A little boy sits alone in the middle of a dark room.
He has hair the colour of sunshine-blond, eyes like the ocean-deep and three whisker marks on each cheek.
He is small and scrawny and wears a bright, blinding smile.
The boy's clothes hang off his tiny, skinny body.
(Such a bright, bright boy. It's as if he is light itself.)
The boy is sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, peaceful. This would be a surprising sight indeed to many who do not believe him capable of achieving such a quiet, harmonious state. But those people know nothing about him. (They never have.) A slight smirk creeps onto the boy's face. Very tiny, barely there. Unnoticeable. Just a flash and it's gone.
There are a lot of things people do not know.
He sits, physically in the room, mentally deep within his own mindscape. Every so often, his expression of serene concentration breaks. Flickers and changes, into annoyance, indignation or sorrow. Yet his expression smooths as quickly as it changed. Flighty and ever-changing. Like the wind. Smiles come easily to him, but so does mulish stubbornness. Determination, some would call it. Idiocy, others would say.
In a way, they'd both be right.
Such a bright, bright boy.
He is Naruto; Son of the Fourth and Kushina Uzumaki.
He is Naruto; Kyuubi no Jinchuuriki.
He is Naruto; bruised and beaten and hated.
He is Naruto; loved and hero and inspiration.
He is Naruto; forgiveness and light itself.
He is Naruto-
-and yet he is not.