Ink
i.
He is not yet four when he first places a pen to paper.
It is his mother, her eyes as deep as graphite, who first guides that withered hand, those eyes that have already seen all the world has to offer. His paper is blotted with clots of vibrant crimson as red soils into black, the watercolours dripping with the fragrance of blood.
A scream, the knife slices through-
Air. A flower grows in the garden below, its petals streaked innocent white.
Itachi's eyes run black with tears, but his mother does not see; she will never see.
ii.
A year later, the clouds darken as they prowl, closer towards him with each day that goes by. Scrawls begin to appear in his notebook, simple kanji looping into full sentences, his handwriting near-perfect, as always.
"What are you doing?" Shisui asks curiously, peering over his shoulder. The Nakano murmurs from behind, then lulls again.
"Nothing." Itachi says, quickly turning away. His pen falls off his lap in his haste, hands scrounging through the tall reeds to pick it up. Shisui throws another stone, but it fails to bounce.
Itachi watches the pebble sink into the water, his face marred with sadness in the reflection below. Then the water ripples, clearing his face and painting new lines down his cheekbones.
The silver glints off the older boy's forehead protector as he runs off to another mission. Alone, where Itachi sits, the grass begins to sway.
iii.
The little boy his mother cradles is no longer himself, only another. Itachi blanches; the curiosity consumes him as it always does, and he quietly runs his fingers through his brother's hair.
His mother begins to sing.
They spend many days like this, in silence, watching as Sasuke grows from dark into obsidian, his eyes ringed with black as the world echoes behind.
As the kyūbi torments them all in his dance of death, as Izumi pleads and Sasuke begins to cry. He will never forget that day, a murky echo of wails as he clings to his beloved brother in desperation.
Cruel. Itachi remembers.
But he does not know.
iv.
His mind is hazy, head pooling into an abyss as he struggles to think. A friend? No. The tomoe of the sharingan spin in his eyes for the first time, face smudged with weariness and despair.
Itachi wonders, for the first time, if those ties could ever unwind. {He realises they cannot, that he is the living proof of that.}
His mother's eyes, those depths tinged with grief. His father stares; Itachi does not care.
It will be the last time he will ever cry, not least in front of anyone else.
But one.
Sasuke's eyes pencil into grey, and he fears the day they will turn to scarlet like his.
v.
Later on, as the plants bloom back into viridescence, he begins to attack.
He is not meant to; no, that is not his purpose in the world - he is forced to. By his clan, no less, a sprawling complex which holds up Konoha's hinges, from now, until the sun runs dry.
{He wonders when it will fall.}
They flock to him, shinobi and kunoichi alike, their kunai desperately reaching out towards him, their shuriken hurled wild, with caution, almost as if they hope to hit their target.
Itachi laughs. Red does not run.
He becomes a chūnin a week later, when all is well.
vi.
Grey slips over pale. The mask is set, and Itachi falls prey to it, sliding into the ink with no emotion, no sorrow.
There is of course, the regret, when he turns Sasuke away again, when his gloved hands stroke his forehead once more for the slightest bit of forgiveness.
He will get it, but it will be many years later.
Itachi remembers Sasuke's cry of aniki as his eyes become hollows, stars in the twilight sky. He remembers his joy, his laughter, the brittleness of life, how all is tainted with a single drop of blood. Blemishing their white.
He writes.
In his room, shrouded by the dull murmur of darkness, he writes.
vii.
He learns of the coup not yet two months later, a rope twisting around him in silent suffering. Pulling him into the frayed edges of his morals, until there is a tug-of-war and he cannot do anything any more.
A flayed fish, lying lifelessly. He pulls the cracked mask over his face again; watches as Sasuke's smile turns back into a frown, as Shisui pleads with him once more. The river burbles again.
Nothing can happen. And yet it does.
"You are our only hope, Itachi," Shisui smiles, palms outstretched as he-
It cracks; the agony of seeing his best friend, brother, topple down the cliff with a splash, death swooping in for its dues. When he must shoulder it himself, a fleeting grasp of shadow on bone.
Itachi cannot cry. Tears fade in and out of his blurred vision, the sharingan whirls.
Then he remembers his mission.
No, he cannot cry - he cannot cry.
For hours he sits there, waiting until the Nakano sings itself to sleep.
viii.
Alone. The crow flies. An orange mask.
The blade hums as Itachi's eyes spin again, the skies caliginous, inky as they rush to warn his brother.
The irony, he almost smiles. The brother, who he will always protect, who he always wanted to protect.
It sings again, his mother cries, he remembers them together once more and then not. His father's face is wrung wry.
"You were always a good boy," they say, "Take care of Sasuke," and then the red splatters against the walls and-
He cannot speak. His katana flickers back down into a low murmur, a candle to his sorrows.
He must make Sasuke feel hate. Strong, overpowering anger, a revenge that burns brightly in each of their hearts.
Red blurs once more, this time as he runs, as Sasuke's eyes swirl into dreaded velvet and as tears pour out down his cheeks.
One last time, he promises. One last time.
ix.
He waits, surrounded only by the gloom of isolation. There is nothing to guide him, nothing as there never was, as his weathered hands grip the quill in a final farewell.
His eyes are almost gone, and they will never come back again, he will never see the light of day until he dies. The ink drips on to his hands, smudging into the lines of fate.
The irony of life, he thinks. He remembers his mother's eyes and his brother's face, and wonders if his path could have changed.
Frought with something other than the strings of distress.
His body is fragile, even then, his brother barely stands against him, their chakra as yin and yang, darkness blooming into white. Itachi knows.
"Forgive me, Sasuke," he pleads, as his head rings against the bare stone. "There won't be a next time."
And he smiles.
Notes - 02/10/23: I used imagery to show Itachi's mental torment and suffering quite vividly, as I rather feel that everything could have been foreshadowed earlier on.
Irony was mentioned once or twice, but I personally embedded it throughout the story, as well as the inherent symbolism of 'remembering' and 'knowing.'
m.b.