Chapter Text
Sasuke wears black on the day he's told he is going to die. His mother wears white. There had been a crow cawing outside his window earlier that morning, glass-eyed and picking at the bones of a mouse one of the cats hadn't bothered to bring in.
A crow is bad luck as everyone knows, and Sasuke is grim and dark, a young man already mourning his own death.
Black is supposed to be an important color for these sorts of things. Mourners wear black-or white, depends on what part of the world you come from-for death. But the color white can flip from death to happy weddings. Sasuke’s mother is grim, pale-faced, no matter how well the white kimono compliments her or how bright she looks in the room. She's wearing the one with the koi that Sasuke remembers tracing along her sleeve as a little boy. He should be fearing omens and bad luck and curses and wondering how many beats his heart has left, but instead, he only thinks of his mother. He wonders if, when she finally looks him in the eye, she’ll only think of funerals.
Maybe she will never see the day Sasuke marries.
Mikoto pours tea with steady hands.
She does not cry.
Summer calls from beyond the shoji doors and their paper-thin veils. Cicadas. Sasuke can see the shadows of their plump bodies resting against the washi paper, the fairy-beat of their wings.
He is not afraid, he thinks. From down the hall, he can hear his brother sob. It’s a thin, moaning sound, like a ghost already roams the halls. The room where he sits is wide and open like a mouth, and the hall to his brother trails like the dark throat of a lotus. Waiting.
Sasuke looks away from it.
“Months. Maybe less,” grunts the medicine woman, Tsunade. She hasn’t done anything but look at him. She smells like a farmer. Like hay and alcohol and pig shit. She pours sake into her cup of tea and downs it, like the heat in her throat has no bite. She’s chosen to sit on the floor while Mikoto kneels, Sasuke at her side, leaving the place Mikoto has set for her bare.
Tsunade will not meet Sasuke's gaze now, and she takes the sake bottle for herself after she belches. Loudly. An anger surges within Sasuke’s chest. White-hot and unbridled.
“Well?” he snaps. “Is that it?”
“Sasuke,” Mikoto warns.
Mikoto has often told him he is too quick to anger. A soft heart, she’d said, and his brother, Itachi, had laughed, flicked his forehead until Sasuke stamped his foot and cried. That summer he’d turned six.
He is twenty now.
He is not afraid. The cicadas drown out the loud gulp of Tsunade’s throat as she takes more sake, throat so white and smooth for a woman who’s supposed to be so old. Witchcraft, Fugaku had said. He hadn’t laughed. Fugaku never laughed. Father never smiled.
A crow caws from outside the window. Sasuke fidgets. Death is imminent. It is, as his father always said when he forgot he never smiled, what happens when you piss off a god.
Tsunade slaps her glass down hard on the table's sleek surface. Sasuke's lip curls while Mikoto's purse. Her grandfather had built that table. The medicine woman is as violent as she looks. But not as violent as Mikoto with a tantō.
The Uchiha clan has always been a breed of warriors.
Tsunade’s amber eyes narrow. “Give me your hand, boy,” she says finally, and she grimaces in the afternoon heat, fanning her breasts.
Sasuke does. The medicine woman is quick, her fingers snaring his wrist like a cobra’s mouth as she twists his hand palm up to study the small black crescent moon etched into Sasuke’s skin. The first mark of the curse. There’s an unnatural steel in Tsunade’s grip that makes Sasuke twitch and his lip curl.
Tsunade grunts again and drops his hand like a hot coal. “Less time than I thought.” She drinks more sake. Mikoto calls for another bottle, and a quiet servant peels away from a corner.
“It appeared just last night,” says Mikoto quietly.
Tsunade hums at this. “Even worse.” She swallows more sake, but if there is any remorse or sympathy in her voice, Sasuke can’t hear it. He fidgets.
Down the hall, Itachi cries out again. Tsunade’s head swivels toward the sound. The cicadas keep up their summer songs, and outside, Tsunade’s apprentice can be heard chasing a pig around the yard. “No, TonTon! NO!” Her silhouette races past the shoji doors.
She’s quickly followed by the gardener, Yoshi, who starts to yell, “My radishes! That pig ate my radishes! The garden is ruined! MASTER UCHIHAAAAAAAA!”
Tsunade smacks her lips and glares at the door before standing. She looks to Mikoto sharply.
“How far gone is he?” Tsunade doesn’t mean Sasuke.
Mikoto's lashes flutter as she lowers her eyes. She pours herself tea. Her tone is mild. “My husband had him tied to the bed. We are... respecting Itachi’s wishes to see the curse through.”
The hall is quiet now.
Sasuke bows his head to keep his mother from noticing the angry scowl that pulls at his face.
Tsunade grimaces. “Well I’ll be damned.” And she swipes the second bottle of sake out of the hands of the servant who shuffles into the room. Tsunade doesn’t offer to take a look. Mikoto doesn’t offer more sake.
“Weeks, boy.” Tsunade points at Sasuke. “You have just a few weeks to find the sun.”
She slips away before the gardener can heckle her to pay for the ruined daikon radishes.
Everyone claims to know the sun.
There’s a line. A vast, undulating sea of people who crowd the sweeping yard, the road outside the Uchiha’s gate, Yoshi’s precious vegetable garden. They arrive on foot, by horse and carriage; by gleaming wings of slow, floating aircrafts that drop from the sky like swans-brighter than festival lanterns and just as light; by balloon, drifting to the ground waving clan flags as they travel from all corners of the country.
The Land of Fire never waits. No one ever forgets the Uchiha name. It’s a magic name, a cursed name. A name steeped in old money, old land, and even older history.
People whisper the Emperor will send a crowned prince, his youngest son. It’s only a rumor, but villagers still gather, stop their day to bring the market to the dirt road like some sort of holiday (“dried seahorse pendants for good luck! Blessed with a spell for love! Give your child a fighting chance for the young lord’s heart!” It’s really an aphrodisiac that would probably only work if someone licked the good luck charm, but the fisherwoman isn’t about to admit that). Children eat dango from the vendors who’ve brought their kiosks, searching the skies for Royal aircraft. The Daimyō himself isn't one to miss the occasion, and everyone squeals when a girl spots the airship. The Daimyō sends his youngest daughter and his youngest son to the front gates of the Uchiha clan head. Yoshi blubbers at their feet when they are gracefully dismissed. Together, they are the embodiment of beauty in trailing silk as they step lightly out into the yard.
“Apologies, highnesses!”
The Daimyō's son raises a brow and offers an arm to his sister. In Fire Country, he's a prince. He has a smooth, young face browned from a childhood out at sea, and when it bunches into a no-harm-done grin, his cheeks dimple, but his eyes are sharp as flint. He stage-whispers to his sister, loud and harsh enough to turn a few heads, “The young lord is a brat. I can’t say I’m disappointed.” His sister stifles a squeaking laugh and raises a demure hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Yoshi turns red at the insult and nods in acknowledgement, silent as he rises to his feet, head bowed.
“Highnesses.”
The prince chuckles and leads his sister to the stiff-backed guards waiting to escort them safely back to their aircraft.
Sasuke watches them leave from his seat in the hall, subdued.
Fugaku is furious, silently seething in his seat. He motions for the next in line with a tight smile and hisses, “This is all for you. The Daimyō sent his own children for you. Itachi would have been grateful-” he stops suddenly, disgruntled, and shakes his head.
It’s the right-or wrong-thing to say, and it cuts deep. Sasuke straightens in his seat, straightens the frown twisting his mouth. His chest feels tight, and so does his throat. It aches. He can feel the pressure of fresh anger pulsing at his temple.
“I am grateful,” Sasuke says quietly. Fugaku glances at him, silent and cold.
The procession never stops.
“Lord Uchiha!” the people cry. Sasuke sees costumes, nobility clad in jewelry. One sports a ring.
“Made from drops of sunlight, of course, my Lord! Obtained and bottled from the very peaks of Mount Taiyō, the Sun Mountain in the west! Would you care to touch it? Bright like fire, and just as hot!”.
One Lord presents a masked daughter draped in a gold kimono. “Touched by the sun god himself, my Lord!”
Sasuke waves through each presentation until Fugaku angrily silences him with a sharp, “Be grateful!”. The day begins to wan, the afternoon heat comfortable enough to lull the most attentive scam artist to sleep. The muscles under Sasuke’s eye, in his right arm, spasm painfully, and he grimaces as another civilian bows before darting away. Do they all take me for a fool? he wonders.
He waits for each act, face set in an impassive mask. One woman looks at the young lord only once before she tears away down the hall while her parents chase after her (“No, I won’t!” To her credit she single-handedly fights off three guards without much trouble). She doesn’t return.
The hall is wide and open, and the servants have placed lotuses in crystal bowls of water. By the time the sun slides to the west, low in the sky, there are few visitors left. The glory of the room is tarnished. Heads of flowers wither on the floor, trampled. A short, stocky man hurries into the hall after peeking inside and throwing himself on the floor.
Sasuke rolls his eyes.
“Lord Uchiha! I, Kizashi Haruno, humbly come before you, a mere servant of this land, to present to you my daughter.”
The banker presses his forehead to the floor. He is of a lesser clan, but not so low Fugaku would refuse to entertain him. The banker, after all, has some money to his name if nothing else.
Sasuke glares from his seat. He’s sweating under his navy suit-Fugaku had settled on something modern for his son, choosing a smartly-styled double breasted suit. Fugaku himself sits swathed in a traditional kimono. Together, they're militant and sharp in style so that he and Sasuke sit on their clan thrones like overlords, the Uchiha symbol stitched into their backs, the fan bright like a drop of blood. Sasuke grits his teeth and sighs, flicking a curious grass seed off the knee of his white pants.
“I won’t tell you again,” Fugaku whispers harshly, “be respectful. This is your life we are saving.” Sasuke schools his expression into something carefully neutral. Fugaku asks the banker to stand. He stumbles and his hat slips off his head. Someone hides a laugh behind a cough. The banker grins and laughs at himself, embarrassed but good-natured, and pretends to brush dust off his black yukata.
“Show me,” Fugaku says, edging forward in his seat. The banker is a mousy man, with a windburned face and a little nose, and a crowded mouth. His pink hair is dull and styled like the trampled lotus he’s stepping on. The banker smiles widely. He claps, and servants carry in a litter, setting it down gently on the floor.
“My Lords,” cries the banker, “my beautiful daughter, Sakura, who has been blessed by the Sun God Himself.” At once the servants open the heavy curtains of the litter, and Sasuke throws up a hand to hide his eyes from the blinding light that spills into the room.
Fugaku laughs, like a boy at a circus.
Sasuke peeks through the spaces in his fingers, and looks over his shoulder to notice the banker’s hired servants, hidden in the dark corners of the room, the gleam of the mirrors in their hands bright.
The light scatters, dies away, and Sasuke is granted the chance to look upon this “sun-blessed” girl. Her nose is little, like her father’s, and her red lips are thin, painted to look plump, her face round and happy. Her face has been painted, too, long pink hair held back from her eyes, and she sits like a doll, still and quiet. Her jade eyes rise to meet Sasuke’s just once, before she loses her nerve and drops her gaze, mouth split in an excited grin. She giggles.
Sasuke stands. On his left hand, his thumb reaches to graze over the crescent moon on his palm. It’s strangely cold, like the small strip of skin has lost all circulation.The banker holds his breath. The girl looks up. Fugaku studies his son’s face. The people in line crane their necks, peering over each other anxiously, mouths open. No one speaks.
Sasuke scoffs. “That is not the sun.” He snubs the banker and his daughter, walking away to a shudder of gasps and whispers that pepper the hall of family members and spectators and those still waiting.
“What was that?” someone asks in the uproar, “has the young lord called the banker a liar?” There’s a collective cry of outrage. Sasuke notices the less brave, the less fortunate scam artists, peeling away from the crowd to flee. It’s hard not to smile.
Kizashi is horrified, paling a couple shades lighter. His daughter hides behind a fan in distress, hissing at the servants to hurry and close the litter. Fugaku rises, apologizing in Sasuke’s wake.
“I apologize on my son’s behalf, Haruno, but I believe we are done here.” He motions for the banker to leave.
Kizashi gapes. “B-b-but, my Lord! Please!”
Sasuke does not wait to hear the rest. He slips away, down the connecting servant’s hall (they scatter like mice, hugging the walls, and watching the young lord pass, murmuring to each other). He steps out into the yard, past the koi pond, and into the training yard. There’s a pug-faced dog asleep in the grass, curled into the belly of a shaggy half-wolf. The pug yawns at Sasuke, ears twitching, and opens a lazy eye to watch.
“He’s in a good mood today. Better watch out,” the pug warns. The half-wolf beside him huffs sleepily in agreement. Sasuke smiles, unsheathing his katana.
“My Lord!” cries a servant. It’s Hideki, Fugaku’s most faithful, and arguably most annoying. Sasuke pretends not to notice. Hideki’s running through the grass, flushed and upset and tripping over his own shoes. He’s a small, bespectacled man in a blue servant’s yukata and old enough to be Sasuke’s grandfather. Hideki nearly falls into the koi pond with a shriek before huffing and continuing on his way, crossing the bridge carefully and keeping to one side. He’s known for his streaks of bad luck.
“My Lord, please wait! There are other contenders and a princess still waiting! THE BYAKUGAN PRINCESS FOR GOD’S SAKE! The Hyuuga clan ambassadors are currently in the hall and they are not to be kept waiting-My Lord!” Hideki hurries into the training yard, pausing to clutch at his chest and catch his breath.
“Sasuke!”
Sasuke ignores him and assumes a fighting stance.
Kakashi is waiting, cross-legged In the dirt. His masked face is tilted toward the setting sun. He is the only spot of black in the field, his mess of wiry gray hair covering a lost, scarred eye on the left side of his face.
“Another bust, hmm?” Kakashi hums, not opening his eye, and Sasuke scowls, wondering if his sensei was napping. Kakashi can sleep in the most unusual places. Sasuke caught him asleep standing once. He’s also seen Kakashi nap on a rocky river bed. Once, when Sasuke was younger and more mischievous, he filled his teacher’s bed with beetles. Kakashi slept in it anyway.
“They take me for an idiot,” Sasuke grates. His fingers tighten around the katana’s handle. “This time, it was a trick with mirrors to make her seem bright.” He slashes the air with the katana and enjoys the hiss of its slice.
Kakashi clucks, eye still peacefully closed. “What was it yesterday? Paint?”
Sasuke laughs derisively. “They painted her gold.” Without warning he strikes, but his sensei lazily leans to his left to avoid certain decapitation, not once opening his eye, and in the same fluid motion, propels his body with a sweeping kick to Sasuke’s feet.
Sasuke avoids it, and by that time, Kakashi’s one hooded gray eye has finally opened, and he’s pulled two kunai from his belt, gripped tightly in each fist. Sasuke whirls, and the kunai stop the bite of the katana in a shower of sparks and a sharp hiss.
“My Lord, please,” squeaks Hideki, wringing his hands, “Your father has expressly stated that in your condition you must not to engage in-”
“Good,” murmurs Kakashi.
Sasuke smirks, just a little, and pushes against his teacher’s restraint. “Don’t patronize me.” He leaps away, and Kakashi moves like water with each jab, hack, and slice. When Sasuke looks again, Hideki is gone. He rolls his head on his shoulders, dragging the tip of his sword in the sand.
“You’re angry,” says Kakashi with a yawn, and he redirects another slash with a flick of his wrist and a kunai. Sasuke grunts.
Kakashi arches a brow as he slashes in a wide arc. “And in pain.”
Sasuke laughs, ducking, but it’s more of a pained hiss. He can feel the pain burrowing deep in his bones. There’s an electric shock lancing through his left arm. “I can still hand you your head.” The burn lances up his arm, up his spine into the back of his skull.
The killing curse.
Kakashi sighs. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”
Sasuke charges.
“Stop! STOP! STOOOOOPPPP!” Hideki is waving his arms, bounding through the yard, with Fugaku at his heels.
Sasuke swings the katana, and the pain recedes, just a little. Kakashi sidesteps, and says flatly, “Oh, look, your father.”
The sand kicks up in a little cloud as Sasuke’s katana scrapes gouges into the earth. He drops to his knees suddenly, bracing himself against the steel, biting back a curse. The pain is blinding, and for a moment, he can’t seem to release his grip on the katana’s handle. When he blinks, he sees red. A trickle of sweat drips from his brow.
“Let go of the sword, Sasuke. Let’s get you up.” Kakashi is standing over him, waiting, a hand outstretched politely. The sky is darkening, twilight on the rise. The frogs in the koi pond are singing. Fugaku shouts from across the yard, furious.
“HATAKE!”
Kakashi turns with a small sigh. “Lord Fugaku,” He greets respectfully, bowing, and Pakun, the pug-faced dog lazing the yard begins to bark. Somewhere in the distance, another dog howls.
Sasuke wills his fingers to open, but instead, his arm spasms. He shouts, dropping to the sand, his left hand gripping his right wrist as he writhes. A scalding burn is ripping over his arm in a blaze. He’s-he’s on fire-on fire-!
He opens his eyes to look down at himself and gasps in horror at the indigo bones creeping over his hand like a damning tattoo. Ghost bones. His eyes burn. It’s the first time he’s seen it on his own skin. Sasuke’s stomach jolts. He wonders what will happen when the scalding bones spread. Will he burn? Turn to ash when his heart stops? Will he feel it when he dies?
His sensei is hovering over him. Kakashi’s brow is furrowed. The dogs are screaming now, howling, yipping, snarling. Sasuke closes his eyes.
“Quickly!” Fugaku bawls, and Kakashi hefts Sasuke to his knees with one arm. A bucket of icy, magicked water is thrown over his head, and Sasuke screams in anguish as the bones sizzle off his skin, steaming. He shivers. In a daze, he watches as the sandalled feet of his Father march toward Kakashi.
“You had strict orders!” Fugaku snarls. The lines in his weathered face deepen with his rage.
Kakashi’s languid stance does not change. “Apologies, my Lord. I would have remembered if it hadn’t been for the flea in my ear. It was very distracting.” Hideki moans at the absurdity of the excuse with his head in his hands. Kakashi is known for his incredible white lies.
Kakashi looks down at Sasuke, patting his shoulder with a rough hand before hooking Sasuke’s arm in a strong grip and hauling him to his feet.
“Upsie daisy!”
Sasuke glares at him, swaying as the servants rush forward to drape him in a warm blanket. He closes his eyes, the voices around him twirling in his head.
“Gently! Get the young Lord to bed!”
“My sincerest apologies, Lord Uchiha,” Kakashi repeats humbly, and Sasuke looks away from him as the staff herd him away. The yard blurs away with the fading sun. The dogs howl.
The moon is rising.