The Konoha Orphanage looked alright from the exterior — a bit like a log cabin on steroids. Everything was made of wood, outside and in, from the unusually long wall planks, to the blue roof, to every piece of furniture. Wood, wood, wood. Perhaps it wasn't so odd, given the orphanage was hidden in the woods, away from the prying eyes of town.

The whole thing was one teen's fire release away from kindling.

But it was homey, and smelled a bit of forest, and so I didn't mind it so much.

The inside, of course, was worse. By the end of the war, the Konoha Orphanage housed 66 children, which was about 36 more than it could handle.

Beds were stacked precariously on one another to make room. Food (mostly beans) was stretched with water, and water for bathing was scarce. The whole place smelled of soupy beans, sweaty children, and the soppy sheets of crying bedwetters.

I, however, almost never cried, which is probably why the nuns (or were they medics? They looked like nuns.) who ran the orphanage liked me pretty good. The other reason was because I handled the demon.

Which is what most of the caretakers called the baby who had come in with me. The one with bronze hair and green eyes.

For the moment we arrived - lined up to get clothing, and a bed, and a name (if needed) - he cried constantly. His little face would turn beet red. His chubby fists would snatch anyone near to squeeze and pull. And his scream was so piercing that one of the nuns had to quit because she stopped believing in God.

By midnight the first night, the caretaker staying up with him, a round, stern woman named Keiri, was about to shake the life out of him.

"Oh, will you calm down, please?"

No children had been able to sleep, and many had joined in on the crying, frustrated themselves. Keiri had tried everything – warm milk, rocking, covering his face with a blanket like a parrot – but nothing had worked. I suspected they'd resort to tranquilizers soon which, though I understood, was probably not fair on such a little toddler.

I finally gave in, after hours of hoping someone else would figure it out.

"May I try something, ma'am?" I asked quietly, my little fingers pressed up on the bed beside her as I peered over.

She looked at me, hair askew, eyes wide. "And what, pray tell, do you plan to do?"

I stared back matter-of-factly, not considering how it might look from her current form.

"I sang him a lullaby in the hospital tent and he fell asleep. I could try the same one." I hadn't wanted to reveal my "alternate universe" songs so soon, but really what could it hurt? It's not as if the lyrics would suddenly give me away (I hoped). Plus I am pretty tired, I mused, and the crying is a bit much.

Keiri set the boy onto his bed, far too big for him and lacking proper bars. He continued to howl, his whole body now completely red, his fists and feet balled. I rested a hand on his tufted hair but he didn't even seem to notice. Then I closed my eyes, focusing on the warm core in the center of my chest. I waited for it to rise as it had before and burble out my throat, helping me sing.

"Somewhere over the rainbow…" I sang again. After the first verse the boy had gone silent, looking up at me with worn, red eyes, hiccupping. By the second verse his eyelids had gone heavy as he valiantly tried to stay awake. By the third verse he was fast asleep. By the end of the song, the rest of room had also fallen into easy dreams.

Thank god for music

Petering off, and standing again, I nodded at Keiri who looked almost annoyed by the whole thing. I hopped back in my own bed.

From the back of the room, the head caretaker stepped forward. She had introduced herself only as "Mother." She had lank, dirty blonde hair and square glasses. She wore the same nun-like hood and robes as the rest of the caretakers.

"Ren, was it?" She whispered to me, her voice warm but gentle, so not to wake her sleeping wards.

I just nodded. I couldn't remember this woman. Or any of them, really. Knowing how much corruption was bubbling under Konoha around this time was unsettling. But she seemed trustworthy. Like she really cared about all of us. That she cares we don't really have mothers.

She sat on the edge of my bed. "That was a nice song. Where did you learn to sing that way?"

My eyebrows scrunched of their own accord. What could she know?

"My…" I began, unsure of what to say, "my mother taught me." I said, honestly. Perhaps not my mother of this world, but still.

She nodded, clearly thinking something she wasn't saying, "And can you remember your mother's name? Her family name?"

I shook my head. Even if I remembered Ren's family name I wouldn't be telling anyone. Names are important in this world.

"A shame," she whispered, stroking strands of hair back from my face. "It seems to be quite a talent. I hope you use it well."

I only nodded again.

"And for your help," she smiled. "Would you like to think of a name for the boy? I'm afraid no one knows what he was called, before." She pointed at the sleeping toddler, all drool and mussed sheets now.

"Boy, psh, demon more like," the quiet voice of Keiri barely reached me. Both Mother and I ignored her.

I looked at him. It felt wrong to give a child a new name, but he would need one.

"Niji." I whispered.

Mother leaned in towards me, "Neji, did you say?"

I shook my head hard. I didn't like that name. Sounds annoying, a small, forgotten voice whispered in the back of my mind. "No, like the song. Niji. Because he's like a rainbow."

"Niji" meant "rainbow" in Japanese, I had realized. And it felt like it suited him. I heard Keiri scoff in the background, but Mother just smiled.

"And why is he like a rainbow?"

"Because they come after the rain," I felt sad when I looked at him. He had every reason in the world to cry and I hoped those reasons would help him grow to be the kind of man, one day, who would smile brighter than anyone.

Mother nodded thoughtfully, "I like it. Niji it is." Then she stood. "Good night, my love. Sleep well and we'll see you bright an early in the morning." She soothed fingers across my scalp, touched maybe with some chakra, although really I couldn't tell. All I knew was my eyes started feeling quite heavy, too. I fought the effect best I could, which is to say I was losing.

As a child, I think I would have just thought she was the warm-aunt type. The teacher you liked better than your own mom. The embodiment of a hug. As a (kind of) adult, however, I looked at her differently. She was warm on the surface, but cool beneath. All business – it just so happened that her business was kids. I couldn't imagine she truly loved all of her wards, as she seemed to claim. But what else is she supposed to say?

Sleep took me before I could think much more about Mother.

#

MEANWHILE

In his short thirteen years, Kakashi Hatake had seen more dead people than your average gravedigger. By now he hardly registered them as people anymore. Though, to be fair, he hardly registered most of the living as people either.

It had taken a few pulled strings and several hours after he was supposed to have gone home, but Kakashi had finally found the two corpses he had been looking for, sealed in the same scroll they used to contain families.

With all the dexterity of an emotionless scavenger, he pulled identical rings off the cold fingers of both.

Rolling them in his hand, he admired the rings for a moment. They were wooden wedding bands with water lilies carved into their fronts in place of gemstones. They were made by hand, but very well. They looked delicate, and yet had clearly survived difficult lives – given the scratches that peppered their surfaces, and the gnarled hands of their owners.

Kakashi pocketed the bands, then re-sealed the bodies quickly. He never liked trips to the morgue. Too stuffy – and with all the casualties from the war, this morgue felt particularly stuffy right now.

He escaped the Hokage tower, still buzzing with activity and unrest given the day's events. Kakashi didn't want to think about it. Maybe that's why he was doing this whole thing. A distraction, he convinced himself. He wasn't going soft, as Pakkun had implied.

And yet he felt soft when he thought of that little girl. Why do I care so much? He wondered as he cat-leaped from roof to roof, silently escaping to the forest, lit only by the midnight moon.

She had just been so… small. But that's wasn't it, there were plenty of little orphans in Konoha, ones much smaller than her. But she hadn't cried, which he appreciated. And she had been poor, looking at the state of her, her parents, and their shack. She would almost certainly always be poor. She was a civilian. Civilians had always discomfited Kakashi. In a world where power was so valuable, he felt nearly like a different species than those people. At four he could have felled their strongest men. By now he was nearly a god, comparatively. He worried, sometimes, about how easily he could snap their fragile bones. He didn't like it. He preferred the hardiness of Shinobi. Not that he hated Civilians, or anything. But he couldn't help but see them as he would stray dogs in the rain, something that he also didn't like thinking about.

And this stray puppy had lost everything in one moment. He watched the recognition on her face when she realized it, too. A silent horror. Perhaps if she had been crying, it might have felt more normal. Easier to ignore.

What's worse, her parents had protected her. She was truly loved in a way she probably never would be again.

And in spite of all that, maybe he could have forgotten her. Drank the night away like his comrades, or waited outside the Hokage's office until he knew it had been filled.

But no, he had to spend all evening looking for two handmade rings.

Because she had died. The voice in the back of his mind whispered. You know she was dead.

It was true, Kakashi had checked the bodies already. A cursory scan as he bounced from demolished house to demolished house, looking for survivors. But there were no heartbeats nor chakra symbols in that home. And then all the sudden she had moved, her chakra roaring back.

She came back to life.

It should have been impossible. Particularly for a little girl who, although perhaps stronger than an average six-year-old, had nothing on most Shinobi children. Much weaker than Kakashi himself, or silly Gai, or… your father. The voice in his mind offered.

So how had she done what no Shinobi in history had ever managed, though many tried?

It just didn't make sense. Which is why, he realized, he felt the need to see her just one more time so he could be certain he hadn't missed anything.

Yes. That's all. He thought to himself as he slipped silently through the highest window in the Konoha Orphanage and instantly grimaced at the smell of watery beans.

Kakashi slid across the ceiling, hearing voices at the end of the hall… right in front of the kids' bedroom, if the mass of chakra signatures told him anything.

He only heard snippets of the adults' conversation as he ghosted past them.

"… do you think it's a kekkei genkai?" The round woman whispered to the tall, bespectacled woman. "But I've never heard of a clan who," the woman grunted, "sings. Nor does it feel particularly useful."

"I've never heard of it either, but I did feel a leak of chakra. It was useful enough to put the children to sleep."

"Yes, but who's going to break into song on a battlefield? If it is a bloodline limit, I'm not sure it's valuable enough that we would have ever heard of it."

"Fair. And it wasn't well-controlled, nor strong enough to effect you nor I. Still… curious."

"As long as she takes care of that demon, I don't care what she does."

"Oh, you must stop calling…"

Kakashi didn't care much for whatever orphanage gossip they were prattling on about. He was too focused on slipping into the bedroom unseen.

When he did he was relieved to find the children all soundly asleep. Careful as ever, he remained in the shadows as he peered across the room until he found familiar black hair and small round cheeks.

She slept silently and still, unlike many of the snoring children who kicked at their blankets and thrashed in their dreams. No, this girl looked nearly, well, dead.

He fisted into his pocket, pulling out the rings and a scrap of paper. He dropped them beside her pillow, where, hopefully, only she would find it.

Then, for a moment, he observed her. Was there anything special about her?

He tried to sense anything, looking closely with his Sharingan and every detection skill he had.

But, for all he could tell, she looked like a relatively normal little girl who was, perhaps, a bit small for her age with a chakra reserve that seemed a bit too mature (although he was surrounded by some of the strongest Shinobi in the world, so it's not like he had the best judgement on such things).

There, she was normal after all. It must have been my mistake, he thought to himself. Although Kakashi wasn't used to making such mistakes. He didn't want to think about that.

Then, as quickly and silently as he had arrived, he had escaped. No one would know Kakashi Hatake had stepped foot in the Konoha Orphanage, having avoided it throughout his own childhood. And he fully expected never to see this small orphan ever again, either.

Right down the hall, however, he missed the final words of the caretakers before they went to bed.

"Oh, and Danzo Shimura's coming again tomorrow."

Keiri shivered, "I never much liked that man."

"Hush. He's bringing an examiner from the Academy. He'll be able to tell if any of the children have promise."

"I hope so, it's too full around here anyway."

"Mmm," Mother hummed, only to herself. Then she bid the woman goodnight and turned down the hall.

Funny. She thought she'd closed that window.

Shaking her head, she closed the windowsill with a snap. Then gave a silent sigh, wondering if any of her children truly would be chosen after all.