Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto
Status: Incomplete
He awoke to the sound of a voice.
"'S moch an duigh a rinn mi eireigh, Hoireann o hi ri u ho,"
A voice so beautiful he thought he dreamed it all along.
"Hu o ai hi o ho eile, Hoireann o hi ri u ho,"
What he remembered was the feeling of his skin ripping, tearing, breaking beneath the swords, and the vicious, furious gaze of the Senju, bearing down on him like dogs, and the thought that at least his brothers were safe, even if he had to die under the sword of murderers.
"Ghabh mi mach ri gleann na geigeadh,"
He remembered how he dragged himself to the tree, a last mercy to himself, and he swore he felt it creak and rise around him, like a small babe in a mother's embrace. He felt the earth roaring around him, the static of rage filling the air as the blood leaked from his wounds, oozing from his veins.
"Thainin mi steach gleann na spreidheadh,"
His head hurt, and he felt frail, papery, as if someone had drawn the life from his bones, swirling it in their hands, before rushing it back into him, blooming it quietly in his cold body. He groaned when he tried to sit, and his limbs trembled with the effort.
"Fhuair mi gruagrach dhonn gun eireigh,"
His eyes barely opened, shut tight together, the crisp at the seams crackling so painfully he hissed. His throat was dry, cracked, and his mouth bled as he tried to ask for water.
"Ach." A low, gravelly voice sounded. "I nearly didn't hear you wake over the girl. She's been singing all day—her witching spells."
He startled badly, jolting so much he nearly toppled over.
"She begged for you, you know." The voice spoke, and it remained as brusque and unconcerned as ever. "She has not spoken, truly, deeply spoken, for years…and yet she begged for you—and outsider. A clan child."
He felt something push against his cracking lips.
"Drink."
He swallowed, and nearly sobbed at the cool water that filled his mouth and smoothed his ravaged throat. Hot tears trickled down his face, and he sniffled, whimpering, and he vaguely realized just how scared he had been—that they would kill him.
It was with this realization that he let himself settle back into the futon, his body trembling, mind spent, and listen to the echoes of the strange, haltingly eerie voice.
"'S tusa ghaoil a gheibh am preusant."
…
She sat outside the healer's home, eyes riveted on the horizon. Her throat was hoarse from the songs that had passed her lips in worry. She did not know what to do, and so she sang—because she was scared—but also, because her mother's native tongue comforted her, so much so that she thought she felt the brush of a ghostly kiss on her brow.
It had been days. The novelty of the child—a clan child—had not worn off for the villagers. Some looked at her now, and Hitomi actually saw them as individuals and not the blurs she was used to.
They were small, squat, brown people, and she realized that it was herself—and her family—that were the outsiders. Her mother was different to them; though her skin had browned and leathered with the skin, it was not the same caramel-brown-black that theirs' was; her movements were too graceful, her words too stilted and archaic to sound like the lower class.
She wondered, vaguely, if they saw her that way—a product of squandered nobility, too impossibly difficult to figure out.
They saw that she'd awoken, of a sort, her mind as clear as the water that rushed through the creeks and were even warier to approach her. They had been all along, but before, she had blurred, hazy memories of children allowing her to pick them up and brush their knees of dirt and blood, before her stories danced in their curious, open minds.
Now, not even the children she vaguely remembered behind the smokescreen of the haze dared to come near. She sat vigil, unmoving, and she did not pretend to flinch when they tried to spit harsh words at her.
Hitomi knew they were scared of the child that lay on the bed of hay, covered in canvas, his mind long gone from his head. They were scared of what he could, would bring. Of what she, in all her supposed naivety, had brought to this little village.
So, she tolerated their hatred. Their vicious lies and self-fulfilling prophecies. She didn't let them tear her down, nor did she allow their cruel words, gestures and insinuations to bow her head and make her cower in fear.
No, she sat tall and firm, and her eyes did not move from the horizon, not even when her brother tried to rouse her interest.
Her sister had yet to wake.
She pretended to be surprised at that—as if the guilt wasn't swallowing her whole, churning inside her stomach and roaring in her head like a muddied landslide, ready to envelop her. Her Mother was restless, and the healer-woman's son overworked.
He walked to and fro, from his mother's cottage to help her tend to the young boy, and then back to her own, to fix his hand on her sister's brow and check if the fever had let up. Each time, the result was the same—when the boy grew in strength, and his breathing evened, her sister would begin to stir, her brows creasing, and then when the boy left, Hatsue recoiled back into the darkness, where Hitomi was sure the cat gripped her in its sharp talons, eyes glittering so very green.
She did not know to trap a soul, but she was sure that the creature-spirit did, and she was superstitious enough to know that if they wanted to, the spirits could swallow you whole.
So, she sat, and waited for her sister to rouse, the boy to stir from his fever-sleep, and sang until her lips felt numb and her words rasped in her throat.
No one quite said anything when her words stumbled, and her eyes gleamed wet.
…
The early morning sun felt warm on his face, like the caress of a butterfly resting on his cheek. He blinked slowly, a phantom pain travelling up his stomach, and his gaze rested on a low ceiling. The rafters were low, and heavy, and cracks shone through the roof. He thought, for a moment, of the old blacksmith's words brittle words, besmirching the idea of low-quality lumber.
A low hum stirred him from his musings and his heart leapt in his throat.
"I see," a voice came and his eyes snapped up. "You are awake."
He looked, and for a moment, he gaped.
He didn't think he'd ever seen a girl as strange as she. Her eyes were hard and yet, soft; gray so bleak they were slate, and yet so poignant, they shone like glittering river-stones on sunny days. Her mouth was round and red, unsmiling. Her hair was wild around her shoulders, tangled in fat, blooming flowers of all kinds; sakura petals threaded near her shoulders, sunflowers sat, content, near her ears, and daises nestled in deep next to them.
But it was her voice that made him stop.
That eerie, gentle voice, that made him think of high, soaring clouds unfettered by the wind.
She sat on a low stool, the leg wobbling when she leaned forward. Her skin was dark, freckles spattering over the bridge of her nose. Her mouth didn't melt into inviting civility, nor did she try to smile for a child.
He thought it strange that she merely watched him, dark and serious, her hands clutched in her lap.
Her eyes flashed, dark and stormy, and he thought he saw a hint of the devil there.
"Do you have a name, Clan-child?"
He swallowed. "Yuji. Uchiha Yuji."
Yuji: means courageous second son
Hoireann O': is a Scottish gaelic love song about a girl in the Highlands and her lover returning from Ireland.
Also! This was meant to be updated yesterday, but ffnet wasn't working so :/