Chapter Seventy-Nine: My conditions, Your conditions

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Shadow Villages—they all rioted in a way good men would not, but what was a man that was . . . good? He had asked himself often. His Otō-Sama had little words to spare for his questions: he would look upon him, surprised, but say nothing save words a father would spare for a little boy of four.

His Nii-San would speak of Leaf, a shine in his eyes, a dangerous hue in his mouth. The prostration of man before its peaks—it was the ultimate act of love. Then he, too, would look upon him and say that he loved him more than he loved Leaf. A boy of three, he believed him.

His Okā-San was different for she had much to say: she wrote poetry, made sparrow origamis for Itachi, sang songs. In winter afternoons, she would take him into the forest, his hand held in hers, and there she would . . . talk. She liked talking, a faerie draped in endless white for she loved to adorn herself with white, dappled with a bit of reds, purples, blacks here and there—to grant her garments a sense of . . . completeness. When snow fell, he could not tell her body apart from the snow.

There she would sit—on the edge of snow—black hair floating. Sometimes, he thought that she looked much like a lost ghost; but not an ugly ghost—no . . . no, Mikoto was beautiful! She was red sasanqua bleeding in winter's woe, red butterfly living in spring's spirit, morning dew sparkling in summer's sun—she was—what was she in Autumn? His thoughts stopped and spun again, whirling faster than petals in his eyes.

There was a scent of sandalwood in her hair—always, every other day; and he could smell it now as though it was yesterday. He walked alongside her taller frame, looking up at her countenance that was illuminated by autumn's light. She held his little hand in hers, her walk slow for she wanted them both to walk side by side. This made him happy—very happy!

"Little mouse, little mouse don't run up the hill—drop the onigiri for you had had your fill!" Mikoto sang, in high spirits, for she liked to sing the little poems she wrote, often!

"Okā-San?" he asked, watched leaves exist upon her cheeks in grey imitations, smiled. "Okā-San, where a' we goin'?"

"To the shrine," she said and bent her head to look at him, "I want berries from there."

"Berries?" he asked, a little breathless, moving his legs faster.

"Yes, berries," she said and returned her eyes to the narrow trail ahead that was invisible under many leaves that had fallen from autumn's sickness, "they're good against poisons. You can eat them, too." There was a liveliness in her voice that was at odds with Autumn's stranger nature, though autumn loved the sound that came from her throat as the air danced, invigorated by her song!

"Time flies—does it fly like cranes? Like crow's plumes? Like scents in spring's blooms? Like dusts in summer? Leaves in autumn? Mists in winter? It flies by, in a blink, but you never see it fly away—yet it did go astray! A ghost—a mirage in the hot-spot in desert—running. Time flies—when did it fly? A groove in the face? A loss in youth's haze? A waning in lover's gaze? Gone—it flies—time flies."

They crunched through the forest, sun hiding behind their backs, shining. Sun struck the reds and tangerines and yellows in front, going into the droplets floating upon their dry husks. They seemed to come alive with suns upon them, like stars upon the dried-up Suna deserts—and they winked and blinked and glimpsed!

They mounted the stairs, slow and steady, one stair at a time. When they reached the top, Mikoto stopped and prayed to the statue that was always quiet underneath the shade—he could not tell if he had ever seen it move. He looked at her, her white cheek hidden by her loose hair, and imitated her posture, not knowing what to say. Should he pray? Pray for what? He had everything!

Then, just like that, she finished her prayer and looked at him and he pretended to do the same. "Should we look for berries?" she said and he bounced and ran all-over the place to find shrubs that bore them like little gifts. They were not hard to find; most grew from deep cracks in stones, cradled boy deities' shrines, stood at Buddha's feet—flourishing in Autumn's un-ending damp.

It took a while to fill up the bag she had on her arm, but they had gathered enough to last them the whole season. "We won't need any more," she assured him and sat down on the stone-stair by the boy deities' shrine. Then from her bag's pocket—and she had sewn many pockets in there—she took out a red paper and began to make an origami.

In the sunlight as it receded before him, her beauty was an effect of quarries of Kami's beauty; and, in that moment, he resented the red pin-wheel in her hand, that which took from him her heart and set it upon a course that made him . . . miss her—even when she was around . . .

Stones in many humanoid shapes stood about them, their eyes looking, yet not seeing. How could they? They were born blind; and, as anger bothered him, he picked up a pebble and struck the large statue that stood by her, looking upon her in eternal silence. The pebble ricocheted and disappeared behind the flora and left a sound that shook calm from silence.

The sharp sound startled her, and the three-pointed pinwheel that spun in air dropped from her hand. This satisfied him, though he did not smile; but when she looked to him, he looked away to the stream where the stone had fallen; there, he saw bubbles and koi mouths that showed above water.

"Sasuke! Come here—come!" she said between soft gasps, and, though he did not want to let her win so easily, he went to her regardless.

Mikoto took his hands in hers and said: "defiling the shrines is heretical! Don't do that! O', Sasuke, why would you do that? Kami would be angry with you—I don't want them to be angry with you!" Then she drew him to herself, weeping, praying, gasping.

"Kami—forgive him!" she wept, sighing. "He's a little boy. He won't do it again—he won't!" And she was looking up, sun lighting upon dazzled eyes, kissing his eyes, mouth, cheeks.

Sasuke concentrated on the statue behind them; its was an ominous visage, shrouded by a shadow from a greeting night that would be deep. It took few moments for the state to pass; and when it did, her smile was good as new as though she had freshly painted it upon her lips.

"Why are you angry?" she asked in a child-like voice (for he knew she was being purposely playful), pinched his round plump cheek, watched a pleasant pink grace the skin she had touched—eyes rounded like big round stones that filled deep hollows in a doll's face; mouth, of delicate red, smiled, barely curtained perfect teeth. She really was like a big, pretty doll dressed in white!

Sasuke looked down to his feet, a shyness in his face. "Okā-San, y-you don't love me?" he asked and a child's grief appeared as sincere signs in his eyes.

"O', but I do!" she said, spirited, and smiled a big smile that made red sasanqua rise in her robust cheeks.

"Why dontyu make anything fo' me?" he asked, saddened, and looked to her with eyes that trapped autumn's sun in his grief. "You make 'em fo' Nii-San—not me. I won't speak to you . . . "

"Ah!" she gasped, lifting him up, pressing him into herself. "Do you want to make me sad? I'd cry if I'm sad."

"No, don't cry," Sasuke sniffled, words muffled by her dress. He sat like this for some time, heaving long breaths in the manner of adults. Then he sat up straight and he was smiling again—a child's anger was forgotten easily, for it lacked memory's temper, though he was too young and at pains to explain why.

He looked about and noticed the manifested symptoms of dusk upon the horizon, a pink transforming to a better red—the slow burble of stream was more audible now that the day was truly drowsy. Soon, it would be night, though, as a child, he was full of energy and not weary of playing; so he hopped off her lap and ran to the stream—to catch a koi for his Okā-San!

The koi were fast in the slow waters. Bubbles, shiny like the coins he kept, popped at the surface and they scattered as soon as he slipped his hand into water. She looked on whilst he splashed about, unsuccessful. Koi slipped from his grasp and darted off in all directions.

Above them, autumn brought along another storm, a shine of lightening under its belly; and when light turned dim, chakra breaths came out and surrounded Sasuke in frenzied clusters. He looked surprised, gazing upon them as they came from darkening waters like solid globules whilst he was looking down.

They touched him and turned a little yellow—filled up with his life-force—and floated about in the air, like fireflies—like flames; and unto him, Autumn Moths came, delirious in their own way, for he smelt like lilies. Excited, he leapt at them and captured one out of the rabble and ran to her.

"Okā-San—Okā-San," he yelled, running to her. "I caught one. See—see!"

Then he stopped at the sight of her as a painting of fear mounted on the face of beauty. "Sasuke," she breathed out, visibly upset, "get rid of it. It's bad to carry it in your hands."

"Wha . . . why?" he asked, confusion evident upon his features, and felt the wings brush against his palms in gentle strokes; it was trapped in the tender prison securely.

"It's bad omen!" she said, loudly this time, and grabbed hold of his hand and jerked it. "It's turning into the Devil's Moth. I don't want you near it."

"Wash your hands—wash your hands!" she said, frantic, and jerked his hand again—harder this time—and the moth flew away into the darkness and they became one. Then she took him to the stream and washed his hands clean and wept—praying. She tended to become lachrymose when she was fearful of Kami's fury.

Along the waves, night's ink was spilt and they turned deep grey. He could turn to his Sharingan to see the koi hiding there, but he chose against it so as to not upset her anymore; so when he looked to her after she had wiped his hands dry on her dress, she was all smiles—again. She could be strange . . . sometimes . . .

"Don't be angry, Okā-San," he said, and, curiously she looked to him in the way a young girl would. "I'm sorry. I-I'll get a gift fo' you."

"Oh? I make charms for you, but you don't make anything for me," she said, kneeling by his side where the stream flowed laughing, and her tone was softer than moth's wings against its harsher music.

"I'll—" he stopped, deeply thinking of the things he could make.

"You're a good boy, Sasuke—you're such a good boy," she said, her voice light, and clutched his face in her hands and kissed his love-apple-shaded lips. Then she stood up and he did, too, and took his hand in hers.

They walked away from the kami sleeping in stones, their eyes still watching, never sleeping. Along the stones, sunlight floated like ghosts, coming and going. It seemed as though it would rain hard at night. He smiled—he liked rains!

They stopped near the statue by the last stair, and he peered long at the boy deities' shrine that existed everywhere in the Uchiha village. He could have sworn that he saw one hiding in grass deep in the forest, too, when he went out to play in the meadow with his brother.

Too bothered by not knowing, he asked, "Okā-San, who made this?" He pointed at the shrine and looked up at his mother's closed eyes and faintly smiling lips—in the light that flew from night, fainting, she was radiant.

She whispered whatever it was that she wanted to say to the stone and looked back. "Madara-Sama," she said, bending down and lifting him up into her arms that looked no less white than her dress.

"Madara?" he asked and leant his head against her shoulder. All about them, trees grew restless at the sight of storm.

"Our leader. He was here long ago—before Leaf was made," she said, her countenance a little affected by blackness that bred behind trees. They were far from Uchiha village—far from home. "His brother died in war, so he made the shrines to pray for him. Some say that he's buried under one of the shrines."

"No one's looked?" he asked, too curious to stop now.

"No," she said, laughing. "There are so many. It's a lot of land to dig up."

"I'll look fo' it!" he said with enthusiasm in his voice. "When I find it, I'd—I'd bring his brother's bones to you. You can make yucky medicine o' 'em! That'd make Obā-San happy—she's not happy with you. I don't like her!" And then he was frowning and pouting in irritation.

Mikoto stopped, surprise apparent on her face, and looked at the innocent frown in his brow and laughed; and the whole forest listened to her pretty tones. At this, his anger vanished piece by piece, and Sharingan rippled up like blood-carrying bubbles to the foam of waves.

"Okā-San, I love you!" he said with the depth of a child's honesty, eyes brimming with love's ardour, and put a purple lily in her hair; at which, she smiled and kissed his cheek.

Suddenly, she stopped by a well, into which the stream had broken; it was brimming full with water, and light from the full moon, like a crescent, concentrated at the lower half; their faces, mirrored by water, floated above the crescent that gave the illusion of a smiling mouth drawn by a child's hand.

"What do you see?" she asked, her smile murky, hair floating about his face like wings. "You and me!"

"Little boy child, your heart grows wild!

Little Boy child, filled with love, beguiled!"

She began her whispers and walk to the Uchiha village, and he regarded, from over her shoulder, the pristine white that covered the smooth bend of her back. He was fascinated, and he watched lilies grow from the ground and smile up at him, after they had their fill of fireflies. Night grew, yet so did his love . . . day was not enough to halt its progress . . .

Night ended—that one—yet so did all nights. One night she was there, next she was not. Perhaps that was the thing about nights: they opened the door into dream, peace, memory. Without dreaming, man was colourless. Nightmares, corruptions that had their place; they granted man fury whilst he slept, fury needed to see things through to the end. There was a charm in their ugliness, a ferocity that a pretty dream could never give . . .

There's much to remember—much! A night was coming here, too; and, when he looked up, he saw an oppressive sky falling down, a great vein bleeding out into the stagnant water—the colour could hardly move, trapped by a storm in-between a rapturous night and miserable morning.

And before he could think of another thought, rain came down and drowned what little of morning remained. It was hard to tell night from storm anymore; they had become one. By his side, upon the tolerant shrub, red sasanqua bloomed. Their reds were striking in night. He plucked one and shoved it into his pocket—thoughtlessly—and looked ahead. In autumn, he confessed, she was only memory . . .

In front of him, a large house stood against storm that would keep beating into its wood till morning. Behind it, mountains stood like dwarfed sentinels to protect it from the bitter cold that condemned it from north. It cast a deep shadow on this part of the forest when it was dusk; now, storm had rendered its uniqueness obsolete.

He waited, stood drenched in rain, felt wind come down at him. Hours passed by, and, at last, he saw the window on the left wall open. Then a man leant out and waved a red cloth so energetically that he nearly fell out. Quickly, he pulled himself inside and bright light filled up the large window.

This was it! Somewhere, an owl hooted whilst it rained; yet, without wasting another moment, he flashed from his hiding place, and, in the next moment, he stood on the robust bough and knocked against the sturdy frame; a moment later, a frightened young man slid open the rice-paper window, let him in, and slid it shut.

"You sure picked a good time to come here, Sasuke," he said, annoyed. "Why not come through the main-door?"

"I want it to be our secret," Sasuke replied, smiling with child-like mischievousness, and sat down by the sunken hearth. It was blazing hot, and the kettle hanging above it was letting out steam and echoing that familiar whistling sound, telling the room's owner that tea was ready to be poured out.

"Ah, my charming Ōji-Sama, coming in through the window to court me," he shot back, a little dramatically, and walked to him, his delicate robes trailing on the over-polished wooden floor.

"Why are you here? You said nothing in your missive!" he said, sounding clearly agitated, and settled himself with the greatest care by Sasuke's side. Fire danced on his young face, and Sasuke could not help but notice that he was . . . very young.

Tokugawa Ogimaru, Ieyasu's second son, was a young man of eighteen. Though astute in some bureaucratic matters his father handled, he was rather cowardly. He spent most of his days pleasing Ieyasu rather than applying the iron-focus his duty required.

What he felt for his father was more fear, less admiration. A child born to a handmaiden, Lady Kogō, he never could gain his father's favour in a manner his third son, Hidetada, could. Perhaps the late Lady Saigō's whispers in Ieyasu's ears forever haunted Ogimaru's future days, a curse from the black tongue of a vengeful yūrei.

A witch! he would often call her in frustration, for Ieyasu did not love him. No matter what he did, it was never enough to please his father; so all he received from Ieyasu were cold gestures and indifference. Sasuke did not think Ieyasu held any malice towards this son, but he could say for certain that he never wanted him . . .

"Why?" Ogimaru asked again, in a voice which was strongly subdued and did not reflect his anxiety.

"Has Itachi brought Meru to your house yet? He should've been here by now," he said and watched with enormous satisfaction as fire's colour filled Ogimaru's deathly white face so completely.

"How—how did you know? Father never—I never—"

"I know now," Sasuke replied, smiling in a triumphant manner.

"Sasuke, you vile man! You're up to no good, aren't you?" Ogimaru accused, a slight shine of white teeth visible between his lips—whose healthy flower-pink hue was characteristic of well-fed, dainty aristocrats—wringing his hands furiously, his eyes growing bigger.

"Did you eavesdrop—you little mouse?" Sasuke remarked, yet Ogimaru, though he wanted to reply, sprang to his feet, and marched off to the door. Then, after opening it, he stuck his head out and looked about; and after making sure that no one had heard them, he raced back to the fireplace in a flurry of garments and slumped down on the cushion, utterly sorrowful.

"Oh, Otō-Sama would kill me. He'd kill me dead!" he lamented and rubbed his fingers across his sweat-adorned features, a fire burning the lightest yellow kikus in his garments that he looked more like a weeping ghost-boy than a man. "Why, Sasuke? Why would you do this to me? Why—why—why?"

"I never should've eavesdropped—that fool of a servant. I never should've listened to him. He probably wants my seat. Yes—yes, that's it. It's the seat. It's all his fault," he continued, his breathing heavy. "Otō-Sama—forgive me!"

At this, Sasuke pressed his knuckled hand to his lips and started laughing. An angry colour passed over Ogimaru's deep woodsy eyes, rendering them lighter in fire's light; and, out of his pocket, he drew a yellow silk handkerchief and wiped the shine from his face. Then he chased his eyes over into the corners of the large room, searching for spectres, and stopped them on the shadows, about which vibrant light rose.

The living-room was clean, decorated with the finest objects the young man could afford. The sword-stand, which Sasuke was sure Ogimaru seldom touched, that stood in the corner bore striking silver and gold patterns engraved into its wood; and, warmed by light, they shimmered, awaiting touch from a resolute hand. It only had a place to hold a single sword—a neglected piece that exhibited a make-believe warrior's artifice.

The urn in the alcove was filled with wilted red sasanqua—he had not bothered watering them, so, almost dismayed by abandonment, they had lost their colour and gained a dismal pink hue sapped of vitality that made them stand out in winter's snow, right before their demise. Their stems, crooked and dried, cast a foreboding shadow on the scroll-painting that hung behind the urn. Upon it, a spring pattern was drawn, which he told Sasuke he had created in the honour of his late mother.

When Sasuke stopped laughing, he gazed over to Ogimaru, whose countenance was fuming hot like the kettle. Begrudgingly, he tended to his host duties and lowered the kettle by adjusting the fish-shaped metallic saru that shone with a vivid earthen-grey quality.

As Ogimaru poured out a yellow-coloured tea, Sasuke noticed that the sliding door to Ogimaru's room was partially open. The inside was sparsely brightened by the aid of a single lantern that bore deep-red kikus as a customary symbol of his family—or his father's family, for upon him, his father's sign was lightest, a fire without will.

"You'd get both of us into trouble," he said, a furious pink rising in his soft cheeks, and thrust the cup into Sasuke's hand. The hot liquid slopped out and splashed onto Sasuke's fingers: he did not flinch.

"Your hospitality is lovely," Sasuke remarked and looked at the cup that was partially filled with an aromatic tea. A yellow flower, which had lost its potent hue, floated upon the surface, its seeds black and bloated in hot water.

"Forgive me," he muttered, took a quick sip, and placed the cup down on the floor. "Tell me why you're here. My heart might fail not knowing." And he was looking to him, his face innocent white as a naïve fool's.

"I need something—and I need it now," he said and blew at the curling steam that sat atop the cup and sipped. Delicious, like caramel to the senses—it was sweetened with honey.

"What?" he asked, still concerned for he had an unpleasant feeling eating away at his gut—like ravenous mice running amok in rice-fields.

"I want the old construction map of this house—one that shows everything—yes, the prison, too," Sasuke whispered, storm's brightness penetrating through and spearing his changed eyes. Rain pelted the window and tore open a big hole into its rice-paper—now, it poured into the room, turned silver in rhythm with every flash.

Ogimaru fisted his smooth robes and bent forward, his eyes like two translucent brown agates; frightened beyond measure, his eyes moved between the door and Sasuke's calm face that he thought was too child-like and sweet for his age—demeanour, too.

Ogimaru said nothing for few moments, turned, watched a trail of water come into the room through the torn rice-paper—slowly. "Are—" he stopped, for breaths could not support his words, and turned to look Sasuke in the eyes, "—are you mad? You want to get Meru out, don't you? Otō-Sama will have my head for this. No—Sasuke—No. I can't do this! I—" And he was trembling like a frightened child, his face covered in fresh sweat.

"I'm not asking you to get me the map," Sasuke said, a palpable command in his voice, "I'm telling you get it. I need it in two days and one night. If you don't give it to me, I'd tell your father how you managed to take care of that diplomatic mess you left in Kiso. I'm sure that'd be enough to make him very upset with you. Isn't that why you have your bureaucratic job?"

"You wouldn't!"

"Nothing's free. I did something for you. Now, it's your turn to do something for me. Besides," Sasuke paused, a smile, which showed a flavour of his prickly nature, appearing on his visage with torturous slowness, "Hidetada's handling the bandits. If he slips, it's a win for you."

"If he slips. You make it sound so easy," he said quickly, his agitation increasing.

"It is easy," Sasuke said, sipped tea, sighed out. "I'd clear up the . . . unpleasant things in your head. Enjoy the tea." Then he raised the cup, smiled fully, drank all of it in a single breath as though it was sake.

Ogimaru exhaled a long breath—suddenly, he felt very tired. Spreading from Storm's belly, white lights stormed in, like uninvited Shinobi, struck Sasuke over and over again, but the young Uchiha looked joyous as ever; and why wouldn't he? He was kicking him into Yomi's jaws to have his way . . .

"Otō-Sama's kind to your brother—almost sweet on him," Ogimaru said in a dejected tone and sat slumped, with his brow in his hand, his face and half his garments under shadow. "Well, that's would Yukie tells me, anyway. She says that there are some things only women see. I think she's mad."

Sasuke said nothing, his ears wriggling, and his silence allowed him to say more on the issue: "you should be afraid of your brother. I've heard . . . mean things about him—nasty things. It's no wonder that Otō—" he stopped and clamped his teeth together tightly to prevent himself from uttering anything disrespectful.

"He can see my thoughts. Doesn't that frighten you? Lord Sage—I'm frightened!" Ogimaru said and sat up straight, looking almost petrified.

"Itachi isn't your business," Sasuke replied, holding his cup out as Ogimaru refilled it for him. "He's like a Yōkai. Chant from your mother's sutras. Think happy thoughts. He'd go away." The kettle was still warm, its bottom radiating heat, which he felt on his hand. Sasuke drank all of it again in one big gulp and held out his cup again and waited whilst Ogimaru poured out more of the tea that was cooling fast.

"Nii-Sama this—Nii-Sama that," he paused and picked up his cup from the floor, "now, it's Itachi? Have you lost your head?"

"No, just my coins—one bronze and one silver," he said and licked his lips, liking the unique, delicate honey flavour which was imparted to tea.

"I'll be the one in trouble. He has no shortage of Ohara Sans—or sons," he said in a bitter voice and put down the half-full cup—he had lost his appetite. "Otā-Sama was killed on charges of treason. Nobuyasu-San, too. He didn't shed a tear. My death wouldn't affect him, either.

"Women come and go. I see a new one every week—men, too. He's a rather . . . spirited man. You don't know how I feel." Then he spoke of nothing, looking into the fire and then his robes, lost as a child, as though searching for the reason as to why his birth robbed his kikus of a deeper shade. Perhaps his mother's hara was cursed, after all . . .

Sasuke shoved his hand into his pocket and took out a scroll. "Here," he said and held it out to him, "it's a report on one of the out-posts near Konoha. The biggest one. The head Jōnin's been slacking at the seals. They're weak. A surprise attack from the back would be enough to put a new flag in it. You can pay a little visit and pretend that you noticed something fishy. Hidetada will look like a fool. He's the one who appointed him, didn't he?"

"You're very generous," Ogimaru replied, voice full of unmasked mockery, lips pressed into the tightest line that they looked like seams; yet he took it from Sasuke's hand regardless and tucked it away inside his robes.

"I try my best," Sasuke said, sat up straight, made few quick hand-seals. "Now, about your little head . . . look at me."

Ogimaru did not get the chance to protest; and, in the next moment, Sasuke was rooting through his memories the way a child rooted through grass in search of toys lost in last night's spirited play. Then, a beat later, he was out of his mind, not out of his sight for his red was unnaturally prominent against hearth's fire—too prominent.

"Wha—what did you do?" Ogimaru asked, holding his breast, breathing fast.

"I've put barriers on your mind," Sasuke said, unconcerned of Ogimaru's fears, "when you get me the map, say this, little moue, little mouse don't run up the hill—drop the bread for you had had your fill!

"It'll clear your head. It'd be our little secret!"

"You—stop treating me like a child!" Ogimaru said, blushing a deep, painful red, and hastily averted his gaze.

"What—you want a pinky-swear? I'd work," Sasuke said and smiled and held out his cup again.

"The kettle's empty. You drank everything," he said and looked down at his neglected tea cup—a solid layer had formed over the surface; the tea had gone cold. Sasuke shook his head in mock sadness and put the cup down and looked at the rainwater that had stopped in its tracks against a particularly loose floor-board. The water was seeping down to . . . somewhere.

"Are you going to get that cleaned? Obā-San tells me that when the storm's rot goes in, it ruins the whole house."

"Forget that—are you staying? You can sleep in my room before Otō-Sama knows you're here and leave before—"

"He knows," Sasuke said, and, in dimmed fire, his Sharingan's light was especially violent. "You didn't hear your servant's footsteps?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Ogimaru asked, panic overwhelming his face and turning it whiter than before, and sprang to his face so fast that Sasuke did not think he had it in him. "Aren't you going to leave? You said that you didn't want him to—"

"No, I'm going to wait for my wicked, no-good brother," Sasuke cut across him, dragged himself away from the hearth, leant his back against the wall. Then he closed his eyes and spoke no more. Behind Ogimaru's back, sky opened wide, an angry mouth, and storm intensified and shredded the rice-paper; slick sheets of rain came in; and water, bubbling upon impact, turned silver with the brightness in the sky. Ogimaru rushed to the window, his hair coming loose in the wind, robes flying, and closed the sturdier wooden-frame from the inside. Truly terrified, he sagged down to the floor and looked upon the young man who he knew was up to no good . . .

Autumn was running; Winter was chasing. Storm—angry, violent, vengeful—did not stop, but grew fiercer when the older one entered his domain, wearing his own flesh without illusions afresh, thunder bold upon the sounding air. The storm could not cease without his winter, his lulling love. This land, bountiful with flesh, beautiful with gore, was his True-est master, his only Kami; and he had served it like a kneeling mystic, propitiated Kami with bone and blood and body till he fell slumbering to his grave amidst leaves scattering in summer's ecstasy.

He tip-toed the fine line between fanaticism and devotion, never crossing one or the other completely; yet, now, one side called, in tones rich, luscious. The seduction was greater than all seductions he had felt before; and he was tempted—so tempted—to set free his impulses, relish its murky taste of joy in that insanity, which he nurtured, never murdered in the heavenly orchard of his heart. There was corruption, a sinister ring to the voice, that plucked his memories like children plucked juicy apples and ran like thieves; he had done it before—why not now, too? It was easy—easy to dream of dreams that he had lived. What dreams he dreamt? Lush and lovely, his agony solemn and severe his savagery.

Moon—full and beautiful—mirror of his beauty, clothed in its beauty. Fistfuls of flesh he ate and ate, gluttonous and fat and slimy, mothers lamenting their sons' transfiguration into devils with wings. Was it the seed that was of the father that ruined men bearing red eyes and all, for it had ravaged her womb? Poor, sad little woman . . .

As the breeze of challenge blew upon the house, it brought the perfume of rain and land to his nostrils; a sharp smell, it threatened to block his air passages again, yet, at least, the noise was persistent to block out the ringing in his damaged ear. Lucky? Time would tell, and Time was no one's friend, not even his.

Now, he looked upon the man whom he had served since childhood, dressed in signs of . . . servility? No, that was not in his heart for he served Leaf—and its Will. He was born to serve. Assist, he would correct the course of his near-heretical thought, but was there a difference? In all his life, he could not say he had found it.

The lantern was bright, yellow its light that fell upon the richest robes, upon which kikus were embroidered; facing a rising red sun, they were of the deepest red, one which he had never seen . . . well, save his clan's reds—those reds were deeper still; but, in their deep nature, treachery had germinated. They lacked the calm that possessed these reds.

"This will not work," he spoke, at last, wearied. He wanted to leave here. The man . . . distressed him. After all, it was difficult to look into the mirror to see an older face when the mist was away . . .

"And you should not be the one to dictate in our dealings, lest you desire both of my hands on you again—one to slit your throat and one to slit your cock. And let me tell you a little secret, no one enjoys the company of a eunuch in bed or battle . . . no matter how lovely he may look," he spoke, a smile almost touching his lips in wild delight, and stood straight, light bending downwards at sharp angles about his robes that gave him the impression of a man set alight.

"You asked of me to bring this fool here to reminisce about bed and battle and the eunuchs that may decorate them? Your interests are bizarre and inspiring," he spoke, irked, though he appeared calm to his master's eyes.

"But of course! Which man would deny the charm of battle and heat of bed? Perhaps one that was born with the heart of a woman, but such men elicit boredom amongst friend and foe. Is that not true, my dearest friend, Meru?" he asked, turning a little so that the light captured the side of his sharp face in intimate detail.

Meru, bound to a sturdy chair, looked up, but said nothing; instead, he pressed his lips aggressively together to keep his thoughts from tumbling out. Both men could say with complete conviction that Meru had nothing . . . nice to say.

"Never have I had the pleasure of eunuchs, but I can always create one out of you. Let us call it a social experiment on the importance of being spiritually fluid. You can set the trend, my dog. It is a shame that you are so unsightly," he spoke and walked to the restrained man whose back was bowed. He was silent . . .

"How is your dear wife? Last I saw her, she was writhing in my bed, hoping that I would grant you a permit into that foul Samurai Land." Thunder chased his words and shattering noises filled the dimming room: the lantern was almost out of oil, its flame shivering against winter's half-waking instruments.

Samurai land—a land so cold and vast, draped in white. Men from Shadow Villages crossed its borders and took refuge in the villages scattered across the treacherous mountains that stretched on like great, frozen waves as far as the eyes could see—beyond that even. It was hard for Shinobi who bore their villages' marks with pride on their brows to find their way into the depths of snow that fell all year round; the land found joy and respite in autumn—only once; and for it, autumn was its greatest spring.

"Did you whip her for spreading her legs to me? She told me that your temper is . . . unpleasant," he spoke, and, in a sudden fit of anger that gripped him, Meru spat at him, though he missed his mark . . .

"When a man fails to spit in his foe's face from this up close, he has truly brought shame upon his ancestors," he spoke, unamused, looked upon the man who sat sick and heaving in the chair. Still no answer . . .

"Speak, churl!" he spoke, his voice biting at the cold air, sharp. "If you do not speak, I will ask this man here to find your family. It is not hard to find a woman and few children. With heart and conviction, man can find Kami.

"And when he finds them, he will give them to me, and I will keep your lovely wife and one daughter that is pretty till I grow weary of them—and give your other daughter and son to hungry men. And they can keep them till they grow weary of them. Is that what you want, to have your children be mounted by hungry men, ten at a time? I shall even allow you a comfortable place to witness the spectacle. By Kami's will, I will—and I shall!"

Nothing . . . Meru sat quietly in the light that smelt malodorous to his senses. The shadow the man cast upon him was nothing more than air over his body. His fear was beaten; perhaps his spirit's death had led to its murder as, without fear, men forgot to live . . .

"Hidetada!" he called out, command heaviest in his voice; and, a moment later, a young man of seventeen came into the room; lantern's light showed his face soft, boy-like; his hair, black like his father's; he shared his eyes, too, though they lacked the hard aspect his father's possessed.

"Yes, Otō-Sama?" he asked and bowed his head.

"Take him away," he spoke, and temper was visible in his brow. Hidetada nodded and called a man named Tadao into the room, who untied the tired man and struggled to keep him upright—he could tell that he had little will in him to stand.

"Do not give him water," he spoke, casting Meru a glance that was uncharacteristically hateful.

"Yes, Ieyasu-Sama," Tadao said, nodded, and walked out quietly . . .

Ieyasu, shifting so that light went along his face, was returning the other man's gaze with a slow, unreasoning anger. Then he smiled, and his smile was least sincere. "Why can you not bring me one good news, Itachi? You only bring yourself. Sometimes, I just think that you are . . . useless. Would you agree?" Ieyasu asked, eyes seeing the young Uchiha's face cast in sobriety that concealed many aspects of his troublesome nature.

"I want to talk of Tsunade's ruination . . . for she's steadfast in her quest to ruin me utterly," Itachi spoke, looking akin to a ghost from theatre cast out, as if he had come to play again . . .

"Your generosity? Is this the glad tidings I have awaited?" Ieyasu mocked expressionlessly and walked to his table and sat down in the chair that was unusually large; and, though he was a tall man, it made him appear gigantic.

"She taught Kikyo her Ninjutsu. Did she tell you?" Itachi spoke, his voice whispering in the room in a manner as though there was a legion of him in the shadows, disturbing storm's turmoil.

Ieyasu looked up from the letter spread out on the table, an interest evident upon his features, framed agreeably between long black hair. When he said nothing, Itachi continued: "it is not allowed to teach Shinobis Jutsus that aid Leaf. She did. The girl nearly killed me. When did she teach it to her? She never told me.

"The scroll—I have it with me, yet it is locked away by a binding seal only she knows. Did you know?"

Still looking at him, Ieyasu nearly smiled. "Say what you want to say," he spoke, talking out the brush from the ink-pot to finish the letter. "You have a tendency to whisper things into my ears. Which, I must confess, I do find irresistible—sometimes."

"How much did Kisame tell you? I want to know," Itachi spoke, and like a daemon in a man's disguise, he crossed the light and cut off the rays falling upon himself, casting a shadow so thick on the wall that it appeared blacker than the storm-tormented night outside.

"Do you think I was dishonest with you? You are as insistent as lovers tonight," Ieyasu spoke, writing. "He told me that Isobu was bartered off to Yagura in return for money and services—to cripple Cloud's reign and destroy Gyūki. Leaf's council did that without the Military Council's knowledge. Dogs . . .

"If they gave away more . . . well, then he did not trust me with the knowledge. Why? I think he did not trust me for he did not trust you. Why must you bring this up every other week when you know the answer? Itachi, do you enjoy being like naïve boys? I do find you occasionally charming in this disguise." Ieyasu looked up once, his eyes gleaming against the lantern with meaning, and then he went back to his task of writing.

"Danzō will not give you the daemon—if he even has it," Itachi spoke and came closer and stood by the chair, his shadow darkest upon the wet ink in the letter. "The bandits that caught wind of the Okami girl's treachery gather round Leaf. It is only a matter of time they get in touch with him and ruin the greater unification which you have dreamt of for years. What will you do when that happens?"

Ieyasu pushed the brush back into the inkpot and leant back into the chair. Before him, a quiet room stared back, one which the lantern did not affect. A darkness existed about the floor, dark as blood, which was torn open like flesh when lightening came in. Then the room bled out in white streams—martyrs, they were martyrs in Greater Will's fire.

Ieyasu, deep in thought, did not speak; and, taking advantage of his silence, Itachi bent down and whispered into his ear: "the councilman you detest comes from the capital, and he means trouble. Danzō has called him to Leaf. He wants more trouble, and Tsunade hopes to limit your hold through this trouble.

I ask for your presence in Leaf. It would end the matter quickly and make my task easier."

Then he backed away, and, after drawing a long breath, Ieyasu let out a short laugh that echoed in the room. "You are sweet tonight," he spoke and poured out a cup of light sake. "Get that scroll open before I come. I want to know what it says."

Itachi nodded and stood erect, light going down his face, blending perfectly into the white; and when Ieyasu looked up, he could see him and the loveliest part of him, enshrined in the light's architecture—white, all white; sublime white; winter white.

Ieyasu looked away and picked up the letter from the table; all it needed now was a stamp from his family. "Your brother is with Ogimaru," Ieyasu spoke and applied the red kiku-shaped seal on the paper with the help of his chakra and watched it dry. "You should be kinder to the boy. He is very sweet."

Quietly, without saying a word to Ieyasu, Itachi left the room as easily as shadows; and, outside, storm's restless nature found a sort of calm in the midst of tall mountains . . .

This night felt longer, stronger. Brightened by a full moon, night let storm flee. The younger one felt the older one before he opened the door. His eyes opened and saw Itachi standing white like clay toys in the light. Nervously, Ogimaru bowed, said, "Itachi-Sama!" and left the room in a hurry as though he was being chased down by assailants.

Silence—strangling quietness pervaded in Itachi's presence that Sasuke could hardly hear the storm. Fury—burning like corpses, bleeding like children, blurring like storms—went through him, and, all of a sudden, he wanted his brother gone to the ends of earth . . . and never return unto him as ghosts did to haunt men.

Inside the room, the hearth had gone cold as corpses. Ogimaru was so distressed that he forgot to rekindle it. He had spent his time walking about the room, sweating, pacing, whispering. Sasuke could not blame him, but he was desperate. Poor boy . . .

At last, his wicked brother spoke, though he wished he had not: "you were sweet when I brought you gifts and you smiled. Now, you are thankless. No matter what I do to please you, you are . . . thankless. Why? Have I not done enough to earn a bit of your love—respect?"

"Fuck you!" Sasuke hissed, unamused, turning his face to the light that escaped Ogimaru's room in long broken pieces.

"Foul language—and in my presence? You know I do not like it," Itachi spoke calmly, without moving, feeling that any harshness may invite more of his sibling's anger—the girl had ruined him; and, at that moment, he held nothing but the deepest contempt for her in his breast . . .

"When I look at you, I see red," Sasuke said, his tone harsher than before, his brother a shadow in shadows. "Get out. I don't want to see you—not now—not ever." Though Sasuke had no intention to retaliate, his fury got the best of him—you see, his brother was a grave digger who had dug out several graves and filled them to the top, not with bodies, but with blood.

"Why do you challenge me?" Itachi asked, and, this time, he drew near; and Sasuke wanted to shrink into the wall to escape his shadow's grasp—unsuccessful. "Is my love not enough for you? I did what you asked of me. I allowed the foul children into your team. I let your friend remain your friend. Yet no matter what I do, you still choose to challenge me? I can only endure your anger for so long till I find one of my own to match yours.

"Do you want me to choose? You will regret my choice." And at this confession, shadows, huddled into the corner, wriggled about like moth's twisting larvae in glee.

"You give me nothing but grief. You won't let me leave—you won't let me live. I won't do what you want me to do. Why don't you kill me? It'd be for the best if you killed me," Sasuke said honestly and felt Itachi's hand on his head. He was stroking his hair back, and he hated it . . .

"You child—how could you even think of something so vile? I love you with all my heart . . . looking upon you . . . it fills me with a joy that cannot be measured," Itachi spoke, his words sweeter than the sweetest honey, yet Sasuke detested them with equally bitter intensity.

"Your stubbornness breaks my heart," Itachi paused and lifted Sasuke's chin with the fingers of his free hand and touched his cheek with the other, "look at the darkness that decorates your eyes. Why do you ruin yourself for the dead? I want you looking the same—like a sweet and beautiful child, free of distress. All smiles and shiny eyes. If you do not listen, I will be forced to do what you will not like. You will not—I promise you this." Itachi's eyes turned red with violence, his Shurikens cutting slowly like butcher's knives, as if awakening from a dream; like the twinkling of stars from a slumbering radiance, Sasuke's responded.

"My conditions—your conditions—back to the same bullshit, huh? You're a liar!" Sasuke shot back, his flowers burning to bits in the deep pits of his eyes. "You kept Suigetsu for yourself, you fucking liar. How much did you pay him, huh? It's no wonder I couldn't get anything done. You don't fool me, though I bet you've fooled the clan. I'd never forgive you. What are you hiding? Did you put swords into their backs, you traitorous fuck?" Then Sasuke bent his head, his cheeks like pieces of love-apples within the hair.

"Sometimes, I wish your tongue was sweeter," Itachi remarked and ceased his caresses. Curse that woman—the words singed his tongue and almost slipped out. It was no use. Sasuke was so angry that, no matter what he said, he would not listen. "Stay here if you wish or come with me. Make your choice, but mind your tongue and mind. If you do not come, I will take you home regardless and confine you to a single room if I must. There you will live. I will come by in the evening and we will eat lovely things, and that is all what your life will be. No one will miss you for there will be no one left to miss you."

Succumbing to his original intention that was ruined by anger, he stood up, but said nothing, matching his older sibling's anger beat for beat. "You are a good boy," Itachi spoke, bent his head, kissed Sasuke's brow; and, now, he was smiling, looking at the younger one with lovely fondness. "You may not know, but I do. When winter comes, and it will come soon, I want to see your ills forgotten with season—one way or another—come."

Then Itachi turned away and left the room, and he followed. Outside, by the main-door, Ieyasu stood, a scroll in his hand. He held it out and gave it to Sasuke who smiled in reply. "Our secret," Ieyasu spoke, without looking to Itachi, and smiled a deep and warm smile. By his side, Ogimaru looked as frightened as ever . . . he wanted to stay, but Itachi pulled him away from the house; and, now that storm had lost its vigour, Sasuke knew that a long journey lay ahead of him . . .

# # # # # #

It was into the night's deeps that storm went quiet as the house. There was no one, not a sound, to meet her. Since her darling was not here, the library's door that led to the garden was closed with a secure padlock. She leant her head sidelong against the wall and gazed upon her son's painting that still hung in the alcove; the loss of colours inside shadow's belly was evident, but, without Sharingan, she still saw a red moth bleeding to its death in winter. Red invaded white deeply till it lost its hue and dimmed to pink, but it stopped in its tracks too soon to leave a mark; and, up in the sky, storm, most beautiful boy child in garments light and flowing, slept inside the open Samsara eye rendered in Kami's purple, a smile on its pretty red mouth, a Purple Lily in its tiny curling hands, a Sharingan-bearing large crow sitting by its side, gazing down upon its countenance, a devotion in its red, moon glowing about its blackest head.

With a sigh, she rose up to her feet, her old bones unable to carry her like this anymore; yet, unlike her youth, her stubbornness remained. She walked through the empty corridor, not gazing upon brightness that struck the lattice and bent the structure's shadows across her path. Little distractions . . .

A hesitance swelling in her heart—she opened Itachi's room and a long strip of light fell across the rack in which he placed his scroll. Above it, a clock hung, and she noticed that its minute-hand was slowing down. The room was clean, but empty. She did not know what she expected to see, but its sight left great sorrow in her heart.

Carefully, she closed the door and made her way to the garden. The storm was receding fast, and, by the time she opened the main-door, letting out entrance's light into night, a full moon glowed beautifully in the sky; and, about it, rings of whites and greys spun.

Breathing deeply the air that was fragrant, she walked to the shining pathway and sat down on the well that was closed with a thick wooden cover. Then she gazed upon the bud that had grown to maturation; and, right before her eyes, moon kissed its top and it opened wide, smiling.

"This was the last seed you gave me. I planted every single one, and," she paused, Sharingan rushing faster than her grief to reflect moonlight, "they are all gone now. It is gone, my darling. And I still cannot see you—not without the Sharingan that hurts me. Your mother has lost her eyes without you."

Silence . . . only wind. Like a shade, he came from the past her Sharingan had kept and appeared before her eyes; and he wore a kind smile, like threads of scarlet his lips, like snow his cheeks, partially shaded by night-deep hair; and he gave her the purple lily seeds, said that he had brought them from the heart of their ancestral lands.

He was born at the end of January, winter's peak! Yet, now, he stood before a dusking sky, autumn's streak; reds from war in the sky called unto him, and he left—he left her all alone, and she never saw him again . . .

"I miss you," she whispered, at last, grieving, "I miss you, my son. You took all of my heart. You never gave it back. Why do you not come to me? I love you so much. I cannot bear this—not anymore. Your last memory is gone, and I fear—I fear that I will lose you, too." She touched her eyes, Sharingan shimmering the way it did when she was young, praying.

When Mikoto felt the chakra germinate in her womb, it was the day her oldest son had perished. She had prayed for so long that she was over-joyed beyond measure. The boy was strong, and he ate much from her mother's weak hara. Mikoto—a half-breed—was undeserving of her youngest son who was kind enough to take her as his bride. She forbade him from ever teaching his sons to call Mikoto Otā-Sama. Though she could tell that he was saddened by her indifference to his wife, he agreed.

Much to her dismay, Mikoto could not nurture the firstborn son fully and bore him well before his time, at summer's peak in June. The boy, at birth, was tiny, but beautiful. Though his body was small enough to fit in both her hands, he was strong, as though he came into this world with a purpose. He did not weep much and stayed in her chakra's protection for several months before he gained enough strength to look at the world about him—with big, curious eyes that were much like her son's.

She wanted to name him after her oldest, but her youngest had chosen a name for him already. Her youngest and Mikoto named the firstborn Itachi—Itachi, a quiet child, spoke little and filled the mould her oldest left behind, for he looked like him—he looked just like him.

Itachi—her oldest had returned to her, but he was cold as though winter had sustained him through his spirit's rebirth. He liked Autumn Moths, fed upon them like devils in play (a habit she had always loathed), carried a coarseness in his countenance that was enough to mar her oldest son's beauty. There was, if she were honest, a corruption in him that never went away, it only gained more power every winter; yet she prayed for the lost son in him, and, albeit he was around, his indifference made her miss his demeaour that he had left behind in the previous life . . .

She heard the rustling of leaves, and, in spite of being old, she could, without looking, tell the way the feet moved as to who it was. "Why are you here, Tsunade?" she asked, putting to rest her three-kunai-like Mangekyō Sharingan pattern.

Tsunade came to the gate, stopping in anxiety for a moment, and then she walked into the garden that was surprisingly lush in spite of the harsh weather. She stood a few feet from the old woman, away from the moonlight, who looked as though she wanted nothing to do but pray tonight. "Rao-Sama," she began, closing her fingers into fists, feeling a cold meet her breast cruelly, "I want to speak to you about the land's lease. It's ending. It would be for the best if Ieyasu—"

"If Ieyasu does not get it?" Rao forestalled her, laughing. "If he does not, then should you?" She looked at her, and her eyes turned red, angry. Tsunade did not know what to say.

"This well you see here, we do not tell our children that Madara-Sama made it—that he made it before your Leaf stood on these hallowed grounds. We lie because you ask us to lie—and Itachi? Itachi listens to your lies. He sees truth in them. Perhaps I am cursed by my oldest. I deserve it."

Rao looked away, and there was silence between them once more. She sat like this for some time, utterly silent, as if she was lost. Then when Rao heard the chimes, she spoke again, though she chose not to look at her: "Mafuyu, my oldest, he . . . he perished in war. He did not want to be in the military, but he was my firstborn. I was stubborn. I wanted him to be our Clan's pride.

"He was a brilliant boy, you see. He invented two of our clan's most priced Jutsus at a tender age of fourteen. It would have been a waste to not make him lead us—to keep him home, close to my heart." Then Rao was quiet, hand upon her breast, eyes upon the lily that swayed, happy. Tsunade did not know what to say . . .

"He did not want to fight your wars," she began, her voice delicate, and Tsunade could tell that there was a slight hitch in-between the words that her voice found hard to overcome, "he wanted to stay, yet I—I sent him out. I was cruel to him, and he . . . he never came back—he never—" and her words stopped like death, her lips coming together brutally to keep her emotions from coming out.

Then Rao stood up, eyes upon the moon, entranced. "He was a such a beautiful boy . . . gentle boy. Beautiful like my Sasuke. Gentle like my Otā-Sama. Can you imagine?" she asked, and Tsunade had nothing on her tongue to answer. "I did not even get to see his face. They burnt his body upon death and threw his ashes in our village's stream. They told me that—that the war had ruined his face—that there was nothing to see—nothing!"

"You," Rao hissed, her voice warmed dangerously by fury, "you ruined my son. Your grandfather ruined my son. Your Leaf ruined him. You have ruined my Itachi, too. You have poisoned his soul. He—he is cruel. He only sees Leaf's shadow, nothing more. Does this not rattle your spirit that you only eat—eat—eat?" And she stood trembling, one half of her frame stricken by moon, the other, afflicted by night.

"Rao-Sama, I—I did what you asked of me. The land—"

"The land does not belong to you," Rao cut her off, her anger's intensity not abating, "it is Sasuke's now, and he will never give it to you. That was my youngest son's will, and I will uphold it.

And you did nothing for me. You granted Itachi power to keep your own. You are not as innocent as you pretend to be. Leave my house—I need to pray." Then Rao turned towards the flower and clasped her hands together and started praying; and Tsunade was left with little choice but to leave here . . .

When Tsunade reached her office, it was as empty as a graveyard. There was not a soul in sight. Shizune had left a glass-cup, filled to the top with sake, on the table. She sat down in the chair and leant on the table and took deep breaths, burying her head in the crook of one arm, curling her fingers about the glass-cup that was . . . tempting.

Taking one sip, she grimaced and threw the cup across the table. The sake flew from the cup and splattered across the large table and spilt from the edges in fast droplets. Closing her eyes, she sat upright and breathed in deeply. This was not how she had expected it all to end . . .

In the next moment, Tsunade heard footsteps and anger galloped alongside her blood with renewed intensity. "Shizune, leave me be. I—" she stopped as soon as she opened her eyes for in the door stood a young Uchiha Elder she had seen only few times.

"I am Yamato—one of the Elders," he said, with a smile, and looked at the chair. "May I?"

Tsunade nodded, and he took the chair opposite of her. "It is late," she said, studying his face that betrayed nothing save a smile that looked . . . dishonest. "What brings you here in the dead of the night? I am sure Itachi can—"

"Itachi will make matters worse for you," Yamato cut across her and appeared immediately apologetic. "Forgive my rudeness. I can be hasty in speech, but I think we both want the same thing."

"And what is that?" Tsunade asked, wary, as a storm was rising again in the far end of the sky—a sign of bad omens . . .

"A change in Uchiha leadership," he said, and, whilst storm dazzled her eyes, she was stunned . . .

# # # # # #

EN: Sasuke has called Itachi a "traitorous fuck" in my fiction, but he did call Itachi a "traitorous fuck!" in canon, too. So that line is a modification of his dialogue in canon.

I've introduced Izanami in this chapter, along with its workings. It's modified from its canon use in which a visual-loop "pre-recorded" by Sharingan is planted into the target's head, from which he can't escape till he doesn't fulfill the "condition" associated with the loop. Like Izanagi (which "cancels results"), Izanami is also a Genjutsu. I've seen some people claim that Izanagi "reverses time", and I sincerely doubt their capacity to read properly as it sounds utterly absurd.

The Japanese domestic structure is built around the unit Ie. Ie has two major elements: genealogical and functional. Genealogically, the ie can be translated as "stem family" and defined as "a vertically composite form of nuclear families, one from each generation," or a "series of first sons, their wives, and minor children". In this genealogical aspect, only the son (ideally the first one) inherits the house assets and becomes the sole generational link—all other children leave the house.

Viewed from its functional standpoint, the ie means the household characterised as a body of coresidents, each performing his/her role to maintain it. These genealogical and functional aspects of the ie merge together in many aspects, but discrepancy does occur. In my fiction, the Uchiha family unit tends to lean more towards the genealogical aspect than the functional one, but it doesn't disregard it completely. In the Hyūga family, the genealogical aspect is strongest. In the Uzumaki family, it leans more towards the latter.

The idea of a woman's status as a "womb loner" was well-developed amongst the aristocrats, to whom perpetuation of the (ideally patrilineal) ie was more crucial than to the commoners. Thus, polygynous marriages were fairly common in the past, especially amongst men of higher status. The women who bore children under this arrangement were termed as "Ohara-San (Womb Lady)". Their children were taken from them and brought up by servants to belong properly to their father's household. The children were also trained to call his legal wife "Otā-Sama (an aristocratic name for mother)".

In this regard, the higher the status of the family, the larger the number of Ohara-San's that waited upon the master who was often termed as the "seed carrier". The natural mother's status, in this case, ranked below the head maid-servant, and she was addressed by her children and others by her personal name, indicative of her lower status (in the household's hierarchy).

These women only occasionally made visits to their former masters' household. They stayed away from the main parlour, unlike a guest. It's an interesting view (though oddly culturally biased) in that it was the wife who was blamed for sterility and appreciated for fertility; however, the Japanese were not unaware of the paternal contribution to the concept. In fact, in the Japanese ethno-embryology, it was the male "seed" that generated the life of the fetus, "borrowing a hara (belly or womb)" as the environment in which the seed was planted and nourished. This view went hand in hand with the concept that the hospitability of the womb was crucial to childbirth, though it's only recently that males began to concede and share responsibility for sterility and present themselves for medical diagnosis. (Progress?)

These days, this "womb borrowing" is treated like folklore. For instance, in a famous folklore on this topic, Wakako had married her niece to a son of the honke (household), Wakako's husband being the head of its bunke (branch households), and brought her back by force every time the niece ran away. At the fourth retrieval, she said: "I gave the ultimatum, 'if you want to leave so much, all right, go. But the children all belong to Oya (honke). The hara is only borrowed, they say. It doesn't matter how much your hara hurt in your childbearing. We borrowed your hara, but the seed came from our side'."

These days, whilst the situation has changed, it isn't uncommon for women to hand over the children to their husbands' households in the event of a pregnancy if the husband and wife separate or if the former dies and the wife's with a child; furthermore, it's alien to Japanese tradition and Japanese law for a child's parents to have any significant sharing of parental responsibility upon a family break-up. When parents separate in Japan, one parent invariably takes the child and the other parent largely or entirely disappears from the child's life. It is an extension of the traditional Japanese custom that children belong to a family and can be registered on the official Japanese koseki (family register) of only one family. Thus, the one-parent rule is not merely the mandated law but it is also the societal norm. Indeed, it is considered entirely inappropriate in Japan for the parent who does not have custody of a child to interfere with family peace.

(The above information has been taken almost word for word from Takie Sugiyama Lebra's indispensable anthropological work and Japan's One-Parent Rule by Jeremy D. Morley.)