Blossom

Cerise (səˈriːs or səˈriːz) is a deep to vivid reddish pink.

 

The colour of blood.

 

It is midnight. When Hisa steps out of the plain engawa, the only sound she can hear is her own shallow breathing, restless and edgy. The sakura blossoms sway in the light spring breeze, rain drizzling down as she sits in the veranda.

 

Around her, the air is clogged with thick tendrils of smoke as a fire flickers in the far distance. Hisa coughs for a while, then eases up, leaning against the wooden panels of their house. Home.

 

Her life is ironic, Hisa thinks. She comes here to escape from this ridiculous paradox, her fate set in stone.

 

Not everything is set in stone.

 

She is destined to die at such a young age, surrounded by suffering and sorrow. A shinobi. Dying for Konoha, for their people even, should be an honour, but somehow she disagrees. How is death something honorable?

 

She sighs as the rain begins to pour, more urgently and intensely now. A sakura blossom floats in the air, propelled by the oncoming blast of wind, which she catches in her palm, entranced.

 

Here, she is free. Hisa usually spends nights in meditation, but she doubts her parents would understand. She feels peace here, where her isolation sends shivers of yin chakra down her spine, a spiritual overflow inside her pathways. Shinobi - kunoichi - are not usually taught like this, but what can she do? She must survive.

 

Fugaku-sama is always wary of her family, of what they could do if they had the chance - mainly because they are all the epitome of perfection and he will never be. Haru Uchiha is an exceptional shinobi with a powerful sharingan, and Mariko is an idealistic yamato nadeshiko who stays at home as a housewife.

 

It does seem that way, she muses. People only see what they want to see - their standing in society. She's not even passed her second birthday, yet she's expected to have some sort of loyalty to the clan.

 

I don't want to become a kunoichi, she thinks as rivulets run down her kimono. She's scared. Petrified, even. She's heard all those stories of death and terror. never mind it's meant to be her duty. Being a kunoichi means that it'll become her life, trapped in bitterness until she caves.

 

A light turns on. Someone's awake.

 

I don't want to be a kunoichi, she whispers, then the shoji screen slides shut as a slight breeze permeates through the tiny crack. The sakura blossom sways in the air before drifting to the ground.

Hisa is a curious child. She doesn't seem that bright at first, a quiet, invisible girl who burrows into her books and never talks to anyone. It's hardly as if she has anyone to converse with, which is perhaps half the reason why Uchiha children end up introverted and antisocial.

 

Then again, her clan prefers them obedient and waiting.

 

As every weekend, she encloses herself in the rarely-used Uchiha Clan Library, where smooth oak shelves filled with books run from wall to wall. She pours the matcha into her teacup, the intoxicating scent circulating throughout the room in a homely way.

 

Her mother first introduced her to tea. It preserves the essence of a kunoichi, she'd said. Light, delicate. Hisa disagrees with that.

 

Her eyes stray further down, to a small volume tucked in the back, right next to The Art of Tea Ceremonies. It doesn't feel worn out or weathered, but it's not exactly modern either. Women's Roles in The Uchiha. A layer of dust creeps over the cover, concealing the neat handwritten black lettering, and she skims it off with the edge of her nail in disgust.

 

Now this she wants to know. Sheltered from the outside world by her parents, she has almost no idea of what's going on in the world. Now, she must find a way to remedy that.

 

"Okaa-san?" she asks later on, kneeling in seiza on the rough tatami mat. She notes that Haru is out on a mission. "Did you want to marry otou-san?"

 

There is an element of thinly veiled surprise that Hisa is making an effort to actually speak and at the bold question itself. Her mother is silent as she sews, the sashiko thread dancing rhythmically to create neat, skilful stitches. "I knew it was for the best." she reflects with a thoughtful expression. "We all have to make sacrifices for our clan."

 

"But what if I don't want to?" Hisa asks, dissatisfied by the vague explanation.

 

"It is our duty." Mariko's gentle voice betrays a hint of regret, a nostalgic look appearing on her face.

 

Duty? Is there a sense of honour in effectively killing yourself for your country? Hisa has never seen Konoha do anything for their shinobi. Perhaps she will learn as she grows, maybe one day she will come to understand.

 

"I..." she hesitates uncertainly. "I don't want to be a kunoichi, okaa-san." Then silence, and an unbearable wait for her mother's unyielding judgement.

 

Mariko says nothing but stares at her in the eye with a pensive expression, clear disappointment written all over her face. Loyalty to one's clan before anything else has been drilled into her since day one, and now Hisa is breaking all of the rules with just seven words.

 

"Oh, Hisana," her mother admonishes in that reproachful way. Her arms outstretch to hug her child, and for a moment, nothing happens. "I can't change it, my child; this is fate. I'll try, Hisa-chan, I'll try."

 

Mariko strokes her hair in that soothing way, rocking Hisa in her lap as wet tears dribble down her daughter's cheeks.

 

 

 

Tea ceremonies are quite unnecessary, Hisa thinks. They're going to host Fugaku-sama and his new wife Mikoto, a kunoichi who could easily be mistaken for an inborn Uchiha herself. Usually, Mariko takes control of the situation, guiding Hisa throughout her parts and playing her own perfectly as well.

 

"Hisana," Mariko calls, with her thin, wispy voice. It's fragile, her older age mirrored in her health. Strangely enough, the woman hasn't even passed thirty.

 

"Yes, okaa-san?"

 

Mariko kneels down for a second by her daughter, who's gripping a brush in her hand as she dips it into the inkwell. Then she tilts Hisa's chin and looks into her eyes. A faint drip, drip, drip can be heard as the older woman pauses.

 

"I think you're ready," she determines, after looking her child over again. "I'm certain you are."

 

"Ready for what, okaa-san?" Hisa's voice is dry, though still perfectly poised in the same position.

 

For a second, the only sound is of her breathing, steady and slow, steady and slow. Then Mariko's eyes dilate for a split-second, and she keels over, gasping for breath as blood stains the floor.

 

"Okaa-san!" Hisa's hands fly to her mother's head, cradling it in her fingers. Then more urgently - "Okaa-san!'

 

It takes precisely two seconds for Haru to come rushing inside as the scream echoes through the hallways. His wife is lying unresponsive on the floor as Hisa squeezes her wrist in desperation, blood dribbling off from the edges of her mouth.

 

Wordlessly, he picks her up. Carries her to the next room, where the plain futon adorns the floor. Nausea bubbles up in the depths of Hisa's throat, but she refuses to give in, instead sinking to the ground.

 

Nothing happens for a few minutes. Then, after finding the strength to rise back up, she walks, albeit unsteadily, to the kitchen. Hisa's hands shake under the strain as her hands cling onto the heavy copper kettle, slowly pouring the water into the teacup. A few drops splash out onto the counter as a puddle forms.

 

Mariko cries out weakly in her sleep, her bedsheets ruffled as she twists and turns about. Quietly, Hisa places the teacup next to the futon.

 

"Okaa-san," she murmurs. "Okaa-san, wake up. I've made you some tea."

 

Her mother does not wake up. Hisa waits for a minute until she subsides, then steps away from the dozing woman. The floorboards creak under her feet as she edges away into the hallway, careful not to make a sound.

 

Dinner is a silent affair, except for the quiet clinking of chopsticks. Haru doesn't meet her eyes, and does not make a move to talk until they're both finished.

 

"Otou-san..." she begins, clear in her worry. Her father notices it instantly.

 

"Hisana," he interrupts. "It is not for you to fret about such things. We will host Fugaku-sama and his wife tomorrow evening, and everything will go as planned." She notices how he does not refer to Mikoto by name, though he must have seen her before.

 

"But okaa-?"

 

"It is easy enough for you to perform her role," Haru interjects, and that is the end of that.

 

It's plainly difficult for a two-year old to handle the delicate bamboo-fashioned utensils, although Mariko has been training her relentlessly for months, picking out her mistakes from a small splash of tea to kneeling at an unconventional angle. Months aren't enough for a child to perfect this skill. Hisa attributes it to how finicky the Uchiha are about mistakes.

 

The door slides open. She's ready, her obi tied around around her waist to bind her loose-fitting kimono, kneeling in front of the assembled tools. Just ten minutes ago, she'd struggled to tie the sash of her obi, unravelling it again and again as it collapsed into unruly knots.

 

Hisa's hands are clammy as her hands extract the tea sachets from her packet, her mind fully fixated on her mother.

 

What's wrong...with Mariko? Why did she suddenly collapse?

 

"This is my daughter, Hisana," Haru introduces, and then she's staring up at Fugaku's scrutinisingly jet black eyes, her head swerving for a second as she falters. And ignores him completely.

 

Mikoto is...beautiful. Not more than Mariko, but there's a sort of naïvete around her...as if she's one to talk. Hisa's mind grasps around another sudden attack of dizziness to remember her original purpose.

 

Fugaku...He can decide her life.

 

No, she's not quite terrified of her young and inexperienced cousin, however fierce he may seem. She fears his ever increasing solidarity - the power of the position of Clan Head.

 

I don't want to be a kunoichi.

 

"Uchiha Hisana." he studies her face while they all kneel, addressing her by the already long-forgotten name. Acknowledgment, perhaps? She can't figure out his emotions yet. "Granddaughter of Uchiha Kagami." It is no secret to the clan that Haru's father was one of the best shinobi alive in his time. Maybe that's why Fugaku feels threatened - at least somewhat - by her family.

 

"Yes, Fugaku-sama." Her knees already hurt from the seiza position, and she wonders how she is going to last the whole evening. Mikoto stays silent, perhaps trying to be the traditional modest wife.

 

"How is...Mariko-san?" Fugaku asks. Courtesy, Hisa thinks. Nothing more than politeness, brittle words to help them lower their guard.

 

"Good," Haru answers. She notices he says nothing more on the matter. The only sound in the room is of their careful eating as the miso soup gradually finishes. Decorated sweets lie on a plate, untouched.

 

The air fizzles with cold hostility as Haru stares at Fugaku, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Your plans for Hisana?" the other man asks smoothly. "A kunoichi, I expect?"

 

Hisa's throat makes a small sound of protest, but it quickly bubbles down as Fugaku's eyes turn to her. "What say you, Hisana?"

 

"Yes, Fugaku-sama," she replies obediently. Her eyes look down, as if she'd want to be anywhere but here.

 

Then Mikoto speaks up for the first time. Her voice is soft, not as broken as Mariko's, yet as weary as a kunoichi, each word thought out with care. "Haru-san. Mariko-san is pregnant?"

 

It's sudden. Too much. The room spins abruptly; her stomach twists at this new revelation as air knifes into her lungs. Hisa can't breathe - she's slipping, slipping, slipping...

 

"Hisana-san? Are you quite alright?" Mikoto questions concernedly. "You're looking a bit pale."

 

"She's fine," Haru hurriedly covers up. "Ah. Would you like some tea? Hisana-"

 

Hisa nods, shakily trying to regain control of her features as the room spirals again and-

 

"Hisana?"

 

"Oh. Yes," she responds, closing her eyes as she snaps herself back into reality.

 

Hisa tries to remember every step her mother showed her, wiping the tools until they are spotless. Whisking the thick matcha tea in a circular motion, the aroma spreads throughout the air, her hands stirring and pouring systematically. It is not perfect. It never is. Her movements aren't pleasing or mesmerising like her mother's would be, but they all seem satisfied with the ceremony.

 

After she whisks the thin matcha tea into a froth, taking care not to spill a drop onto her kimono, the wagashi crafted from the Uchiha bakery is served. She hardly nibbles on the mochi, her head still centred on the fact that she's going to have a sibling.

 

"She must be a kunoichi, then," Fugaku decides. "Another child would be beneficial to our clan, and it would be much better to have two shinobi rather than one."

 

Beneficial? Beneficial to the clan? Hisa desperately wants to spit in his face and drag Fugaku through the mud until he's violently shredded into pieces, and yet-

 

Mariko wouldn't want that.

 

This is what Hisa is meant to be. She is a marionette on their strings; a pawn in their chess game. Hate spirals into her heart for this innocent, unborn child, all because they are part and parcel; packaged right in with their clan.

 

"My condolences to Mariko-san," Fugaku offers half-heartedly, and Mikoto smiles endearingly at her as she walks out the front door.

 

 

The next few days are peaceful, spent in meditation or simple isolation in her room. Haru has been assigned a mission, and he is not likely to come back before the weekend. Mariko, however, is still recuperating in her room, still fatigued and half delirious from her previous collapse.

 

Hisa brings her meals every few hours, brewing the herbal tea and medicine from the gardens outside. In one instance, her mother clings to her sleeve as she slowly retreats backwards.

 

"Hisa-chan...are you alright?"

 

"Yes, okaa-san," comes the reply, monotonous and tired in its tone. The shock of having a new sibling has by now worn off already.

 

"Is it...about the tea ceremony?" Mariko whispers, her voice hoarse as Hisa tilts the medicine bowl to her lips once more. Her cheeks are pallid and flushed, and her eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

 

"Okaa-san," Hisa cuts her off. It's her way of saying that she doesn't want to talk about it. "It's nothing."

 

"Please, Hisana, I couldn't," Mariko pleads. She grips Hisa's sleeve even more tightly. "Fugaku-sama, he said-" Mariko's trembling violently as she recounts the memory.

 

"Okaa-san!" Hisa shouts, and there is a shocked pause at the end of the outburst. Silence reigns over the room for a few seconds.

 

"I-I taught you to be perfect," Mariko whispers, her voice faltering as she strokes through her daughter's hair. Their eyes meet, one with steely resolve, the other already conceding defeat. "But...I'm glad you're not."

 

Later, she's lying alone in her room on a tatami mat, evenly folding crisp sheets of coloured paper into a faceless crane. Then she makes many more, until they are strewn all over the tatami mats, a rainbow of colours.

 

She shifts over to a sitting position now, her muscles tired and strained from the folding. Haru is back. She can hear the soft bell tinkling as he opens the door, and Mariko's automatic, instantaneous greeting.

 

Her mother must have dragged herself out of bed, Hisa presumes. She doesn't sound any better, at least. The kettle hisses through the thin walls as a clattering sound reverberates throughout the room.

 

Hushed voices begin to murmur as she strains to hear their conversation, one ear pressed to the wall which vibrates with every sound. Haru's come from a clan meeting, she deduces. Hisa knows that they don't allow anyone in except chūnin, since most of its internal network is well hidden and quietly preserved.

 

Raised voices arise from the kitchen, the paper-thin sliding screens betraying each and every sound. Hisa shakes her head, incredulous. She's never once heard her parents shout at each other. So why now?

 

"She won't be a kunoichi!" she hears. Her mother. Hisa's breath catches jn her throat for a second. Is her mother...advocating for her? Giving her a chance...not to be perfect?

 

"Fugaku-sama's word is law." Haru's answer is short and curt; he is definitely losing his patience. Footsteps creak over the floorboards again.

 

"Haru, she shouldn't go to the academy yet. Fugaku-sama may say what he likes, but I know you agree with me. She is our daughter before anything, especially not the clan!" It's too much for her mother. Mariko starts spluttering, wheezing for breath as the short recovery period comes back to bite her. She's still not done though. "Please, Haru..."

 

"Let's get you back to bed, Mariko. You can't speak like this, not in this state."

 

"And when can I?" her mother counters. "Three years old, Haru, three! Wait until she awakens the sharingan at least!"

 

Hisa can still hear those frenzied breaths as her mother hyperventilates, her father frantically trying to calm her down. Her nails subconsciously scratch her palms as the shrill sound continues, ringing in her head like a migraine.

 

Wait - sharingan?

 

Her parents have never deigned to talk about the sharingan with her. A quick scour of textbooks suggests that it's an ocular dōjutsu, inherited and mutated through dozens of bloodline generations. You'll know when you're older, they say.

 

The loud voices have simmered down into whispers by now - they probably suspect she's still awake. Hisa waits for ten minutes to deliberate, then decides to go outside, though she hasn't ventured anywhere for quite a bit of time. Placing one leg up, she tries to climb out of the window, but her small size makes it a larger obstacle than she'd thought. She tumbles in a heap to the ground which is fortunately cushioned by the towering reeds of grass.

 

One of her favourite places to meditate is Naka River, which runs right through the Uchiha compound, jaggedly meandering into the training grounds. She usually sits over the cliff, her feet dangling over the edge as water trickles past her in a haze. It is a place to think, to listen, to find.

 

The sun sets with a sense of finality, the pink hues merging into a darker, more sombre purple. Life is fleeting. Becoming a shinobi will only shorten her threads of time. If she'll be one, will it be...to protect the village? Protect. Such a strong word.

 

Somewhere in the world, war is brewing. And that is the first time Hisa realises - she can't control anything forever. It evokes a sharp, stinging memory inside of her, one of death, dead, dying.

 

And then it clicks. Shisui. A fitting name for a child, a shinobi, Hisa thinks bitterly. Because they'll always be drowning in this world where nothing is under their control.

 

She releases the paper cranes over the moonlight, swooping in and out until never to be seen again.

 

 

 

It is not yet autumn when Mariko goes into her confinement, isolated by the intricate byōbu screens never once used since Hisa's birth. Setting down an inkwell and a brush, Hisa starts to trace simple katakana and hiragana down the paper with her finger, then dips the brush inside the ink again.

 

She finds herself most enthralled by the kanji, sloping characters borrowed from the Chinese language. The brush is steady in her small, lithe hands, but it does not move as gracefully as she expects it to; instead, it quivers as the ink splatters all over the paper.

 

Surveying her handiwork, she assumes it's quite unlike her mother's. Mariko's calligraphy decorates the walls, small characters so identically placed that they could have been written by a typewriter.

 

Her mother...is she alright?

 

Hisa hasn't stepped inside her parents' room for weeks, and Haru only makes periodical visits to check up on his wife. And then Hisa forgets - of course, she is still a small child.

 

September languidly wanders into October, a bleak, harsh month with barely any light at all. Mikoto and Fugaku are trying for a child of their own, and time is steadily creeping forward.

 

By now, the rich scent of matcha is almost rubbed out from her memory. Somehow, it's not the same without her mother - always there to guide her, to point out her mistakes. Her tea ceremony is sloppy, though the relaxing smell of the tea diffuses throughout the room all the same. She remembers the ceremony with Fugaku long ago and wonders if she has become worse.

 

Kunoichi.

 

Kunoichi aren't housewives. They aren't graceful. Their priority is Konoha, not tea ceremonies or ikebana arrangements. They're tied to their village, their clans for the rest of their lives.

 

Something's happening. Hisa can hear hurried shouts in the far distance, screams piercing the walls in their wake.

 

Okaa-san!

 

Time stops for barely a second before she runs, opening, slamming the doors and ignoring the watchful eyes trying to pull her back. Faint cries emerge from the confinement room, footsteps edging closer and closer. A distant buzzing sound, which she doesn't recognise. Someone's holding her back - Mikoto's eyes stare up at her in desperation.

 

Why can't she go in? Another peculiar, much quieter cry. She claws at Mikoto's grip, but it's strong and unwavering.

 

The door opens, a gentle, creaking sound which alerts them all. A midwife walks out, a small boy in her arms with wisps of hair curling down, the sticky blood not yet washed off.

 

Shisui?

 

There's only grim looks of pity. Dread pools back in the depths of her eyes as the door slides open by touch. A shrill wail rings in her ears, and before anyone can stop her she runs in, screaming for her mother. "Okaa-san!"

 

And then she sees it. There is a grey, lifeless body on the bed, eyes rolled up into pearly whites. Can't...

 

"Okaa-" the whispers convolve into sobs, wracking her body as her small fingers slip into her Mariko's motionless hand.

 

"Please okaa-san, wake up!" She's choked back into tears, the raw grief eating at her, consuming her.

 

The child cries again, its pink face scrunched up as its hands struggle again. Mikoto kneels down beside her, her arms securely wrapped around Hisa's back as she buries her face into the older lady's neck, tears blotting down her kimono.

 

She despises him. An innocent child, swarmed by destruction for this simple, convoluted act of murdering her mother. The irony of life.

 

Then her eyes swirl red, and everything goes black.

Glide

Hisa stretches her arms and slowly shifts off her futon, pulling the warm covers off with a groan. It's a drab and dreary day, the rain gently pitter-pattering onto the empty soil. For once, the vase is filled with lilies and freesias in white, possibly from Mikoto. Mariko's funeral is long gone.

What day is it?

The door groans as it tilts open slightly, shadows swerving on the ground for the barest hint of a second. Her father cautiously steps in, a little unsure of how to proceed. "You've been out for weeks," Haru begins, looking at her strangely.

Wait...weeks?

"H-how?" Hisa croaks out. "W-weeks? What about okaa-sama..." Her body is wracked with sudden fatigue, and she falls back down on the mattress. He kneels next to her futon and looks straight into her eyes, gaze unwavering.

"She's dead, Hisana," he states. Haru gives her his hand for some sort of consolation, but she's overcome with tears again, burying her head into the pillow as if it'll hide her away. "You can't change that."

For a few moments, there's only silence, and the rhythmic hiccupping out of her control. Then Hisa turns back around to face her father, steely resolve in her eyes. "Otou-san, I-"

He raises a hand. "There was a meeting last week."

"A clan meeting? For what?"

"You awakened the sharingan." As she makes a move to open her mouth, Haru begins to speak again. "The sharingan is an ocular dōjutsu, typically awakened at a time of grief. It mirrors the heart, in a way that differentiates from the byakugan. Whereas one is stable, the other is volatile."

Volatile?

"And...what did they say?" Hisa's voice is shaking, but there's an indomitable hint of curiosity underlying there.

"Fugaku suggested...something quite different from planned," he deflects. The tone is rather indirect, she realises, her eyes never wavering from his. Eventually, Haru continues. "It was a unanimous decision. I must train you, and when the time is right, you must join the academy."

"Early?" Hisa queries.

At her relentless pursuit, he sighs. "Almost every Uchiha since Madara-sama has excelled in at least one area of specialisation. The rest...well, you'll have to do the same."

"What about training, otou-san? You're always on missions and I-"

"I'll find you some time," Haru interrupts. "I'll promise you that, at least." He stands back upright, then dusts off an imaginary spot on his mission gear. "I'm going now. Take care of Shisui."

He steps outside and shuts the door just as she sinks down onto the floor. Hisa's brows furrow in confusion, and her mouth opens as if to call after him. "How can I...?" she trails off, her lips parted worriedly. Childcare is not a topic she's highly experienced in, namely because she's barely out of her baby stages herself.

So what about...Mikoto?

The image of the elder woman creeps into Hisa's mind, her eyes creasing down into a gentle smile. Perhaps too mellow beside her own stately mother, though she can't refute that it's a better solution. She'll have more luck caring for her brother if there's someone else involved.

Now is time to put her plan into action. Hisa replaces her dress with a cotton one, hands tracing over the tiny blossoms trailing at the edges of the hem, so unusually out-of-place. Then she pads along the long, empty corridor and pauses, hand ever-so-slightly brushing the cold metal of the nursery room door.

"Shisui?" she calls, testing the name out on on her tongue. It's shaky. "Shi...sui?" Of course; it'd be foolish to even hope for an answer. How can she, when he hasn't even spoken his first words?

Hisa is greeted by glaring sunlight as the door falls open, the crib whining with a quiet creak. At the sudden intrusion, the baby boy scrunches up his face and turns to face the wooden bars. She sucks in a deep breath until he lies motionless, watching the steady in-out, in-out rhythm of his breathing.

"Well, you're alright," Hisa breathes, her fingers just centimetres away from his hair. Shisui's curls are hopelessly soft, an endless tangle of black on her smooth fingers. He gives out a tiny whine as she pulls apart, stopping once more beside the door to watch over him for a moment. "I'm going, just for a little while."

Be safe, she forgets to add.

Outside, the air blisters her haori and twigs crunch underneath her feet, her sandals flimsy amongst the cobblestones. The twisting paths of the Uchiha compound snake down into a fork, and then there's nothing but grasslands and trees far in the training grounds. Hisa strolls at a moderate pace, keeping to the sides of the pavement to avoid the curving roads.

The Main House is a few minutes away in the compound, noticeably larger than the others surrounding it. It stands stately at the end of the footpath, bright lanterns illuminating the short trek up to the doorstep. Hisa's hand instinctively pulls back from the door as she wonders whether to knock, but it slides open immediately instead.

"Ah, Hisana-san!" Mikoto greets, dark hair hanging loosely as she peeks out. "How is Haru-san? Shisui-kun managing well? Come in, you're just in time for tea..."The high degree of familiarity is especially unusual and she stands outside for a second, bewildered.

It's almost as if she's expecting her.

Mikoto ushers her in and waves her to a low chabudai table, setting down a pot of jasmine tea and senbei biscuits. Hisa voluntarily relieves her hand of the proffered teacup, though soon regrets it as the scalding tea burns her fingers.

"They're...fine," she decides on, doubting her choice of words as she begins to sip her tea slowly. "Well, actually...I'm here to talk to you about that. And just Hisa is okay."

Mikoto dabs her mouth lightly with a handkerchief, then pushes the tray of biscuits closes to her side. "Fugaku said you'd be along soon, so I managed to get these from the bakery around the corner. Mariko-san once mentioned how you like sweet things, so I...I thought..." She falters awkwardly once she realises what she's said, mouth twisting to gauge Hisa's reaction. Thankfully, there's none.

Instead, the girl bites into the rice cracker, the flaky biscuit filling her mouth as crumbs spill all over her dress. Mikoto immediately hovers over her, brushing the crumbs from her kimono with a towel as Hisa's face blushes the slightest shade of red. "Oh...I'm sorry, I-um, I didn't mean to!"

"It's fine," Mikoto reassures over the sudden gush of water. She rinses the hand-towel neatly and leaves it to dry on the ledge. "I've always wanted to have a daughter like you." This time the comment is wistful and full of longing. "I've never wanted to condemn our clan, but when girls are...well, I'd rather have you as a child."

Hisa shakes her head. "You've got it all wrong, Mikoto-san. Fugaku-sama is my cousin, from a different branch."

"Sister, then." Mikoto acquiesces. For a few seconds, the only sound is the slight hiss of tea as it brews inside the kettle. Their eyes meet awkwardly in the middle, both grasping at loose ends at what to say. Then Mikoto continues. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Oh," Hisa interjects, scrabbling to remember. "Otou-san is on a mission, you see, and I didn't know who to ask. He seems to think...well, he thinks I can take care of Shisui."

Mikoto stares. "He...what? Left you alone to take care of your brother?"

"Ah." Hisa pauses. "I guess so. He did say that." Briefly, she considers if he did mean something else.

Mikoto sighs, with the exasperation of one who has seen all which the world has to offer. She reaches for a plate to wipe it dry. "Wait a few minutes, I'll be there. You do have a key, don't you?"

A few minutes later, the lock on the door clicks into place, and possibly a dozen other traps which Hisa still can't sense. They trudge down through the leafy autumn grounds, careful to stay on the path and not on the fields. A gust of air breezes past, and she instinctively gives a small shiver. Mikoto's hand wanders a bit before clasping the younger girl's in hers.

Oh. Oh.

Before them stands a row of graves, crumbling into ash. The rusty gate whines as they step closer to the entrance of the graveyard, though Hisa pulls back, not daring to go in. Even from here, she can clearly see the scrawl of an epitaph inscribed.

Uchiha Mariko.  Loving wife and mother.

Mariko...isn't here. Her mother's ashes must have been scattered already in the graveyard, alone and lost as they shrivel up on the ground.

Gone.

She allows herself no more than one tear, a sob beading up in the back of her throat, and then she's choking on pure air. Ivy is already beginning to twine up the walls of the stone, ignoring Hisa's muffled cries and convulsive gasps.

"Okaa-san..."

Suddenly, there's warmth around her. Mikoto's gloved hands wrap around her waist, her fingers circling into calm patterns on her back. "It's going to be alright, Hisa-chan," she soothes. "Everything's going to be fine."

Her hands quiver silently, hot blood battling through the numbness in her veins. "Please-! Do you want me to be a kunoichi, okaa-san?"

There's no reply. Mikoto's eyes frown into worry as her fingers trail down Hisa's splotchy eyes. "It's okay, Hisa-chan. You're safe. No-one's going to force you to do anything."

Her lips part, dry as the words hang at the tip of her tongue. "But...otou-san, he said-"

"Well, I'll see what I can do," Mikoto assures, her grip loosening slightly. "But you do know," her voice softens, "You'll have to become a kunoichi one day. It's inevitable."

"Yes," Hisa nods, "But not now."

Mikoto does not reply.

Often, she wonders why her mother's paintings are hidden away. There's a small storeroom a little way off, filled with antique ink-brushes and fiery watercolours veiled by a thin layer of dust. The handle itself hasn't been turned once for almost a year, until she takes a deep breath and it gives way at her touch.

Cobwebs span the width of the ceiling, and what hasn't been marred by dust is scratched or withered away by moths attracted to the flames. It's cramped; there's not more than a step for Hisa to move before she bangs into the other side of the wall, coughing at the stale air.

The closet seems to be filled more with storage scrolls, tied neatly with coloured ribbons. She reaches out for one, only to give a shaky cry of surprise when it unfurls in front of her. Perhaps it hasn't been tied properly, though she's not about to get into the convoluted logistics or inner ninjutsu of the scrolls.

It's a relief to know that none crumble or spring open when she carries them to her room, placing them on the ground and unravelling the difficult knot tied around. Nothing happens.

Silence.

She stays that way for a while, poking and prodding it as if magic might suddenly occur. Then she's left to wonder about what might have gone wrong.

There must be something in the Uchiha library, Hisa thinks. As with every high-ranking family in the clan, books are dedicated solely to a separate annexe, though rarely opened. She remembers how it was built for her, when she was once the only child of her doting parents and nothing could ever happen to them. Perhaps the ghost of Mariko once flitted in and out of these shelves, perusing for any book she wished.

It's her safe haven, though rarely traversed these days. Wide glazed windows run from top to bottom, like a sort-of conservatory. Once warm and cosy in the sunlight, the open room is plagued by freezing winds and chilly draughts as autumn returns again.

That does remind her - Shisui is almost one.

It does like a rather lengthy amount of time, though Hisa would rather consider it as tedious. Forced to create her own distractions, she's had no other human interaction except for a few visits to Mikoto. The older woman is rather helpful in terms of childcare, even if she doesn't have one herself.

Hisa wonders if Mikoto wants one. Itachi will be born soon, but she's not quite sure when, especially as the timelines seem to be very vague. Her grim thoughts are banished from her head altogether soon after.

Her face lights up as she props a random book open and begins to read, her finger skimming through each table of contents almost absentmindedly. Basic scroll use, she deduces, is taught in the final year of the academy. There are many different purposes for one, contrary to what the average genin might think, including summoning and sealing techniques. Objects are quite easy to start with, so it doesn't seem that further help is needed.

A tiny trickle of chakra has to flow through to the point of contact, at her tips of her fingers. Sometimes, Hisa channels too much altogether, other times it's too little. Chakra usage is easy - the difficulty is more in the control.

The next step is significantly harder, and she only attempts it after she's sure she's improved. The genin-taught technique uses three hand-seals, hare-ox-ram. And that's where the problem comes in.

Hisa knows all the seals separately, but putting them together is an obstacle not even she has managed to overcome. It requires a dexterity she doesn't have yet, as a small child who can only do one at a time. And this technique requires three.

Ultimately, her efforts feel futile, but she doesn't want her time to go to waste. Hare, she tries, bending the edges of her finger. Hare. The corner of the scroll unravels, and then suddenly it rolls back up again.

Hisa sighs. Perhaps it can do more?

Hare, she thinks as her fingers fly. Then...hare-ox-ram. This is even more useless, moreso as she doesn't know exactly what she's doing. Three is definitely too much.

Hare, she sighs again. A quarter of an hour later, and fully focused, she almost manages to do it. Her concentration is steady as well as the seal which she performs with aching fingers, and then the scroll curls up again.

That's enough, now, Hisa thinks.

But it's not. She doesn't stop until another hour later, when she can fully seal a small pin into the scroll and successfully take it out with one hand-sign. And that must be why - it's not that she's a prodigy, or extraordinarily intelligent to be able to do what others don't; it takes more effort. Three hand-seals are used for comfort. One takes more time, more practice - the attention span of which most genin lack. She cannot help but feel somewhat proud of herself.

Now, she begins the short walk back to the house. From the outside, she can see a light switched on at the front, in the direction of the drawing room. The door is mildly open, and another, larger pair of shoes lie in the genkan.

"Otou-san?" she calls as she steps over the threshold, nudging a sandal into place. "Are you home?" Already? she doesn't add.

There's no answer, but that's to be expected. Hisa shuts the door with a click, drawing the curtains in the kitchen open and placing the kettle on the stove. She waits for a minute until the steam whistle blows, then pours the tea in two mugs.

Two minutes later, Haru comes downstairs to the adjoining dining room. He places a sheaf of paperwork on the table, then proceeds to flip through each page as he signs.

"Ah. Hisana," Haru beckons, a hand raised as he folds the edges of an envelope. "Now, see here...the Academy is accepting admissions soon, you know. Fugaku-sama won't take no for an answer, but I do need your written permission."

He sounds so self-assured, Hisa thinks, as if he's confident that she'd want to go. It almost makes her hate him, somehow. And then her face morphs into one of shame, because it is absolutely disloyal to even think about such a thing.

He notices her hesitation. "Of course, the sharingan is a valuable tool for us - for the good of the shinobi village. You'd be performing your duty and you'd be perhaps even the youngest to do so." And then, quietly, he adds, "It should be an honour, Hisana."

"Alright then," Hisa acquiesces, not knowing what else to say. There's no room for rejection or denial. Her nervousness doesn't fade as she picks up the pen from the table, scrawling a wide, looping signature.

"That's all good and done then," Haru says, his face wry as he looks it over. "Remember though, you're not an adult yet, so I'll have to handle a few things."

Hisa nods. "Otou-san, what would happen if I didn't want to?" It's a niggling feeling that she just needs to know. Call it instinct.

He stills. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Otou-san," Hisa pleads. "Just this once, please tell me. I-"

"You'd have gone, anyway, Hisana," Haru murmurs. "Your sharingan is far too valuable. We need to know if this can work for someone of such a young age - to hold such great responsibility."

Valuable? Is she just an experiment then, just to find out if they can assemble together another dozen Uchiha prodigies? Perhaps they would have forced her to write by her own hand. She wouldn't have stood much chance, anyway, against a grown Uchiha chief.

"Oh, all right," she huffs, annoyed at the vague response. "I'll call Shisui down for dinner, shall I?"

"Wait," Haru stops her. "Just remember - it's essential that you be given training, at least before you enter the academy, anyhow. We'll start tomorrow morning, at six thirty in the grounds. Gather your things, and don't be late."

"What about Shisui?" Hisa asks. "Will he be okay...alone? You don't usually take us out, and the training grounds are further away than I'd like."

"He'll be fine; it's not like we've abandoned him, Hisana," Haru waves a hand in mild impatience. "Any member of the Uchiha clan, whether child or adult, must be able to fend for themselves. It's imperative. He's not much younger than you."

Hisa almost raises an eyebrow at that, but it won't have any consequence. Instead, she chooses to plod back upstairs, taking his further silence as a sign of dismissal.

"First things first," Haru explains, sharpening the edge of his knife on a stone. "I'd like to make things clear. Fugaku-sama would like you to become heir as soon as possible."

The words don't startle Hisa as much as the bluntness he speaks them with. Haru - and Mariko for that matter - have never been completely straightforward people. They talk in circles, riddles, messages which don't mean a thing unless you're the intended recipient of what they want to convey.

"What about you? What about Shisui?" Hisa queries. "Don't the elders have rules about putting - about putting a girl in place? Shisui-"

"Shisui cannot even talk yet," Haru interrupts. "If I am clan heir, the elders fear I may go onto a different tangent. They fear the power I could wield. Shisui is not old enough, and it may take another two years at least for them to assess him. But you - you can be easily influenced by Fugaku-sama's ways, or taken away from mine."

"But...why?"

"Until Fugaku-sama's child is born, the elders cannot wait. There is talk of an uprising, you know, something that he cannot control. They need to make sure the clan is in a position of stability - a fallback, you could say."

"Not now?" Hisa half questions, sincerely hoping for an affirmation.

"Not now." Haru agrees. "But we will get to that when we must."

"So I don't get a choice, then," she remarks sullenly. Her hand slowly scrabbles around in the rough dirt, fingers clutched around a pebble. It scratches a few dark lines on her fingers. "It can't be permanent, surely?"

"No. There is a chance, of course, that Fugaku-sama might live his life out without a heir. But it is an almost negligible possibility." The small stone soars from Hisa's hand, curving in a sudden arc and disappearing in a little splash, water rippling outwards from the centre. "You still have a lot to learn, you know."

"I do," Hisa agrees.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Haru bristles impatiently. "An Uchiha is not like every other child. As a prospective heir. you have standards to uphold and raise. I'll teach you how to use chakra for now, and then we can move on to other things." Chakra - the essence of life. A hum which she barely feels as her mind wanders to other ideas, like recipes and housework and tea ceremonies.

"You ask a lot of me," Hisa observes calmly. "It will be a little difficult to, since I can't remember - don't know how to activate the sharingan. It made me dizzy the first time I tried."

"They're the 'eyes that reflect the heart'," Haru scoffs, undeterred by her reluctance. "It's not going to be too hard for you. Activate it, so that we can get on with the lesson."

"I don't know how," she lies. Hisa experiments whenever he's out of the house, investigating the unusual spurt of chakra flowing into the vessels near her eyes. It's never a pleasant experience - the grief which washes over her, drowning her, is almost definitely too much to bear.

"Your untruths are very easily detected," Haru catches her out, his eyebrows rearranged into the not-unfamiliar furrow of annoyance. "It's wasting time, you know. I did see you in the garden that day." So he has noticed after all, she realises. Hisa remembers looking at the roses that day, the claret-wine flowers eliciting a sharp memory of Mariko coughing up blood. It was enough for her to unconsciously activate the sharingan, even if it did take up a lot of her energy.

"Oh, all right then." Hisa lip curls into a well-practiced pout. The sharingan does bring advanced perception and other greater abilities, but it often makes her nauseous at the new senses she's exposed to. For a minute, she spins slightly, arms held out to balance while world rotates on its axis. The sky whirls at her feet and the earth crashes down on her head in a barrage of rocks. When she finally regains her senses, the world seems so...crystal clear, so much that not even a single refraction goes unnoticed.

"Good," Haru nods approvingly, though not yet quite satisfied. "Watch carefully and focus on my hands. You'll have to recreate the jutsu after." Before she can mutter a word of protest, he runs through twelve hand seals, a blur of movements, so that she's not even sure what she's seen. Haru waits, expecting her to copy them immediately. "Well?"

"But I didn't - oh!" Remarkably, she seems to have caught every single one. They replay in her head as she closes her eyes, enthralled by this newfound power. Now...how to make a mistake?

A few slips ought to do the trick. To make matters even more believable (Haru does look rather suspicious), she does relent and get the final half completely right. Making mistakes when her hands instinctively form shapes is harder than it seems.

This proves to be the wrong thing to do, though. Hisa groans once more as she performs the sequence for the n-teenth time, both determined to make the training session a living hell for each other.

Perhaps it would be a more effective technique if she didn't have to do it everyday. As the lines under her eyes sink into grey, they train outside wherever and whenever. The hand-seals are repeated over and over again until she can twist her hands with an ease she'd never thought possible before.

As week by week passes, she grudgingly accepts that her speed is increasing, but it's still all the more tiring. They only go home at sunset, dusk swooping over them as clouds flee away from the darkening purple of dust.

Haru insists that she improves all round. Proficiency, he says, is strictly used for skills she wants to hone, but every skill must still be sharpened like a knife.. It is for that reason that she finds herself stuck in a tiring cycle of taijutsu, one where she gets beaten up and struggles to stand up again for the next round.

She learns about genjutsu the hard way. They are illusions, abstract worlds of mental manipulation. Although not many are capable of them, they're not the best when trying to physically hurt someone. When she first hears about them, Hisa scowls even more than thought possible.

Although she does not dare to voice her opinion, her thoughts are clearly written on her face. In a split-second, the world begins to shake. She's thrown off her feet, hurled into a swirling vortex as the earth flies from the ground, the red skies crashing down into an explosion. The destruction is still there when she spins, reaching out for something tangible.

Hisa smashes into a tree almost instantly, hot blood trickling from the wound. The bark is rough and cold underneath her palms, horror etched clearly on her face. Is this real? She's not quite sure yet.

"W-what is this place?"

Haru's dark eyes simply flicker upwards as she tries to regain her balance. The terror isn't over. Shakily standing on her feet, she's overwhelmed by the white-hot pain which rushes through her veins - her palm, she sees. He stabs a knife down through the middle, blood dripping down in a waterfall of her agony.

She can no longer

register him by her side

but maybe that is just as well

since-

Suddenly, everything slots right back into place, her body turning around to counter the pull to the ground. It doesn't work. She's lying on the ground in a daze, wondering why she feels - nothing. Only pure shock at what she's gone through. Hisa presses a hand to her forehead, but there in no flash of pain, no blood on her fingers. Her palm is free of the wound which once tormented it minutes ago in an imaginary world, her flesh simultaneously tightening itself over her palms.

Her legs are firmly rooted to the ground. Hisa's eyes spin, the change so subtle that she wouldn't have noticed the extra tomoe except for one thing.

Haru smiles.

She soon finds out the reason for his unusually good mood. Clan politics, as it seems, are always an intricate thing. A fully-fledged member of the Uchiha clan must either be a chūnin or receive the two tomoe of the sharingan in each eye, the latter of which is so recent that she can hardly believe it.

Fully-fledged means that she is a better bargaining chip. It's not really a difference, due to her age, but at least Fugaku-sama will take much more notice of her.

Clan meetings, of course, are solely reserved for the chūnin, which is why she's more pressured to train harder each day. It won't make any difference, she's resolved. She won't become a chūnin at six, like some of the other prodigies. Genin, maybe. But she definitely won't be thrust into the middle of a brewing war.

Levels or promotions don't matter - it's more skills. Being a genin for longer means that she'll get passed over, overlooked, underestimated. Perhaps she can avoid the coup completely, watching from the sidelines as it all comes crashing down.

The alternative, well...she doesn't like to think about it.

Perhaps something else can come out of all this.

Flow

Now that Hisa's become a fully-fledged member of the Uchiha clan, there are more pressing matters to deal with. At least; the tension has dropped somewhat as their days become a routine, and then there's none left at all.

At breakfast, the air feels thick with languidity and drowsiness. Hisa trudges into the dining-room, yawning whilst she slides in next to Shisui.

There's a cup of tea lying on the table. Warily, she eyes it.

How...odd. No-one has ever made tea for her since her mother's first and only demonstration.

The mug is cold. She exhales before taking a large gulp, then spoons a healthy heaping of food onto her plate. Ever since she's started training, she's found that she has an especially voracious appetite.

The clock ticks steadily on.

Haru is the first one to break the silence. He takes a sip from his own mug as he does so, then taps his left fingers on the table impatiently whilst he waits for her to finish hers. "I've decided that you're ready for something new this time, especially since your...notoriety has increased. Have you heard about resistance to poison?"

"Oh?" Hisa asks, gently prodding him to continue. It does sound interesting.

"Your training has already started - since the moment you came in. I'm disappointed you didn't notice it already."

Perhaps that is when everything shifts. Hisa's heart jolts downwards immediately as she chokes mid-sip, the scalding remains of her tea dripping down the kimono.

Haru waves a hand, seemingly oblivious to her fit. "You will take a dose every day, then. Poisoning is an uncommon but efficient method to get rid of any enemies - especially for long term missions - and it's always a risk."

A small hiss of pain emerges from her lips, her palms clammy and thick with heat. It doesn't take very long to compose herself back together, although it certainly seems an age, her mind spinning in different directions whilst she tries to make sense of what he's said.

Hisa doesn't speak. She holds the mug up wordlessly and gestures to it, heart sinking as Haru nods.

"It's called arsenic," he explains with look of grim...is that really sympathy, or just plain sadism? "I'll let you off from training this week, but not any longer. There are rather unpleasant side effects when ingesting small amounts, but any more and you'd slowly die."

Some of Hisa's childish traits are not easily lost, and she immediately closes in on the fact that there's no training this week and that she'll be free to finally do whatever she wishes.

This is a mistake.

With a sudden groan of pain, the young girl pushes against the table, only to flop down back onto the floor.

"Well, you'd better make the best of that week," Haru comments in that annoyingly matter-of-fact way. His face is wry, but not so much that his mouth tilts into a smile.

"Don't remind me," Hisa replies, grimacing as she rises from her seating place. It'll be her responsibility, she knows, to make sure she imbibes a sachet everyday. Perhaps she can put a little in her tea - she hardly noticed the taste before he'd pointed it out to her.

And where on earth did he get it from?

Haru easily spots her mind whirring, somewhat alert through the hazy mix of adrenaline and dizziness. "Shinobi have easy access to poisons," he suggests, before further gesturing, "Perhaps that's an area you'd want to specialise in?"

Maybe it's just the discomfort, but Hisa stares at him for a second, then turns on her heel and runs to her room.

She's not sure when it started.

Now, scrutinising her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, Hisa wonders how she could have ever missed it. She lets her sharingan build up for a second into two tomoe before it flickers off, on and off. A flash of grey. She flinches.

At first, they were just specks. Pinpricks in the middle of an ocean. Every time it was just a fraction, her pupils dilating each time she utilised the dojutsu, her irises more greyer than black.

At last, Haru notices. It's hard not to, not when Shisui blinks owlishly at Hisa when she carries him downstairs (not that he needs it) and narrows his eyebrows as if to say - you're not aneki?

It's like hearing a pin drop, though moreso a mug. It shatters into pieces of white ceramic as it hits the ground, and Shisui comes running to the sound.

"We're leaving," Haru growls. He grabs her hand and pulls her roughly to her feet, then throws a pair of keys at Shisui. Her brother's fingers deftly pluck them from the air, just before he catches Hisa's gesture to sweep up the pieces.

Sometimes, she really admires their family's dynamics.

Before Hisa can even make a sound of protest, or wonder what's going on, the icy-cool air of the spring breeze hits her face as the door slams shut.

She swears that she can see the house rattle.

No, it's not going to be a leisurely walk. In a flash, Haru darts across the fields, with that powerful ninja-speed of his, and she's left with no choice to follow. Of course, comparable to him, she's just slow. She can only barely make out an outline of his figure and then it fades away into the distance, so she's left to blindly follow his direction.

"Guess this can be counted as training," Hisa grumbles to herself.

Around ten minutes later, they both finally stop at a small cottage surrounded by reeds. Hisa skids to a halt just after she realises that it's not actually solid ground - it's a swamp. Although it's a close save, the momentum is too much and she falls face-flat on the floor.

Slowly, Hisa picks herself up and turns bright red as she meets Haru's eyes.

There's something in there - is he worried, almost...scared? Hisa dismisses it with a glance, because he certainly wouldn't show that much emotion, at least not towards her.

"Where're we?" she mumbles, a little hazy and tired from the journey already. The house in front of them seems so small and...old, even more than their own.

Wordlessly, Haru nudges the door, and it is eerily silent as it swings open. The inside is dimly lit and more chilly than it seems. Hisa shivers.

There's a hacking cough coming from somewhere, echoing through the thin paper screen.

"C-come...in." It's faint; a woman's voice, fragile and brittle with the exhaustion of many years. Haru, with his great tracking skills, easily pushes the right screen open.

The lady is as withered as the way she speaks. Her eyes are vague, shadowed in the flickering light, and her greyed hair is frayed at the ends. A thick woollen shawl is wrapped around her frame.

Haru kneels down beside her feet, and Hisa takes that to mean she must do the same. Her knees scrape against the thin wooden floor as she bends her legs into seiza beside the lady's chair.

"Who is it?" It's curious...can she not see them in front of her very eyes? Or maybe that's exactly the problem.

"It is I, Uchiha Haru. I am with my daughter, Kaori-sama, to seek your help of the ways of the Uchiha."

"Ah...that Hisana girl, was it? I remember...oh, just like yesterday..." Kaori's eyes flit around, but they do not latch onto anything yet. "...tell me, Haru-kun, does she look like Mariko?"

"Quite," Haru agrees. Hisa fails to conceal her surprise at how smoothly he says it, especially since he's never once said the same to her. Well, she'll take what she can get.

The hoarse voice continues reminiscing again. "She'll have that crop of dark hair, of course, definitely that Uchiha stubbornness, I suppose. What of her brother?"

"Shisui is doing well, Kaori-sama. Fugaku-sama is pleased, though I daresay it'll not be long until they have an heir. The Uchiha clan shall have two fine shinobi to serve them, then!"

"To serve!" Kaori rocks in her chair with the proclamation and they are both so startled at the loud outburst that they nearly come out of their kneeling positions.

Idly, Hisa fidgets with the loose floorboard digging into her leg.

"Pray that he comes into the Uchiha Police Force soon, Haru-kun, before others take him for what they will; their greed, pride and envy for what the Uchiha have and they do not. Before..." her voice drops again as she gives another set of violent coughs. "before...before Root."

"What did you say, Kaori-sama?" Haru asks. Neither Hisa nor he has caught the end of her sentence.

"But that's neither here nor there," Kaori gives a weak shrug. "You must want something from me, Haru-kun, do you not?"

"Hisana...her eyes," Haru begins, strangely out of breath for someone who has been kneeling for quite a while. "They're turning differently, Kaori-sama. Her eyes were once black; now they are almost grey."

"And the sharingan - I expect she has that - does it fade away as she uses them?" Kaori slowly finishes.

Haru gives a sound of affirmation.

"Oh yes, oh yes...she's quite young. You were too, though not as much - eight, if I recall. No, there's not much I can do to help her."

Haru's shoulders slump down. "Nothing?"

"I expect it's all up to you, Haru-kun. Three is young. Overwork of the sharingan can soon fade it away; not dormant, but fully useless. Make of that what you will."

Only simple overuse, then. Haru exhales with relief.

"Thank you for your time, Kaori-sama," he murmurs.

Hisa repeats the same greeting, her breath shallow as Kaori's eyes skim over her. The lady's thin fingers brush over her hair and dig into her cheek, until they fall back to her sides and Kaori closes her eyes shut.

Later on, Hisa wonders who exactly she is. Haru refuses to tell her the specifics, except that she was once an elder of the Uchiha and has been forgotten by almost everyone - far longer than he was born, in fact. The idea that he's the only one who occasionally pays a visit to Kaori should come as a shock to Hisa, but she wonders if it's not because there's anything in it for him.

At least; it's much worse for her. Rather than decreasing the amount of training, they're working more and more on sparring without the sharingan, because on his words she shouldn't be so "dependent" on it.

There's also something else: her admission to the academy has been accepted.

It's not that Hisa hasn't known for weeks, but now the plans are completely finalised. However, when she asks him about what kind of 'plans' he means, Haru completely clams up until she's forced to ask him about it on another day.

"You won't be going now, of course," Haru assures her, and she almost sighs with relief. "When you're four, and the start of the new year."

Hisa's face almost goes red with anger, her fists clenching so hard they could be white. "Four? But that's only months away!"

She has a right to be upset over shinobi might enter the academy early, but not that young.

"Some things must change in your preparations. You must be outstanding, much more than any of your class, clan or civilian alike. We'll start from the basics of what you have to know, in order to be ready when the year starts."

She notices how he dismisses her claims that she's not ready and she can't, but what more is there to protest? She does have some tact, you know.

A two tomoe sharingan is so much better than one. It really is easier to recall scripts and texts, page by page swallowed into slanted katakana and hiragana and drowned into whole novels - until she can fully memorise a whole book just by looking once. It's not complete mastery at once, not a prodigious miracle, but Hisa can see the embers of pride flicker in Haru's eyes, a nod at her satisfactory performance.

Although it might seem ironic, there's also the social arts. Etiquette, things you must and must not do. For example: never sneaking up on a Hyūga unannounced whilst their byakugan is activated, especially whilst at a gathering.

"I remember when an idealistic fool tried to assassinate Hiashi-kun in that way." says Haru, "I was there, at his rather...elaborate wedding, as they call it. Lady Hyūga seems to be quite frail nowadays."

"Mikoto-nee said they were in the same class."

"Ah, yes. They must have been. The Hyūga clan consist of many who are capable, though I wonder if it's all due to their byakugan. It can see for 360 degrees around and for miles ahead."

"We can also have our flaws at times." Hisa counters.

"The sharingan only has a few lacking areas, Hisana, though these defects can be made up by having a sensor type on your team."

"Will I be a sensor type?" Hisa's thoughts wander into words as she pauses from her scribbling. "After I turn graduate - what will happen then? It's not like I'm going to join the Police Force or anything, right?"

This is the only thing they're in somewhat agreement on. Even Haru knows the harassment she'll face if she enters as a female, a child at that. Gender bias still reaches all four corners of Konoha due to the high kunoichi dropout rates and deaths, even if Tsunade Senju and other female jōnin are working to reverse that.

But now...he doesn't look too sure. "Kaori-sama advised me differently, Hisana. Perhaps that is not for the best."

Later, Haru finds her folding origami cranes in Shisui's bedroom, hands creasing the edges as if she's done this a thousand times before. He slides the door shut so quietly she mistakes the creak for the wind blowing through the window and doesn't care to turn around.

When Shisui wakes up, it's a little to midnight. The clock loudly ticks on, not quite shattering the fragile peace stagnant throughout the house.

"Aneki?"

Strangely enough, there seem to be a plethora of paper birds sprawled all over the floor in bright colours, a fiery plumage.

She doesn't hear him.

Shisui closes his eyes and pretends to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, he can hear the click of the door as the shoji screens slide shut.

Soon after her fourth birthday, she's off to the Academy. Haru doesn't drop her there, nor does he push a homemade packed lunch into her hands like the dozens of mothers and fathers crowded around the gates on the first day.

Hisa finds herself wondering what it would be like if he did.

And then, just as quickly as the day arrived, she's inside. It's a brightly-coloured classroom where thirty or so children stare up each other in a mixture of boredom, excitement, nervousness and fear.

Their sensei (she is never told his name and finds it too awkward to ask) is a cheerfully optimistic man, perhaps so sanguine that he is oblivious to the goings-on in his class. At the corner of her eye, an Aburame's bugs crawl up the folds of his shirt, a Nara lazily reclining back as an Akimichi crunches on his chips.

She knows the vibe isn't going to change, even if she stays a couple years.

"Hisana-san," sensei smiles up at her - though is if he wary or reassured, she doesn't know. "I have great expectations for you in the future, as one of the Uchiha."

Great, Hisa thinks dully. A chatter rises throughout the class at her clan name, everyone having evidently heard the teacher's words. It soon subsides, seeing that they all turn to gossip to their friends about whatever there is to gossip in pre-adolescence, and promptly forget about her in the process.

Kids these days have such low attention spans.

In the corner, some civilian girls pass notes while the boy behind them fires paper aeroplanes, narrowly missing a Yamanaka. Her white-blonde hair seems to shimmer as she concentrates on weaving daisies into a flower crown. Inoha, Haru had mentioned.

She has a brother, but he's not the clan heir either. They're cousins of Inoichi Yamanaka, a young, newly-promoted jōnin who seems to be a fan-favourite for his charming personality.

There are a few clan heirs - Morino, Yuhi, Sarutobi - but the rest are cousins or siblings who are just caught up in the ride. The civilians look especially clueless, but sensei assures them that they'll soon be kept up to speed.

It doesn't look to be true. There are a few tests on the first day, though they're obviously masked as games, and some gullible children can't seem to spot that. The Nara certainly has, though, because he rolls his eyes, places his head down on the table and mutters a "troublesome."

She's placed next to the Hyūga, strangely enough. Hisa wonders how long they can last without speaking to each other.

That thought doesn't last long.

"Hyūga Ririka," the girl mutters, so softly that a shudder runs down Hisa's flesh, chilling her to the bone.

As far as she knows, the Hyūga have a long-standing rivalry with the Uchiha which is only second best to the Senju. She's never been told the extent to which it stretched, though she assumes it's an explanation for the long string of unsolved killings written right up there in history.

"Uchiha Hisa. Though I expect you would already know that."

"Hey, if it wasn't for the shirt, people would mistake me for one everyday!" the Yūhi heir chimes in, her blood-red eyes glinting with curiosity.

Both of them turn to face her on the next bench.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." she apologises sheepishly. "I'm Kurenai. Anyway, it's kind of getting a little boring with Asuma here."

Kurenai flicks her finger to point at Asuma, ignoring the Sarutobi's squawk of protest.

"...anyway," Ririka continues, her eyes whittling down to look at both of them, "...want to sit with me at lunch? I don't know anyone here."

"Definitely~"

"Sure."

The majority of first year classes consist of chakra training, something which clan heirs are naturally far ahead due to their developed chakra coils. However, sensei doesn't seem to want to start on that immediately.

"In a straight line, please," he calls over the tumultous chatter readily flowing from the students. "Line up here!"

"Oh," Ririka murmurs. "Chakra Induction Paper. I've already got mine tested, so there's no need."

"I guess yours will just be fire, hmm?" Kurenai suggests, smiling up at Hisa. "I wonder what mine is."

Wind, fire, earth, water, lightning. Nature affinities are each native to their tribes. The more one has a bond to an affinity, the more they can use and hone their skills surrounding that area, though some can try and force their way into those that they do not possess.

Haru said as much, but it's not as if it won't be useful to hear sensei repeat it again. Half the surrounding children still look somewhat confused, even if they come from minor clans.

Although their frazzled sensei manages to get them into a line (albeit a rather wonky one), he's in no way managed to control the hyperactive children. An Inuzuka hurtles past Hisa and pushes her onto the floor in a violent motion, and she trips over her heel onto the ground.

There's scratches, a bit of blood on her palm, nothing too bad.

Hisa is in no way sheltered, so she'll be damned if she lets him go past without a splinter of revenge. She lunges, fingers trembling with chakra, red and white uchiwa fan colliding with the poor boy's head with a smack. An enraged shout escapes his mouth.

This, she thinks, would definitely draw blood.

"Shit," Kurenai swears in half awe, half fear. Hisa has to stop herself from reeling in surprise at the language. "If that was a clan heir..."

"He's not," Asuma dryly informs them. Hisa had forgotten he was there.

The Inuzuka quickly picks himself up off the floor and glares, though Hisa has a ready excuse for the few watching.

"Oops," she waves her hand. "I was just fanning myself - it's too hot out here."

"Too violent," the Nara yawns.

When it's Hisa's turn to test the paper, she fully expects the blank slip in front of her to burst into flames, just like it would have for the rest of her clan.

Steadily, she drips her chakra into her fingers and waits. There's a slight pause, before a wave of water crashes down, into her fingers, into nothingness. The rivulets are stifled out as the remains crumble into ash, and, startled, she leaps back.

It doesn't burn. Nor does the cold rush of water flow over her fingers. Hisa looks down at her dry hands, surprised, but sensei only smiles at her.

"Wonderful! A powerful water affinity!"

"What about...fire?" Hisa asks. Doesn't it naturally run through her Uchiha veins, much more than water?

"Nature transformations always have an imbalance," he muses. "You are also inclined to fire, but water will always be your strongest. Perhaps one of your parents has it as a dominant ability, and fire is their recessive."

"Oh," is all Hisa says. The fire bleeds out into her palms, and she can only feel a dull ache, as if they are scraped raw.

There's only one question burning at the forefront of her mind: is it from Mariko?