If I owned Naruto, Kishimoto would have a lot more editors breathing down his neck to ensure that plot holes are taken care of. Since the plot holes are limitless, I obviously don't own the poor thing.
Just a little symbolic, poetic something I came up with in moments between editing KW. Nothing special.
Sometimes, it was hard to remember that the dagger lay beneath the hardwood floor she swept so diligently. Her sons were reading something in the living room as she wielded the broom as efficiently as she had once wielded kunai.
Once.
It wasn't the kind of dagger a person should be forgetting about. It lay beneath the mask in her son's locker deep inside the ANBU lair. It hid in sheaves of documents that didn't exist. It shadowed every fan. It lay in the very mortar of the bricks that made up the wall that marked the end of the Uchiha compound. Their prison. Their fortress.
Twice.
Sometimes, she had to remind herself that Fugaku did this so her sons would live better lives. They would be happy and free from doubt. Their children would stand proud. The wall would be gone and the dagger would be long rusted.
Whose blood would be on it though?
She fought to keep herself from sweeping the same patch of floor a second time. Sweeping was a singular activity, not a battle of dualities. There were two possible hands to wield the knife.
Who would pick it up the first?
The first to snatch up the offence would be the first to bleed.
"Itachi can be our eyes and ears in the very organization that watches us."
"But he's only thirteen!"
"He's the best the clan has to offer, as expected of my son."
Except, he was her son too.
She was the one cleaning up the dirt he had brought in from the streets of far nations he walked for the Hokage. She wondered if the impotent old man saw the dagger she did in the familiar face.
Just who was wielding it though?
Sasuke laughed at something in the prose and she could hear the tender smile in Itachi's silence. The sound was enough to restore her faith that Fugaku was doing the right thing.