When they left the Capital, the whole city had been in a festive, celebratory mood, still high from the wedding and accompanying ceremonies and events.
In less than an hour the mood had completely changed.
The music was gone, obviously.
The remainders of the wedding-related decorations were being hastily taken down; the street entertainment completely removed.
Sakura…
Didn't know the Daimyo funeral customs, actually.
While a procession to any Daimyo wedding was considered mandatory, her days as a diplomatic genin also taught her that the Hokage and Daimyo had decided that the funeral would have a far more subdued Delegation, without the fanfare that necessitated every Academy student memorizing the marching steps.
That explained the hesitation before they'd turned, then; it hadn't been planned, but the wagon caravan was still near enough to the Capital that it would've been insulting not to return, no matter how little preparations had been made for their presence.
The wagon caravan marched on.
Sakura, Juro, and the several kids they had (at least temporary) custody of quickly ended up in the exact same quarters they'd just exited.
They had not brought funeral clothes.
They did not know what funeral clothes were, for the Daimyo.
White?
Black?
Some other color?
Every color?
Sakura tried to remember—they'd likely been told once, even in passing, while she and Juro were training for the Spring Delegation—but she really hadn't expected to end up here, to have to know.
Juro stared at her.
She stared back.
Both of them turned, and stared at Asuma, who sighed.
Someone, Sakura knew, would be blamed for this.
Someone should have been prepared.
Someone should have predicted that the very elderly Daimyo would die.
Someone should have set in place the necessary procedures, dispersed the necessary information on how to act, dress.
But, of course, no one had.
Sakura turned to look at the pile of clothes stacked on the table, and sighed too.
At least she wouldn't be one of the ones blamed.
.
Between the radio, the telegraph, and good old-fashioned gossip, news had reached just about the entire world within twenty-four hours.
Yamanaka Inoichi, on the very edge of the world (there were no islands beyond Uzu, after all. Only increasingly frigid water and the storms of untamed chakra beasts who stayed well away from the madness of land creatures) was likely one of the last to know—he'd been awoken from a dead sleep by his girlfriend, who was already handing him appropriately formal clothing while two of his cousins packed for him.
(Privacy was a lovely luxury, but it was not one afforded to clan heirs. Inoichi had grown used to the disappointment of such a thing, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it.)
"Every clan head?" Inoichi asked, shoving another spoonful of rice porridge in his mouth while Kohana quickly worked his hair into a suitably complicated design.
Chouza, who had been awake to oversee the last winter store deliveries, shrugged in agreement as he scribbled out instructions from across the table. "Or, at least, every clan head who would have come prior to Konohagakure. Which, you know, includes us. This is unprecedented, but Ino-Shika-Cho each sent a representative to the last Daimyo, so…"
"Fair enough. Shikaku?"
"Getting ready too. Oh, you're packed then?"
Inoichi's second cousin nodded, handing over the stack of storage seals. Each was in an envelope with a brief description of what was held inside—convenient.
Kohana kissed him. "See you soon."
"Love you."
"Love you."
And then Inoichi was gone, legs pumping as his muscles and chakra sent him across the few miles to the ocean, to the massive ship of half-awake soldiers that would bring all Ino-Shika-Cho Heads—who were, for the first time, all on Uzu simultaneously—to the Capital.
Inoichi hoped they wouldn't be dinged for arriving late.
He tried to remember the funeral protocols, but it had been so long ago—a shinobi's lifespan and a Daimyo's lifespan were so different that it had seemed quite pointless to pay attention when his father had taught him all those years ago.
Too late now.
He wished he was an Uchiha; that would have been useful about now.
.
Because all of the non-Capital invites were already, well, in the Capital, funeral preparations proceeded quite rapidly.
They really had no choice.
The transition of power would thankfully be fairly smooth—the Daimyo's eldest living son's legitimacy was uncontested (he really did look shockingly like his father) and the late Daimyo had invested quite a bit of time into making sure the politically-minded would all be fine with the transition—but that still left the ceremony.
The rites.
The mourning.
And then…
The next generation.
It was this step that gave Shin pause.
The previous Daimyo, despite his age, was respected.
Revered.
His son—
Wasn't.
Shin frowned.
This would be an ideal time for the other countries to attack, especially with the upcoming end to the temporary ceasefire with Kiri.
Samurai who had dealt with things they didn't like due to the might and power of the former Daimyo—
Well, now they had options.
Options that were more than eager to be considered, to be chosen.
They'd known this problem was coming, of course; but then there were dozens of other fires that constantly needed to be put out, and so Konoha had put the question of Fire stability on the backburner, so to speak.
Well, now the problem was suddenly very urgent indeed.
They needed to figure something out.
Around him the mourners gathered, left. Prayed, sobbed.
Shin, positioned in a kneeling prayer in the midst of the Capital's Main Fire Temple, was still.
Thinking.
Planning.
In four hours, one hour after midnight, he was due to meet with the Hokage.
By then he'd have a plan.
.
The Uchiha contingent was one of the largest of the shinobi clans to arrive. Since submitting to the Daimyo, they'd made a point of sending all their elders, their main family, and any other 'important' Uchiha to every funeral as a sign of their continued fidelity.
Obito shuffled uncomfortably.
He'd never—
He'd never expected to be a part of the contingent.
Even as a child, imagining his ideal future, he'd always pictured attending as the Hokage in the Hokage contingent, and never before.
(Not that he'd imagined the Daimyo's death. Really, he hadn't. He was just speaking broadly. He'd never even imagined the Daimyo dying! Not that he thought the Daimyo was immortal—)
It had never occurred to him, really, that the Uchiha would see him as someone to show off until he'd made it to Hokage.
Even when he'd been put on Sensei's team, even when Sensei became the Hokage and demanded to be allowed to continue to teach them—
And then there was the sickness thing.
When they'd destroyed the bridge, when something had gone wrong—
When he'd been kidnapped—
When he'd been brought back home—
When he'd found out he was blind—
That whole period, that whole horrible period, had absolutely destroyed his self-worth.
Except, even before Sensei figured out a way around his blindness, the Uchiha had kept visiting him. Had apparently searched diligently for him the entire time he was gone.
And Sensei—Sensei had figured out a way that Obito could 'see' without sight, had spent so much time and energy on it even though everyone kept encouraging him to only focus on Kakashi, to only focus on the beast.
And Kakashi and Rin! Not once had they dropped him from the team, not once had they treated him as lesser.
They didn't always get along—Kakashi thought he was an idiot, and Rin thought he was pretty immature—but that didn't stop them from loving him, from showing him that they loved him.
And now, now—
He knew he shouldn't be happy.
The Daimyo was dead.
He was in mourning, and stuff.
But Obito couldn't stop his heart from swelling, as he stood in Uchiha uniform alongside Uchiha jounin and was treated as an equal ninja.
Clan Head Fugaku had come up to him and asked about how his visit had gone, had asked if he was enjoying his classes.
Clan Head Fugaku knew he was taking classes!
And now he, and all the other Uchiha, were standing together.
Paying their respects together.
Obito took a breath, feeling the clear, crisp air in his lungs.
The fabric of his uniform was nearly silent as he and the other Uchiha shifted to kneel, again, before the body of the Daimyo, before the current Daimyo.
Obito's skull seals showed him the dozens of bodies moving as one, the Daimyo's stoic reception, the hundreds of bodies waiting their own turn to pay respects.
He was an Uchiha.
No one, nowhere, could take that away.
Not by removing his eyes, not by whispered cruelties, not even by giving him a new family—that only expanded his family, not limited it.
He was an Uchiha.
He was loved.
He was home.
(Well, not really. Right now he was at the Capital, actually, and he didn't really know what the schedule was and when he'd get back to Konoha—everyone was still trying to figure that part out—and even when he did get back to Konoha he'd be staying at Sensei's place for a bit, because Sensei was concerned about another attempted Kiri invasion, so even after he got back to Konoha he wouldn't be home with the Uchiha.
But still.
It was the thought that counted.)