Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the day I was born, the Temple of Amaterasu burned. The wind howled and sobbed, snapping branches and felling trees as the sky wept. Torrents of rain hissed against bitter, black flames, but the fire only crackled louder, burning darker than a starless night. My uncle, a priest, and all but one of my cousins were devoured until not even ashes remained. Three others, skilled with suīton, tried to save them, but were engulfed.

I was marked by the kami, they said, but by what fortune they did not know. Dreading misfortune, and fearing my birth foretold the clan’s unmaking, some thought it best to kill me to appease Amaterasu. But none except the clan’s priests and priestesses could discern the will of the kami, and my father was in no haste to see me dead. So they waited three days until my cousin, the last of my uncle’s line, the last priestess, finally woke.

An ordinary child, thrust suddenly into the heart of council. She was five years of age, orphaned, and surrounded by all the important elders of the clan. A layer of soot still stained her robes as they brought her before the assembly. My father gave me to her, and she held me. Then, she called me ‘Madara’, and said that I would be great.

She must have been afraid. She would not have shown it.

Anything less than greatness would have been a stinging humiliation. I would learn, through tears and bruised flesh, what it meant to speak before an Uchiha Tajima whose pride was wounded. My father burned, in temperament and conviction. The clan relished his fire, his strength, when brandished against the enemy. But they withered beneath its searing heat when it turned inward.

In the end, her words pleased my father. And so it came to pass that Uchiha Kiyome became the last and only priestess of her line. The deaths of my uncle and other cousins were marked off as a failed trial sent by the heavens. My father made her bless me twice — once for resilience and once for strength — before recognizing me as his fourth son.

I am told that after, when he’d gone off to examine the ruins of the fallen temple and the assembly hall had emptied, my mother asked her to bless me a third time. I do not remember the blessing; I was only an infant, after all.

::

Words alone would not cure a disease of fear or erase the stain of death surrounding my birth. Murmurs followed my first steps, wary eyes watching and waiting for my supposed greatness.

Only time will tell, the shadows whispered. Only time knows.

I toddled along, babbling as I played with my mother’s hair. Ignorant of the sharp eyes poised to measure my triumphs and failures. I hadn’t yet even met the child who saved me or heard her truth.

“He has exceptionally strong chakra, Chichi-ue,” my eldest brother, Masaru, said as I shoved a handful of leaves into my mouth, finding myself bored with mother’s hair.

“He’s very stupid,” Takashi, the second eldest, observed while our father — still beaming with pride — pulled my leaf-stuffed fists from my face.

“He’s curious,” mother remarked. “He is trying to learn.”

“Perhaps you should teach him some tricks, Masaru-niisama,” Takashi suggested, as if I were a dog. I took no offense, as I did not yet know to.

“Make Ryota do it when he returns from his mission.”

“Do not treat Madara like a pet,” father said, temper heating, and all fell silent.

Mother was bravest. “How is Kiyome?”

I perked up. Not because I knew who Kiyome was or what the word meant, but because I recognized the sound of the name being spoken.

“She is fine,” father answered, with finality. My mother did not like that.

“Tajima—“

“She performs her duties admirably,” he continued. “The new shrine is tended to.”

“She is alone.” My mother pleaded and my brothers looked pointedly away, feigning ignorance. “She is a child — your niece—”

“Kiyome was chosen to be our priestess,” father said, as he had many times before. “She was chosen by Amaterasu-omikami herself.”

“Ki!” I squealed, having decided that although I didn’t know what ‘Kiyome’ was, I wanted it. “Ki!”

My brothers laughed. My father did not.

A hawk descended from the sky, landing atop my father’s arm. It carried a scroll. At once, my father read it. His expression turned solemn and he closed his eyes.

My brother was dead.

::

Uchiha do not wear red unless as armour.

Red is the colour of the kami, the sharingan, and the blood which flows through our veins.

Red is life, and death.

Red is sacred.

Red is the colour of spilt blood, of torii gates, and of passage from this world into the next.

At Ryota’s funeral, mother held me close to her breast, clutching my tiny frame as if I would disappear if she dared to let go. Father addressed the clan and spat venom. Paternal grief braided with righteous anger. His words were as lashes, sharp and stinging. He rebuked the clan for its weakness. Ryota had been murdered. My father swore: a son for a son.

Justice for the lost. Vengeance for the living.

I understood nothing, but felt unease at the shift in atmosphere. There was no grief in me yet, for I hadn’t known to grieve. A virgin to the pain of loss.

Little Kiyome stepped forward, wearing a red hakama many sizes too large for her. The garb of a miko. She danced with a gohei, its paper streamers fluttering wildly. Her steps lacked the sharp precision of her father’s dance, but there was no one else left to dance in her place. I watched, transfixed, as flames erupted on the shide. With an impressive flourish she finished her kagura.

“The kami do not weep,” she said, “they roar.”

::

At the mighty age of three, I menaced the clan. A wild thing, I was, that stomped through the compound, chasing bugs with shrieks of laughter. My entire world consisted of a small inner circle of family: my two brothers, my mother, my father, and the few occasional relatives that visited them. I remained ignorant of the exchange of grave news: reports of losses, Senju victories, and other likewise unpleasantries. Ryota remained unavenged; this grated on my father, whose conscience bore the weight of a dead son. His moods became fickle and thunderous.

My father struck me for my rowdiness. My mother held her tongue and turned away. I didn’t cry immediately — too stunned by the sensation of pain. A novelty. Unwelcome. My lip quivered, face twisting in betrayal as I stared wide-eyed at my father, at the one who taught me pain. I wailed.

“Enough Madara,” Tajima said irritably.

I did not listen. How could I? I did not understand. All I knew was the sting on my cheek. I cried for my mother, but she did not hear me. Then, I cried for my brothers. When I found no comfort, I learned that nothing came of tears.

Shinobi children grew up quickly. I was no exception.

::

In the heart of the compound, there stood a great sakura whose yellow petals bloomed in double-flowered rings. I watched the branches sway, leaves rustling and petals swirling, as my mother led me to the temple shrine built in its shadow. The tree was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen — ancient and splendid, crowned in golden blooms. I wanted to bask in its presence a little longer — to learn every knot in its trunk, and trace every line and groove. It was poetry to me, written not in words but woven roots and braided branches.

Mother pulled me away and brought me into the shrine. There, I met the girl who named me. She was five years my elder, still a child, but to me, she seemed as wise and sage as any other adult I knew. Mother bowed deeply to the young priestess and had me do the same. Then, she lifted my sleeve. No words were exchanged between them. Kiyome quietly studied the purple marks marring my flesh, her gaze lingering on each bruise. The proof of my training.

“Please,” said mother, “may we pray with you?”

“The goddess smiles upon her children,” Kiyome replied. I didn’t know to find it strange for a child to speak as an adult. Back then, I didn’t know anything. “Those pure of heart and mind are always welcome.”

My mother did not pray.

“This is Madara,” she said, nudging me forward. “Will you watch him?”

I felt a sting of betrayal at her for suggesting it. I didn’t need to be left in the care of a stranger. I was a shinobi, not a child. Or so my father had hammered into me. She had forgotten. This made me anxious: I had to remind her before father felt the need to.

“Hello Madara,” Kiyome ruffled my hair and smiled. I was too stunned by the foreign gesture to react. “I am your cousin, Uchiha Kiyome.”

I had many cousins. This introduction was less helpful than she probably thought it was. But from the sharp look of warning my mother gave me, and the fact she wore the sacred red of the Kami, she was probably one of the more important ones.

“Hi,” I whispered, more shyly than I intended. Father would have slapped me. But Kiyome must have found my timidness endearing for she reached into her sleeve and presented me with candy. When my mother said nothing, I took her silence as permission and gratefully accepted.

There was probably something sacrilegious about regifting an offering made to Amaterasu. But neither her priestess nor I seemed to mind. Mother, stunned by the audacity, could say nothing and became our accomplice. She ate a yellow one and left the temple with the scent of yuzu in her breath.

Kiyome gave me another and I decided that of all my cousins, she was my favourite.

Chapter Text

I could not tell if my mother loved my father or hated him. When he was in good spirits, she treated him coldly and held him at a distance. On days he was angered, her words became a whisper — soft and lulling, as if to pacify his demons. Go to the temple, she’d tell me, hooking her arms around father’s neck, ribbons and fastenings coming undone as she displayed the lushness of her figure. Go to Kiyome, Madara.

Sometimes, my brothers would take me to the golden temple. I liked those days best. They stood over me on either side like tall, protective oaks and held my hand. I felt safe in their shadow, shielded from prying eyes. But when they were away on missions, I would have to walk through the compound alone. I dreaded these days most.

Today was one such day.

My steps quickened, sandals crunching over pebbles and twigs. A deep anxiety loomed over my head as I made my way through the streets. A woman glanced my way; the frown lines on her face deepened as I passed her. The bustle of conversation fell silent at my presence. I felt like a cut of meat to be picked apart by a murder of crows. Bloodied and marred. Madara. Would they peck me apart until only my bones remained?

"Where is the greatness we were promised?"

I tried to bear the whispers, the heavy scrutiny, and stares of disappointment. But I was only a child then. I still cared and craved approval and acceptance the way only a child could.

I ran, chased by invisible ghosts and expectations I did not understand. I sprinted towards a stone wall, kicked off it, and vaulted upwards, high above the world. Tiles clattered beneath my feet as I leapt from roof to roof, racing towards the sacred sakura.

I found Kiyome beneath the splendid yellow tree, sweeping fallen petals into neat piles.

Relief flushed through me. 

“Kiyome!” I shouted, launching myself into her arms. She caught me. “Kiyome,” I whined, burying my face into the crook of her neck, ignoring the clatter of the fallen broom.

“Madara,” she laughed, tousling my hair, “what tidings have you brought me?”

I could not answer, shaken that I was by my journey. I could only cling wordlessly to her sleeve. I did not know how to answer — how to articulate the weight in my chest. I was not made of glass, but each gaze peered through me and saw me for what I was: completely ordinary. 

What a terrifying thing it was to be Uchiha Madara, and be completely ordinary.

“They hate me,” I said, curling into her, relishing her comfort. She was the only one who gave it. Father loved when it served him, but provided no tenderness. Mother, I knew, cared in her own way. She brought me to the temple, the only place she knew he could not reach. But mother was, in her bones, a kunoichi and clan matriarch. The softness she provided was not for me. I loved my brothers fiercely, but none loved as freely as Cousin Kiyome.

She took me inside the temple. Incense and candles burned beside the scorched surface of the cracked stone tablet that sat centred in the back of the hall. The only surviving relic from the night of my birth. Once, it had been inscribed with the wisdom of a great Sage, though that wisdom was lost forever. Lost to Amaterasu’s flames. Lost because of me.

They hate me, I had said. Perhaps they were right to. Yet, as always, she listened with a grace and wisdom well beyond our combined years. 

“I am not what you think I am,” I told her. “They see through me.”

Whether it had been an honest answer or a careful lie born from self-preservation, I did not know. My cousin had called me great, saving both of our lives. I needed to be. For both her sake and mine. 

But I wasn’t great. I was just Madara, speckled and marked by misfortune. 

I wanted to ask about my birth — the day the temple burned black — and the people that died. To know if I was truly blameless or if the kami despised my existence. Most of all, I wanted to know if this love of hers was just an illusion to mask her disdain.

Kiyome never lied. If I asked, she would tell me the truth.

But I was a coward. My voice was small and my questions died into the faintest of whispers, choked into silence by fear. Panic swelled within me. What would I do then if Kiyome left me? If I lost the only one who tolerated my mediocrity? If she blamed me?

What would I do if this warmth was an illusion, a beautiful lie — and the truth, something bitter and broken?

Madara. 

Impure, flawed, and unclean.

“Why did you name me ‘Madara’?” My voice came out as a whisper, somehow more steady than I felt. I was not made of glass, yet I felt in this moment, so terribly fragile. 

Kiyome hadn’t expected the question. Her lips parted in surprise, her eyes growing wide and round. Like this, she looked her age, young and vulnerable, rather than the sage and all-knowing she so often seemed. Good, a vindictive part of me delighted, glad that even my unshakable cousin could be startled. I did not want to be predictable. I wanted to surprise her. She could read my fortunes and fate, but I would become more than prophecy.

Then, I saw the ghost of something terrible in her eyes. It was shaped like caution, delicate and raw, but carried an ache more like regret.

A cold dread seeped into my bones as her arms stiffened around me. She had given me a name that meant ‘mottled’. Perhaps it was because she did hate me. Resented me for the deaths of her siblings and father. For killing them. Even if I never meant to.

I squirmed within her grasp, pulling away, and became confused when she refused to release me. 

“I gave you that name because it was yours.” Kiyome’s grip tightened, clutching me as if I were someone special, holding me like something precious. She spoke lowly, as if carrying a heavy burden, a terrible secret. “Because it is a strong name. Because it was the only name I could give. There will be none stronger than Uchiha Madara — you will be rivalled in strength only by your greatest friend. Your fate will be great and terrible. I named you because you are good and kind — and I could not let you die.” 

She pressed her palms against my cheeks, cradling my face between her hands as she wept. It was as if she held the world — and I was all of it. I dared not move, pinned by the intensity of her gaze. 

What was it she saw when she stared at me? Was it greatness? Was it me?

“I could have killed you,” she breathed. “I could have killed Uchiha Madara.”

She said my name as if it meant something.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered, wishing with all my heart to see as she did. This strange version of myself that she spoke of with such reverence. I craved the truth.

“I could have killed you,” Kiyome repeated, as if awed by the thought, the mere possibility. Then, she pointed with two fingers stretched forward, straight as a blade, the rest curled into her palm, and gently tapped my forehead. “But when I held you and peered into your eyes, I saw mercy reflected back at me. So I let you live.”

The truth. My truth. Hers.

But not in its entirety.

(Was I a wanted child?)

You, who could have killed me... why did you let me live?

“Am… I blameless?” My very existence wronged her. Now, I would make her my confessor and bind myself to her. It was selfish of me, but I did it regardless. “I am the reason you worship alone.”

“Madara,” she said, her voice soft like velvet, “are you blamed?”

My eyes watered.

“Their scapegoat-child,” Kiyome did not seem impressed. “Madara the Blamed."

I flinched at the epithet. The title stung, but it wasn’t directed against me. It seemed instead that she was offended on my behalf. I stared at her in wonder, a delicate optimism unfurling within my chest. I reached for her tentatively, and she took my hand. She smiled.

Surely, I thought, this is love.

“It is easier to indulge a lie than the truth,” Kiyome decided thoughtfully. “Etch this into your mind, Madara, and seal it into your heart: a lie, no matter how well-intended, well-crafted, can never replace the truth. Illusion can never replace reality.”

“I understand,” I said eagerly, my heart singing. She didn’t hate me. She didn’t blame me. 

“Your sins are mine,” said Kiyome, “if you have them. I take them. I will bear the consequences. You are absolved.”

She smiled at me. Her all-seeing eyes regarded me with something between fondness and amusement. I did not notice then how brittle her smile was. If there was something bittersweet about her expression, I could not say.

“You will be a good older brother,” she declared after a moment.

I sat, mystified by her words. Her riddle. What did she mean?

Then, not long after, news came of my mother's pregnancy.