For a month an ink smeared face was observed dashing around the village. Often seen tongue sticking out and brow furrowed in pure concentration as they scratched out something in a little notebook though hissing like a feral cat when anyone tried to see what they were doing. To them this project they were pouring so much into had to be perfect. All consumed as they devoured books, ran to and from the edges of the village, and asking various sources for assistance until it was satisfyingly finished. -
All that handwork culminating into a parchment filled with rough sketches of various plants with each named, where they were observed in the village, if they should be touched or left alone, and the consequences if not; the death ones had a funny little face with x’s for eyes. At the bottom a little note in crisp but childish handwriting saying this wasn’t a complete reference, but it might help keep him out of trouble in the future. -
Then all that diligence was neatly folded up with a few wildflowers before Reni went scampering up to that bright blonde man and handed the bundle off before taking off in a fit of giggles not sticking around to be interrogated about it.
Minato has been on the receiving end of many things in his life: Kunai. Explosive tags. Mission scrolls. Threats from enemy shinobi delivered with varying degrees of theatrical conviction. Inoichi’s unsolicited advice. Kushina’s occasionally solicited advice, usually issued at a volume that suggested the entire village might benefit from hearing it too.
He has, however, never been ambushed by a bundle of parchment and wildflowers.
It happens just outside the academy grounds, in the gold-warm slant of late afternoon. Minato has barely finished speaking with one of the instructors when a small shape darts toward him from the side path, feet quick against the packed earth, laughter already escaping in bright, breathless bursts.
He turns just in time to see an ink-smudged face, fierce eyes, and a pair of hands thrusting something up at him with all the urgency of a mission handoff.
“For you!”
Minato accepts it automatically.
“Ah,” he says, because one should always say something when unexpectedly entrusted with classified wildflowers. “Thank you---”
The child is already gone with the particular speed of someone who has planned the delivery but absolutely not the conversation after it. A ribbon flashes around the corner. A giggle trails after her, then disappears into the noise of the academy yard.
Minato is left standing with a folded parchment in his hands and several wildflowers tucked beneath a loop of twine.
The instructor beside him looks at the bundle.
Then at Minato.
Then at the corner where the child vanished.
“Do I want to know?” they ask.
“I’m not sure yet,” Minato replies. The flowers are small and slightly crushed from being held too tightly. Their stems have been wrapped with the same care one might give to binding a wound; yellow, white, purple. Common roadside blooms, but chosen with attention rather than decoration. He studies them for a moment, then smiles despite himself.
No thorns. No suspicious sap. No crow-dipper. He has the distinct sense that this is intentional.
Minato carries the bundle to a bench beneath the old persimmon tree before opening it. The academy is loud around him: students arguing over the rules of a game that seems to have very few rules, an instructor calling someone down from a wall, the dry scrape of practice kunai against wood. Afternoon light filters through the leaves overhead and falls in shifting patterns across the parchment as he unfolds it.
Then unfolds it again. And again.
By the time it lies fully open across his lap, Minato is staring at a document that has clearly required more fieldwork than several official reconnaissance reports he has read this month.
The parchment is covered edge to edge in sketches; rough, urgent drawings made by someone far more concerned with survival than elegance. Leaves are circled. Stems are marked. Berries are rendered with ominous emphasis. Dangerous parts have been underlined, boxed in, or accompanied by arrows sharp enough to look accusatory.
Each plant has a name, and each name is followed by where it was observed in the village, whether it should be touched or left alone, and what might happen to a person foolish enough to ignore the warning.
Minato recognizes crow-dipper immediately, as it has been drawn with particular severity.
CROW-DIPPER Seen: academy west fence, north training field, drainage ditch after rain Touch: NO Consequence: swelling, burning, shame
Underneath, in smaller handwriting:
Already explained once.
Minato presses his lips together. It does not help; a laugh escapes him anyway, quiet and helpless, and he has to cover it with his hand because the note has been written with such grave disappointment that laughing feels disrespectful.
He reads on.
FALSE MINT Seen: behind library, shady rocks Touch: no Consequence: rash, itching, regret Note: smells nice because it is lying
MOONSEED CREEPER Seen: old wall, east side Touch: maybe Eat: NO Consequence: poison, stomach pain, possible death
Beside that entry is a little face with x’s for eyes.
Minato stares at it for a long moment. Then, very carefully, he turns the parchment to catch the light better. There are more faces beside the more dangerous entries. Small, dramatic, occasionally lopsided faces with x’s for eyes and tongues sticking out. One has what appears to be a tiny grave marker next to it. Another has lines around it, perhaps to indicate spiritual departure, or perhaps simply emphasis. It is difficult to tell.
The guide continues: Blistervine. Widow’s lace. Redcap mushroom. Silvergrass. Bitterroot. Foxglove. A creeping plant near the memorial path that has been labeled beautiful but rude. A cluster of berries near the outer wall that receives three separate warnings, one of which reads, in impressively crisp handwriting:
Do not “just check.”
Minato lowers the parchment slightly and looks out over the academy yard.
The child who gave it to him is nowhere in sight.
Still, he can picture her with startling clarity: ink on her cheek, notebook clutched close, brow furrowed as if the world itself has presented her with an error she intends to correct by force of concentration.
His amusement softens. At the bottom of the parchment, beneath the final row of sketches, there is a note.
The handwriting is careful. Childish, yes, but deliberate. Each character has been placed with effort, the way children write when the message matters enough to slow their hand.
This is not a complete reference. Konoha has many dangerous plants and some might be missing. But it might help keep you out of trouble in the future.
A pause. Then:
The flowers are safe.
Minato’s fingers still on the edge of the page. For a while, he simply sits there with the parchment across his lap, listening to the ordinary noise of the academy.
There is something tender and terrible about being cared for by a child. It lands somewhere deep in him, warm and bright and unexpectedly painful.
But children in Konoha learn danger so early. They learn to identify poison, to watch hands, to count exits, to notice which adults are bleeding and which ones are pretending not to. They learn that love can look like warning someone away from a plant that burns.
And this child - this very small, very serious child - has spent who knows how long making him a guide. Because once, he had touched something dangerous, and she had decided that was unacceptable.
Minato bows his head over the parchment and smiles.
“Thank you,” he says softly, though she is no longer there to hear it.
Then he folds the guide back up with the same care he would give a treaty document. More care, perhaps. Treaties rarely come with hand-drawn death faces.
The wildflowers he tucks into the front of his vest, stems angled safely away from the fabric.
He spends the walk back to the Hokage Tower trying very hard not to look too pleased.
This effort fails almost immediately. Jiraiya notices before Minato has even crossed the room.
His teacher is sprawled by the window in a way that suggests he has never respected furniture in his life. Hiruzen sits behind his desk, pipe in hand, half-buried in paperwork. Both men look up when Minato enters.
Jiraiya’s eyes go straight to the flowers.
Slowly, his face brightens.
“Oh,” he says. “This looks interesting.”
“It is not,” Minato says at once.
“Then why do you have flowers in your vest?”
“They were entrusted to me.”
“By whom?”
“A concerned citizen.”
Hiruzen’s brows lift over his pipe. “A concerned citizen?”
Minato considers lying - he is very good at lying when the mission requires it.
Unfortunately, this is not a mission, and Jiraiya already looks delighted.
“A student from the academy,” Minato admits.
Jiraiya sits up. “You got flowers from an academy student?”
“I received a field guide.”
“A field guide.”
“To dangerous village plants.”
There is a brief silence. Then Jiraiya’s grin spreads with horrifying speed.
Minato points at him. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You are about to.”
“I am about to say several things.”
“Hokage sama,” Minato says, turning to Hiruzen, “I would like to request formal protection.”
“Denied,” Hiruzen says mildly. “Show me the field guide.”
Minato hesitates. It is not classified, exactly. But it feels private in the way important children’s things are private. Not secret, but entrusted. There is a difference.
Still, Hiruzen’s expression has softened with genuine curiosity, and Jiraiya, for all his playful jabs, knows better than to mock sincerity when it has come from someone small.
Minato unfolds the parchment across the desk. Jiraiya automatically leans over it while Hiruzen takes his pipe from his mouth. He reads the first entry and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Shame,” he murmurs.
Jiraiya makes a sound like a cough strangled by laughter.
Minato closes his eyes. “It was listed as a consequence.”
“Was it accurate?”
“Regrettably.”
Jiraiya bends closer. “Already explained once,” he reads aloud, and then he does laugh, loud enough that someone in the hall pauses outside the door. “Brat, you’ve been medically supervised by a child.”
“She was correct.”
“That makes it better.”
“It does, actually.”
Hiruzen continues reading, his amusement settling into something quieter. He traces one finger near the edge of the parchment, careful not to smudge the ink. His gaze pauses at the final note.
The room grows gentler.
“This is good work,” he says.
Minato nods. “Yes.”
“Thorough.”
“Very.”
“Practical.”
“Extremely.”
Jiraiya’s smile has changed too, though he would deny it under questioning. “Kid has good instincts.”
“She does,” Minato says.
“And good taste. Clearly likes hopeless cases.”
“I’m choosing to ignore that.”
“You shouldn’t. Ignoring warnings is how you ended up with a plant guide.”
Minato refolds the parchment before Jiraiya can read any more entries aloud. “I have learned my lesson.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“What lesson?”
Minato looks at the flowers tucked into his vest. Then at the folded guide in his hands.
He thinks of ink-smudged cheeks, small hands, careful warnings, and a giggle vanishing around the academy corner before gratitude could catch it.
“Don’t touch crow-dipper,” he says.
Jiraiya groans. Hiruzen chuckles into his pipe.
But Minato keeps the guide. He takes it home that evening and places it on his desk beside unfinished seal designs and mission notes. The flowers go into a cup of water near the window. They are slightly bent, and one petal has torn, but they brighten the room anyway.
For several days afterward, Minato consults the parchment whenever he crosses the academy grounds.
This is partly because the guide is useful. It is also because, on the third day, he spots a familiar ink-smudged face watching him from behind the persimmon tree.
Minato notices the moment her eyes flick to his hands.
He very deliberately stops in front of a patch of crow-dipper and looks at the plant.
Then at the guide. Then back at the plant.
He then takes three careful steps away from it. From behind the tree comes a small, violently suppressed giggle.
Minato does not turn.
He only smiles down at the parchment and continues walking, safe from crow-dipper, suspicious berries, and the terrible shame of disappointing his smallest field expert.
@inkpots-n-sass
