Reborn

THE song he hums delicately is one that he has almost forgotten, a fossil from an elapsed era in which he has actively suppressed until now. The realization that Obito couldn't recall most of it ignites a smoldering sense of shame. Missing notes prevented him from humming the full song that Rin would quietly hum under her breath as she stared blankly into the controlled fires. He cannot seem to remember the notes that come after the chorus, the melody playing back onto itself as flickers of life spark in front of him. 

He tenderly echoes the chorus of the song Rin would hum when she was trying to keep her mind off things in the war. Her anxiety manifested itself by her airy songs or whispered recitations of the human bones, all 206 of them. How her distant brown eyes retread into the recesses of her brain, where he could only observe and wait until she came back into the present. 

Rin would always designate herself as the first watch, tending to the small fires as they were about to enter enemy lines. Their childish figures would all lean on one another. Her fluttering white apron was like a ghost in the gale as she sang her ballad, a soft war cry. The nervousness that occurred from youth and adrenaline would make Obito scoot closer to her. The smell of fresh linen and sunlight would soften something that had gone hard, brittle as time in the front lines went on. His small, clumsy hands would lift his orange goggles to put on top of his shaggy head of hair, all so he might get a better glance at her, just in case. 

His throat becomes sore as he speeds through the neglected piece of music, the chorus fragmented because of his wilted recollections. A loop that forces images into his psyche, where youth and beauty still existed in the world. Sometimes he would gaze at Rin and wish with every fiber of his being that he had his activated bloodline, burning into his memory of her intricate figure wallowing in the wind. Her enriching voice; a siren's song to his heart. 

Stupid wishes that developed from adolescence; wishful thoughts only a young bastard child like him can only dream of. His sharingan hadn't been activated yet. He didn’t think it would emerge within his life. He was a bastard, a moment of weakness that was disgraceful in the eyes of the clan who coveted lineage. The only Uchiha in his period who had continually spared him kindness was his grandmother, but by the age she claimed him from the orphanage, she was already old and tired. Her time for motherhood had ended long ago. 

The scent of sewage water grows more pungent, rot crawling out into the air, tainting his recollection of the past. Obito breathes through his mouth, the melody growing labored from the strain of his voice and airways. His mind wandering off again to the mothball covered memories that had been left behind to decay to nothingness. 

His initiation ceremony had been pitiful as a half-recognized member of the clan, as well as a few years late. The disapproval from older clan members had been insurmountable, causing the ceremony to become a bleak affair as his grandmother had run herself ragged to make sure she shielded him from most of the heavy-handed criticism that came with arrogance. War had made his ceremony cheap and unimportant and had agitated clan members at the fact they must attend to celebrate a member of the clan who had contributed nothing to the honor and wellbeing of their kin. 

To attend a living bastards’ ceremony while pure-blooded members were dying at frightening rates, how insulting it must have been for them to force down their pride. His garments had been very modest, making him look homely rather than prideful. His old yukata would have made anyone else embarrassed, but Obito recollects how his grandmother had swapped her rations for more money to get him some clothes. 

A few weeks of starvation for him. 

Although he cannot remember her face anymore, Obito reminisces about the sound of his grandmother's voice. The amount of regret his grandmother had tried to hide from him when he was younger, when he was too young to recognize what it meant. To take care of a child at such an old age and not be able to do much of anything except bare it. 

“Obito,” His grandmother's voice wobbles, same as the knobs of her fingers and knees, “The Uchiha may not ever fully accept you but to me you represent everything they stand for. You carry the flames of passion, not pride. You embody the warmth that stems from the fires glow, these are necessary traits that a community, more than ever, needs during a time of war. For you are a kind, lovely boy.”

The wrinkles folding into her loose skin stretch as she looks at him with clouding eyes and a smile so soft, he cannot help but feel proud.  

Obito gently closes his eyes, basking in the fires glow; unknowingly leaning towards the warmth the firepit emanates. How long has it been since he had thought of his grandmother? 

Obito knows it has been decades since he had last considered it, the only mercy was that she was dead before she had ever gotten to see how he turned out. How the once soft, kind boy had turned into a cold, devious man. When he had helped cull the clan who had never loved him, he had been glad she was long dead. It spared him emotionally. The rest had been easy. 

A dark fantasy he had repressed so deeply into himself before he had become Tobi that, when the chance finally came, he couldn’t help but offer assistance. Obito recalls very clearly how they treated him.  

The puff of smoke that curls out from the cracking hot embers of the tamed fire pulls at a buried relic he used to clutch onto as a child; a source of inferiority as he faced him.  

The heavy scent of burning cigarettes and incense chokes him as his sore knees dig into the unrelenting floors. He feels the bony, weak hand of his grandmother as she gently pushes his head down low to bow as he bit back tears. The shame that threatens to make itself known to the people in the room who spare him no pity as his grandmother discards her cane and struggles to place her own weight on her bony knees. The pained breathing as she also places her head onto the cold floors that reek of musk, a combination of smoke and sweat seeping into the floors to create a feeling of sweaty desperation. 

He had overstepped himself, his foolish mouth asking too eagerly about a clan bloodline that only pureblood members could obtain. The excitement of being on a team with Rin clouding his judgment. His team member had been a prodigy, his teacher a legend. Excitement had made him rash, to demand what was needed to obtain the ability coursing in his veins.  

A privilege that was never to be given to him. 

“Foolish boy,” an ancient member hissed at him, “don’t you know how lucky you and your grandmother are already?” Eyes are red as blood, filled with disgust make his esteemed elder look eldritch. “Know your place.” 

He shakes, the bravo of being a graduate completely gone as all there is left is a trembling boy who knows nothing better. The rattling sounds of the bamboo slides had muted the footsteps of the devoted guards who always followed the bidding of the elders. Obito feels the tough treatment of his grandmother as her kind hand is abruptly pulled away, a shocked burst of confusion and fear making his grandmother shriek. 

Obito doesn’t dare raise his head. His grandmother groans painfully as the guards violently drag her out into the secluded courtyard. The tough sound of flesh hitting wood makes him flinch, the lack of noise coming from his grandmother scares him even more. 

“Bring them out.” The head guard coldly orders. The shuffling of feet quickly settling into whatever punishment they dole out. He hears his grandmother begin to beg. Obito bites his tongue as tears rapidly fall from his stinging eyes. 

“The punishment today will be flogging. 30 strikes. Begin.” 

A muted sob breaks away from his lips, afraid that loudly crying would worsen the punishment. The sharp whistle of the bamboo rods cutting through the air to hit his grandmother's back had been devastating. The escalating screams of pain emerging from his kind grandmother's mouth was even worse. At one point, he couldn’t bear it. He wished it would be over already. The draping, worn sleeves of his yukata effectively shielding his face filled with anger and heartache that saturated his appearance. How he quietly willed himself to stop crying in front of the council as the bitter taste of salty tears and snot trailed into his mouth . 

“I hope you learned your lesson.” An elder finally addresses him, the screams of his grandmother finally tapering off as the flogging is done. The heavy pants sweltered in the tense room. Obito doesn’t need to lift his head to hear what's hidden behind the elders' words. 

Pleasure. 

He didn’t know what was worse at the time: that his grandmother immediately forgave him or that he wished she would be angry with him. She had remained kind to him, even after that incident. The flogging had done a number on her back and even with her cane, she could no longer lift their rations and groceries by herself. Despite taking on those chores for himself that he would always commit to without fault, the amount of guilt that accompanied him was sickening. 

He had never told anyone why he was always late helping his grandmother do groceries or committing himself to extra chores around the house they shared. It wasn’t because of sincerity but shame. An intangible feeling that would permeate his very existence no matter how many times he would pay for it later. He had the power of a civilian, utterly pointless in terms of power and approval.

Obito had learned a sour truth that day. 

A bastard was a bastard. 

Even his hopes of impressing Rin would never change that, which was why he often got frustrated with him . 

The crumpled melody he is humming is changing ever so slightly. Different notes cause the tone to shift a touch sadder. He moves the sticks around to make sure the fire stays lit, his tending stick beginning to burn with red-hot embers. 

He had been a cry baby then, a little boy who had absolutely no idea how lucky he was to forgo such a terrible activation. The world had only given him slight childhood adversities typical in wartime, but nothing on the scale of devastation he would come to face after he had become more than a boy. His eyes had only clearly remembered the demise of Rin, but when it came to their lives, the once clear picture turned muddled and unreliable. 

Locks of dull pink curls capture his eye, the breathing replica that struggles before him renders his thoughts on the present, sinking him deeply into what was before. 

The possibility of being another grave marker effectively created a bond that had been preserved for the moments they had together. He only had crystalized moments with her, Obito concludes, the haunting song strumming his vocal cords in a way he hadn’t used since he was a child. Now he is the one singing and tending the fires, while she waits and watches. 

Obito hums until he is sure that Sakura is asleep, not wanting to prod her with his chakra in case he accidentally wakes her up and sends her into a panic. He knows from experience how twitchy a ninja can be after being in high stress environments for the first time. 

It also makes him feel the sharp cuts of rage that man has not learned from history. 

Everything had come back full circle. 

An ambush, the bridge and first-time missions going seriously wrong. 

Her labored breathing, the painful twinge that ruins the soft lull of peaceful sleep, makes him feel the icy shards of hatred that encapsulate his soul. His teacher's musings compel him to remember why this world is so wrong. His reason is left wounded and forgotten. The fires of Konoha stamped out as she leaves another one of her soldiers with broken dreams. 

Konoha was as faithless as an old whore.  

A draft brings a coiling smell of sewage and muddy water. The river distantly rumbled. Obito expected for the dead bodies to pop up within the riverbanks as they had thoughtlessly discarded the failed ambush into the water supply. 

All that bloodshed, and what for?

It was meaningless. They had changed nothing.

They had only brought more pain. That man's team had believed they had helped the people of Wave when instead they poisoned the water supply that was to be littered with dead bodies and had damaged infrastructure that was necessary for the people to survive. The carelessness of damage only spoke to the true nature of champions; winners didn’t care about losers.

His words developed into his teachers, intangible from his own. 

It would take Wave a long time to recover, even longer for someone to invest in the project of manufacturing and building, considering how high the risk was to even ship supplies here. Waves' poverty rate was almost identical to the damage that had decimated Rain during the casualties of the third ninja war. 

Obito had seen people who were starving. He had seen the dried corpses swaying in the foul-smelling wind when he stumbled across the riverbank. Desperation was Obito’s companion. An acquaintance he knew would be quick to greet him the longer they stayed trapped on the riverbank. Most likely, it would visit the civilians first, those who had more to lose and had less to begin with. 

They would have to move shortly before the people of the Village hunted for the corpses. With that thought, he stops humming. His knees pop as he rises, the tending stick forgotten within the stiff sand as he readjusts his mask to look at the girl who shivers under his cloak. 

The stark red and deep hue of black clashing against her skin.  

She’s in awful shape , Obito analyzes. The cynicism flows out into his thoughts before he even has the chance to stop it. The rattle in her exhales distracts him from thinking logically. Her throat bobbing in her sleep, the faint scent of blood coming from her mouth had put him on edge when he had given her water. 

The soft wheezing of her restrained breaths only pushes him further onto the edge of an abyss that has been threatening to overwhelm him for a long time. The ghost of the boy he once was cramping his stomach, making him feel nauseous. Such feelings of inadequacy have not plagued him in over a decade, an entire uncomfortable experience to get reacquainted with. He hasn’t had to have someone depend on him in a long time. Is this how his grandmother felt when meeting him on the wooden steps of the orphanage? 

It’s a very surreal experience. 

Normally her injuries would mean a slow death in the battlefield unless someone were to stumble by to offer a quick mercy. That analysis makes him go cold. It makes him shudder under the weight of the looming reality that looks him relentlessly in the face as if to remind him that reality doesn’t care for the wishes of man. 

However, he is not just a man; he is the disciple of Madara, and fate will bow down to him. With deliberation, Obito walks towards the riverbeds to catch a quick moment of air, where he could be by himself for a few moments to fully let the situation sink in. The roar of the river washes over his distress and, for once within the last 72 hours, does he feel more like himself. The sound of power that is hidden within the currents of the dirty river overstimulates whatever else may be on his mind. 

Obito immediately gets to work on a plan.

They need to relocate quickly before looters and thieves come out to ransack their dead comrades. It was a surprise they hadn’t done so already. Obito doesn’t investigate his unusual lucky streak of having fateful coincidences occur to him this rapidly. Instead, he tries to create a plan that can accommodate both their needs. They should depart tomorrow, in the early morning to get a head start on their journey. 

Early enough to where most civilians will be resting. The crack of dawn. 

Obito also knows that there will be no chances of him running into her old teammates and his, the day journey for ninja would have begun this evening based on the events that had transpired from the loss of a teammate. By the time they leave tomorrow morning, her team will already be within the confines of Konoha. 

She needs to be brought to a healer, but they also need a location that is discreet enough where he can go get help as she waits for him. Mentally, Obito does the math. It would take over two weeks to travel to Kumo, however that was not including rest breaks and Kumo could spot Konoha ninja with ease considering their last ten years of history. Sand was immediately out of the picture with it being the second farthest from Iwa. Kiri wasn’t even worth considering since you would have to travel over the ocean to get there. 

 That only left one place. 

  He grits his jaw as a solution appears before him, a place he has not given thought from all the memories and ghosts that had come with it. Obito turns his head to West, looking out into the night as he seriously contemplates the risks. The mugginess of the warming nights of Wave began to make him sweat under the mask, since Sakura was asleep there was no use in wearing it. 

Obito slips his mask off, letting it hang around his thick neck. He lifts his gloved hand to his mouth and pulls off his glove. His pale fingers ghost over his skin, lightly tracing the hard calluses and uneven skin bumps that have accumulated from all the skin grafts and experimentation Madara had done to him. His body told a story, one that he would only ever know, a person who had become an amalgamation of different people to become a disfigured man with broken dreams. 

Even now, Obito still carries very conflicted feelings about Madara. Tobi was his reincarnation, an apprentice carved into the flesh that came with heavy handed consequences. 

To fail was to die. 

Obito can never be allowed to forget the teachings of his former master. His awakened bloodline had ensured that. A bastard child with full-fledged eyes. How the clan would have turned in their graves if they had ever known. He had shocked them all, he had become more powerful than most full-blooded clan born children. The heavy chakra pooling behind his eyes begin to prod at his Sharingan’s activation, the emotional intensity of the past few days leaving him relatively unbalanced. 

Obito begins to trail closer to the riverbed, until the paranoia of her going missing prevents him from taking another step away from his campsite. The fact he cannot leave her behind is ridiculous. It's a hazard. 

But he would rather die than suffer the pain all over again. 

He silently trudges back towards the campsite, a short walk, as he sits down. His mind whirls with information filled with cobwebs and dust. His fingers coldly press into themselves as he flashes through a brief sequence of signs, summoning a clone who looks back frigidly at him. 

First, he needs to get something to transport Sakura in.

His eyes warily look West, towards the Land of Fire.