The ANBU Mask
There were many among the ranks who were fascinated by these masks. Bone white with only a hint of color to convey the meaning of the creature.
Many felt honored by such a mask, felt that it was the height of accomplish to acquire ownership of one, and he was not exempt from these feelings. He was strong and he had earned his place among these protectors. He had not been given a place in ANBU on anything less than his own merits.
That did not mean he was happy to be among them. For any other than the reasons he had, he could be satisfied, but he was not, and could not be, because he knew he was not among them to protect in the same way as the others. The goal was there, of course, but he knew that even his strong loyalties could be torn because his heart was sundered.
And that was fine. He had so much ahead of him that he ached with knowing his too numerous tasks, and when he was named anew then there was naught to be done but bow and be thankful for the choice laid in front of him.
It seemed that ANBU had traditions, just as every other rank. Genin had to face their jounin's private game. Chunin were tested in fire, and jounin, well, none could claim to be a true jounin until there was some spark of eccentricity.
ANBU, it seemed, had their own curious initiation, and it was softer, so much softer, than that offered by the other ranks.
He had not known that the masks were so personal. You were named, yes, and your mask reflected that name, however...
He had thought that the patterns were set as the shapes of the masks were.
He was mistaken.
Just as there were infinite options for names, so it seemed that there were infinite options for masks, and what he was given was not a colored bit of porcelain.
What he was given was bone white, with the hooked beak of a bird and the flawlessness that said no paints had ever touched the surface.
Further, while standing amid the shelves where he'd been handed this mask, he realized that none were colored, every shelf burdened with masks just as new, just as faceless, as the one held in his grip. It had been enough to finally lead him to ask, to look properly at the man giving him his gear.
"I don't understand."
There was a smile in the tone, though the green swirls on the feline mask gave nothing away. "You will."
He didn't say anything more, and was honestly bewildered when the last things added to his pile were a collection of paints, red, black, dark green, purple, and deep blue, as well as a handful of red ribbons of all different sorts.
It was then that he realized what the mask was meant to be. He was creating himself, and when he got home he took care to make sure that he was not noticed, and thus would not be disturbed by the ever curious, ever there presence of his little brother.
No, this was not for a child's curiosity, and he laid the paints in a careful array over his desk, setting the mask in the center and the ribbons to the side as he gathered his writing brushes and laid them out as well. This was something for bloodied hands and broken hearts, and he realized that that might, perhaps, be why it was given to new ANBU. ANBU was known to be hard, to tear down and remake those within their ranks, so it should not have surprised him that it began at their own hands.
This was the gift given to the new to make themselves into their new names in their own way. He had been named Crow, and now, he was to make himself Crow. Closing his eyes for a moment, he nodded his head once, focusing on nothing as he reached for the brush. This was, finally, something for just himself.
Smiling, he began to paint.