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Chapter Text

Since his eldest son was a young boy, Tajima Uchiha knew that his son Madara would become someone great, someone who would be draped in the cloak of Amaterasu's flames and command the fierce winds of the storm god Raijin. The sun is rising far past in the horizons and its thousand of golden rays are cracking across the ocean blue skies and the clouds are shadowed. Fire on water, the soft light is a steam with dust filtering in it.

The roar of the flames follow the rhythmic beat of the 'Fiery Birth of Kagutsuchi' epic but to the story of 'The First Blessed Child'. The footsteps of people dance under the morning of January and its first week. To celebrate a new year, all of the children who will be born this year will be blessed as their mothers and fathers look upon the Cradle of the Grand Flames, where the embers of Kagutsuchi's birth are kept, and partake in the fan dancing and the festive cheer.

But for it is the new year and the sun is new and strong, sharing her warmth, it happens to be the perfect time to announce the new head of the Uchiha clan. For the clan is dead without a new leader, and as his eldest son takes the mantle, it will rise high into the skies, crowned by the sun's halo.

The Uchiha clan is gathered in the courtyard of the Zangetsu Jingū, where the pressure increases as the sun rises past the peaks of the Nagano Mountain, and with bated breath, excitement runs hotly as a few shrine attendants feed the flames in the outer courtyard. The chanting is so faint, if one does not strain their ears, it cannot be heard over the cackling of the Grand Flames.

"What does it mean to be an Uchiha...?" Megumi's voice cuts through the low chanting. She bows and in both of her hands, she wields twin ogi fans, while everyone else holds an uchiwa fan. As she flaps the fans open and the echoes resound from a gust of wind, the slow chanting of the clan around her reverberates. "What does it mean to look upon the sun?"

"No need to ask me, obaasan. I know what it means." Madara is sixteen and young and his coal black eyes are hot white against the luminous light the bonfire casts. He pulls out the very symbol of being his clan's defender, the gunbai that is as strong as its wielders, the earth moves under the rumble of their footsteps. The air quakes as the winds rise and lift up the singing of the spirits around them.

It is but the size of two palms stacked upon each other. The gunbai is plain, white, and in a sleeping state, waiting for a proper handler to wake it up from its rest. The ancestral chakra containing a bit of power from all of its wielders is powerful enough to send shivers crawling up Tajima's back. No other people notice this, or if they did, they hide their expressions well.

"Don't be a brat." Megumi has a familiar sharp smile and Tajima does not miss the way Madara's mouth tightens. "I, who is your last guardian and caretaker... You must defeat me and all your forebears to reclaim the family heirloom from the hands of the spirits. Can you be reborn in the fires of the God of Flames and guide the light of Amaterasu?"

"For the sake of my clan, I will vanquish all enemies of the sun," Madara says and the shine does not fade in his eyes. "No one will take our light from our eyes."

Megumi's lip twitches and she snarls in time to the beat of the roaring flames. "Your eyes are black. Dark. As obscured and shrouded as the caves of which Amaterasu hides in. Must I bring out the one who can?" Megumi challenges with grit in her eyes. She vanishes, twisted into the silvery gusts heading straight for Madara.

His eyes are spun red and the three tomoe whirls into another pattern. What does their eldest son see with those eyes of his?

Tajima contemplatively hums and nods in soft approval. Madara's good instincts lead to him taking an offensive position and he refuses for his aunt's winds to come too close.

"You do not have to doubt me. I will be the one to light the world." Madara makes his own pitiful gales, the gunbai is too weak--it's not accepting him yet--but Madara finds it enough, since it's never a loss for him if he is not on his back. He lights a fire on his lips and blows an enforced, powerful steam of fire through the silvery gusts.

The collision combusts and spins itself into young tornadoes, taking with it breath and oxygen as the flames burst into multiple flowers drifting along the air. Madara's mark.

Tajima doesn't rejoice just yet. Madara can do so much more. And so can Megumi.

Out of these fires, Megumi emerges from the flaming flowers, her flowing sleeves hide her face, and she claps her ogi fans together, sparks and licks of fire eating the air in front of her. She is like the winds of the desert, stripped of moisture and softness, people can't breathe in, and Madara jumps out of the blooms of fire, where the trails of fire sparks and flames follow his path.

Madara looks up and he is not surprised to see that Megumi now dons the mask of Ame-no-Uzume, the goddess of the dawn. It is a mask coated white with blown out cheeks and painted lips. Megumi sways on her feet and her fans are taunting, playful and daring.

Madara grins.

"I will awaken the light in your eyes. The moment that your power grows abound--" Megumi disappears once again, transforming herself into the silvery gusts and she blinks out of normal perception. It's a common trick she obnoxiously pulls on Tajima to steal his belongings or his money off his person, and Tajima waits for his eldest son to seek out where she's hidden her form.

Madara's eyes survey the area and he jumps up into the air, back-flipping with his eyes open to the skies, where Megumi chooses to slash her fans through where he once stood, and Madara smiles down at her and he lands softly. The flaming flowers continue falling freely.

"Then Amaterasu will smile upon us with her joyous laughter!" This is where the dance happens, where Madara must be faster than his aunt, he must traverse the path of where his ancestors walk. The sleight of his hands will give rise to winds, the quick fury of his steps will bring gusts, and the movement of his body will bring storms. "She is brought out from the caves by Ame-no-Uzume, the dazzling lady of dawn and merry!"

The ceremony is bright, so intense, that Tajima can feel every inch of darkness inside of him be exposed out to the world. Shadows do not stand a chance here. Tajima wants to see. But not yet. He won't step out.

Izuna is hiding within the heart of the flames inside the Cradle of the Grand Flames. Tajima smiles softly to see anxiety written in his younger son's eyes. Izuna would one day surpass his fear.

Madara does not fight, he dances past the soaring winds that Megumi's ogi fans create, and he is not a drifting leaf that goes with whatever the winds demand of him. He brings the air to tranquility when his gunbai connects with the ogi fans and the world holds its breath, not in wait.

If Madara were to kick out and find that Megumi does not budge as they mirror each other forms, the air starts to quiver. The forked tongues of the fire lashes out and Izuna thinks he can hide his wonder, the way he holds his breath in awe.

Similarly, everyone around is taken back from the way Madara and Megumi move with each other. It is a brilliant, breathtaking fan dance that Tajima had done in his youth, where the world is colored in golden red hues and of the warmth the deadly sun embraces her people with: one that he hoped Izuna did not have to do. His wife stays by Izuna's side and she too cannot hide her hope.

So brilliant that Tajima cannot help but smile as Madara is led in their direction by Megumi's fan dancing. Madara shall soon be caught unaware, ignorant to his father's waning presence. Why should his eldest know? Because this is how the dance proceeds. There is something to be said about how his younger son Izuna may never know of this.

Tajima is dead, after all. Has been. He eyes the gunbai and loses his smile to steeled determination to test his eldest son's resolve. The burdens of the past have to be placed on firm shoulders and someone with a good head.

"I am the father that raised you. Do you seek my approval?" Tajima breaks the illusion that the dead do not see and his blade heads for Madara's neck.

"I--" Madara hisses and he deflects it with his gunbai, surprised and shocked and confused because 'won't his Mangekyou show him this is an illusion?' It is not and no one else may ever see Tajima as he catches Madara, hooking his ankle and attempting to sweep him off his foot. Madara jumps up and twirls, kicking out and finding that Tajima isn't really all there.

"I ask again. I am the father that raised you. Do you seek my approval?"

The resolved glint in his eldest son's eyes are all the answers that Tajima requires and they dance, they are disconnected, they do not dance the same forms, and Madara seamlessly tries to match Tajima's footwork in mistaken belief that Tajima is playing Megumi's role, but he won't let his son repeat after himself. He has done enough damage to his sons and daughter. To his own older brother. Tajima wants to breathe.

Madara imagines something because his lips pull, he wants to say that something, and his grip tightens. Again, no words are exchanged. It feels angry, upset, furious-- Tajima doesn't need to ask to know what Madara demands to know.

'Live,' Tajima doesn't mouth, he lets the formless word escape between his unyielding lies.

One secret for the grave, one secret for the clan, one secret that won't spare his eldest from the brutality of its truth.

Madara isn't a slow learner against them and he grimaces, finding his own beat against Tajima, and even as they can never touch each other, for Tajima is dead and he has passed on, it warms a deadly coldness in his eldest son's eyes. Something softens.

"You have my trust," Tajima says, avoids the regretful 'why' in his son's eyes, and he stops breathing because he is dead and when did he pretend he was alive? He doesn't smile, that isn't part of the dance. But Madara smiles despite that. "Do you have your mother's?"

Madara blinks and his eyes whirl off to the side--

He spins on his heels and he slams his growing gunbai against a force that resists and exists and a blade of winds cut Madara's cheek. A bead of red blood rolls down and he wipes the cut on his cheek with a thumb.

"I am the mother that taught you how to dance. Can you surpass me?" Nagaya gives half a smile and no room for Madara to reply. She doesn't fade into the winds, she becomes it and the flames at the shrine shudder. If Tajima was the soft hand of a father who shows kindness, Nagaya was the heavy eyes of a mother who shows pride.

"Yes." Madara throws out an elbow behind him and Nagaya is beneath him. He brings out his other leg and kicks through the phantom of his mother-- if not for Nagaya forcing Madara to misstep.

Izuna gapes--he can't see her--at the miscalculation Madara takes. There is a moment where Madara looks around him with his Mangekyou Sharingan and somberly realizes what his mother Nagaya is here to do.

If Tajima is to guide Madara from broken paths...

Nagaya will be there to make Madara push himself further to the brink.

"The winds... the sun... the moon..." Madara begins in between breaths from Nagaya's ferocious, never-ending onslaught of blades woven out of air, seeking to bite into his flesh, and Madara takes their dance in stride, he is eager to make the winds his own power.

Nagaya often does feints-- often disappears-- often never appears-- and there is nothing guiding Madara but his instincts and his ambitions that must be sharper than a blade. Tajima hides his amusement of watching his wife push Madara into his limits.

Madara doesn't keep stumbling if he falters against his mother's powerful might and he is steadily better as time goes on. He grits his teeth, never losing his smile and unbidden joy swells in his eyes. As a young flame, Madara is more like a silk ribbon on the breeze, holed and thin-- but that is what Nagaya wants to show her son.

The Grand Flames move slightly, ever in Madara's direction, hungry to see him prove his legacy.

He changes the hand he holds the gunbai and twirls it by the handle, watching new black markings outline the gunbai and as it becomes bigger. 'Satisfied?' Madara appears to ask with his searching eyes and his shoulders tense.

"You might not be worthy," Nagaya doesn't try, she sneers and drops her weightless fan onto the floor. She is the tempest, she is the whirlwind, and she is so light on her feet that if she wasn't a ghost, she might as well be a spirit of the winds. She nearly sings, echoing and twisting herself into the howling winds that pass by mountaintops and heavy trees.

It is a loud screech that can even make Tajima grimace and Madara isn't taking it. He won't let himself stand there and take the full impact.

Madara knows he will lose if he can't stop it.

"If they are against me, if this is the only way to gain your favor, I will show you what a mortal can really do!" Madara smiles around the bite in his words and with a single swing of his gunbai, the winds stop. His right eye bleeds. Conflicted feelings arise in his dark eyes. He wants to reach out for her but Nagaya's image is fading, the gunbai wielder won't see her for long.

Nagaya is visible, in a way only others like her can see her, and she smirks at Tajima when something in Madara's face falls, since to him, she may as well as be an illusion after all. She isn't. So when Madara walks by, she whispers into Madara's ears. "I love you."

Madara manages to not stumble and make a fool of himself in front of an audience. In front of his impressionable brother no less, or his one other friend.

His eldest son repositions himself away from the Grand Flames, under the shadows of an oak tree with an enclosing rope around its trunk, and Megumi says a few words with knowing eyes that puts Madara on guard.

The chanting becomes melancholic, answering, then demanding, and somber.

Another procession begins against what others cannot see, for this is his eldest son to carry on his shoulders, the weight of all these spirits will be for Madara to bear so others did not. If Madara falls, he will learn he shouldn't think of what if's.

Madara doesn't stop dancing with his fan and at this point, he isn't relying on his sharingan to keep up, regardless if he has it on. There is soul, there is essence, meaning, and intrinsic beauty to the way Madara moves. He faces each and nearly every single ancestral spirit of the Uchiha clan.

He times his exhaustion with the precision he puts behind his force and he acts as if he can never tired, despite the sweat gathering between his brows.

Megumi puts an end to it after the chanting is too hopeful and the phantoms--not the same as Tajima himself--tested themselves against Madara's will. She steps up by the time the seventy-eight dance is completed because the seventy-ninth dance is the one for gods.

"My dance is yours," Megumi closes her ogi fans, and all the fires at the shrine grounds that don't belong to the Grand Flames in the center flicker out. "You are no mirror of my reflection. Take delight in knowing...

"This is not over!" Megumi explodes into one last torrent of flames and Tajima can see Izuna standing up. Izuna takes a breath, a two, and he waits for the next verse to start about how there is life in this world, there is also death. In the hurricane of wind and fire that their aunt leaves behind, Izuna doesn't step into the eye of the hurricane.

Izuna throws himself into the hurricane and spins until his form is hidden, cradling him in their fiery orange-red cloak flames. With him, the whole world is overcome by the beating wings of a hundred crows that take flight, their wings flapping against the tumultuous winds to surf the gales, the rhythm of a thousand hearts linked together, and on top of a tree, a feathery cloaked shinobi stands.

Hikaku perfectly balances himself on top of the tree, the judge of the battle, and for a moment, he locks his scarlet red eyes against Madara's. He wears the feathers of the Yatagarasu and there is no light that reflects from his cloak.

Madara's Mangekyou pattern whirls and it tells him where Izuna is because his eyes snap to spot his younger brother in the fire hurricane. He narrows his eyes, smiling with amusement. "Kagutsuchi, who has chosen to guide the flames of Amaterasu's wrath-- can you tell me where is the mother that you have slain?"

"What a tongue you have, mortal! You who dared to ask for Amaterasu's light? You dare to jest?" Izuna readies his katana and he is mildly relieved, perhaps because he is flustered to say the next lines to his older brother's face. "Do you dare ask for a beating by me, the God of Fire?! I will burn out your eyes and send you to the land of darkness! Prepare to die for your insolence!"

"Haah! It is you who should be punished for your actions! Your tragedy is not my own, I will protect my family against all that threatens it!" Madara happily delights in the whole ceremony, reciting it without missing a beat, and Tajima steps back into the shadows.

Tajima sighs and he stands side by side with Nagaya. There is a smile on both of their sons' faces.

"We raised them well enough, didn't we?" Nagaya chuckles and her dominant sword hand twitches. She must be jealous that she doesn't have the duty of fighting with a live steel blade against one of her children. "Regardless... If one of them regularly has silly thoughts."

"Silly?" Tajima laughs breathlessly and he sees that Amaterasu shines her sun kind and warm for everyone below her. "Madara Uchiha... He might be able to do what I cannot do." He sees the micro-expressions through his three tomoe sharingan, where both of his sons are playfully baiting each other and struggling to maintain a calm composure.

"No way," Nagaya knowingly says to be proven wrong, because she has pride in being surprised and humbled. "Madara will not be able to surpass your accomplishments within the clan. You are one of its greatest leaders."

"No way!" One of his five children mocks and slips up to his side. "I believe that niisan will do it."

"I want to see the future he'll bring..." Another one whispers.

"Hm," Tajima looks up and hums.

Madara stands over his younger brother with his gunbai--it managed to grow nearly as tall as his son?--placed on his back and Izuna sits crouched on a knee, playing the part of a defeated god of fire. One of Hikaku's trained crows fly onto Izuna's shoulder and nudges into them.

"I will help you guide the light of Amaterasu so you do not burn yourself." Izuna slowly rises by himself. "Do not be blinded before then, my new Aniki."

He lifts up his arm and lets the one-eyed crow sit in the palm of his hand. The crow blinks. Or winked?

"And I will rise dancing in the dawn and bathe myself in the sun flames of Amaterasu. I am not afraid to be burned." Madara raises his chin in fake--why is he making the hero of the play look like a snob?--arrogance and takes the crow that fits snugly in his palm. "... Otouto."

Madara puts so much seriousness into a single word that he tries hard not to snort and fails to, because Izuna's face flushes red and his shoulders shake. Izuna does not look pleased to be laughing during such a serious moment for the Uchiha clan. He's always been the more diligent and devoted child between the two.

Hikaku isn't doing either one of them a favor when he jumps down and announces to them to look upon himself for he, acting as Yatagarasu, knows the wise counsel the sun goddess Amaterasu offers.

Madara subtly kicks off Hikaku's fake third leg--understandable, that is tacky and whose idea was it to cosplay as Yatagarasu with that?--and Hikaku barely resists jumping out of his role to bludgeon Madara for the disrespect. Izuna isn't faring better as he stands there, stiff as a rod. He closes his eyes to block out the antics of his older brothers.

Tajima wishes he can do just that and groans when he hears other people in the Uchiha clan snicker over the blabber.

---

Madara is peacefully laying down in his futon when he is awoken by the soft footsteps of three little annoying siblings trying to sneak into his room. He blissfully smiles and turns onto his side, manages to make it seem like he tosses around in his sleep, because his brothers and sister don't suspect anything. He is a shinobi. He learns to sleep light, that's the way it is.

He readies the blanket in his hand, twists his fist into the fabric, and waits for them to be right behind him. Before he can hear Izuna giggle, Madara throws the blanket over the three of them.

The littlest one is a toddler that squeals and the second littler one nearly screams but their training kicks in because they stop. Izuna? That trickster picks up a commotion and attempts to yank the blanket off of them.

It's a shame that Madara is fast enough to circle around them. "Let see," he says. "Which one of you tried to jump me, hm?" Likely Izuna. Definitely Izuna. The other two are too young to come up with it. Dealing with so many siblings was surprisingly both a chore and the highlight of his days. He grins.

So a fitting treatment is in place. Madara wraps his arms around Izuna's midsection and Izuna tries to squirm around, biting their forearm in protest. Madara laughs. "Here's for treating me like a baby!"

"Ehhhh! Let me go, niisan!" Izuna whines and beats his legs in the open air. Kurohime and Myouji finally rip the blanket off of him. "Hah! Got you!"

"... Eh?!" Madara quickly counts them in a hurry and finds only three of them--

"I win!" Toga jumps down from below, where Madara sees the glimpse of an open panel in the ceiling that invokes fear and panic, and Toga lands on their back, an uncomfortable weight that giggles, ignorant to Madara squashing these painful feelings down. For now, Madara is not a shinobi afraid of who's sneaking around in the walls and ceilings, he is an older brother.

Toga wraps his legs around their neck and squeezes it. He has a rather devilish grin and that's the wits that Izuna doesn't have, because Toga demands, "Everyone, stop niisan in place! Get his arm, Izuna. You two, get his legs!"

"You brats!" Madara flails his arms around, more jokingly than in an attempt to throw his little brother off, and to calm himself down. Izuna jumps onto him and the other two grab onto his leg, one each. "It was you all along, Toga!"

That's how their parents found them in the morning. On the floor, panting, and with way too much time on their hands.

Madara wishes it would never end... But that's not the truth of how anything will go. War is painted on his skin, and so is conflict in his mind. If he sleeps without a dream, all the better.

Chapter Text

Madara knows what a culling is. He knows what weeding is. Maybe in another time, they are--were--a gardener, who ruthlessly kills beautiful plants if those pests were choking out the plants they wanted, and as a shinobi, the practice of 'mabiki' is not so dissimilar as it is for rural farmers and the impoverished and the desperate.

The Uchiha are a moderately wealthy clan that fares far, far better than shinobi clans whose names aren't known outside of their local daimyo's district. Or a domain, if they are lucky.

Want to know how he knows that? Name at least ten clans that aren't around from this era. Some names are so far gone, scorched so deep into the ground, not even ashes remain, that nothing will ever know life there again.

It never gets easier if he judges his reflection in the pond, where his hair is less tamed, his heavier heart is smeared dark under his gloomier eyes, and he is the middle verse in someone else's poem, not fit to be the beginning or at the ending. Shinobi do not practice thinning out their children. Not on purpose.

Instead, they send them out. It's not hard for a year of training to make someone a shinobi. A shinobi who can kill and use at least one jutsu. People learn quickly to treat kids as threats.

Threats that are cheaper. Eats less. Easy to acquire. Easier to discipline. Efficiency does not matter in this age.

He clenches his fists and finds little solace in the red, raw crescent marks he leaves in his palms. Images of the moon in his hands, in the hands calloused and rough and it's not the soft touch of an innocent child. His parents won't listen to him if he asks. His parents think he knows nothing of war and maybe, in his lives, they are correct, because this is his world and he is too helpless, without a voice, without a power that makes them look, and he can't falter.

Madara knows he is stronger than the rest of the children around his age. He knows some are worse off. These ones don't have a home aside from what they are told is a home. Their lives are never secured.

Madara can tell. He can tell because he has three brothers and one sister. He has a family they don't.

He hears a footstep. Two pairs of them. One of them sounds like his mother's distinct rhythm and steps in her geta. The other one is softer, light, in a way only a child can walk with that gait.

And then he has someone who isn't brother or sister or cousin or a close relative come over. Who is that?

He is speechless to see a young child around his age coming in through the shoji door and out into the porch. She was led outside by his mother Nagaya into the courtyard. One of his four siblings--Kurohime; because she is the youngest of them--is carried on Nagaya's back by a strap called an onbu-hime, for holding babies and toddlers. Toga and Izuna aren't following her by her heels. Those two must be spending time with their uncle or one of their aunts.

"Madara," his mother indulges the sound of his name, smiling, because she does adore talking to them. Her smile brings a stubborn happiness. "Come meet Sute." Sute. The classic name for 'foundling', given to a child that has been abandoned to be re-adopted an hour later. It is not an ill omen. For someone to be named Sute, they must have no other siblings, dead to misfortune and to superstitions. Her parents?

He doesn't know why Sute is here. He slowly lowers his hand and he can't quite let go of the shuriken he's been practicing with. Madara doesn't know who Sute is. Does she die? His heart skips a beat and a sorrow paints a smile for her. He wants to be upset at his mother. He wants to yell. Why, oh, why?

"Sute?" Madara is a little over five, turning six late this year, and his anxiety is bouncing off of his burning curiosity to know. He isn't taller than she is but that won't help with gauging her age. Sute blinks, unused to his presence, and she keeps her stone black eyes trained on him--she has some shinobi training?--where she sees him as a mystery. She doesn't try to hide behind Nagaya. "Who is this new girl, kaasan?"

"Well," Nagaya starts and the suspense constricts Madara's heart in panic. Who? Who is Sute Uchiha? Then, Kurohime babbles on her back, where she easily goes back to sleep, dozing. Sute is another kid. "I've been needing another pair of hands around to help look after Toga and Izuna when Megumi can't. Do you like her?"

"Is she a sensor-type like me?" Madara slumps his shoulders in relief. Sute isn't dying anytime soon. Instead, she is another pair of hands to track down the five of them. He doesn't know what to do if he had to juggle with another child when he needs to keep an eye on four littler siblings. Except, does Sute live? Does she go unnoticed?

And maybe that shouldn't be the first time he says, because Nagaya's eyes goes hard and calculating. Measuring Sute's worth as a shinobi first but not as a new addition to the household? Madara grimaces from his choice of words.

"Yes," Nagaya answers curtly, not cold or offended. She understands it well, only somber. Madara does not mean to stress his mother out, so he looks back to Sute.

"Do you know how to throw shuriken? We can do a competition." Madara might want to wake up Myouji to watch both of them compete. The sounds of shuriken thunking against a tree is not going to be silent, if Sute ends up being the type to gloat, she'll cheer when she lands a hit, but she is quieter than most kids.

"Hm? A competition?" Sute muses and she inclines her head, wanting to hear more. Or else be bored again. "How so?"

"We should see who can throw the most shuriken at the same time!" Madara can throw one shuriken each between his knuckles. He'll have more cuts on his hands if he didn't have surprising dexterity and fine motor control. He is careful. Reckless. It isn't enough. He doesn't know it yet.

(He can't tell if he's surpassing him.)

"You can go on," Nagaya says and she stands there, interested in watching. It won't be good if he--the eldest--doesn't like Sute. Madara bitterly wonders where Sute will go if her parents aren't here to take care of her. He bitterly knows it isn't true. The Uchiha don't throw out their own, it's a community that lives and dies together. In many ways.

Sute knows it, in the way she steps down from the porch, where the evidence she knows war is by her gait. She is new to being a shinobi, it's not subconsciously ingrained, and her footsteps are silent against the flowers and dry grass she tramples on.

Sute doesn't ask if there is a reward in a competition--a shuriken tossing game between children--between two shinobi, where there is no point in winning or losing, other than testing their skills.

There is no reward.

Nor does she ask which shuriken she can take from the ones carefully strung together in a box. She holds up a string of them without cutting herself. She doesn't ask what she can hit-- anything is a target. She smiles playfully, interested for once. But she looks for reassurance when she faces him and Madara gives her a nod.

"Let me wake up my otouto first. He'll cry if he wakes up without anyone there." Madara lost a lot of sleep over it since he sleeps in the same room as his brothers and sister. And then all of them wakes up because Myouji bites Toga and Toga kicks Izuna and-- Madara wonders why he didn't just have one brother. It's not a very serious thought.

Without problem, Madara goes on to nudge Myouji awake and Myouji has bleary vision when he first blinks, sleep in his drowsy eyes, and he blinks again, once and twice.

"Niisan?" Myouji grumbles and frees a hand to rub his eyes. "Why," Myouji flatly says, more conscious and alert. He  perfectly replicates father's mannerism when it comes to speaking with obnoxious people. Myouji levels a pouty frown--'So cute!'--that makes Madara responds with an amused smile.

"Do you want to watch me throw shuriken? I can show you cool tricks," Madara says.

Myouji perks up, bright with cheer, and he smiles, dimples on the corner of his lips.

"Tricks? I do!" Myouji sits upright and his smile doesn't falter. The cotton blanket falls off of his shoulders, though he keeps it wrapped around himself. "Can you do the flaming wheel?"

"The flaming wheel? Please tell me that isn't a jutsu." Nagaya isn't yelling when she arrives, her voice is thrown around right behind Madara, and he jumps up in surprise to find her on the porch.

Nagaya hasn't moved an inch. "I hope no one is teaching you Katon ninjutsu, Madara."

He flushes red. He nearly forgot about that. The Uchiha's love for copying--not imitation--comes from the heart. To pass down traditions. Oral stories of victory and pride. Dance of hardships and tragedy and the depths of humanity. Plays and legends, of god and man. To ensure they live beyond the past that weighs on the next generation.

('How can you smile knowing reality won't let you escape into wishful dreams...?')

"All I did was... look into the flames." For hours, for days, for weeks, and Madara reads the language of the fire wagging its eager tongues for anyone who hear it. The warmth is gathered in his core, he stirs the flames, and it bursts like tiny stars. What should he think about it?

Madara isn't certain he knew how to do that before. It is not the winds that call for him. Neither does he think it is the fire he sees. There is more.

"Is that so?" His mother's face is amused with her easygoing smile hiding something. Cynical. Bright. Warm. Madara shudders from her 'praise'. Is it praise? Is it an evaluation of himself? "You must be blessed with the sun's fire affinity, Madara. For how Amaterasu burns the woods."

"The... woods?" No. No. Do not think of her. Him. Him, now? "What do you mean, Myou?" Madara rubs the uncomfortable feeling in his chest away. The roar of the winds being devoured by the flames in his ears.

"Where tricks?" Myouji mumbles rudely. Madara wants to pinch their cheeks and manages to resist it.

"Don't worry, I will show you anything you want," Madara sharply turns around to reassure his younger brother and he frantically waves his hands. He wants to see Myouji smile. Not disappointed.

Madara faces Sute over his shoulder, immediately composed. "How many shuriken could you throw?" He walks over to the box and takes a string of shuriken. "I can't lose in front of my family, you know."

"Hmph, don't sound so casual about it." Sute balances the tip of a shuriken on her finger and flicks it in the air, catching it on the back of her hand. She rolls the bladed star on her hand and it circles around them. "Can you see what I am doing?"

His eyes follow the shuriken. It stops at the tip of her finger, or more precisely, on her fingernail. How?

"Hmph, don't show off." Madara narrows his eyes. He is young--too old--to care about taunts. How is she doing that? It can't be ninja wire. The string for the shuriken are too thick for it, clearly visible, and not meant for delicate works. Oh. His victory is in his smile and he dangles a string of shuriken.

"You're emitting chakra on your hands to have it stick to you." Just by the tip? If Madara can sneak away, he can sneak away and learn how to go up trees who have their own life force to deal with. He went from walking on walls to walking on trees and on ceilings. There is a few things he didn't have down. Water-walking. He didn't want to be caught doing that unsupervised and being soaked was a give-away.

"Correct," Nagaya sounds, and from her porch, her eyes are spinning red. Three tomoe. "How impressive, little Madara. You will grow into a very perceptive shinobi with those skills. You can imitate it too." She smiles.

To prove her point and earn a hum of praise, Madara takes the shuriken and places it on the back of his hand. He needs to concentrate enough chakra to catch and feel for each pinpoint.

Here is the thing. The two-point discrimination test measures tactile agnoisa and at what point do people stop feeling that there are two closely placed needles on their skin.

Chakra is naturally circulating inside people. It isn't supposed to be outside. It interacts with the nerves, trailing along it, and since the fingertips are sensitive, the chakra concentrating there isn't as much as a problem as concentrating chakra on the forearms-- the forearms are less sensitive than on the tongue or the lips, because of there being less nerve endings. It might have to do with tenketsu being chakra limiters but Madara has far less feel for chakra or a complete inability to emit chakra on most other parts of his body.

Why is this relevant if he wants to copy Sute's trick? Madara wants to be better. He can't be anything less in this world. There is an uchiwa mon embroidered on his back and its invisible weight is unspoken. Heavier than he can imagine. He needs to copy her and surpass her.

So he does.

Either there are exceptions to the rules, chakra output and nerve sensitivity are correlated variables, or there are rules he hasn't figured out. If true, why can people channel chakra into their feet of all things?

Chakra can't be still. It is the flow of life. It is always circulating. The drain on his stamina is so, so slight that if he didn't know about it, he wouldn't know at all.

Madara weaves fire with his hands and from the tips of his fingers, the string that tie together nine shuriken are eaten away. He flicks each shuriken up by one of its five-pointed tip, his fingers coated in protective chakra, and the warm energy is heating his skin.

He jumps up into a backflip and he knows there is fire on his feet, eating his straw sandals, and he catches one-- two shuriken on his foot and kicks them out to be thrown into a tree. A trail of flames in the air, a circle set on fire, and he is at its center, and the remaining ten shuriken are set ablaze.

He catches two shuriken in one hand and three between his other hand's knuckles. He knocks one of them into another shuriken and both of them hits another tree. Four shuriken have hit his mark and another four is left.

Madara is falling and he twists himself midair. More chakra, more, and more. Fiery burns the ice steel of the shuriken and they are red hot on his hands. With fire chakra inside him, it doesn't hurt and he wants to be fire itself, like his mother is. He juggles up each of the four shuriken, each separate pairs of shuriken forming a circle, and the shuriken chase each other in its loop.

The fire illusions etch two flaming hoops, less luminous than the sun but the never-ending awe is captured in Myouji's eyes, and he keeps up the illusion, diligently slipping his hands into the center hole of the shuriken to continue juggling them. He does not hold shuriken in his hands. In-between moments, he changes the shuriken positions and have rings of flames encircle his hands, to his wrists, and then he tries to travel them down his forearms.

The pull of chakra--of wanting to connect and be one--becomes weaker the farther the shuriken looping around his skin goes from the tips of his fingers. Tenketsu in his body are smaller than pins, impossible for normal needles to penetrate. But these are limiters--gateways--for chakra.

Does chakra concentrate and become a vortex, swirling inwards and spiraling outwards?

A quarter down his forearms, the flaming shuriken wants to slip off, and the pressure of three pairs of eyes are on his back, watching for every slip-up, never for any strong points.

Madara breathes in. Out. He captures that heat rippling out from his hands.

Madara stretches down the warmth, the fire chakra, down his arms until his skin is turning red, and the chakra is flaring, golden sheet of hot energy down under his skin and have it be attracted to the tenketsu. To have the chakra be hooked and stopped, to be anchored.

His chakra control slips for a second and one of the shuriken pauses, the path of chakra that propels it stick to himself is shaking. Trembling, disturbed.

It won't work. Not now.

To cover up his failed attempt, he throws the flaming shuriken up into juggling loops of fire. He shortly juggles each flaming loop of shuriken in both hands and it's an old worn-out trick by now.

Two eternal wheels of flames are at his hands. He slips a finger into the center holes of the shuriken simultaneously in speed. He tosses both of the hoops of fire into the tree and thin lines of fire scorch its mark into the trees. He hears his younger brother break into noiseless cheers and complete silence emits from Sute's end.

Sute puts the string of shuriken away and breaks eye contact. A loss.

Madara seeks out his mother's eyes next and Nagaya is smiling at him with her blessed red eyes. The sun is over her head and splashes sunlit highlights on her raven hair.

"You've grown up so fast."

He feels phantom chills running over his body.

---

Madara is combing through Toga's fluffy hair and his younger brother presses his head into the pillow, pleased by the grooming. This kind of hair doesn't take care of itself. His mother Nagaya is putting a tsugu comb with a bamboo handle to his own, and Izuna is grumbling in his impatience, waiting for his turn. Myouji is annoying, leaning against Madara's side and pretending to be asleep.

Kurohime babbles and blinks. She watches them with wide eyes and waves her chubby hands, tugging on Izuna's shirt, in want of attention and Izuna also wants attention--Madara's, specifically--that he grumpily ignores the toddler.

"Don't be mean to your imouto, Izu." Nagaya briefly pauses and from behind Madara, he feels a spark of fire from his mother and it forms into a flaming bird dancing upon his shoulder. The fire bird hops down and steals Kurohime's short attention for itself, where she babbles happily and attempts to grab the bird. Izuna isn't as amused as this anymore.

"When am I next?!" Izuna pouts and he glares at Toga. It isn't his fault that Toga jumped into Madara's arms first.

"Meh." Toga sticks out his tongue. "I don't care about you."

"Toga!" Madara chides them and he can't stop grooming Toga's hair or someone will start screaming and then Kurohime will cry. It's one of those days he wishes he wasn't the eldest brother. "Izuna is your niisan."

"You're the oldest," Toga says, pleased with his answer.

Izuna snatches up Kurohime into his arms and leaves. "I'm taking Sute with me!" He proclaims with all his young might and Sute backs away from the wall, glancing between Nagaya and Izuna.

After a nod from mother, Sute follows Izuna and Kurohime out into the hallway to ensure their safety-- or more truthfully, Sute is there to babysit the two and she slides open the door for them. Izuna might end up breaking something if he gets too upset without an outlet and Madara already suggested to Sute to let them run around.

"Haah, I win!" Toga pats down his hair himself when the door is slid closed. He brushes past Madara to sit up straight.

"Hey!" Madara places a hand on Toga's head and ruffles their hair messily, earning himself a squeak from Toga and a 'No, niisan!' where he falls over and Madara keeps them down. "So you didn't want your hair combed?" He thoroughly messes up Toga's fluffy hair into a ratty mess and Toga whines.

Myouji wraps his arms around Madara's waist and fails miserably to wrestle them. "Stop moving so much, niisan!" He shoves his head into their shoulder and nuzzles them.

"No way!" Madara sits back normally, unaffected.

Nagaya sets down her comb and she chuckles. "Let me receive Izuna and Kurohime." She connects her eyes with Madara's. She doesn't need to say anymore for Madara to nod, agreeing to watch over his brothers.

"Izuna-nii probably wants to run in the courtyard," Toga suggests where his older brother is and because he is usually right about Izuna's hideouts, Nagaya takes a sudden split second to sense for Izuna and leaves to find the three. It shouldn't take too long. Sute is somewhat like a close cousin.

Toga turns around on the floor and grabs onto Madara's waist and pats Myouji's head. "You're so little too."

"Ehh." Myouji makes a squished up face.

"You're all so little!" Madara picks off the hair and dust from the fine hair comb. He reapplies the oil specially made to protect their hair on it. "You're next, Myouji." He gently pulls Myouji in front of him and Toga scoots away to give the two room. "You should remember to all love each other."

"But I like you more?" Toga narrows his eyes. "Izuna-nii doesn't take care of me like you do!"

Myouji nods rapidly. "He doesn't pick me up!"

"I--" Madara opens his mouth to retort and closes it. They aren't... necessarily wrong, but it isn't exactly fair to make a judgement from that. The four of them are very, very young, and compared to Madara, the fifth? The rest don't want to dote on others as much as they need to feel secured and loved themselves. It's why he can't call them selfish or needy. All they want is affection-- and that means Izuna isn't the weird one. Madara is.

Madara looks at the wooden comb he is holding and the cleaning oil that covers it. He didn't need to. Nagaya didn't ask for him to help out.

This is simply a bonding activity for a mother to connect with her children. Not even his father joins them. Skinship is very significant that touching someone in any way is called that but it's normally about the bond between mother and child. Has he been doing that too much? Is he teaching the wrong lessons to his brothers and sister?

"See!" Toga reads the pause hanging between them, ever so perceptive, and he is too satisfied that he won't not be annoying about it in the future. There are wheels turning in his head.

"No," Madara says and shakes his head. He can't give Toga the wrong impression on how affection is expressed in the Uchiha clan or in their culture. "Izuna does love you. He is usually the first one to have his hair combed. He isn't used to that changing."

"Izuna-nii doesn't comb your hair," Toga stiffly says and crosses his arms. He picked that one up from Madara and Myouji doesn't understand Toga's frustration, making him look on at his older brothers in confusion. "He doesn't pick you up. Help give you a bath. Doesn't--!"

"Toga." Madara softly taps the floor twice, interrupting them. How does he explain that he's the odd one out of them? How is Toga picking all of this up so fast? "Sute doesn't do it too and you call her oneesan. Izuna is there for you a lot too when I'm not." If anything, Madara spends a little more time with Myouji and more time training with his father Tajima. Izuna and Toga are the ones who run off together-- wait, where is the problem coming from?

Toga turns more quiet and his bottom lips wobble. "Hmm...!"

Myouji leans backwards into Madara's chest. "Can you comb my hair?" He is blissfully unaware of the tension-- as in, he is ignoring it with the grace of a tiny little kid...

Madara sighs. "I'm going to get white hairs! Toga? Did you have an argument with Izuna?"

"Izuna is going to pick up training... He is leaving me behind!" Toga uncrosses his arms and he gets on his hands to crawl over to Madara and leans into him. Madara begins to subconsciously comb into Myouji's hair and accepts Toga's physical proximity, relaxing for both of them. "You're a shinobi, Madara. I want to be one too."

How can Toga confidently say that, earnest and bright, hopeful, unlike the eyes of many adults in the Uchiha clan? It is as it is. Toga is innocent.

Here is where Madara never knows what to say. Being a shinobi? He wishes none of them became shinobi. They all die. Die. Sute is presumably dead too, since there is never a mention of her--not when the family deigned her as the older sister--that he recalls. If he peels himself back, looks into his soul, tries and fails to grasp fading memories, it vanishes into an unreadable dream. He needs to wait for his memories to come to him.

How does any of them-- how does any of his-- their names--

(He never says their names.)

Madara chokes back his tears to laugh instead. "I believe you'll be a shinobi."

No encouragements. No 'you'll catch up to Izuna' because that lie is so heavy in his throat that he can't physically say it without feeling his heart burst because he feels like he'll cry blood from all the grief that will pass. His stomach is emptied of the homemade food and its warmth, nothing but a void there, and he wants to throw up.

He grins and Toga gives him a shaky, hopeful smile back.

"I will be a great shinobi," Toga says quietly, that it cannot be anything but a gentle wish, a kind hope. How you ever have a belief, a hope, so fragile, you must whisper it in the night, in fear it will die in the light?

Madara hears his world shattering before it cracks and he brushes through Myouji's hair using mother's comb so soothingly, that his younger brother falls asleep in his arms. Toga clings onto his back, a loose arm around Madara's neck, when their mother comes back with Sute by her side, Kurohime carried in mother's arms, and Izuna has a few flowers in his hands.

Izuna puts a flower behind all of their ears or into their hands with a pouty, determined frown. All of them fresh, topped with morning dew, smells of rain, comes from rain.

Hydrangea.

For persevering love.

Of family.

---

Madara is spending time with Izuna, telling him how to look for crows and other bird nests. But Izuna wants to learn about 'what is that bird?' in a crow's nest.

And then, an Uchiha shinobi will be seen taking the strange bird and feeding it to their hawk.

Some of the Uchiha took it upon themselves to find and remove parasitic birds. Kill the eggs of brood parasites, its parents come back for revenge-- those ones get killed quick too by the Uchiha. But they need to be careful about it or it would become a cycle of killing if they don't remove the entire family. The parents of these eggs come back to kill the native eggs in revenge. It's essential they kill the adult brood parasites.

'What is a brood parasite?' Izuna would ask. It is a bird that doesn't rear its own young, it lays its eggs in other nests, and when the egg hatches, it kills the other chicks and pushes the native eggs out, in order to be raised by a now childless bird.

Why does a bird raise a parasite as its own? Can it not tell the difference?

Perhaps. It can't tell.

Izuna isn't satisfied as he watches the hawk gobble up the parasitic young chicks. No one is.

"Niisan..." Izuna tugs on his sleeves, huddling in close, and Madara places an arm around their waist to keep them from feeling alone and unsafe. "That's scary! Why did you have to tell me this?"

"You'll learn about it later." Madara nods. "We have a close relation with the crows. It's different than the ninneko who live in Sora-ku. They aren't family."

If the cats in the Sky District are merchants and marketeers and vendors, then the crows in the compound are their benefactors--wait no, father will scold him for calling them that--who are helpful family members who ask for favors first.

After that? Madara pulls them along home, who is halfway protesting and screaming about baby chicks and evil eggs, where his two younger brothers run up to him and Kurohime is on the porch, where Tajima is discussing the kunai in his hands.

Tajima looks up, tilts his head, and blood is in the air. It is coming from behind Madara and he turns around.

There is a shout in the back of Madara's throat and it burns to scream.