Chapter Text
On the day I was born, the Temple of Amaterasu burned. The wind howled and sobbed, snapping branches and felling trees as the sky wept. Torrents of rain hissed against bitter, black flames, but the fire only crackled louder, burning darker than a starless night. My uncle, a priest, and all but one of my cousins were devoured until not even ashes remained. Three others, skilled with suīton, tried to save them, but were engulfed.
I was marked by the kami, they said, but by what fortune they did not know. Dreading misfortune, and fearing my birth foretold the clan’s unmaking, some thought it best to kill me to appease Amaterasu. But none except the clan’s priests and priestesses could discern the will of the kami, and my father was in no haste to see me dead. So they waited three days until my cousin, the last of my uncle’s line, the last priestess, finally woke.
An ordinary child, thrust suddenly into the heart of council. She was five years of age, orphaned, and surrounded by all the important elders of the clan. A layer of soot still stained her robes as they brought her before the assembly. My father gave me to her, and she held me. Then, she called me ‘Madara’, and said that I would be great.
She must have been afraid. She would not have shown it.
Anything less than greatness would have been a stinging humiliation. I would learn, through tears and bruised flesh, what it meant to speak before an Uchiha Tajima whose pride was wounded. My father burned, in temperament and conviction. The clan relished his fire, his strength, when brandished against the enemy. But they withered beneath its searing heat when it turned inward.
In the end, her words pleased my father. And so it came to pass that Uchiha Kiyome became the last and only priestess of her line. The deaths of my uncle and other cousins were marked off as a failed trial sent by the heavens. My father made her bless me twice — once for resilience and once for strength — before recognizing me as his fourth son.
I am told that after, when he’d gone off to examine the ruins of the fallen temple and the assembly hall had emptied, my mother asked her to bless me a third time. I do not remember the blessing; I was only an infant, after all.
::
Words alone would not cure a disease of fear or erase the stain of death surrounding my birth. Murmurs followed my first steps, wary eyes watching and waiting for my supposed greatness.
Only time will tell, the shadows whispered. Only time knows.
I toddled along, babbling as I played with my mother’s hair. Ignorant of the sharp eyes poised to measure my triumphs and failures. I hadn’t yet even met the child who saved me or heard her truth.
“He has exceptionally strong chakra, Chichi-ue,” my eldest brother, Masaru, said as I shoved a handful of leaves into my mouth, finding myself bored with mother’s hair.
“He’s very stupid,” Takashi, the second eldest, observed while our father — still beaming with pride — pulled my leaf-stuffed fists from my face.
“He’s curious,” mother remarked. “He is trying to learn.”
“Perhaps you should teach him some tricks, Masaru-niisama,” Takashi suggested, as if I were a dog. I took no offense, as I did not yet know to.
“Make Ryota do it when he returns from his mission.”
“Do not treat Madara like a pet,” father said, temper heating, and all fell silent.
Mother was bravest. “How is Kiyome?”
I perked up. Not because I knew who Kiyome was or what the word meant, but because I recognized the sound of the name being spoken.
“She is fine,” father answered, with finality. My mother did not like that.
“Tajima—“
“She performs her duties admirably,” he continued. “The new shrine is tended to.”
“She is alone.” My mother pleaded and my brothers looked pointedly away, feigning ignorance. “She is a child — your niece—”
“Kiyome was chosen to be our priestess,” father said, as he had many times before. “She was chosen by Amaterasu-omikami herself.”
“Ki!” I squealed, having decided that although I didn’t know what ‘Kiyome’ was, I wanted it. “Ki!”
My brothers laughed. My father did not.
A hawk descended from the sky, landing atop my father’s arm. It carried a scroll. At once, my father read it. His expression turned solemn and he closed his eyes.
My brother was dead.
::
Uchiha do not wear red unless as armour.
Red is the colour of the kami, the sharingan, and the blood which flows through our veins.
Red is life, and death.
Red is sacred.
Red is the colour of spilt blood, of torii gates, and of passage from this world into the next.
At Ryota’s funeral, mother held me close to her breast, clutching my tiny frame as if I would disappear if she dared to let go. Father addressed the clan and spat venom. Paternal grief braided with righteous anger. His words were as lashes, sharp and stinging. He rebuked the clan for its weakness. Ryota had been murdered. My father swore: a son for a son.
Justice for the lost. Vengeance for the living.
I understood nothing, but felt unease at the shift in atmosphere. There was no grief in me yet, for I hadn’t known to grieve. A virgin to the pain of loss.
Little Kiyome stepped forward, wearing a red hakama many sizes too large for her. The garb of a miko. She danced with a gohei, its paper streamers fluttering wildly. Her steps lacked the sharp precision of her father’s dance, but there was no one else left to dance in her place. I watched, transfixed, as flames erupted on the shide. With an impressive flourish she finished her kagura.
“The kami do not weep,” she said, “they roar.”
::
At the mighty age of three, I menaced the clan. A wild thing, I was, that stomped through the compound, chasing bugs with shrieks of laughter. My entire world consisted of a small inner circle of family: my two brothers, my mother, my father, and the few occasional relatives that visited them. I remained ignorant of the exchange of grave news: reports of losses, Senju victories, and other likewise unpleasantries. Ryota remained unavenged; this grated on my father, whose conscience bore the weight of a dead son. His moods became fickle and thunderous.
My father struck me for my rowdiness. My mother held her tongue and turned away. I didn’t cry immediately — too stunned by the sensation of pain. A novelty. Unwelcome. My lip quivered, face twisting in betrayal as I stared wide-eyed at my father, at the one who taught me pain. I wailed.
“Enough Madara,” Tajima said irritably.
I did not listen. How could I? I did not understand. All I knew was the sting on my cheek. I cried for my mother, but she did not hear me. Then, I cried for my brothers. When I found no comfort, I learned that nothing came of tears.
Shinobi children grew up quickly. I was no exception.
::
In the heart of the compound, there stood a great sakura whose yellow petals bloomed in double-flowered rings. I watched the branches sway, leaves rustling and petals swirling, as my mother led me to the temple shrine built in its shadow. The tree was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen — ancient and splendid, crowned in golden blooms. I wanted to bask in its presence a little longer — to learn every knot in its trunk, and trace every line and groove. It was poetry to me, written not in words but woven roots and braided branches.
Mother pulled me away and brought me into the shrine. There, I met the girl who named me. She was five years my elder, still a child, but to me, she seemed as wise and sage as any other adult I knew. Mother bowed deeply to the young priestess and had me do the same. Then, she lifted my sleeve. No words were exchanged between them. Kiyome quietly studied the purple marks marring my flesh, her gaze lingering on each bruise. The proof of my training.
“Please,” said mother, “may we pray with you?”
“The goddess smiles upon her children,” Kiyome replied. I didn’t know to find it strange for a child to speak as an adult. Back then, I didn’t know anything. “Those pure of heart and mind are always welcome.”
My mother did not pray.
“This is Madara,” she said, nudging me forward. “Will you watch him?”
I felt a sting of betrayal at her for suggesting it. I didn’t need to be left in the care of a stranger. I was a shinobi, not a child. Or so my father had hammered into me. She had forgotten. This made me anxious: I had to remind her before father felt the need to.
“Hello Madara,” Kiyome ruffled my hair and smiled. I was too stunned by the foreign gesture to react. “I am your cousin, Uchiha Kiyome.”
I had many cousins. This introduction was less helpful than she probably thought it was. But from the sharp look of warning my mother gave me, and the fact she wore the sacred red of the Kami, she was probably one of the more important ones.
“Hi,” I whispered, more shyly than I intended. Father would have slapped me. But Kiyome must have found my timidness endearing for she reached into her sleeve and presented me with candy. When my mother said nothing, I took her silence as permission and gratefully accepted.
There was probably something sacrilegious about regifting an offering made to Amaterasu. But neither her priestess nor I seemed to mind. Mother, stunned by the audacity, could say nothing and became our accomplice. She ate a yellow one and left the temple with the scent of yuzu in her breath.
Kiyome gave me another and I decided that of all my cousins, she was my favourite.