Does the sea, lapping at the shore, make a sound? If there are no human ears to hear it, nor even the calls of the birds. Only the few dead fish that linger too close to a whirlpool float in the five broken islands of once-great Uzushiogakure. If they do so they do so silently.
Uzushiogakure is dead. Long lost, buried by the combined efforts of several shinobi villages. One of the last concerted efforts, before the coalition fell apart. Before Konohagakure, soon to be one of the greatest Hidden Villages, imprinted its guilt into its symbol. Before the Yondaime Hokage.
Still, the whirlpools swirl. Great maelstroms are birthed from the thick mist and cold waters, throwing washes of water and floods on the limited flora of the islands. Once-great trees, gifts from the Shodaime and Nidaime Hokages, are cracked open, their hearts long eroded by the elements. Water, wind, lightning, earth. Fire, too, rages. But the Will of Fire does not exist here, where guilt hangs heavy.
(Under the whirlpools are thousands of Uzu villagers, civilians and ninja both.)
It is a myth, this land of fog and death. Spies that pass by on their routine way for infiltration and training avoid it. Rumors abound that seals, grand seals, lie unawakened, only waiting for the unwary to trigger. A messy death, a lingering, painful one. This is the least of worries.
Perhaps, too it is mere fairy-tales and nonsense - but so is Kakuzu, the Heart-Thief, and in the bounty trade he is still a very concrete presence.) And - some brave, foolish, insane souls, have gone into the mists and silent whirlpools.
None have left.
Gulls circle the once-proud village, calling their cries. In the mists the cries are distorted. Harsh caws, screams, shrieks, perhaps echoing with the unavenged dead, the uncleansed dead.
They dare not land. Gulls are hardy, yet do not exit the fog. Even in their animal minds, they know this is a place to stay away from. So they circle, and ride the currents, and are gone.
In the middle of the fog, there are five islands that remain standing.
The last Uzukage triggered all of her seals when the last of her shinobi fell. With her dying breath. Once, among the whirlpools, rooms danced. Houses floated in the ocean, held by seal and jutsu, by technique and finesse. To move from house to house, to visit friends, one rode the whirlpool. Inwards is forwards, and outwards upwards. Houses were mounted on pieces of ocean rock, that bobbed upward ever so often to form a dance of islands, before being whisked away. It was an espionage trick; the layout of Uzushiogakure changed week-by-week, never the same twice. The whirlpools ever spin, but what seems like one direction is in truth many.
The whirlpools hid Uzushiogakure, defended it, and destroyed it.
With her dying breath the last Uzukage shattered the long-labored seals, spent her blood for the Grand Cancel. Blood that quickly drained from her, after the last invader was finished.
By then the refugees were long gone to the welcoming arms of the Sandaime Hokage. And so the grudges of Uzushiogakure are gone to the grave, too. The deep, watery grave.
And so did the smaller islands sink to the bottom, taking with them the memories of happy families.
Now Uzushiogakure is ruins, rock formations overgrown with moss and algae. It is sticks and long splinters of deadwood, treated with varnish and seals untouched by the Grand Cancel. They lie in furrows along the sand, or float as driftwood into the ocean. Ever-buoyant, sealed as they are, they ride the crest of the whirlpool, and float back out as the currents fade.
On the central island, a large shape rises against the perpetually overcast sky. Three walls stand, the fourth in rubble and ruins. The floor is still lacquered and varnished, protected from weather by carvings in the floor. As water fills it, it glows still with the chakra of ancient sealers.
Summer passes as winter does, year after year. The children of the other Hidden Villages play, grow, kill.
Uzushiogakure is silent. It makes no sound.
There is no one to hear it.