Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

Author's Notes: Rewriting is a bitch.

Lost Years – Chapter One

The cradle was a simple object of unfinished wood, its precious cargo protected from splinters and protruding nails by a naught but a thick layer of baby blue blankets. It was a seemingly fitting color for the two day old baby boy inside, yet strikingly at odds with the atmosphere surrounding him. The baby's name, Uzumaki Naruto, was known only to his mother, an experienced kunoichi with a fiery personality to match the red of her hair. Sadly, her existence and disappearance was unknown to the men of the chamber in which her son now found himself.

Numerous people in stark black formal robes of mourning surrounded the cradle, each speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the intermittent cries of the baby. They would exchange their black clothing for more normal attire in another seven days, but the results of their words and decisions about the child would echo far longer.

Naruto would always be something of a hell raiser, even in the tiniest of ways.

But right now, the words were disturbing little Naruto's rest, and to him, that was all that really mattered.

One voice cracked with age, droll sarcasm biting and sounding cruel even though Naruto had no idea what those words, or indeed, any other words, meant. He shifted in his cradle, tiny hands clutching ineffectually at the air. The Old voice wasn't nice.

Another voice responded, calm and steady, yet slow and tired, with seemingly ancient experience. Its tones were of soothing moderation, and Naruto began to settle. It sounded old without being decrepit. He liked the Tired voice.

Old grumbled quietly, but not quietly enough that his bitterness didn't reach the cradle. Apparently the rest had heard as well, and though Tired was silent, a higher pitched female voice trumpeted a loud agreement. The shrill voice went straight to his head, and he wailed to drown it out. Shrill quieted for a moment, but then spoke over him.

Thankfully she was cut off quickly by another that could only be called Power. Control radiated from the raspy voice, and Naruto stopped crying to listen to it. If he'd known he was breathing, he'd have held his breath to hear Power better. Sadly, babies are somewhat limited in cognitive functioning, being limited to weak human instinct. But weak as human instinct is, it was still enough to tell him to be quiet.

Old apparently had much weaker instincts, and tried to interrupt Power. Another voice immediately derailed him, but Naruto had by then lost interest in the voices in favor of the spinny glowy thing on the ceiling above his cradle. It sent a cool draft down on him, and he giggled and reached for the glowy. When his chubby little fist closed on nothing, he began to wail.

This had the convenient side effect of drowning out another one of those annoying voices. A voice that could only be described as Loud gave up, throwing his hands in the air and stalking off, yelling. Naruto would have cried, but the voice was going away, so his world had just gotten a lot better.

Where was he again? Oh, right. Glowy!

Sadly, the glowy hadn't gotten any closer, and taunted him with its protruding spinny things. He cried at the injustice, flailing furiously in a futile attempt to reach it.

Naruto tired of that game quickly, and turned the focus of his bright blue eyes on the crib. This lasted for maybe half a second before the crib was defined as "not fun." In his search for something more entertaining, a corner of the blanket soon found its way into his mouth, and Naruto sucked on it contentedly, preoccupied with the new and interesting flavor of cotton.

Fabric-y.

Satisfied with his accomplishments for the day, Naruto began to slowly drift to sleep, until Shrill pierced through his happy haze. He wailed back at her, his voice rising to deafening levels when he realized that his blanket had fallen out of his mouth.

Power spoke.

Naruto was silent.

And when Power quieted, Tired immediately stepped in to fill the void of sound, filling the room with world-weary agreement. The rest muttered assent with varying degrees of enthusiasm even as sandalled feet shuffled towards Naruto, the sound clacking noisily on the marble floor.

When Power gently lifted him out of cradle and rewrapped the blankets, Naruto stared at the first face he'd ever seen in his entire life. It was big. And kind of messed up on one side, and covered in white strips of cloth on the other.

But he didn't really know what faces were supposed to look like, so he allowed himself to be lulled back to sleep by the soft, hoarse voice that continued to speak to the other voices, holding their attention and radiating command, finishing an argument it had already won.

Power left the other voices with the cradle tucked under one arm, unsteady gait slowed to keep from jostling his prize. As the rest of the voices faded into the distance, baby Naruto smiled for the first time in his short, sleepy life.

He liked Power.

Two figures in white ANBU masks stepped from the shadows, taking position a step and a half behind their leader. No questions were exchanged, and even though it was obvious that Danzo was having difficulty with the cradle, neither offered assistance.

Most Root members were not encouraged to use personal initiative. If Danzo wanted them to carry the cradle, they would carry it. If he wanted them to set it ablaze, baby and all, they would burn it and then wait to hear what to do with the ashes.

The back door of a twenty-four hour ramen stand was opened in advance for the Root Commander, who gave a slight nod of acknowledgement to the "waiter." The scent of soup broth, salt, assorted vegetables, and meat filled his nose, and he resisted the urge to sigh in relaxation at the familiar smell.

The waiter closed the door behind his ANBU escorts, and Danzo heard him walk around the kitchen partition to the front of the stall, resuming his position behind the bar. To Danzo's left, the lid on a pot of ramen danced slightly from the heat of the dimmed stove. The bowl would probably go to waste; there wasn't much of a demand for a ramen stall at midnight. Which was exactly why they used it, of course.

One of his escorts twisted the dial on a broken stove completely around three times, then back to the left. The appliance sank into the floor, becoming the first in a long series of steps, and the escort stepped out of the way.

Danzo hesitated at the top of the stairs. He abhorred waste, and his throat was dry and scratchy after having to deal with the Council. Without looking back, he said, "Get a bowl of miso and follow after me." His smoke-scarred throat made speaking difficult and turned his voice into little more than a growl, but it wasn't that much of a change from normal.

As he descended the stairs, he contemplated the odd twist of fate that had brought him to his current position. It had been a twist forced on him by that one woman – no, that kunoichi he corrected himself. The kunoichi who'd left him buried beneath a burning tree, yelling at him, "I have to help my son."

The stairway finally ended in a narrow corridor, the concrete walls wide enough for only one person to pass at a time. Turning to the left, he walked directly through an illusory section of the concrete. Most of the security measures were more useful for impressing new members than actual security, but, considering that the design and construction of death traps was the ninja equivalent of interior decorating, it was to be expected. 'The long wall of mirrors is perhaps a bit much' he thought as he passed them. He didn't particularly enjoy seeing the burned ruin of his face at the moment. He wasn't bitter about the scars; they might help intimidate the weak-minded fools he seemed to always be surrounded by. It was just that the reminder of his moment of weakness marred his triumph of obtaining the Kyuubi for Root.

The red-headed kunoichi was barely an afterthought in comparison. She was more of an enigma than anything else, and one that he might never solve. If she revealed herself, he would take appropriate action, but she had most likely been killed by the Kyuubi. Hunting for her would probably be a waste of valuable resources.

He'd never liked relying on "probably."

But for now, that matter could wait. He had a bowl of ramen and a baby to deal with. Ever the logical, hard-working pragmatist, Danzo decided to deal with the ramen first.

It might get cold.

The hall of mirrors ended in a low-ceilinged, well lit chamber with thin wooden slats covering the concrete walls. Danzo had forbidden "additional security measures" in the common rooms and private quarters, so he could finally relax and take a seat on a cheap, battered couch that might have been blue sometime in the distant past. Root could afford better, but as it stood the couch contributed to the casual feel of the room, and that was something quite hard to obtain in a hidden base.

He placed the cradle on the cushion next to him, careful to position it so that it couldn't tip off the couch. Stretching out his arm, he beckoned for the bowl with one hand. When the bowl was handed to him, along with a pair of chopsticks, he propped his feet up on a waist-high wooden coffee table with an uneven back leg.

He ate loudly, the sounds echoing throughout the silent corridors that connected to the common room. It was a common courtesy to announce one's presence upon entering the lounge, and everyone had their own unique way of greeting their fellows. Within minutes, his arrival would be known throughout the base.

Once the ceramic bowl was empty of all but the chopsticks, he set it down on the table. Only then did he turn to his stoic escorts, each of whom was still standing at attention.

"Your analysis?" he demanded, commanding tone of voice at odds with his relaxed posture.

The taller of the two stepped forward and saluted briefly. "The opposition of Utatane-san was unexpected, though it did work in our favor. Hyuuga-donou's distaste for her meddling in his affairs brought him to our side."

"Sarutobi gave up too easily," the shorter one answered, voice barely a whisper. His opinion hadn't been asked for, but he was well aware that he needn't fear reprimand for speaking out of turn like most Root members.

Danzo turned his head towards the taller ANBU. "Your duties are complete for tonight, Enoki. Itachi, you stay."

Enoki saluted, pivoted, and crisply marched out of the room without a backwards glance. Once Danzo was alone with his erstwhile bodyguard, he spoke again. His voice reflected only feigned surprise when he asked, "Why do you think Sarutobi gave in too easily?"

It was impossible to determine Itachi's expression behind the mask, but Danzo doubted the boy would give anything away even without it. "He's a sentimental old man," Itachi began. When Danzo didn't contest the opinion, he continued, "And the Kyuubi child appears to be naught but that: a child. I expected some sort of intervention to try and raise the Kyuubi as a normal child to see if it could become human."

Danzo arched a still-singed eyebrow. "And you believe that his…sentimentality would compromise his judgment?"

Itachi didn't hesitate in his response. "Yes."

Without giving a sign of a positive or negative reaction to his ANBU's blatant disrespect to the Hokage, a technical superior, he announced, "Dismissed."

He sighed gustily and craned his head back to look up at the overly bright ceiling lights. Not a mention of the vocal theatrics he'd pulled, or of how the Kyuubi itself had voiced its opinion from the cradle, or even more importantly, who wasn't saying anything. Still, Itachi was very young. Maybe with a few more years, his eyes would see more than just what the Sharingan showed him.

He'd never liked relying on "maybe," but, just like the kunoichi, it was a matter that could wait. He frowned down at the cradle. Right now he had to find a wet nurse, several caretakers, and area of the base that could be converted to a nursery.

Root's newest member needed to have proper quarters made and to be suitably equipped, and Danzo had no interest in being the one to change that "equipment."