The young Itachi Uchiha, only four years old, has been crying for days. It is a grief no child should have had to bear, or understand, but he had always been too perceptive for his own good. He simply wished somebody had the courage and the strength to tell him.

In his memory, a flash of a confident grin, and goggles flashing under Konoha's afternoon sun. A voice, promising him snow cones, for when he'd get home after the mission.

Eventually, Itachi got the snow cones himself, and finished them also, by himself. That evening, his throat hurt and he had to stay in bed because of a terrible cold that left the young boy feeling like death warmed up.

He found out on his own, after taking a reprieve from helping in the medical center, helping medics tend to the wounded of the war. Young as he was, Itachi knew by now how to identify if someone would not make it through the night, or if they would weather through their injuries and survive.

The key was watching how they breathed, and look for a determined spark in their eyes. Without those, it was only a matter of hours.

Young legs took him to the Roster Department, where he had to improvise and find two boxes to stand on just to be able to reach the counter and stare the exhausted Chuunin behind the panel of glass.

"010886," Itachi murmured, a prayer escaping his young lips.

It took the man behind the panel of glass only five minutes.

"Killed in action," he'd said. "I'm sorry. Are you his little brother?"

For the first time, Itachi felt his small world crumble down, and the first teardrops leaked from eyes. He didn't know how many hours he'd spent on a chair, crying, being comforted by faceless shinobi who'd herded him over to sit him down. Someone got him a glass of water, and another tried to give him a teddy bear.

He sits up in bed, and it's midnight, way past his bedtime. The blanket shields him from view, but his flashlight is on, and he has a mirror on his lap. A little boy's reflection stares back at him, eyelids puffy with weeping, but the little boy's eyes are not black, but red, lone tomoe spinning ever slowly in a circular journey.

Again, he hears the voice.

I promise we'll get snow cones when I get back! So wait for me, Itachi!

He cries himself to sleep.

These eyes, Obito's gifts, kept the four-year-old alive in those horrific instances he had to exit the village and wade into some of the fields of battle, delivering supplies of medicine and weaponry to the camps. So young, Itachi uses his Sharingan when nobody is looking, when he is alone - he uses it to hide from enemies, predict where they are, and so save himself.

The Sharingan etches every grisly detail of death, rot, decay and the vileness of war into his young mind.

He will remember, for the rest of his life.
He will never forget.

The four-year-old Itachi Uchiha sits on a stool in the camp, and all around him, the sounds of death. Medics try to staunch the bleeding, or amputate a limb. Someone draws a blanket over the face of a corpse.

Itachi is seated, holding a cup of cold milk. His cheeks are gaunt, the lines beneath his eyes deep, his irises dark.

The medic turns to him after some hours, checking if he's rested. He is given a scroll and is told this is important, and the young Itachi Uchiha nods and tucks the scroll inside his shirt. He fixes the hitai-ate on his head and nods up at the adult.

"Good luck," he is told.

Itachi races, jumping, flying, the wind in his dark hair. His eyes are crimson, and for now the coast is clear. He rubs a fist against his cheek and leaves a trail of soot upon pale skin.

Behind him, the world is engulfed in flames.
There is no glory here.