The winter was the dead season.

The accidental boy's story began there.

And almost ended.

But somehow he had a way of continuing.

Admirable trait.

If used correctly.

And he was a tool used with expert precision.

He was a boy not meant to exist.

The Uchiha clan was one of many secrets. Many rules, many laws.

But the strictest of all, the most sacred of edicts was.

Never.

Marry outside of the clan.

There were things that birds knew.

And only birds.

Were meant to know.

A moment of weakness.

And the boy was begun.

His mother was the daughter of Danzo's old partner, Kagami. She had a life ahead of her.

Emphasis on "had."

She was going to be married. Her fiancé well-regarded within the clan and outside of it.

Rare.

A single explosion changed everything.

Clearing the space for the other man.

He was a man with soft ambition in his eyes. A soft hunger.

He was a soft man in everything.

But his passions, well-disguised in shows of kindness and compassion.

Well.

A nice man.

Her downfall.

The affair was quiet, as most affairs were. In her grief she had been respectfully ignored, allowed to work through her loss in whatever way she could.

Danzo did not believe in mourning, but he did not blame the girl for not being nearly as strong.

She was not one of his.

Collection.

The story continued.

In any other circumstance, nothing would have come of the relationship. It would not have lasted long on principle, just long enough for her to forget, to move on.

To find another.

But.

The soft man had long ago made a cage.

Just for her.

Of his few talents, his strongest was his ability to hold onto things.

Very, very tightly.

She found herself unable to get rid of him.

And then.

The baby.

The man was not her lover.

And he was not an Uchiha.

Neither would be her child.

If it was even born.

And.

Something had to be done.

She had many options.

There were medicines.

In the corner of the Uchiha compound, there was an old woman who sold candy from a stand in front of her house.

She had a room in the back that she preferred to keep locked as often as possible.

She had done her job for years.

This was not a unique situation.

Mistakes happened.

Dear.

Kagami's daughter refused to do any of that.

Her mistake grew in size, the longer it was ignored.

Something had to be done.

People started saying things.

She denied.

Everything.

Though.

The soft man had long ago been.

Taken care of.

The cage.

Her trust.

Everything.

Shattered.

This was not a unique situation.

Darling.

The expectation was that if she did not do anything now, it would be afterward.

Of course.

When she saw what monstrosity she had given form.

That would change her mind.

It didn't.

And there was talk of.

Extermination.

On one side.

This was long before those days of birds and slaughter.

The old woman was skilled at many jobs.

She had medicines.

And pillows.

And a well in her courtyard.

She had to do something.

Kagami loved his daughter too much to see her in such pain.

Though he quietly judged.

And was judged back.

Reading the hate-colored eyes of his neighbors.

And they had been so well-regarded, how dare.

She.

Dishonor.

Her clan.

In such a way.

And so he went to Danzo.

Danzo considered this for quite a while.

His little collection was full of adults.

Broken, then mended.

Hollow.

Empty.

As they should be.

He had worked so hard on making them so.

He had never attempted anything with a child.

Danzo had a natural curiosity.

And so, in the winter.

He took the boy.

Just another stillborn.

They said.

And it was accepted.

Without question.

The boy was never meant to exist.

And, as far as Konoha was concerned.

He didn't.

Danzo personally oversaw every aspect of the child's upraising.

He would be.

Exceptional.

A child raised without sunlight.

His skin was pale enough already.

Like glass.

Nine months old and he was already speaking clearly, articulately.

He could read most texts in hiragana by the age of two.

Kanji mastered by the age of five.

He was a lover of words, and books.

He would be a great ninja, someday.

They had him on missions at age six.

Like so many others.

Already.

Danzo was almost not surprised that he took to the brush, rather than the blade.

Almost.

Those in Root had been trained to remove all that was.

Unnecessary.

But the boy had a rare brilliance that had blossomed without Danzo's supervision.

Like a weed.

He was not an Uchiha, but it seemed that some things.

Carried over.

His artistic eye was without peer.

Danzo appreciated art of all forms.

Even.

There was a technique, the remnant of a clan long since integrated, forgotten.

The only reason it had not died out was because of its very nature.

Ink on paper.

There was plenty of documentation.

Most ninja found the technique too limiting.

Orochimaru had found it, and had no use for it.

He was not concerned in the temporary.

One thing of many that they had in common.

But this was before those days of red clouds and red hair.

He and Danzo had shared many things.

The boy showed plenty of promise.

And so he was trained.

And the boy learned.

Well.

And then Itachi.

Even if he had.

Succeeded.

Completely.

A pair of wings.

A disembodied song.

Was not a bird.

The boy was left unharmed.

Of course.

At least.

Not by the massacre.

Like a weed.

Other things grew without Danzo's supervision.

The boy Shin.

He had been the youngest, before.

He still had a name.

That.

He had been allowed.

Danzo appreciated him greatly.

An effective tool.

He had undergone his conditioning with little mishap.

Just another mask without emotions, without family or.

Anything.

Success.

But.

Some things still managed to remain.

He seemed to regard the boy as a.

Brother.

A remnant, perhaps, of a life long.

Forgotten.

Or at least supposed to.

This had been in the wake of the.

Incident.

The.

One.

Left behind.

Perhaps Danzo had overreacted.

Impossibility.

No.

What did he have to blame himself for?

It was the boy who had.

Cultivated.

Formed the.

Sickness.

Attachments.

Strings.

No matter how much Danzo tried to.

Burn.

He was sure that the boy had been.

Trained.

Every aspect had been.

So carefully.

Carefully.

Maintained.

But how.

It had not been anticipated.

Something that.

Under the surface, there was.

An infection.

There was no fever, no.

Symptoms.

Until it was too.

Late.

It was winter.

On the surface he was calm as his glass face.

The finest of masks.

His most.

Not beloved.

Not adored but.

Coveted.

Valued as a swordsman values a sword.

He followed orders.

Very.

Well.

The boy's progress had been.

Astounding.

And Danzo could not deny the.

Lack of.

Understanding.

That the boy had.

Which was the good and the right thing.

Of course.

When he was asked the meaning of happiness, the answer was.

A question.

How can one clearly define that which has no concrete form?

The only way one could give happiness any sort of form was.

Through writing.

This was a good sign.

So why.

Why.

Was this happening.

Why was there a boy.

Sobbing.

In his room.

Feeling.

Loss.

Feeling.

Sadness.

Feeling.

Danzo was.

Displeased.

This was in the days of his new arm.

And his eye had served him.

Well.

Others.

In his collection.

Still had.

Problems.

On occasion.

Where the things that he and his.

Student.

Disciple.

Successor.

No.

Had come up with.

Methods.

They would not work on every.

One.

And the boy had been so carefully.

Handled.

The walls had been built very tall.

But.

Something must have.

Gotten.

In.

Danzo would.

Handle.

This.

Whatever it.

Was.

Or was not.

The boy sat alone in his room with a book in his hands.

He had been.

Allowed.

Hobbies.

They were not harmful.

It was documentation.

On either cover, a boy.

A diary.

He kept very careful record.

The pages he had turned to, however.

Were blank.

The boy's eyes were red.

From tears.

He did not understand.

What it was he was.

Feeling.

But it was undeniable that.

He.

Felt.

Danzo began to unwrap his eye.

Something.

The drain was immense.

But it was for the good of.

The boy.

Resisted.

Danzo.

Pushed.

There was.

No.

Explanation.

The boy was still crying.

While Danzo burned and burned away.

He could not do everything, but he did.

Enough.

To last.

The boy did not speak for.

Ages.

It was no matter.

What was done was.

Done.

But Danzo still.

Burned.

Away.

No matter how hard he tried something.

Always.

Seemed to.

Remain.

These attachments, these.

Strings.

No.

Why.

Was it always like.

This.

With every thing Danzo had ever done.

He could not deny that he had held onto every piece of information that had come in.

About.

Not her but.

Hiruzen.

Hiruzen and his wife.

And his two children.

And his grandchild.

And her and her grandchild and his.

No.

Not.

He had.

Learned.

Long ago.

That families were.

They were.

Attachments.

Bonds.

Restrictions.

He built walls for a reason.

Danzo had nothing.

And he was.

Alone.

Free.

Without the weights of a family to keep him from.

He surrounded himself with objects.

Walls.

Tools.

Only the things he.

Needed.

How did any.

One.

Survive.

Much less Hiruzen.

How did Hiruzen.

Because he was the sunshine.

He was the warm, the.

Hokage.

Not his.

Never.

And Danzo was.

Alone.

And he was.

That was how it was supposed to be.

All that mattered was the village.

Their.

His village.

He was the roots that supported the tree, he kept everything.

Functioning.

Just.

Functioning.

Like normal.

But still he wondered.

Sometimes.

How there seemed to be so many that were able to.

Go on.

Like that.

He had a difficulty finding words for the.

Concept.

What was the word for when two things could contradict each other and yet remain entirely.

No.

He did not allow himself anger as he walked back to his office.

He told another member to take care of the.

Boy.

His boy.

His.

No.

He had long since gotten over that sort of.

Thinking.

Fuurin was Chiyo's son, Sasori was her.

His.

She had named him for the trees, she had named him for.

Him.

No.

He never even knew the boy.

He did not.

He could not.

Regret.

This.

Orochimaru was an orphan, the closest thing to a family he had was.

But hadn't he given Orochimaru so much, hadn't he.

The way that he smiled when he worked.

That brilliance, hadn't Danzo.

But there was so much he didn't know.

Orochimaru kept.

Secrets.

He had.

Walls.

Danzo was not.

It was Hiruzen.

Jiraiya, Tsunade.

Were his family.

The Sannin, that was their name, and there were only.

Three.

And Itachi's only family was.

Birds nested not in the roots but in the branches.

With other birds.

But this bird stayed in the branches and.

Danzo wasn't even close to him but he still felt.

Their village.

Theirs.

And the.

One.

Left behind.

And then.

The boy.

The little half-thing, who did not even exist, who.

Painted the most beautiful things.

Who was so smart, charming in the way he loved.

No, he didn't even love, that was.

Nothing.

But a.

Delusion.

Chemical signals in the brain.

No more important than genetic links.

Reading into things that did not.

Exist.

Danzo had raised him by.

Himself.

But he was.

An experiment.

A carefully maintained creature.

He was not a son.

He was not.

Anything.

There was nothing familial in this.

It was cold, it was.

Scientific.

He and Orochimaru had shared many things.

And she had.

Chiyo had, not.

Danzo had later discovered.

Done something of her own.

Even in their successes, they were the same.

He had the records on hand.

His roots stretched far.

The fourth Kazekage was a man of ambition.

Though he was short-sighted.

His idea of success was attained in an instant and.

Danzo was certain it would last just as long.

But all he could do was quietly judge.

Nothing more.

Their current jinchuuriki was not.

Enough.

The Kazekage had it removed, re-sealed.

Into his wife.

Killing her.

And unborn child.

A blank slate.

Just like Danzo's own.

Boy.

Danzo would be lying if he said he didn't.

Admire.

His resolve.

Though he had a wife, two, now three children.

The man showed no.

Attachments.

Not even to his own flesh and blood.

To his own wife.

He needed no walls.

Not even Danzo had that.

Danzo did not have any children, any.

Others.

And yet.

He still felt these.

Things.

When across the world, they were doing things like.

This.

He was certain they felt.

Nothing.

The thing in his heart was.

Yes he had a.

Heart.

An organ, anything else was.

Symbolism.

Chemical signals.

There should have been no shame in this.

And there wasn't.

So funny how the council had forced him to end his.

Project.

Collection.

Prematurely.

Like.

Ethics.

Morality.

Did not exist in a ninja's world.

No more than.

He treated his own son as a tool.

And the boy was.

A monster.

Inhuman.

Yes.

Somehow, it didn't seem.

Wrong.

It was Chiyo's doing.

Of course.

If the Kazekage could do such things.

If she could.

Then why did.

Danzo.

Feel.

The boy was not even related to him by blood.

His mother had been.

Burned away.

Just like everything else.

Except.

One.

Tiny crack in the glass.

Underneath the perfect mask there was still.

Some.

Thing.

And Danzo had burned it away.

Completely.

But.

Why had it existed in the first place?

The question would not answer itself.

So Danzo left it.

Alone.

As the sand behind his mask got into his eyes and itched and burned and irritated and.

How was it that she always.

But she.

Enough.

There were no further.

Incidents.

And the boy returned to his normal business.

It was for his own good.

So he could live without the.

Restraint of.

This.

He asked the boy, later, if he could remember anything about the incident.

The answer was a question.

"What incident are you referring to, sir?"

And when Danzo looked into those ink-black eyes he saw.

Nothing.

There was not even a crack in the mask any more.

Just pure.

Emptiness.

And it was good.

And Danzo returned to his business.

And his business was war.

This was the days before the Sound.

The Sand.

In his eyes.

But he was always.

Prepared.

So ended the winter.

—

But the spring always came.

Again.