Please, do not take everything you read at face value. Itachi's memory is fragmented and records of his time are very hard to come by. Ozpin doesn't know everything that happened, and those he know, might actually be wrong or be understood wrongly.
THE ILLUSION AMONG THE CROWS
The reborn hero is an enigma: a young man whose warrior skills are blunted and memories, fragmented. This Itachi is a man out of time, marooned in a world as strange to him as a dream, remote from all he knew and loved. To most, he was a foolish hope. But not so to Ozpin [Unrequited Harem]
First there was darkness, complete and absolute. No sounds to disconcert him, no conscious thoughts to concern him. Then came awareness of darkness and everything changed. He felt a pressure against his back and legs, and a gentle thudding in his chest. Fear touched him.
Why am I in the dark? In that instant a bright, powerful image filled his mind.
His brother, back pressed against the wall and knees shaking in fright, stared wide-eyed at his approaching staggering form.
A bloody smile, one conveying his overwhelming love...and deep regret.
"Sorry Sasuke... this is it..."
Two fingers poked gently against his forehead, his ultimate expression of love. Before he...
His body jerked spasmodically, his eyes flaring open. Not only were the ruins that dotted the surroundings not around, he was not also on the ground. Instead, he found himself lying in a soft bed and staring up at an ornate ceiling, high and flat. He blinked and took a deep breath, his lungs filling with air. The sensation was exquisite — and somehow unnatural.
Confused, the man sat up and rubbed at his eyes. Sunshine was streaming through a high, arched opening to his right. It was so bright and painful that he raised his arm to shield his eyes from the brilliance. His eyes adjusting to the brightness, he stood and padded naked across the room. A cool breeze rippled against his skin, causing him to shiver. This too, in its own way, was confusing. The feeling of cold was almost alien.
The opening led to a bathroom, beyond which lay a vast expanse of water. Slowly, he scanned the landscape. There was nothing here that tugged at his memory. It was all new.
He shivered again, and walked back into the room. The room itself was also unfamiliar. On a table nearby he saw a water jug and a cup. He reached for the jug. As he did so he caught sight of his reflection in a curved mirror on the wall behind the table. Cold, onyx eyes stared back at him, from a face both calm and forbidding, yet carrying an undertone of warmth. There was something about the reflected man that was unrelentingly dangerous despite the evident apathy.
Becoming aware of a gnawing emptiness in his stomach, he recognized — as if from ancient memory — the symptoms of hunger. Filling the cup with water he drank deeply, then looked around the room. On another narrow table, alongside the door, he saw a shallow bowl, filled with dried fruit, slices of honey-dipped apricot, and apples. Carrying the bowl back to the bed he sat down and slowly ate the fruit, expecting at any moment that memories would come flooding back.
They did not.
Fear flared in him, but he quelled it savagely. "You are not a man given to panic," he said, aloud.
How would you know? The thought was unsettling.
"Stay calm and think," he said.
His brother's forehead against his, eyes wide in realization and body frozen in shock.
"If I had been open with you from the start... and looked you in the eyes and told the truth... I wouldn't have to stand before you now, as a failure, telling you all this. So this time I want to impart this truth with you... you don't even have to forgive me... and no matter what you do from here on out, I will love you always."
The memory faded. Anger swelled, but he let it flow over him and away. Holding to the memory of the scene, he analysed what he did remember. He had been bone weary. His shoulders unnaturally light as if a great burden had been removed. No, he realized, not weary.
He was dying. Or rather, he had died.
The shock of the memory made him rise again and return to the mirror. The face he saw was young, the skin unlined apart from the tear-troughs, the long hair dark and shining with health.
The image returned with sickening intensity.
Finally done saying his piece, the reincarnated body dissolved and his soul was returned back to the afterlife.
A cold breeze blew in from the balcony. He rose and searched the room. By the far wall was a tall chest of drawers. The top drawer contained carefully folded clothing. Removing the first item, he saw that it was a thigh-length shirt of fine blue wool. He pulled it on, then opened the second drawer. Here he found several pairs of leggings, some in wool, others in soft leather. Choosing a pair in dark, polished leather, he donned them. They fitted perfectly.
Hearing footsteps outside his door he stepped away from the chest and waited, his mind tense, his body relaxed.
A middle-aged man entered, bearing a tray on which was set a plate of cured meats, and smoked cheeses. The man glanced at him nervously, but said nothing. He moved to the larger table, set down the tray and backed away towards the door.
"Wait!"
The middle-aged man stopped, eyes downcast.
"Who are you?"
Mumbling something under his breath, the tray-bearer rushed from the room. Only after he had departed did the man manage to piece together the answer he had given. The words were familiar, but somehow mangled. He had said: "Just a nurse, sir."
The man had heard: "Jezzenorseser."
Moments later a second figure appeared in the doorway, a tall middle-aged man with tousled silver hair. He was lean, and slightly round-shouldered, his eyes thin and piercingly brown. His clothes were sombre, a buttoned vest and green shirt, with black trouser shoes and long, dark-green pants. In his hand, aiding his steps, was a cane. He smiled disarmingly. "Mataianter?" he asked.
Might I enter. The man in the bedroom gestured for him to step inside.
The newcomer began to speak swiftly. The man held up his hand and spoke. "I am having difficulty understanding your dialect. Speak slowly."
"Of course. Language shifts, changes and grows. Can you understand me now?" the other asked, speaking clearly and enunciating his words. The man nodded. "I know you will have many questions," said the newcomer, pulling shut the door behind him, "and they will all be answered in time." He glanced down at the man's bare feet.
"There are several pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots in the closet within sight," he said, pointing to a panel against the far wall. "You will find all the clothes fit you well."
"What am I doing here?"
"An interesting first question. I hope you will not think me rude if I respond with one of my own. Do you know yet who you are?"
"No."
The silver-haired man nodded. "That is understandable. It will come back to you. I assure you of that. As to what you are doing here..." he smiled again, "you will understand better once you have remembered your name. So let us begin with my name. I am Ozpin, Headmaster of the Academy you are currently in. A city lays far from the Academy, Vale, and between them is the Emerald Forest. I want you to think of me as a friend, someone who seeks to help you."
"Why have I no memory?"
"You have been — shall we say — asleep for a long time. A very long time. That you are here at all is a miracle. We must take things slowly. Trust me on this."
"Is this the afterlife?"
"Why would you think that?"
"I recall... my death. Yet I am here, my body no longer grey or in a state of minor decay."
"Excellent," said Ozpin. "Your deaths! That is excellent." He seemed massively relieved.
"What is excellent?"
"That you recall your death. It tells me we have succeeded. That you are ... the man we sought."
"How so?"
"The ways of the Shinobi faded from history long ago. Only remnants of the legend abide. One such legend tells of a great warrior who stood against his clan's decision. Choosing instead to murder every single one of his family, including his parents and love interest to prevent a coup from occurring. Shouldering the guilt and hatred he felt was deserved from the only survivor."
"How would I recall an event that happened long ago?"
Ozpin rose. "Find yourself some footwear and let me show you the Academy and its grounds."
"I would appreciate some answers," said the man, an edge creeping into his voice.
"And I would like nothing more than to sit down now and supply them all. It would not be wise, however. You need to arrive at your own answers. Believe me, they will come. It is important for you that we do this in a careful manner. Will you trust me?"
"I am not a trusting man. When I asked you why I had no memory you said I had been asleep for a long time. More accurately, you said shall we say you have been asleep. Answer this one question and I will consider trusting you: how long have I been asleep?"
"A thousand years," said Ozpin.
At first the man laughed, but then he realized there was no trace of amusement to be found on Ozpin's face. "I may have lost my memory, but not my intelligence. No-one sleeps for a thousand years."
"I used the word sleep, because that is the closest to the actuality. Your ... soul, if you like, has been wandering the Void for the past ten centuries or so. The remains of your actual body was used to reincarnate you. This is your new body — fashioned from my magic and the fragments of your bone*." Ozpin reached into his trouser pocket. From it he took a small, moth-eaten band of cloth with a metal plate. "What does this mean to you?" he asked.
The man took the headband, his fingers closing gently around it. "It is mine," he said softly. "I cannot say how I know this to be true."
"Say a name — if you can."
The man hesitated and closed his eyes.
"Sasuke," he said, at last.
"Can you describe him?"
"Sasuke was my brother..." A brief flash of memory flowed through his mind, causing him to wince, as if in pain. "He was my younger brother."
"And you carried his headband?"
The man looked closely at Ozpin. "No. It is mine. My pride and fealty to my village. You don't look as surprised as I expected at my answer."
"You are quite right. Our earliest tales of ... of you ... have you hunted by a Shinobi named Sasuke. It is said you didn't kill him because of the love you had for him and as a way for you to atone for your sins. By having him kill you and be hailed as a hero. For years he had searched for you, hoping to finally kill you. Only for you, not to die by his hands but due to a sickness." Ozpin chuckled. "A fine tale, and there is probably a grain of truth in there somewhere. Now come with me, my friend. I have much to show you."
Why make another story you ask? Well this was the original idea I had for my Fate/Stay Night crossover fic, but chose that one over this. I couldn't get this idea out of my head though, and as I have read most, if not all, of the RWBY crossover staring my favorite Uchiha, I wanted him as my main character.
* And what Ozpin meant by "fashioned from my magic" would be explained later. And for the whole "fragment of bone" thing, I can explain it as Sasuke having scoured the Elemental Nation for the remaining pieces of his brother and burying it. And Ozpin finding the grave of Itachi and desecrating it.
Until next update. Don't forget to review, follow and favorite this story. It motivates me to write more. And if you can, check out my other stories. They are awesome.
Later guys.