Blossom

Cerise (səˈriːs or səˈriːz) is a deep to vivid reddish pink.

 

The colour of blood.

 

It is midnight. When Hisa steps out of the plain engawa, the only sound she can hear is her own shallow breathing, restless and edgy. The sakura blossoms sway in the light spring breeze, rain drizzling down as she sits in the veranda.

 

Around her, the air is clogged with thick tendrils of smoke as a fire flickers in the far distance. Hisa coughs for a while, then eases up, leaning against the wooden panels of their house. Home.

 

Her life is ironic, Hisa thinks. She comes here to escape from this ridiculous paradox, her fate set in stone.

 

Not everything is set in stone.

 

She is destined to die at such a young age, surrounded by suffering and sorrow. A shinobi. Dying for Konoha, for their people even, should be an honour, but somehow she disagrees. How is death something honorable?

 

She sighs as the rain begins to pour, more urgently and intensely now. A sakura blossom floats in the air, propelled by the oncoming blast of wind, which she catches in her palm, entranced.

 

Here, she is free. Hisa usually spends nights in meditation, but she doubts her parents would understand. She feels peace here, where her isolation sends shivers of yin chakra down her spine, a spiritual overflow inside her pathways. Shinobi - kunoichi - are not usually taught like this, but what can she do? She must survive.

 

Fugaku-sama is always wary of her family, of what they could do if they had the chance - mainly because they are all the epitome of perfection and he will never be. Haru Uchiha is an exceptional shinobi with a powerful sharingan, and Mariko is an idealistic yamato nadeshiko who stays at home as a housewife.

 

It does seem that way, she muses. People only see what they want to see - their standing in society. She's not even passed her second birthday, yet she's expected to have some sort of loyalty to the clan.

 

I don't want to become a kunoichi, she thinks as rivulets run down her kimono. She's scared. Petrified, even. She's heard all those stories of death and terror. never mind it's meant to be her duty. Being a kunoichi means that it'll become her life, trapped in bitterness until she caves.

 

A light turns on. Someone's awake.

 

I don't want to be a kunoichi, she whispers, then the shoji screen slides shut as a slight breeze permeates through the tiny crack. The sakura blossom sways in the air before drifting to the ground.

Hisa is a curious child. She doesn't seem that bright at first, a quiet, invisible girl who burrows into her books and never talks to anyone. It's hardly as if she has anyone to converse with, which is perhaps half the reason why Uchiha children end up introverted and antisocial.

 

Then again, her clan prefers them obedient and waiting.

 

As every weekend, she encloses herself in the rarely-used Uchiha Clan Library, where smooth oak shelves filled with books run from wall to wall. She pours the matcha into her teacup, the intoxicating scent circulating throughout the room in a homely way.

 

Her mother first introduced her to tea. It preserves the essence of a kunoichi, she'd said. Light, delicate. Hisa disagrees with that.

 

Her eyes stray further down, to a small volume tucked in the back, right next to The Art of Tea Ceremonies. It doesn't feel worn out or weathered, but it's not exactly modern either. Women's Roles in The Uchiha. A layer of dust creeps over the cover, concealing the neat handwritten black lettering, and she skims it off with the edge of her nail in disgust.

 

Now this she wants to know. Sheltered from the outside world by her parents, she has almost no idea of what's going on in the world. Now, she must find a way to remedy that.

 

"Okaa-san?" she asks later on, kneeling in seiza on the rough tatami mat. She notes that Haru is out on a mission. "Did you want to marry otou-san?"

 

There is an element of thinly veiled surprise that Hisa is making an effort to actually speak and at the bold question itself. Her mother is silent as she sews, the sashiko thread dancing rhythmically to create neat, skilful stitches. "I knew it was for the best." she reflects with a thoughtful expression. "We all have to make sacrifices for our clan."

 

"But what if I don't want to?" Hisa asks, dissatisfied by the vague explanation.

 

"It is our duty." Mariko's gentle voice betrays a hint of regret, a nostalgic look appearing on her face.

 

Duty? Is there a sense of honour in effectively killing yourself for your country? Hisa has never seen Konoha do anything for their shinobi. Perhaps she will learn as she grows, maybe one day she will come to understand.

 

"I..." she hesitates uncertainly. "I don't want to be a kunoichi, okaa-san." Then silence, and an unbearable wait for her mother's unyielding judgement.

 

Mariko says nothing but stares at her in the eye with a pensive expression, clear disappointment written all over her face. Loyalty to one's clan before anything else has been drilled into her since day one, and now Hisa is breaking all of the rules with just seven words.

 

"Oh, Hisana," her mother admonishes in that reproachful way. Her arms outstretch to hug her child, and for a moment, nothing happens. "I can't change it, my child; this is fate. I'll try, Hisa-chan, I'll try."

 

Mariko strokes her hair in that soothing way, rocking Hisa in her lap as wet tears dribble down her daughter's cheeks.

 

 

 

Tea ceremonies are quite unnecessary, Hisa thinks. They're going to host Fugaku-sama and his new wife Mikoto, a kunoichi who could easily be mistaken for an inborn Uchiha herself. Usually, Mariko takes control of the situation, guiding Hisa throughout her parts and playing her own perfectly as well.

 

"Hisana," Mariko calls, with her thin, wispy voice. It's fragile, her older age mirrored in her health. Strangely enough, the woman hasn't even passed thirty.

 

"Yes, okaa-san?"

 

Mariko kneels down for a second by her daughter, who's gripping a brush in her hand as she dips it into the inkwell. Then she tilts Hisa's chin and looks into her eyes. A faint drip, drip, drip can be heard as the older woman pauses.

 

"I think you're ready," she determines, after looking her child over again. "I'm certain you are."

 

"Ready for what, okaa-san?" Hisa's voice is dry, though still perfectly poised in the same position.

 

For a second, the only sound is of her breathing, steady and slow, steady and slow. Then Mariko's eyes dilate for a split-second, and she keels over, gasping for breath as blood stains the floor.

 

"Okaa-san!" Hisa's hands fly to her mother's head, cradling it in her fingers. Then more urgently - "Okaa-san!'

 

It takes precisely two seconds for Haru to come rushing inside as the scream echoes through the hallways. His wife is lying unresponsive on the floor as Hisa squeezes her wrist in desperation, blood dribbling off from the edges of her mouth.

 

Wordlessly, he picks her up. Carries her to the next room, where the plain futon adorns the floor. Nausea bubbles up in the depths of Hisa's throat, but she refuses to give in, instead sinking to the ground.

 

Nothing happens for a few minutes. Then, after finding the strength to rise back up, she walks, albeit unsteadily, to the kitchen. Hisa's hands shake under the strain as her hands cling onto the heavy copper kettle, slowly pouring the water into the teacup. A few drops splash out onto the counter as a puddle forms.

 

Mariko cries out weakly in her sleep, her bedsheets ruffled as she twists and turns about. Quietly, Hisa places the teacup next to the futon.

 

"Okaa-san," she murmurs. "Okaa-san, wake up. I've made you some tea."

 

Her mother does not wake up. Hisa waits for a minute until she subsides, then steps away from the dozing woman. The floorboards creak under her feet as she edges away into the hallway, careful not to make a sound.

 

Dinner is a silent affair, except for the quiet clinking of chopsticks. Haru doesn't meet her eyes, and does not make a move to talk until they're both finished.

 

"Otou-san..." she begins, clear in her worry. Her father notices it instantly.

 

"Hisana," he interrupts. "It is not for you to fret about such things. We will host Fugaku-sama and his wife tomorrow evening, and everything will go as planned." She notices how he does not refer to Mikoto by name, though he must have seen her before.

 

"But okaa-?"

 

"It is easy enough for you to perform her role," Haru interjects, and that is the end of that.

 

It's plainly difficult for a two-year old to handle the delicate bamboo-fashioned utensils, although Mariko has been training her relentlessly for months, picking out her mistakes from a small splash of tea to kneeling at an unconventional angle. Months aren't enough for a child to perfect this skill. Hisa attributes it to how finicky the Uchiha are about mistakes.

 

The door slides open. She's ready, her obi tied around around her waist to bind her loose-fitting kimono, kneeling in front of the assembled tools. Just ten minutes ago, she'd struggled to tie the sash of her obi, unravelling it again and again as it collapsed into unruly knots.

 

Hisa's hands are clammy as her hands extract the tea sachets from her packet, her mind fully fixated on her mother.

 

What's wrong...with Mariko? Why did she suddenly collapse?

 

"This is my daughter, Hisana," Haru introduces, and then she's staring up at Fugaku's scrutinisingly jet black eyes, her head swerving for a second as she falters. And ignores him completely.

 

Mikoto is...beautiful. Not more than Mariko, but there's a sort of naïvete around her...as if she's one to talk. Hisa's mind grasps around another sudden attack of dizziness to remember her original purpose.

 

Fugaku...He can decide her life.

 

No, she's not quite terrified of her young and inexperienced cousin, however fierce he may seem. She fears his ever increasing solidarity - the power of the position of Clan Head.

 

I don't want to be a kunoichi.

 

"Uchiha Hisana." he studies her face while they all kneel, addressing her by the already long-forgotten name. Acknowledgment, perhaps? She can't figure out his emotions yet. "Granddaughter of Uchiha Kagami." It is no secret to the clan that Haru's father was one of the best shinobi alive in his time. Maybe that's why Fugaku feels threatened - at least somewhat - by her family.

 

"Yes, Fugaku-sama." Her knees already hurt from the seiza position, and she wonders how she is going to last the whole evening. Mikoto stays silent, perhaps trying to be the traditional modest wife.

 

"How is...Mariko-san?" Fugaku asks. Courtesy, Hisa thinks. Nothing more than politeness, brittle words to help them lower their guard.

 

"Good," Haru answers. She notices he says nothing more on the matter. The only sound in the room is of their careful eating as the miso soup gradually finishes. Decorated sweets lie on a plate, untouched.

 

The air fizzles with cold hostility as Haru stares at Fugaku, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Your plans for Hisana?" the other man asks smoothly. "A kunoichi, I expect?"

 

Hisa's throat makes a small sound of protest, but it quickly bubbles down as Fugaku's eyes turn to her. "What say you, Hisana?"

 

"Yes, Fugaku-sama," she replies obediently. Her eyes look down, as if she'd want to be anywhere but here.

 

Then Mikoto speaks up for the first time. Her voice is soft, not as broken as Mariko's, yet as weary as a kunoichi, each word thought out with care. "Haru-san. Mariko-san is pregnant?"

 

It's sudden. Too much. The room spins abruptly; her stomach twists at this new revelation as air knifes into her lungs. Hisa can't breathe - she's slipping, slipping, slipping...

 

"Hisana-san? Are you quite alright?" Mikoto questions concernedly. "You're looking a bit pale."

 

"She's fine," Haru hurriedly covers up. "Ah. Would you like some tea? Hisana-"

 

Hisa nods, shakily trying to regain control of her features as the room spirals again and-

 

"Hisana?"

 

"Oh. Yes," she responds, closing her eyes as she snaps herself back into reality.

 

Hisa tries to remember every step her mother showed her, wiping the tools until they are spotless. Whisking the thick matcha tea in a circular motion, the aroma spreads throughout the air, her hands stirring and pouring systematically. It is not perfect. It never is. Her movements aren't pleasing or mesmerising like her mother's would be, but they all seem satisfied with the ceremony.

 

After she whisks the thin matcha tea into a froth, taking care not to spill a drop onto her kimono, the wagashi crafted from the Uchiha bakery is served. She hardly nibbles on the mochi, her head still centred on the fact that she's going to have a sibling.

 

"She must be a kunoichi, then," Fugaku decides. "Another child would be beneficial to our clan, and it would be much better to have two shinobi rather than one."

 

Beneficial? Beneficial to the clan? Hisa desperately wants to spit in his face and drag Fugaku through the mud until he's violently shredded into pieces, and yet-

 

Mariko wouldn't want that.

 

This is what Hisa is meant to be. She is a marionette on their strings; a pawn in their chess game. Hate spirals into her heart for this innocent, unborn child, all because they are part and parcel; packaged right in with their clan.

 

"My condolences to Mariko-san," Fugaku offers half-heartedly, and Mikoto smiles endearingly at her as she walks out the front door.

 

 

The next few days are peaceful, spent in meditation or simple isolation in her room. Haru has been assigned a mission, and he is not likely to come back before the weekend. Mariko, however, is still recuperating in her room, still fatigued and half delirious from her previous collapse.

 

Hisa brings her meals every few hours, brewing the herbal tea and medicine from the gardens outside. In one instance, her mother clings to her sleeve as she slowly retreats backwards.

 

"Hisa-chan...are you alright?"

 

"Yes, okaa-san," comes the reply, monotonous and tired in its tone. The shock of having a new sibling has by now worn off already.

 

"Is it...about the tea ceremony?" Mariko whispers, her voice hoarse as Hisa tilts the medicine bowl to her lips once more. Her cheeks are pallid and flushed, and her eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

 

"Okaa-san," Hisa cuts her off. It's her way of saying that she doesn't want to talk about it. "It's nothing."

 

"Please, Hisana, I couldn't," Mariko pleads. She grips Hisa's sleeve even more tightly. "Fugaku-sama, he said-" Mariko's trembling violently as she recounts the memory.

 

"Okaa-san!" Hisa shouts, and there is a shocked pause at the end of the outburst. Silence reigns over the room for a few seconds.

 

"I-I taught you to be perfect," Mariko whispers, her voice faltering as she strokes through her daughter's hair. Their eyes meet, one with steely resolve, the other already conceding defeat. "But...I'm glad you're not."

 

Later, she's lying alone in her room on a tatami mat, evenly folding crisp sheets of coloured paper into a faceless crane. Then she makes many more, until they are strewn all over the tatami mats, a rainbow of colours.

 

She shifts over to a sitting position now, her muscles tired and strained from the folding. Haru is back. She can hear the soft bell tinkling as he opens the door, and Mariko's automatic, instantaneous greeting.

 

Her mother must have dragged herself out of bed, Hisa presumes. She doesn't sound any better, at least. The kettle hisses through the thin walls as a clattering sound reverberates throughout the room.

 

Hushed voices begin to murmur as she strains to hear their conversation, one ear pressed to the wall which vibrates with every sound. Haru's come from a clan meeting, she deduces. Hisa knows that they don't allow anyone in except chūnin, since most of its internal network is well hidden and quietly preserved.

 

Raised voices arise from the kitchen, the paper-thin sliding screens betraying each and every sound. Hisa shakes her head, incredulous. She's never once heard her parents shout at each other. So why now?

 

"She won't be a kunoichi!" she hears. Her mother. Hisa's breath catches jn her throat for a second. Is her mother...advocating for her? Giving her a chance...not to be perfect?

 

"Fugaku-sama's word is law." Haru's answer is short and curt; he is definitely losing his patience. Footsteps creak over the floorboards again.

 

"Haru, she shouldn't go to the academy yet. Fugaku-sama may say what he likes, but I know you agree with me. She is our daughter before anything, especially not the clan!" It's too much for her mother. Mariko starts spluttering, wheezing for breath as the short recovery period comes back to bite her. She's still not done though. "Please, Haru..."

 

"Let's get you back to bed, Mariko. You can't speak like this, not in this state."

 

"And when can I?" her mother counters. "Three years old, Haru, three! Wait until she awakens the sharingan at least!"

 

Hisa can still hear those frenzied breaths as her mother hyperventilates, her father frantically trying to calm her down. Her nails subconsciously scratch her palms as the shrill sound continues, ringing in her head like a migraine.

 

Wait - sharingan?

 

Her parents have never deigned to talk about the sharingan with her. A quick scour of textbooks suggests that it's an ocular dōjutsu, inherited and mutated through dozens of bloodline generations. You'll know when you're older, they say.

 

The loud voices have simmered down into whispers by now - they probably suspect she's still awake. Hisa waits for ten minutes to deliberate, then decides to go outside, though she hasn't ventured anywhere for quite a bit of time. Placing one leg up, she tries to climb out of the window, but her small size makes it a larger obstacle than she'd thought. She tumbles in a heap to the ground which is fortunately cushioned by the towering reeds of grass.

 

One of her favourite places to meditate is Naka River, which runs right through the Uchiha compound, jaggedly meandering into the training grounds. She usually sits over the cliff, her feet dangling over the edge as water trickles past her in a haze. It is a place to think, to listen, to find.

 

The sun sets with a sense of finality, the pink hues merging into a darker, more sombre purple. Life is fleeting. Becoming a shinobi will only shorten her threads of time. If she'll be one, will it be...to protect the village? Protect. Such a strong word.

 

Somewhere in the world, war is brewing. And that is the first time Hisa realises - she can't control anything forever. It evokes a sharp, stinging memory inside of her, one of death, dead, dying.

 

And then it clicks. Shisui. A fitting name for a child, a shinobi, Hisa thinks bitterly. Because they'll always be drowning in this world where nothing is under their control.

 

She releases the paper cranes over the moonlight, swooping in and out until never to be seen again.

 

 

 

It is not yet autumn when Mariko goes into her confinement, isolated by the intricate byōbu screens never once used since Hisa's birth. Setting down an inkwell and a brush, Hisa starts to trace simple katakana and hiragana down the paper with her finger, then dips the brush inside the ink again.

 

She finds herself most enthralled by the kanji, sloping characters borrowed from the Chinese language. The brush is steady in her small, lithe hands, but it does not move as gracefully as she expects it to; instead, it quivers as the ink splatters all over the paper.

 

Surveying her handiwork, she assumes it's quite unlike her mother's. Mariko's calligraphy decorates the walls, small characters so identically placed that they could have been written by a typewriter.

 

Her mother...is she alright?

 

Hisa hasn't stepped inside her parents' room for weeks, and Haru only makes periodical visits to check up on his wife. And then Hisa forgets - of course, she is still a small child.

 

September languidly wanders into October, a bleak, harsh month with barely any light at all. Mikoto and Fugaku are trying for a child of their own, and time is steadily creeping forward.

 

By now, the rich scent of matcha is almost rubbed out from her memory. Somehow, it's not the same without her mother - always there to guide her, to point out her mistakes. Her tea ceremony is sloppy, though the relaxing smell of the tea diffuses throughout the room all the same. She remembers the ceremony with Fugaku long ago and wonders if she has become worse.

 

Kunoichi.

 

Kunoichi aren't housewives. They aren't graceful. Their priority is Konoha, not tea ceremonies or ikebana arrangements. They're tied to their village, their clans for the rest of their lives.

 

Something's happening. Hisa can hear hurried shouts in the far distance, screams piercing the walls in their wake.

 

Okaa-san!

 

Time stops for barely a second before she runs, opening, slamming the doors and ignoring the watchful eyes trying to pull her back. Faint cries emerge from the confinement room, footsteps edging closer and closer. A distant buzzing sound, which she doesn't recognise. Someone's holding her back - Mikoto's eyes stare up at her in desperation.

 

Why can't she go in? Another peculiar, much quieter cry. She claws at Mikoto's grip, but it's strong and unwavering.

 

The door opens, a gentle, creaking sound which alerts them all. A midwife walks out, a small boy in her arms with wisps of hair curling down, the sticky blood not yet washed off.

 

Shisui?

 

There's only grim looks of pity. Dread pools back in the depths of her eyes as the door slides open by touch. A shrill wail rings in her ears, and before anyone can stop her she runs in, screaming for her mother. "Okaa-san!"

 

And then she sees it. There is a grey, lifeless body on the bed, eyes rolled up into pearly whites. Can't...

 

"Okaa-" the whispers convolve into sobs, wracking her body as her small fingers slip into her Mariko's motionless hand.

 

"Please okaa-san, wake up!" She's choked back into tears, the raw grief eating at her, consuming her.

 

The child cries again, its pink face scrunched up as its hands struggle again. Mikoto kneels down beside her, her arms securely wrapped around Hisa's back as she buries her face into the older lady's neck, tears blotting down her kimono.

 

She despises him. An innocent child, swarmed by destruction for this simple, convoluted act of murdering her mother. The irony of life.

 

Then her eyes swirl red, and everything goes black.