Naruto Uzumaki. His own fair skinned wife, whom loved him not, and he desired not in return. Her ache ran for another man, one of respect, that he knew had lain with his wife many a time. It had been spoken of, and in his haste to be rid of her almost suggested he take her far to moon with away from his vision. This was not because he found the woman distasteful, or ingracious. Indeed in proper circles of romance she was an ideal lady of good breeding, handsome features and desirable persona. Fore he wished her departure in protecting of their friendship, living among each other as husband and wife was weakening them both to a state of continual depression. The only reasoning for their marriage was his skill with a quill and literary ability with falsehoods: he'd written Sakura until she'd fell.

Of course, her presence could not be unnoticed by the other company. With a tilted smile and rise of self, Sir Jiraiya made polite greeting, and courteous questioning. "Mrs. Uzumaki, an unexpected surprise to our weary eyes, for what purpose doth such beauty grace us?" Naruto watched her accept the kisses upon her hand before gracefully taking place on the sofa beside his own armchair. Appearing regal, especially in place next to him. She gave him a sweetened smile, ever the gracious hostess.

"Why, for my own trails of affection why else?" That he knew, to be a stab at his own pride, but he played it little attention. If he had regarded her as his spouse it would be a more menacing blow, however, both of them were well aware of each other's loyalties. Kiba gave them both a befuzzled look, while the elderly man nodded his understanding having seen many marriages such as theirs in his time.

"Who sways your favour, if I may ask?" Said the man, far more adapting then the young brunette beside his towering form. His sweeping hair made a motion as he regarded Naruto in equal as his wife. This served to remind the owner of the house of a man so much taller, cold, with hair so much more wild, and untamable eyes of scarlet. The memory was pushed away whence Sakura answered:

"The Honorable Rock Lee, I'm certain you know of him."

"Ah yes, a respectable man indeed-"

Their conversation continued saying things of little interest, and while he did sit bemused with Kiba interrupting with profanities of the indignity of it all, largely he remained away. His place of matchmaking man and alumnest was not needed in an environment of pleasantries as it were. These were merely the gossip filled greetings of old friends, and the arguing tongues of men made indigent by things they held no control over. A daily proceeding, that he'd never entangled himself with.

Closing his eyes in rest he pictured himself within a hurricane, above, not upon the ground, regarding the clouds as only a God would. No bird could fly so high, not into the night as he seemed to nearly touch. The clouds were wisps on the wind, and grey below him, although in moving himself he could feel the moisture of steam about him. Below he saw a hell, he'd been so certain to never invision again. He'd written to a revolution of himself, screaming at the damnation he'd been delivered from, made his own deliverance with a skill he now preserved for aiding his friendships in romancing.

Finally he was left in peace. The men had left with clutched letters in their breast pockets, his wife retiring to her own bedchamber, bidding him a good night with a face of delight. His own room was doused with morning light already, though it irked him not. There was a reason he tolerated the light meetings, for he could merely show them out the door if he had true want. Yet, he did not, fore when his friends to leave with such brightened smiles and relaxed postures made his own disposition of loneliness barible.

In place of proceeding immediately to his welcoming mattress he sat at his desk. Thinking for a moment onto how he could lighten himself further. Quill now with fresh ink he wrote all that he needed too. The emotions so hidden, the desires so sinful, the wants and need for affections not given by the hands of friendship. A positioning in the government wherein he could create a sanctuary for those of difference such as himself, obscurely if needed. The ideals of a revolution and a system created all by his own imaginings.

I was twelve when my Mother died. We were sickly, and she was holding me. He recalled writing with prints of water falling to the paper. Looking, gazing to the portrait he had made of her. Delicate and strong in visage, with sweeping red hair that remained unforgettable. It had been painful, he'd bore it well. Yet that, was an untruth he could never disclose. Not unto anyone, more of she had been a woman so brave and unyielding, far before any other of her time.

The parchment flew behind him as evermore he wrote. The sun risen, his eyes never dropped from eagerness, pacing the quill with a certainty none but he could understand. Speaking now of love, what detriment it brought, what happiness wrought. The reasonings for his understanding that were but jumbled thoughts of nonsense to anyone but he.

Then he stopped.

Pages of words cluttered the room, his hand did not ache, his eyes did not waver. Though he thought it a dream for moments, the ink on his hand proved otherwise, and the mess of his room clarified that. The very same hand dyed black moved to a page removed from the others above his last yet it was probably the thirteenth he'd written.

When I was seventeen a hurricane destroyed my town, I didn't drown. I couldn't seem to die.

He'd recalled the day as it had been. Suck waist deep by water, but not drowning, not succumbing, the hurricane had refused to move. The hurricane hadn't moved, defying itself the nature that it was. The man he'd met, his promise holding true.

I wrote Sakura love letters until she fell. The line broke, and he was fixated on his own writing, so smeared and jerked with emotion.

I'll write my way out.

Overwhelm you with honesty.

This is the eye of the hurricane.

This is the only way I can protect my legacy.

Beneath lay the papers plunging into politics. Further still, those of his loves and follies, depictions of men he'd shared a night with, not detailed, but memory filled of taste for passion. Then, as he picked up the next paper, he was surprised and uneasy at the list of names he found. Each of them with different tones of ink, some were black, and some were red. The latter being uncommon. The names were listed horizontally reading with hyphens in between.

Jiraiya - Tsunade Senju

Kiba - Hinata Hyuga

Sakura Haruno - Lee Rock

All written with red -crimson ink, a tone which he did not own, nevermind picked to write with at any point last night.

Jiraiya - Orochimaru

Shikamaru Nara - Hidan

Were in black. Two of the names were of people he didn't know. However, the name alongside Jiraiya's was familiar. Lord Orochimaru was a very prestigious Duke, said to have the King within his pocket. A man of whom Jiraiya had a deep hatred of, talk had circulated once that the elderly man had killed the conspiratorial lord. It proved untrue, though the rumor itself spoke of their relation unto another. Most of the names were in black, though the occasional red did occur.

What gave Naruto the greatest concern was the fact that all those in red he knew of. Or had known, persons who he had aided, their matters of love. For the life of him, he couldn't remember comprising such a list, nevermind why he would begin one. Dropping the paper as if burnt he made his way downstairs, not thinking to breakfast nor announcing his departure.

A walk would clear his mind, perhaps offer an explanation.

His feet and wandering mind had taken him to the small creek not far from his home. A man was sitting in the water, with the pose of one of those fellows from India. Seeming for all he was worth quite relaxed and comfortable in the cold liquid. Though his posture said he was nearly asleep the eyes that fixed onto him fastly were very much a clue that he hadn't been. The man smiled kindly, rose, and left the steam behind him, the robe on him shifting at least it looked that way. Something odd occurring that Naruto could not pin on any particular thing, though the gentleman seemed to have changed in some way. How so, the author could not say.

"Tell me, what stands in the middle of a hurricane?" The man looked curious, clearly asking for something he needed to know, yet it seemed like he already had an answer in mind. Regardless of knowing the strange man or not Naruto decided to play along for the moment, he could do with distraction.

"The sky?" This was not his true response, though it was given more as a beginning into something more profound then that. "Light?" This time he was more serious, but no more sure of this answer then the last.

The waterman with the green robes shook himself and gazed at a drooping purple flower in examination. "What does the hurricane bring? What does it do to people?" He asked instead. It could only be taken as a hinting question, and Naruto despite being irate at the help he hadn't needed, took it in stride.

"Destruction. Death. Ugliness It throws people from each other." This he said with a calm certainty, for this he knew as fact. The man, however, tilted his head with amusement: 'yet?' the question was spoken without words. "It brings people closer once its over, from their turmoil, loss." He whispered slightly, speaking more to himself. The man rose.

"Then what is in the center of a hurricane?" He asked again, and Naruto could not tell him, for he knew all his answers were wrong. "Think back." The man said now facing the water.

It was difficult, but he did recall. When the hurricane had hit his home he'd run far. There was none he knew to save him. It thought that he had killed his mother in her sleep and none wanted to save the boy who'd done that. He remembered being on his own and running to the only source of light he could find in the ever darkening sky. No one had been there, he had been away from everyone who thought him a murderer.

He recalled the emotion it brought him. "Peace?" He remembered the man, standing there with his strange attire of a foreigner, speech like that of one as well.

"That which brings destruction and death must also bring its opposite. In order to hold the forces of life - death, destruction - love, ugliness - beauty, there must also be an opposition in the world." It was a curious thing listening to a man, who seemingly spoke with the age of a wise man, not one as young as he appeared to be. "Destruction, it breaks the bonds of love we hold, yet it brings love as well. Hatred follows that as a form of love."

His lips moved to argue: then his mind came back to that field, and the man that was forever tied to it. The kiss he had been given.

"Not many can find peace in the middle of desolation. None can kiss destruction himself. In doing so, you became the opposite of death and destruction. You became peace, love, and beauty personified." That gave him pause. Reason to think the man insane for his strange ideas of life and mortality, in-universe and truth.

However, how did he know what had occurred that day? Had he been there? What made this truth? Many factors, certainly he could not have known. So whatever strange drug or hallucinogen Naruto thought he was on was mute. This was real, whomever this man was he told the truth, and he spoke from knowledge, not insanity. That who he had kissed that day had been the maker of all disaster. Yet he could not forgo satisfaction. Twisted thoughts conjured within him.

"It is not strange. Opposites are mutually connected, you will ever be tied to him and he to you. Though as that of love, your place is by his side." Confusion rattled forth this time.

"Are you a God?" This time he felt any question asked from his own mouth would be strange so he made it as blunt as he could. Receiving a blinking look and smile.

"I suppose mortals do call me that. However, I do prefer the title of Mother Nature. I covet the Earth." That explained nearly everything. Though it did leave one thing blaring, and he screeched in indignation upon realization.

"ARE PLAINLY STATING THAT I AM NOW A GOD!?" The volume did not seem to bother the - Mother Nature in the slightest. Nodding only, to which Naruto slumped by the riverside. Only now taking note of the fact that the purple flower that had been dying was now alive and blooming with an extra shimmer to its own petals.

"God of Love, Beauty, and Peace due to Madara meddling. We will see what the humans call you in a few centuries." He looked to the sky for moments at a time, thinking to punch the other guy -Madara- and then kissing him for being alluring. He got a giggle in return, and Mother Nature flushed red; he could read minds. Naruto concluded.

Though he still wondered why the sky had been yellow.