Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Two small birds live in a world that is neither prison nor freedom.
Hinata and Hanabi huddle in the garden, watching skylark eggs hatch in a small nest behind a rose bush.
Hinata has been caught in standstill since the day she was twelve years old when Hanabi beat her at sparring for the first time. Even though she was the heiress, it cemented her position as weak and would be, in the eyes of the Hyuuga elders, the defining moment of her life. She would never be any different.
Hyuuga Hinata has hit a glass ceiling; she can't rise any higher than the low position she is bound to. Her strength goes unnoticed, her kindness unthanked, as her good intentions shrivel and die like the flowers of a garden during the deepest drought.
It is hardly any wonder that Hinata seeks sanctuary outside her clan's compound. Whether in the companionship of her team or in the arms of her lover, Hinata will do anything to slip out of the constraints of her life as Hyuuga clan heiress, the weakling, too important to be harmed, too useless to be of any help.
Even there, even among those who value and love her, there is a barrier. Even they can not see all of what Hinata is, can not see the steely strength beneath the shrinking violet, can not see any hint of normal human ugliness beneath her pretty, charming face, and do not bother to read into her doubly-meant words. Hinata remains an enigma, appreciated by some, loved by few and known by none.
Hanabi is in the exact opposite position. Her sister can not grow, but growing is all Hanabi can do. She continues to make strides and leaps, learning jutsus, growing stronger and more intelligent, drawing attention away from her sister so Hinata falls victim only to the neglect of the elders, and not their wrath.
Hanabi isn't locked away inside the room of the Hyuuga's disapproval; she is instead a plant allowed to flourish, a bird permitted to see the sun. But she is forced to grow too quickly.
Hyuuga Hanabi is like a dancer forced to dance to a tune too lively, too quick, too unforgiving, endlessly, even as her muscles scream and the bangles at her ankles cut into the skin and spread blood across the floor. The dance is so savage and beautiful that those who observe it don't notice that Hanabi is dying on her feet, her lavender eyes clouding, the bloodline growing dim.
She is permitted not to conform for the sake of her talent, but Hanabi's talent comes with its price. The little dancer can't dance to her own tune, is prodded and goaded on by spears to twirl and step to another's desire. There is little joy to be found in that life.
The eggs begin to hatch. One bursts open, and the little hatchling struggles out of its casing to die staring up at a radiant sun in a pale gray sky.
The other never hatches at all.