The candle's orange glow flounced and danced across his features, illuminating skin of the purest white, and cascading tresses of the blackest black. Candle wax trickled lightly from its perch and landed on his wrists, bound by an iron-linked chain. He was surrounded in silk and velvet of the finest quality, with white rose petals and soft black raven feathers drifting languidly above him. One of the feathers brushed against his cheek, still another came to rest within his palm. He grasped it, despite the chains. They clinked mutely amongst the heap of linens and throw pillows assembled at the head of the bed. The feather felt delicate, even between fingers as dexterous as his own. It wasn't the kind of feather one would expect of a raven. A dove, perhaps, or a lonely barn swallow seemed more deserving of such a luxury, rather than the callous, intelligent raven it belonged to. He had once heard a story which told that beauty and luxury often fell to the cunning, to those whom luck favored, or to the foolish. The dove, with unerring beauty and grace, was graced by the goddess of beauty, but its vanity replaced its fear. And so, it was a fool, blinded by love and by grace. The swallow was blessed with luck's charm, a goddess had given it wit to match its beauty. For every winter it spent in hiding (an instinct imbedded by the goddess into its heart), sparing its beauty from humanity's greed. The raven was not of luck nor of fool. It spent its life wisely with pride. Despite the blows the gods dealt it, it learned to take them in stride. As a gift for its cunning, its wisdom, and strife, the god—not the goddess—bestowed beauty of the cruelest brand. For its beauty masked its dexterity, and from this came reverence for its kind.

Such was the story of his ancestry. Even as a child, he had applied the birds to the world as he knew it. The Hyuga clan, vain and arrogant and poised, were clearly the doves of the story. Then came the Senju clan, fierce but contained, wealthy in luck and in skill. The barn swallow's traits, matched only by the last blessed bird. The raven, with plumage of downy black and feathers so soft, it looked to be a laughable foe. But his feet gave way to talons and his eyes gave way to hate, and from within the shadows, left a crimson trail blood in his wake. Perhaps he was biased, but this was how he saw his own birth clan. The ruthless Uchiha clan, matched only by the Senju's wit, could be the only one worth the raven's title. But omitted from the story was the hawk, whose talons were made of stone and with a heart of black, who killed the raven and swallow through corruption and hate. And so the Leaf Village destroyed the raven, who destroyed the swallow, and left only the vain and docile dove in their wake—in the service of the hawk. The hawk was too hasty, too sloppy in his work, to have known of the raven's deceit. The raven remain, weakened and tired, but silent for years to come. And so, Madara and few other members escaped with their lives, unnoticed or overlooked by the Leaf Village council. The Senju clan, though its lineage survives, is few and far between as well. Which brings him here—bound by chilling metal—a slave to the raven and his whim. He had been a subject of the hawk's corruption once, but such was the raven to always return to its roots. Itachi, the traitor, the martyr, the victim…lay subject to the whim of his master. For the raven always got what he wanted—and so too, did Madara.

Though, in truth, Itachi could not say he was suffering. Madara had claimed him simply to show that he could—in defiance of Itachi's ties to the leaf village—but he did so in such a way that Itachi simply hadn't the means to deny him.

"To what lengths would you go to protect your brother?" Madara had once asked, cornering him with his greatest (his only) fear. He feared only for the life and well-being of his brother.

"I would do…anything." He had replied. Foolishly, perhaps, but surely nothing a raven did could be foolish? So Madara promised Sasuke's freedom in return for Itachi. All of him. His body, his mind, his eyes (if he should need them), and anything else the younger Uchiha had to offer. As a bonus, Itachi maintained his dignity, for Madara only collected his dues by nightfall, and treated him (as he did all other fellow ravens) with respect. It was more than could be said for the hawk.

And so, in the dead of the night, Madara had come knocking. What Itachi saw now was the work of Madara's sharingan. It, like the story Itachi had known all his life, was lengendary. He knew what was to come next, but was nonetheless startled by Madara's sudden appearance, hovering inches above him. The candlelight reflected dully on his pallid skin and hair the color of obsidian. Shadows danced within his eyes, not shadows of the ominous sort, but of thought instead. As if even though he knew the inner mechanisms of the younger man's mind inside and out, there might be a secret still hidden there. A code he had yet to crack. But then lust took over, and all was forgotten.

He entered roughly and without warning. Itachi arched into him, trembling—out of reflex, rather than desire, though the latter was most certainly a factor—wincing as the chains rolled on his wrist. The elder of the two quickened the pace instantly, knowingly hitting every possible pleasure spot he could locate. He read Itachi's body like a map; what's more, he'd always been a splendid navigator. Itachi's breath came in huffs and moans, and the occasional whimper when Madara located particularly sensitive areas—which he always did. Occasions like these weren't uncommon between them. Madara knew where to hit and when, and by now, Itachi had no desire to resist. His legs were hitched above Madara's back, melding his lower half against his master's slender waist. Madara was biting at him, maneuvering between the nape of his neck and the hollow of his throat. Itachi's hips arched further and harder with each thrust, panting in pain and pleasure and lust. It hurt, it always did. But the heat and ecstasy made it worth the while. Madara was seductive, but brutally so. Itachi's muscles tightened, and a light sheen of sweat began forming across his forehead. He was reaching his limit. Judging by the increased urgency in the other's movements, he wasn't the only one. Madara's nails raked along his back and sent shivers down his spine. Finally, he lost the last of his control and climaxed, his whole body rippling from exertion, followed by Madara, who plunged into him just once more before succumbing to the same fate. Groaning, he pulled out and flopped rather 'majestically' onto his back beside the younger Uchiha. Still breathing heavily, he reached behind him and yanked firmly on the chains bonding his uke in place. They gave with no resistence, such was the Itachi winced as he rolled onto his stomach—he anticipated a nagging limp for the next day or so—and rested his head on Madara's chest. The latter traced circles on his back. It was a rarity, times like these. Under normal circumstances, Itachi opposed any and all contact with the Uchiha founder. Their relationship was strained, mostly on Itachi's behalf. They were student and teacher, subordinate and master, uke and seme...there was always that boundary. It was in Itachi's nature to oppose authority, no matter how docile he feigned to be. A raven is never submissive, even when it knows it is beaten. Unless…

There had always been a discrepancy in reference to the raven's one true weakness—in some versions of the tale, it had none. In others, the raven became too full of itself. Proud and arrogant, it let its power and strength go to its head. The god's blessing backfired; in the place of wisdom, it created a hasty fool who used his beauty to lull his enemies into a false sense of security. And so, it had the audacity to challenge the snake, and lost, for the snake's cruelty overlooked such trivial matters as appearance, and sought only to kill. Here, the moral of the story was that even those with the intelligence enough to know better could still be corrupted. The last version (the most common one) told that the raven's one weakness was love, because wit nor cunning nor wisdom could prevent or protect against it. The raven suffered inner turmoil and became lovesick, unwilling to fall to such a weakness, but eventually unable to fight it. At this point, the audience would assume it fell in love with another of its kind, but this was not the case. It fell in love with a human boy, with locks of jagged night-colored hair and brown eyes the color of mahogany. The boy became his master, and it reserved a softer side—one no other living being had ever known it to have—just for him. Here, the story was simply that. A story. It had no intended morals or messages to give. But Itachi now remembered this tale, and the irony with which it mirrored his own life. At first, he'd always seen the Uchiha race as the raven, always. Now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps he was the raven in this story, and Madara, the boy, whom although mortal had given to the raven gifts more valuable than beauty in return for his service. Trust in the place of deceit, warmth to melt away the ice in its heart, and the greatest gift of all: something to live for. It is well-known that a raven's lifespan is relatively short. The raven in the story lived well beyond its years, its own death came only in succession his master's. Itachi's heart had not yet warmed to such an extent. He was not yet willing to accept the gifts offered by the boy. Not yet. But he knew, as did Madara, that it would eventually come to pass. All good things come to those who wait…and are audacious enough to press the matter once they grow impatient.

And so ends the tale of two ravens, a story of irony, wit, and love's stubborn will to conquer all beating hearts, no matter how cold.

Author's Notes: This has been, by far, the most fun I've ever had writing a fanfiction. I realize there may be gaps in the story, a confusing concept here or there that doesn't quite match up as I threaded the stories together. I apologize for that, because all of this was written off the top of my head.

The story of the birds is my own creation. As far as I'm aware, no such tale exists. My purpose here was to tell the story mainly from Itachi's point of view, where he is reflecting on a childhood tale that he still remembers to this day and noticing similarities between the story and his own predicament. There are several endings to the story of the birds because they symbolize the different paths Itachi's life could have taken. The main theme was to show that despite his inner struggles, Itachi fell for Madara, and they both know it even if Itachi refuses to admit to it. One last thing I'd like to add, though it's not mentioned in the fanfiction, is that Madara is the one who first told Itachi the story he's remembering. Part of the irony is that it was almost as if Madara was foretelling his future. This is also a late Christmas gift to Vi, whose wonderful support is always appreciated. Again, my apologies for any icky plot holes, and mostly for the sudden smut rape. In my opinion, I feel the smut scene was a bit abrupt—it was meant to be, of course, but I'm nitpicky about these things, you know. D;

Edit|| I really hate this site's text editor right now. I can't use slashes through my text, can't edit the size of my font...ugh. It supposedly 'saves' all my changes, and then when I go back to preview, all the editing is gone. /Anger, rage, asdgfksdfdf! D:

...And on that note, I bid you Adieu.

/End/