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The world is born where the sun ends and the moon begins—somewhere in the middle of the horizon, blurred at the edges, between sky and earth, between dark clouds and a blood-red sea.
The world is flowers — multicolored, poisonous, healing, and those that live for a single day; it is like a bonfire on a dark night, it is like ash under the tongue, it is like her rare smile when he manages to make her laugh.
The world is red, red, red — the only color he has ever distinguished; the color of his eyes; the color of her eyes — with a hint of black that remains on strangers’ fingers when he tears strangers’ hands away from the scrolls, when words fail to reach their destination, when years pass, and his not-quite-friend lives in an endless sunset.
The chakra his real friend is teaching him is white; it is bright, and his friend squints, already regretting that she taught him any of this; in response, he laughs, saying that at least she can find it anywhere, anytime, especially at night.
He teaches this chakra to his relatives; he teaches it to his ototo and his nephews; he teaches it to their domesticated wolves, and lays the groundwork for a future he could only have dreamed of. He wants to believe it will be a good one. Even when his not-quite-son pierces his stomach with a sword, and strangers’ eyes are filled with grief, he looks so much like his father; he has her eyes, and Hatake Miyako thinks they are beautiful.
Uchiha Takara was raised by a man not of his clan, and to become its leader, he had to kill him — Hatake Miyako found this incredibly funny.
He dies neither young nor old, and in the eyes of strangers a pattern emerges, unlike the one the boy’s mother had; perhaps he never knew how to raise children, who knows, hah.
(“Would you want to live your life all over again?” Indra asks him, her eyes weary as she looks down at her second son in his arms; he had some kind of hidden gift for rocking babies in his arms; or maybe it was just experience — who knows; almost all the children he’d rocked are dead.
“To fix my mistakes?” he smiles, thinking of red-red-red; like his parents’ blood on his hands, like the color of her eyes, like the flowers around the pond her brother grew. “No, thanks, I wouldn’t want to go through all that again. Most likely, I’d only make things worse. And who knows, maybe I wouldn’t have met you? No way, I don’t want to miss out on that".
She lets out a little laugh; he counts it as a victory; perhaps he missed a blessing, or perhaps it was all predestined — he was never a favorite of fate.))
Miyako is reborn at night, living up to the first name he ever had; the world welcomes him with a familiar blend of black, white, and a touch of red.
He remembers everything through his new mother’s milk; she has a wild smile, features he doesn’t recognize, a bright chakra, and a loud voice — he likes her, and he reaches for the maternal love he has never known. Hatake Mayo wasn’t the most caring or sensitive mother, but she was better than the one he killed, and he could hardly complain about anything that was happening. His clan had fallen into poverty; all that remained were a few old men and a couple of men five and eight years older than his mother — none of them his father, as far as he could tell, and, to be honest, he didn’t care. Just because he’d been lucky with his mother didn’t mean he’d be lucky with his father; he’d rather not test his luck twice.
He has the same surname, passed down through the centuries, through thousands of years, and a new name: Hatake Sakumo sounds strange and unfamiliar, and it takes him some time to get used to it.
Then he grows up, then he takes a sword in his hands instead of a shovel or a rake, and his path is once again carved in stone.
I want to grow flowers, — Miyako Sakumo can still hear the voice of her starving younger brother as she looks out over her clan’s vast lands, unplowed, abandoned, and scarcely used for their intended purpose; his hands twitch to plant a few vegetables, but his grandmother pulls him away, saying there’s no time for that. Grandfather smiles nearby, explaining that their clan once practiced agriculture, but for four centuries now they have lived as nomads, and hardly anyone remembers how it’s done. I remember, Miyako didn’t say; I know, Sakumo didn’t give himself away. The new life isn’t like the old one, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing.
He sees that his dear friend’s clan is still alive; he sees familiar facial features in some of them — and he avoids them, seeing Takara in some of them. For some reason, seeing that child’s features is far more painful than seeing his old friend. Perhaps that is how old age manifests itself; who knows.
His mother dies on a mission when he turns four; her face is covered in red cuts, and it seems to him that this isn’t her true color. The elders, having forgotten all their traditions, want to bury her; Hatake Sakumo smiles, gently and politely; he reminds them of the traditions they have all abandoned, and they look at him in horror. He suggests they leave if they cannot bear to watch; he will do everything himself — he has done this before; he has already buried his parents with more dignity than they deserved.
Hatake has sharp teeth, white chakra, and several abilities granted to him by the Moon (it will come at a high price, Indra tells him, warning him and showing his concern through his actions; Miyako merely smiles), and the best way to lay the dead to rest is to devour every part of them.
Fortunately, Hatake’s stomach can still digest raw meat.
With peace comes strength, lightning, and wind, which come to him more easily than before; he folds his hands in a prayerful gesture, clapping his palms three times; there is much red around him.
“Thank you for everything, kaa-san. Your powers will not die with you”, he says, reciting the old prayers, thinking of his younger brothers and sisters, each of whom he has carried with him; not daring to die, for otherwise they will die with him for good.
(He thinks about what Takara did to his body.
He thinks about what Asura did to his sister’s body.
He thinks about what his son will do to his body, twenty years from now.)
(The world, of course, will be full of red.)