Sasuke stands over the torn Amaterasu shrine.
Wherever they went, the Uchiha were feared.
This was the same as saying, wherever they went, the Uchiha were persecuted.
They worshipped their own gods, sang their own songs, and—when the mob inevitably came to them—died in their own grounds.
A long time ago, before Madara had delivered and doomed them in the same act, the Uchiha were exterminated the moment any of them had the misfortune of flashing red irises in the wrong company.
Different names, different acts, different betrayals every time, but the story went the same. Men and women alike took up arms to close those eyes forever. Uchiha children died in the same moment their eyes flashed red for the first time.
eyes flashing blood red at the sight of their parents being struck down in front of them.
It was the Story of the Uchiha, printed on some cosmic wheel. Promised by some thrice cursed deity to come around again and again, repeating for eternity.
The God of Shinobi himself had promised to bring an end to the story, to write over it with the story of friendship, of love, of nakama. But the Story of the Uchiha is written in blood, and it bled through Hashirama's lies.
Who weeps for those children?
I do.