Brilliant Sky

Chapter 4: Dawn

空

Now that I could see properly, the days passed like a swift mountain river. Mother must have noticed my eyes tracing the kanji hanging on our walls, because she had me trace the basic kana with finger paints at about the same time as I started walking.

I'm not sure if that's normal behavior for here (after all, kana are more varied and interesting than the alphabet I grew up with), or if even then it was expected that the younger brother of Uchiha Itachi would of course excel at everything.

Because even now, with Itachi barely five years old, it was obvious he was different. Faster in both mind and body, he breezed through whatever challenges father gave him. When he threw a kunai, it was clear he was already thinking of the kunai after the next one – some of his trick shots would make a pool player from Vegas I knew weep with envy.

One day, when the sun was shining and the wind was not as sharp, Itachi made his first kill.

I saw him hit a wagtail out of flight. It was at least thirty meters in the sky, and he took it dead center.

At dinner that night, he had a somber look to his face as mom prepared his catch.

That was another thing I noticed in my brother – he was always thinking about something. At times I fancied I could hear the well-oiled machine of his mind churning through whatever occupied his attention.

And I often got the chance to notice. It seemed that Itachi spent whatever spare moment he had with me. He would hold me when I was still stuck spending my days wrapped in a blanket, but as I gained more control over my muscles and protested in the strongest possible terms for my freedom (ie, wriggling with a pathetic look in my eye), he would set me on the tatami and watch as I crawled about.

I believe I earned the Brother of the Year award when, on a warming day with pink blossoms on the breeze, I opened my mouth at dinner and said, "onii-chan!"

The smile on Itachi's kindly face would melt snow.

I caught a flash of red from the corner of my eye and turned my head. Mother, Mikoto, had the sappiest look to her as she watched her sons.

Her eyes were glowing red.

My own eyes widened as I realized that this was the Sharingan, the infamous Copy Wheel Eye that generations had fought and bled for. Something of my dumbstruck state must have communicated itself to mom (probably my gaping mouth), because she leaned closer to me to allow for a better view.

The Sharingan was beautiful. It was red, so very darkly red, that it took me a moment to recognize the color. I had once sliced my finger to the bone when sharpening a knife. In the first second after the blade slipped, all I could do was look blankly at my hand, not quite yet grasping what had happened. I remember the red coming out around the metal – it was deep, it was dark, and it seemed to mean more than just a peculiar shade of iron when paired with oxygen in hemoglobin. It meant life to me, my life.

That was the color of mother's eyes.

They were mesmerizing. I felt I could get lost and swim in them forever. I noticed the tomoe, that were the same pitch black of her pupils, swirling lazily around the center of the crimson iris.

I pushed myself forward slightly to follow their path as they made their slow circuit, when abruptly they faded into the returning sable of Mikoto's natural eye color.

Like waking from a dream I came to myself and shook my head. Mom's goofy smile had faded into not quite a frown, but certainly not a happy cant. Her eyes were sad.

Father said something I didn't quite catch. For all that I had spoken Japanese in my last life, it had been nearly a decade since I had used it regularly, and my parents did not accommodate my comprehension speed like many of my friends from years past had.

Mikoto answered with a short "hai," and that was that. Her smile returned, though it wasn't as bright as before.

Turning back to Itachi, I noted that his smile had not faded by one lumen, and that he seemed not to have listened to a single word from either of our parents. He reached over to pick me up, but seemed to hesitate at a cough from father.

Instead he extended his arm to pat me on the head. He couldn't quite reach, and ended up tapping me dead center on the forehead with his index and middle finger.

I blinked. Then I gave the kid the nastiest look I could manage.

The chuckles from around the table told me that I had not succeeded in dissuading my brother from trying that again, and I grumbled to myself (which sounded like adorable burbling) as I realized that I had probably just cemented Itachi's trademark Poke of Brotherly Affection as our primary means of communication.

And life was good.

悪夢 (akumu)

Red.

Red was all I saw, filling my eyes.

Red was all I felt, burning my flesh in fire and rubble, buildings falling.

Red was all I felt, red anger that blazed brightly, and naked fear in my heart as I peered through the dust and falling stone of my home collapsing around me.

I saw red eyes, the size of cars, staring at me. Great veins the size of boa constrictors pumped crimson into the glowing iris, as the slit pupils, longer than I was tall, bore into me like a drill. Great tomoe, that almost glowed BLACK with their malice, swirled around us, choking us in the miasma of their control.

I felt the roar before I heard it, rattling my bones like a car wreck as I saw the light pole in my windscreen again, felt my wheels skidding on the ice as I flew at the -

"GAAAAAUUUGGGHHAHAAHAAA!"

I came to myself wrapped in another's arms, great arms that held me with strength like steel. I wept into the broad shoulder I was rested against as memories of blood and oil-stained snow slowly faded back into the pit dug for them.

"Calm, Sasuke. Papa is here. In these arms you are safe."

I calmed as I soaked in father's words. Life here had been frustrating. I was worse than a prisoner, because my watchers truly loved me, and wanted to set me free the moment I proved I could. My tiny body would not listen to me most of the time, even – especially – not when trying to control its bodily functions. I was helpless, weak, and lonely, not being able to meaningfully communicate with the world around me.

But I was alive. And as father said, I was safe. We had survived terror together already, and I knew that I would be free to move myself again soon.

I tried to tell Fugaku all of this with my eyes. I doubt a word of it got through, but something about the gentle firmness in his eyes told me he understood my message clearly. He sat next to my crib and gently rocked me.

I slipped into a dreamless sleep to the sound of his breathing.

A/N

First Posted: 2017/02/03

Edited:

This was hard to write. Events and directions from Act II kept stealing my attention, and it wasn't until I began thinking about Itachi's first casualty that words started to flow.

My respect for you writers that have written door-stopper length epics grows every day.

Recommendation: "Yet, mad I am not", by Erisah Mae (stid: 10675898). This is perhaps the single greatest dissection of PTSD and the road to recovery/moving on that I've ever read on this site. Basic premise is that Itachi, in his final battle with Sasuke, dies. He wakes up in a prison cell, and breaks his way free. The story goes from there, and is a genuine treat and delight to read. The author has a way of saying much while saying little, and deserves every ounce of praise you can offer :)