"What Separates A Man from A Slave?"
Itachi
Control. It was all about control. Years of it, raised in it, cultivated and honed stronger and sharper than steel in Itachi, it was entrenched. It was his weapon and his armor, and it served him well. Kept him efficient. Kept him alert. Always ready, always useful to someone, always on the move. Always one step ahead.
He would be intangible. Never completely understood. Never in reach of the hands that grabbed at him from every direction.
He would be like smoke. Curling softly in shadow, the fire unseen.
Control was all that ever kept it from burning him alive. Try as he might to smother it, he had only to wait for nightfall, for the early morning hours when exhaustion wore him down. And then control was slipping from his fingers, and he was tumbling backward into the abyss, crystal-clear memory rising up to meet him like river rocks.
The first time Itachi woke up in a cold sweat was the morning after Shisui died. He'd been sure he wouldn't sleep at all that night (didn't think he'd ever sleep again), but he didn't yet know how exhausting the Mangekyou Sharingan could be. Didn't know how to handle it at all, didn't know how to turn it off, but then again, he didn't know how to stand, either, until after he'd cried himself numb.
They came to question him later that day. Pushed him 'til he snapped. It was a calculated move, of course, on his part, letting the cracks show. It didn't change the fact that he shook with rage and grief, and there was no faking that.
He had no choice. He had no choice. He had to do it. He had to tell himself this, every day, every hour, just to keep waking up for a while. He would never admit how long. He would never admit a lot of things.
To kill an Uchiha, one must be stronger than him.
To kill every Uchiha, one must be stronger than them all.
For a thirteen-year-old boy, even a prodigy, that is a near-impossible task. Only with his newly-awakened eyes could he accomplish it. And they remembered it all in nauseating clarity. Every wound, every ruined house, every child's cry. Pleas for mercy. Solemn curses in the old gods' names.
Like he wasn't already cursed from the first drop spilled.
In his waking life, the lie was simple. He was Uchiha Itachi, a traitor of the glorious clan, painted villain, painted black and red, hated and hunted, wanted dead or alive. He upheld this image stunningly because control was all he had, and everything (every little thing ) hinged on the lie becoming truth.
In his dreams, the truth shattered into a thousand pieces that slotted back together in terrible ways.
One night he found Shisui's body, cold and lifeless in the snow. He took off his own cloak to try to warm him up, but it turned into crows before it could touch him, crows that pecked at Shisui's glassy eyes until the sockets were bloody. Itachi tried to stop them, but he couldn't move. Couldn't scream when they turned to him and started eating him alive.
When he woke up, his throat was hoarse, like he'd worn out his voice while he slept. He wondered briefly, chagrined if he really had screamed. Ten minutes later, standing over the sink and spitting out blood from his lungs, he didn't wonder anymore.
Another night it was Naruto he found instead. Only he wasn't too late — checked his pulse, and it fluttered under his fingertips. He took him inside and wrapped him in blankets, brought him something warm to drink, but Naruto wouldn't take it. Wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him, wouldn't even acknowledge he was there. He started to think that maybe he wasn't.
Morning dawned with the feeling that he hadn't much time left.
In this dream, death was coming for him in the way it was supposed to — in the body of his brother, blade in hand and righteous fire in his eyes. And maybe it was death so near that the boundary blurred, but he could finally see them. Every one of his clansmen, waiting just on the other side. Naruto closed in, and for the first time, he felt a trickle of panic.
In the dream, Itachi saw his Clan getting killed by a small shadow with a sword; Itachi ran to his parent's house to save them.
Opening the door, he would see the shadow behind his parents.
Nooo, Itachi wanted to scream but no words, no screams, Nothing. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he couldn't stop this.
The bodies of his parents fell on the floor as the shadow removed his mask. Itachi gasped at seeing Naruto behind the mask with strange eyes.
His eyes looked like the Rinnegan, but they were red like blood, his smile twisted.
"Now to kill your little brother," the twisted Naruto spoke with a chuckle at the end.
Itachi ran and tried to stop him, but his hand went through his body as if he was a ghost. Dark Naruto laughed; walking upstairs, they reached a room; Itachi didn't remember to have been there before.
Opening the door, Itachi saw another Naruto sleeping peacefully in the bed, a smile on his lips.
"No, Stop This," Itachi begged and tried desperately tried to grab Naruto and leave, but his hands just went through him.
Itachi fell on his knees as the Dark, twisted Naruto plunged his sword deep into his heart...
Opening his eyes, Itachi felt the sun shining down on him, gasping; he stood up immediately, he released a sigh of relief, knowing it was a dream.
He slapped himself, making sure this was the end of his nightmare.
"The masked man is not the real one,"
The words of his little brother ringing on his head like bells.
This world is War, and will not stop. I want your help to stop this Cycle of Wars
Itachi had heard his little brother; clearly, Naruto told him the masked man wasn't Madara, but when Itachi had asked how could he know that Naruto had stood silent.
The only response he got was that he would find his answers, but he needed him to do something first.
Itachi had understood he wouldn't speak more of it. As Itachi washed his face, he remembered one thing clearly.
"I will unite this World."
Itachi remembered those words more clearly than anything else.
Taking a deep breath, Itachi was ready to do his part of the job and Watch...