Into the City of Crows

I. Wisteria

I looked into the mirror.

A small boy looked back at me, button nosed and pudgy in the way all children are. His beady black eyes were furrowed, and there was an out of place scowl on his face. I waved at the boy in the mirror, and he waved back.

That's me, I thought. I am that boy.

But, I was someone else too. I knew this to be the truth, as sure of it like I was sure of the fact that the sun rises in the east.

Who was I, really?

Over the past year or so, I think I slowly gained consciousness, and only now am I capable of cognitive thought. My name was Shin, but I was also someone else long ago. I remember dying, and I vaguely remember growing up as the child I now was.

I walked out from my room with surprising dexterity for a three year old child. I assumed I would feel uncomfortable with the change in height, but I didn't. Naturally, I must have subconsciously gotten used to the change.

I was Shin. I was still me. Right?

I thought and moved through the house. My little feet tapped accross the polished wooden floor, and I slid apart a rice paper door to find myself in the dining room. Father was humming a jaunty tune and peeling potatoes with a knife. He rested the edge of the blade against the skin, and with what seemed to be a whiplash, the potato was peeled bare.

I rubbed my eyes. Must be seeing things.

"Have a nice nap, Shin?" he asked warmly. I nodded and moved towards him.

"Up."

Father laughed and scooped me up with one arm. The crook of his neck was warm and familiar, and at that moment, I found myself craving familiarity. Father continued to hum, occasionally throwing in a word or two. I closed my eyes, and listened.

He hadn't spoken in English, I realised, yet I understood most of what he had said anyway.

Where was I?

Father had straight locks of dark hair and coal eyes, much like my own. His skin was a shade darker however. Father had the look of someone who spent long hours beneath the morning sun. I turned my thoughts to the house, to the paper doors. Shoji, my mind supplied; traditionally japanese.

Was that where I was?

"You sure are squirming a lot today, Shin. Is anything wrong?"

Father pulled me off his shoulders and looked at me. Then he curled his lips and wiggled his eyebrows, in an attempt to cheer me up. While the absurd faces made by this austere looking man-no, my father, would've cracked me up on any other day, that day I remained silent.

My eyes moved upwards.

I hadn't noticed it before, but on father's forehead was a metal plate, held up by the dark cloth band it was sewn on. A spiral leaf was intricately engraved onto the plate. I reached out for the hitai-ate, tracing the grooves of the spiral with my own tiny fingers.

"Oh, you like dad's hitai-ate do you? Yes you do!" father exclaimed while rubbing a ticklish spot behind my knee. I giggled, and moved away. Of course, the hitai-ate was nothing uncommon. Many of my uncles wore it, as well as my mother. It was the mark of a Konoha ninja.

I blinked.

Konoha ninja.

I looked at my father's forehead again. Was he a particularly enthusiastic Naruto fan then? Deep within my gut, I already knew the answer.

Father went back to his chores, twirling a knife with impossible speed on his right hand, peeling vegetables in the blink of an eye with incredible precision. I felt dizzy staring at his knifework, so I looked away. Every where I looked, a red and white fan greeted me.

It was on the walls, on the clothes, on the tablecloth. It was emblazoned proudly on the back of father's shirt.

I knew this symbol.

The red and white fan, the Uchiwa. The mark of a powerful ninja clan, one of the noble clans of the Leaf. Uchiha Ichizoku.

"We go...out?" I asked with my limited vocabulary. I think I knew where I was, but it was too far-fetched a theory for me to accept without confirmation.

"You wanna go outside?" Father asked, and I nodded in reply. He shrugged, and picked me up. After quickly washing his right hand on the nearby sink, father moved out of the house with me on his shoulders. He set off at a brisk pace, through a winding set of roads with crimson paper lanterns hanging overhead.

I looked this way and that, taking in all that I could see. There was a somber tone to the air, a melancholic mood among the people I observed. Many of them wore hitai-ate, and some even had the Uchiwa on their back. I almost let go of father's neck when I saw a blur jump accross the rooftops.

I asked father why so many people were sad.

He looked at me with surprise, before looking back at the road. "Well, Shin, that's because of the war."

"War?" I asked, repeating the unfamiliar word.

"Hm. When different groups of people fight due to their clashing beliefs, it's called a war," father trailed off, as I struggled to understand what he said. He looked at me and imparted a simple, honest lesson. "War results in death, little Shin. And death makes people sad."

I did not ask him any more questions, because I finally saw what I had been looking for.

Straight ahead to the north was a mountain which towered over the skyline. It was massive; it was imposing.

The faces of the greatest sons of the Land of Fire stared down at me with judging eyes.