It had been one month since what had come to be called the Uchiha Massacre.

The Hokage's funeral came and went. Where Orochimaru argued in favor of taking pity on Sasuke and sparing him from the duty of his attendance, the council insisted upon it. The old snake had brewed some concoction, spiked with a dash of sugar to mask its bitter taste, that'd stripped the lethargy clean from Sasuke's mind like a miracle. He'd dressed that morning in his ceremonial garb—fetched from his family's compound by Kabuto—and stood at his place.

It should've been by Madara's side. He'd glanced over to where Senjuu Hashirama—another descendant named for his great-ancestor—and his heiress stood, feeling nothing but an anger like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Anger at Itachi, anger that he would never get a chance to speak to his parents again, anger that he'd lost everything in the span of just a moment in time. Anger, perhaps, that though he now had more spotlight on him than ever, this was yet another thing in his brother's wake.

He was grateful for Orochimaru, who had broken tradition and veered off from the procession to stand at Sasuke's side, one of his cold hands holding him at the shoulder. The rhythmic drums pounded and the priests warbled their ancient lamentation as tambourines chimed in time with the percussion. He leaned back and settled snugly against his master's thin frame as if he could disappear inside of it.

"You are strong, child," Orochimaru said quietly, the both of them still staring ahead. "Fear not, for one day I believe you could conquer the world if you willed it."

Every morning he'd wake in his master's private chambers. The man rarely slept for long even before this addition to his home, and the few times he was there when Sasuke awoke, he was snoring lightly in a chair at the single desk in his room, sitting perfectly tall as if he were awake. The room itself was kept dim, never fully dark, lit by an oil lamp he kept tucked behind a stack of books. For that Sasuke was grateful; since that awful day he'd become prone to migraines, something the Grand Physician had deemed were stress-related, but that Sasuke knew from experience were hereditary.

The mixture Orochimaru put together was to be taken twice weekly to keep from building either a tolerance or an addiction. Sasuke was steadfast, doing his best never to be consumed by his grief and overindulge. His master's underlings had been busy at work conducting autopsies on his slaughtered clansman, and from what he understood, the head of ANBU Shimura Danzo was personally overseeing the criminal aspects of the investigation. Sasuke, then, was assured the truth of it all would come to light soon enough.

He and Orochimaru had always spent every few days training in the arts of battle, but in the weeks after the funeral he found it was all he wanted to do. That rage in him would never quite settle, always shaken like a dusty room through which a child had just run. The medicinal drink energized him and would keep the depression at bay, enough for him to slide out of bed and comb his hair and bathe and eat. But the anger still prickled at him, aching him in his joints and through to his skin like a fever.

He would take to the palace training grounds, practicing the speed of his hand signs and lobbing fire-style jutsu at all of the flame-resistant dummies he could find. He would rush in, throwing punch after punch and kick after kick until his lungs were burning from overexertion, and even then he would not stop.

"Sasuke-kun," called the smooth, even voice of his master on one of these days. He was glad his face was already flushed from effort, for he hadn't even felt the man approach, an embarrassing blunder for someone of his skill.

Orochimaru wore neither smile nor frown, and in his cloth-covered hands he held a long straightsword. He knelt down to the packed-earth floor of the training grounds and ducked his head, holding out the blade in offering. Someone of his status should never bow to someone like Sasuke, heir now to nothing but a clan of ghosts, and his heart felt gripped in shame.

"Orochimaru," he started as he bent at the waist to kowtow deeply—it was at the man's own insistence that Sasuke never use formal honorifics with him—"please pardon my rudeness, but I cannot accept a gift of any sort from you."

But the old snake just laughed, gingerly placing the sword on the ground before lifting his head. "My, Sasuke-kun, even when you're all torn up inside you still mind your manners. Your father raised you diligently."

He stared, not sure what to make of such a comment.

"Kneel, and take the sword. I insist! This you may not know, but I was once an orphan child myself. Perhaps I'm being a selfish old fool, but swordplay was the one thing that kept my mind from floating off into the depths in my darkest moments. I've watched you down here now and then; carelessly throwing jutsu after jutsu with no real structure makes for decent practice, but that structure is something you need—we all do. That is the only way we ever truly grow past the hurt."

Sasuke indeed knelt, taking the sword at the hilt before standing. Of both the sword and Orochimaru's words, he considered their weight, where their gravity was centered, and the overall craftsmanship before his master rose to his own feet.

"Go ahead, give it a swing."

It felt good in his hands, and to his surprise it felt even better to wield. He did as instructed, Orochimaru immediately leaning in to correct his posture. It became a ritual of sorts, spending less time in the laboratories and more time perfecting his jutsu and swordsmanship in the palace grounds. Of course it was only natural that the more he practiced the better he'd become, but his progress was exponential in only a short amount of time.

It was another week before their afternoon spar was interrupted by a visitor. A man in a wheelchair pushed by a palace physician rounded the corner, reaching his hand into the air to wave enthusiastically.

"Little Sasuke!" he called, a crooked smile on his distorted face. "Won't you spare your sempai a word?"

Of course Sasuke had not been the last of the Uchiha—Itachi still lived, after all—but he hadn't given Uchiha Obito much beyond a passing thought. The man was a war hero and worthy of respect, to be sure, but just like he'd lost half of his limbs, he similarly seemed to have lost his mind. That Itachi had spared him was not a shock, as the man was a resident of the palace rather than the Uchiha compound, and it was because of this divide that he'd never really seemed like part of the family.

He'd also shamed them deeply by losing his Sharingan eyes in the same accident that took his right arm and leg. Sasuke had always wondered if perhaps the clan had kicked the guy out, rather than the palace inviting him in as a privilege.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the man's peculiarities, he gave a low bow. Even to a blind man Sasuke was sure to show his respects. Orochimaru seemed amused as he looked on, sheathing his sword and making small talk with Obito's caretaker while Sasuke addressed his senior.

"To what do I owe the honor?"

"Oh, kouhai," said Obito, waving his hand, "you don't need to speak so formally. I'm just an uncle, no matter how many times removed, and I want to let you know"—that hand took one of Sasuke's, squeezing lightly—"that I'm here for you. Anything you need. If we're the last of our kind, we should be banding together."

He looked down at that face, his skin twisted in its scarring beneath the thick leather strap he wore across where his eyes should be. He was smiling, the mess of his black hair tousling gently in the midday breeze. Though he wasn't yet thirty, his scarred skin and the white flecks peppering his hair gave the impression that he was much older, but still he smiled in a way that, to Sasuke at least, seemed genuine.

"I'll...remember that. Thank you."

Before lowering his hand, he tapped his fingers against Sasuke's palm; a patting gesture meant to comfort, perhaps? "It seems your training is going well."

"It is."

"And how old are you?"

"Sixteen next month."

He gave a heavy nod as if weighing what that meant. "My accident was at eighteen. Don't be overzealous, kouhai, and always trust in your friends. It was because of them that I'm alive today."

Sasuke pursed his lips, looking down at the dirt. He couldn't very well admit out loud that he had no friends, or that he cared little for what the man had to say. Further, he wasn't so sure he'd want to be alive, friends or not, if he'd gone through what his distant uncle had. He frowned, privately glad Obito could not see him for how pathetic he felt. Desperate for the interaction to be over, he took a step to return to his practice, but the older man made a starting sound that gave Sasuke pause.

"Protect your eyes," he murmured, almost as if he were talking to himself. "They get rarer each generation. Keep training your body and mind, and you'll do Madara proud."

As quickly as he'd been wheeled there, he turned and let his caretaker push him back in the direction of his palace room. But for how short the interaction had been, Sasuke found himself in an unusual headfog, his thoughts for the rest of the day always circling back to his eccentric relative no matter how many punches he threw or how precise his swings of the sword grew.

All through the simple meal of rice and pickles he ate with Orochimaru and Kabuto, he could not shake that mounting feelings of sadness and anxiety. There was a nagging in his brain that urged him to go home—and not to his borrowed bed in his master's room, but to his family's compound. Even if he'd wanted to visit before, he wouldn't be allowed with the investigation fully underway. But something was drawing him there, and there was a small feeling of dread deep in his stomach that was growing by the second.

When he stood to excuse himself for a walk in the cool evening air, neither of the men seemed to suspect he was up to anything. He took a light jacket and fastened it atop his robes as he made his way down the grand staircase and out into the night. It was cold indeed, and he tugged his jacket tighter, bringing it up around his face. He kept his pace leisurely so as to not draw any suspicion, but he'd quickly learned in his brief stay here that people in the palace were far too preoccupied with their own lives to pay others much mind. Once the sensation of the massacre had faded, he too faded into little more than another face in Orochimaru's laboratories. He left its ornate but sturdy walls and broke into a sprint towards the compound.

It was quiet and horribly dark on the streets of his family's once-home. He'd never before seen it like this, and a sadness squeezed at his heart as if a fist had reached clean into his chest and grasped it. Even the stray cats that once roamed the streets were quiet, darting off into alleys or into still-cracked windows. He shivered, shaking his head as if he could banish these lonely thoughts, but everywhere he turned he was slammed by some memory or another. How an aunt would greet him each morning with a smile and a pinch on his cheek until he'd turned thirteen; the way his third-cousins would kick their toy ball in his direction and go wide-eyed when he'd expertly kick it back; how a great-uncle would wave his hand from his spot lounging on the veranda, sweet smoke billowing from his mouth as he called after Sasuke and any other young men who passed: Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful!

He walked as if through a cemetery, his steps cautious. The bodies had long since been removed, but there still remained a few splatters of blood on the polished wooden thresholds the cleanup crews had missed, and of course some of it still stained the dirt walkways, too. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, really—perhaps to feel something in the air like spirits who would validate that anger within him. And though he did not know why, every time he blinked he half-wanted to open his eyes and see the moon bleeding red as if sanctioning his growing need for vengeance.

Without realizing it, his feet had carried him before a secluded shrine, nestled in an overhang overgrown with vines. It was a sacred place for his family, one young couples visited upon marriage and upon the birth of a child—and visited after funerals, too. But it was not a shrine that housed a god, no: it housed the ancient armor of the original Uchiha Madara.

Even if it weren't for the battlefield dust and grime, its age was apparent from its style alone. Madara had come from an era before shinobi were officially shinobi, and wore the extravagant armor of the samurai who were far more common—and far more ancient—in that time. The tiered fauld was detailed to the point of being ornate, the old-school Uchiha crest in the center of the breastplate gaudy and flashy. The gauntlets were rife with pockmarks from blades and projectiles of all sorts that he'd met with bravery and strength. Ropes of simple twine were looped around the waist, two blades dangling from them at the hip, and altogether it looked like a thing straight out of a legend.

The helmet was just as gaudy as their old crest, but Sasuke's heart skipped a beat to imagine its silhouette cresting over the horizon in battle. Madara was known for his compassion for his family and his cruelty to most outsiders; he had started a war and reshaped the world to keep his family safe, after all, and nothing encapsulated those differing aspects of the man quite like the Sharingan.

Behind the armor hung two scrolls fraying at their old, faded edges. On one the likeness of his fabled Mangekyou was painted into the thick threads, all deep reds and stark blacks. It was a strange pattern, and though all Sharingan were different, Sasuke did not think this one looked particularly intimidating. There was too much empty space, the lines thinning in a delicate way that did not match the stories of old.

All Uchiha who awakened those sacred eyes, regardless of age or how skilled they were with the doujutsu, were susceptible to frequent headaches. It was as Obito had said: the ability was growing in rarity, but it was in fact a requirement to qualify as an heir; it'd been one of the only times his father had been unabashedly excited, the day Sasuke's awakened. Now as he looked upon the other painting hung behind that imposing armor, he wondered if Madara himself ever had a migraine. It was a portrait, a grand one at that, his arms crossed intimidatingly over his chest. Were it not for the armor on display right in front of him, Sasuke may have thought his size was exaggerated. He searched that face, noting the family resemblance even after hundreds of years was strong—if Sasuke grew out his hair, he wouldn't look too dissimilar.

But that armor dwarfed his teenage form. He reached out to trail his fingers along the cuirass, unable to stop himself—not like anyone else was around to scold him for such blatant disrespect, either. The metallic surface was chilly against his skin, and the color was such a deep crimson that for the flash of a moment he thought that, when he pulled away, his fingertips would be stained with it as if it were blood. The contact sent a jolt through his whole body like he'd been electrified, but he was drawn to the armor from a primal part of his psyche he could not comprehend. In his minds eye he saw images of battle, could hear the screams and smell the blood and feel the euphoria rising in his chest. There was an ache in his joints he ignored, his lungs burning with exhaustion with every heaving inhale as he leapt from opponent to opponent, the swords in his hands heavy but familiar, their weight expertly wielded and easily cutting down every man he faced.

All but one.

It was just before he felt the heat of a flame licking at his toes that Sasuke heard the melancholy call of a crow, snapping him from his strange vision. He pulled back his hand, standing there looking over the armor and the portraits for another long moment before he turned to leave. When he glanced up at the sky from beneath the overhang, he saw the faint glow of dawn lighting up the edge of the night sky.

He froze. How long had he stood there zoning out? He'd left during dinner and meant to only be gone for an hour or two at most! Orochimaru wasn't the type to be angry over tardiness, but Sasuke was accustomed to following the rules and not acting out. As he hurried out of the shrine and took to the main road, he wondered if his behavior could just be chalked up to grief, the medicinal drink losing its potency to keep it at bay.

He was in such a rush that he did not notice when he trampled a long, black feather that lay directly beneath the main gates to the compound.

The sun had fully risen, rosy and gentle, over the city by the time he returned to the looming, silhouetted palace. He would not have time to sneak in a few moments of sleep, as his days in the laboratory began early. Quickly he changed into more work-appropriate attire and made for the western wing, the seats of the courts of science and alchemy.

His slight panic would not do; he took his time to steady his breath and to calm his anxious chakra, slowing his steps deliberately as he tied his apron behind his back and approached the main lab. He could hear quiet voices talking in serious tones, and when the name Uchiha fell from what he knew was Kabuto's tongue, he stopped in his tracks.

"Madara's body was among the dead after all," he had said.

The quiet rustling of Orochimaru's long sleeves as he folded his arms and took his chin between his thumb and index finger, his old habit when he heard something he didn't quite like. "A shame, but no matter. We've plenty of time to study those instructions."

"About that, my lord..."

"Yes? What is it?"

"I felt the presence of someone in their catacombs, where lie the original scrolls that outline the ritual."

The old man gave a thoughtful hum. "Itachi-kun?"

"It did not seem to be him, but I hadn't familiarized myself with their individual signatures."

Sasuke's heart all but stopped. Only Uchiha were to know of the sacred meeting grounds in the tunnels beneath their compound! And just why the hell had Kabuto been sneaking around there, supposedly on their master's orders? He narrowed his eyes, taking a single step with all of the stealth he could manage. If it really was Itachi, had he come back to finish the job? Sasuke scarcely let himself think of that night, but of course it was a common whisper among the palace residents that he'd been left alive by some manner of divine intervention. But if his brother wanted him dead, surely Sasuke would be buried by now.

"I wonder if the rumor holds truth, then," Orochimaru said so lowly that Sasuke had to strain his ears to hear it.

"The man in wood? It was my thought as well. He's stirred since the massacre—it would add up for the Senjuu to be performing their own investigation in light of such a massive event."

What the hell did that mean?

"Or," Orochimaru murmured after a brief hum, "I wonder if they're cleaning up after themselves."

Kabuto was quiet for some time. "I suppose I wouldn't put it past them to orchestrate something like that. I'm sure they didn't take too fondly to news of Tsunade-sama's appointment."

"Now, Kabuto, haven't I told you? When you speak of devils, so they shall appear. The Lady approaches as we speak. And Sasuke-kun, you may come in, you know."

A jolt of a shock ran through him. To be caught eavesdropping on the master wasn't a mere embarrassment, and as he trembled he wondered what sort of punishment he was about to receive to have overheard something so sensitive. Especially if the new Hokage was as fearsome as she was said to be, and on her way here right now...!

Orochimaru's next words came clipped, the door sliding open neither in rage or with gentleness. "Come, child. I do not wish to scold you." When he rounded the corner he hung his head in shame, feeling the flush on his face. "I owe you an apology for speaking so casually about your family, given the circumstances. But that is later; now you must collect yourself, as one of my dearest friends is soon to visit."

Sasuke had seen evidence of his master's power sparsely in their training sessions. He was the wielder of so many jutsu, it seemed, that Sasuke could scarcely comprehend it. His mind was a brilliant thing too, unparalleled even by the palace physician at times, but this was the first the boy had ever suspected him to be lying.

Did Orochimaru...want him to hear that conversation?

The master mistook his surprise. "Indeed, the new Hokage is an old friend of mine. I must apologise to the both of you: from my closeness with her, I fear you may see more of her crasser side than her diplomatic one."

Sasuke tried to act normal as he ever did, doing his best to be present despite his stormcloud thoughts. In trying to busy himself with Kabuto in testing a chemical component he'd nearly caused a fire, so preoccupied was he of his thoughts of the original Madara, what his colleagues were doing sneaking around sacred Uchiha crypts, and just what the hell the man in wood was.

The other men had relegated him to cleaning the near-catastrophic spill he'd made, and it was while he was on his hands and knees with a rag that the door burst open, the bright light from the windowed hall flooding the room.

"Orochimaru!" called a woman, her accent so rugged and her tone so casual he wondered which of the handmaids was bold enough to cause such a scene. When he glanced up, though, he saw a person of beauty so great that she seemed to be divine as she stood there in the warm sunlight. Even the simplicity of her poor-man's robes lent itself to that image, like a goddess in disguise to walk the earth free from the eyes of her holy peers.

"Princess," said Orochimaru as he gave a low bow at the waist. "Or, I suppose it will soon be Hokage-sama."

This woman?!

A man, large in stature with even larger hair white as snow, appeared in the doorway behind her as she stepped in. He lingered there by the threshold, almost as if he were too nervous to enter, and eyed everyone in the room. His was a handsome face, long red lines like trails of tears painted down his cheeks. When finally he glanced at Sasuke, the boy had to fight his blush and look away.

"Cut the formality," the woman quipped, her speech informal and her aura lighthearted. As he rose she clasped him on the shoulders, Sasuke's eyes widening to see such a thing. Not even Kabuto dared to touch the master with such familiarity...! "It is good to see you."

"And you as well," he replied, staring into her eyes. Something passed between them, Sasuke was sure, as her hand lingered on his arm. "And how humbling that I'm your first stop upon your return. Jiraiya never bothers to pop in. Too busy for old...friends, are you?" The look he'd given the white-haired man was curious.

"And he's about to be busier—but perhaps that means you'll see more of him."

Jiraiya glared at her. "Don't need to rub it in, Princess—"

"You don't get to call me that!" she huffed, her sudden loudness making Sasuke flinch. To Orochimaru she haughtily continued, "I'm canning Shimura as the Master of Secrets. On the same day I'm sworn in, Jiraiya will take his place."

Orochimaru gave his usual laugh, a rich thing that didn't quite match the sinister overtone of his outward appearance. "A fine decision. We wonder, Kabuto and I, how it is Danzo remains alive even after all these years."

"It's spite, I insist," Kabuto chimed in over his work.

The four of them laughed at that, Sasuke feeling more out of place the longer things went on in this way. There was an obvious history here tangible in the air itself, but he hadn't even yet recovered from his long night and those overheard whispers. With a small shake of his head he mentally dismissed himself from the conversation, focusing instead on cleaning the rest of the thick liquid from the wood floor as their chatter and banter continued. He'd finished sanitizing the area by the time the topic landed on the inevitable subject of the Uchiha clan.

"Before I forget," the woman said slowly, "I hadn't even gotten two steps into the royal city when I was briefed on last month's...situation."

"Ah," Orochimaru said with a solemn nod, then called quietly for Sasuke. He glanced over from the linen closet and hurriedly put away the leftover towels, dusting his hands on the front of his apron as he approached. His master took his shoulder firmly in his cold hands, but his touch was not enough of a comfort in the presence of such a boisterous person as the new Hokage. "Nasty business, and a shame it's what you've inherited. One of my finest apprentices is Uchiha Sasuke, the clan's heir—I do hope the two of you can get acquainted. My boy, show your respects to Tsunade-Hokage-sama."

She looked him up and down as if sizing him up for a fight. Her hair was the color of wheat in autumn and her eyes like the amber liquid he'd just cleaned from the floor. When she smiled, though, the serious air about her turned gentle, that strange blue diamond on her forehead crownlike and elegant.

"He's got your serious air, that's for sure," she said with a light laugh. "Sasuke, I'll be honest: I'm not thrilled to take the title of Hokage. But if there's anything you ever should need from me, know that you're welcome at any time of day and I'll do what I can."

He bent at the waist, likely not respectful enough for her status, but he was still not sure what to make of such a personality. She was such a stark contrast to the late Sarutobi that he still doubted if this was even reality.

"Thank you, ma'am," he muttered plainly.

When she spoke again it was after a contemplative hum, one hand on her hip. "I wasn't so sure of my choice at first, but...I brought with me my own disciple. She has no connections here besides myself and a stablehand, and I'm sure to be busy. Perhaps the three of you can make acquaintance."

"Oh? Jiraiya's little apprentice?" Orochimaru glanced at Sasuke, a smile on his sharp face. "It is a lovely idea, Tsunade-hime, and certainly nostalgic—the three of us bonded over our status as orphans, after all. But I will leave the choice to him."

Did he really have a choice? A woman more intimidating than even his own father stood here in front of him—and she was the next Hokage, for heaven's sake! If she wanted him to jump off the nearest cliff he wasn't sure if he could say no.

He nodded only once, but it was enough for Tsunade to suck in a breath and shout, "Come!"

There was the small shuffling sound of robes swaying in time with quiet footsteps, and when he glanced up there stood a girl, no older than he, with thick hair so pink it was like the color of a faint sunset. She wore a kimono of rough quality with the sleeve's hems tucked into her wide sash like she was more prepared to work the fields rather than lounge away in palace life. That hair, though, was better kept than even her master's and half the girls he'd seen here in the royal city. Though her body language betrayed how out-of-place she felt, her expression was pensive as she studied his face.

The more he studied her in turn, the more he was convinced they'd met before. She smelled like the dense forests just outside the palace, those massive thick-trunked trees that reached so tall they seemed to graze the clouds on some days, and he somehow knew despite the slightness of her frame that she had strength in spades, a determination to match.

"Sakura," he said suddenly, the name blooming in his mind just like the namesake implied. Something stirred; exhausted as he was by the strange events of the day, looking at her instilled a strange sense of calm within him, easing his heavy thoughts and slowing the frenzied beating of his heart. Again he thought of the forests, the melodic rustling of its leaves on a sunny afternoon, the cool sensation of a shallow river pooling at his knees, smooth rocks digging into his feet.

She started, the same look of recognition coming over her features. "And you're—Sasuke-kun."