It was still dark hours later when my parents' forlorn faces entered my bedroom, I silenced myself immediately. My father picked me up and cradled me in his large arms as large kisses were placed on my forehead. By picking me up I could see the scars, bruises and blood on both of my parents and started to whimper. Not out of fear, but at their violent lifestyle that I would soon adopt as my own. Yet it wasn't the crimson etched into the contour of their faces, or even the dirt embedded into every visible inch of skin, it was the small tears in my father's eyes. A ninja crying could not mean anything good could have happened, anything at all. My mother took me from my father as he started to cry, and as a family we were wrapped in a hug, mourning together, for what I didn't know, but I didn't have to.
The next day was chaos. My mother and father were garbed in black, yet their faces were darker than the garments they wore. I knew it was bad, when my parents even exchanged my normally violet blanket, made by my grandmother, for a black blanket. It was when my mother quietly picked me up and carried me out the door that I knew I was correct, something horrible had happened last night. Over the view, albeit small view, of my mother's shoulder I saw countless men, women and children garbed in black. This was a funeral procession. The sadness in the air was tangible, so tangible that at any moment I felt it could pour down raining. Yet, as I felt the overwhelming grief in the air I was confused. My parents moved in the opposite direction of the crowd as my mother carried me gently in her arms, as she silently nodded to people passing by. It was when after a few short moments of travel that my family and I stopped. I tried craning my infant neck to see where I was but alas, the limitations of my new body would not allow me to sate my curiosity. Normally I would have tried to wiggle my way out of my forced view of a shoulder and dirt, but today was not the day to push my limits.
My mother quickly placed me in another person's arms while smiling gratefully before both she and my father left in a flurry of black. I looked up and saw the lightest violet eyes. Before being alarmed I was comforted by a small shushing sound from the man that kindly smiled down at me. His long brown hair, kind violet eyes and his headband comforted me. I remember this face, this was Hizashi Hyuga.
Hizashi gently carried me in the nook of his arms, before stopping and opening a sliding wooden door. It was then that I was gently carried and placed in a small wooden crib with another young child. Hizashi smiled down at me, before kissing the young baby boy whom I shared a crib with on the head and taking his leave. After only a few moments the toddler crawled clumsily over me to stare at me. I don't know how long Neji Hyuga and I stared at one another, but I couldn't help but release giggles that sounded like gurgling bubbles. Neji Hyuga was an adorable baby, his brown hair was already down to his ears and his eyes were happier than any I'd seen before. I'm grateful that not going to the funeral meant meeting someone I'd grow up with.
After an hour or so my parents arrived to pick me up with grim faces, only to smile with Hizashi as Neji and I were curled up with one another snoozing. I couldn't help it, all I could do was sleep or play with my chakra, so sleeping with Neji was the safer option. Besides, curiosity certainly makes one sleepy.
In the passing days after what I thought was the funeral, my mother stayed home more often whilst my father was out. This was normal, being born into a family of ninjas established that they would not be there all the time, and least likely together when they could. This knowledge did not alarm me. What did; however, was my grandfather's first visit.
He was alone. Absent from my grandmother. This confused me. It was always my grandmother and grandfather since my initial meeting with my grandfather. His face was even absent, if that made sense, as if he was missing a part of himself. My grandfather had come to visit a week after the funeral procession, or rather to babysit as I felt my mother leave after my grandfather entered our home.
When his weathered and slightly wrinkled hands met my blanket I almost cried at the changed man in front of me. His eyes were resigned. I held it in though, instead I let him pick me up and stare down at me from the crook of his left arm. Looking at my grandfather in his new white robes I was determined to make him smile. So I giggled as cutely as I could and held onto his fingers in a vice grip, and at that moment I knew he would be okay, he smiled.
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