As a Thing and Its Shadow

Orochimaru’s personal hideout is already under attack when they get there. Or it appears to be. It is a little hard to tell, Itachi will concede.

They booked it across four nations in a little over six days to make it to the Land of Rice Fields, a sprawling grassland that ripples outwards for miles in all directions. It is never quite silent, the sound of rustling, swishing grasses present every minute of every day. Itachi is weary and on edge from straining his senses so often at the shadow of an attack. Presumably Kakashi is feeling similar, but he only seems vaguely bored. Neither of them have gotten much sleep in the past week.

They are crouching behind a low rise fifty yards south of the front door, or what passes as one: a low stone opening with a set of stone stairs descending into gloom.

I go frontal attack, Kakashi signs in ANBU code. You infiltrate.

We infiltrate. No attack, Itachi signs back with calm force. A frontal assault makes little sense when they do not even know what they are facing.

Kakashi gives a loud, dramatic sigh. “Why,” he says aloud, “would we make an infiltration more dangerous by not having a distraction?”

“Why,” Itachi says back, “would Orochimaru fall for the distraction when he just saw us traveling together not a week ago?”

Kakashi shrugs. “Whether or not he knows it’s a distraction, if I show up and start busting heads, they’re gonna need to defend, so they’re gonna call their shinobi to the front.” He holds up one pompous finger. “Ergo, I should mount a frontal assault.” His visible eye is gleaming dangerously, and his chakra feels potent and restless.

Itachi is saved from having to come up to a response to Kakashi’s slightly deranged battle lust by a massive flare of chakra from the direction of the entrance.

Their heads both snap instantly northwards. Kakashi swivels his whole body towards it, frowning, fingertips steadying himself on the packed dirt.

“You fuckers never learn, do you!” a voice hollers. “FUCK you! AND you!” There follows the sound of roaring wind, and then a massive explosion, and several thuds.

“Perhaps you do not need to mount a frontal assault,” Itachi observes quietly.

“Perhaps not,” Kakashi agrees. “Who do you think our friend is?” His voice is completely casual, without even a hint of curiosity. He could be asking what Itachi thinks about the latest basketball scores.

“No idea,” Itachi says equally serenely. It could truly be anyone. Orochimaru makes a lot of people angry. They can probably rule out Konoha, because the chakra signature is unfamiliar, but Orochimaru has never limited himself to one country.

It does not particularly matter. While Orochimaru’s men and the unknown attacker are occupied with each other, neither of them are Itachi’s concern. There is little chance that they could beat him and Kakashi if they are careful not to be caught unawares.

Kakashi is clearly on the same page. Enter. Seventy yards northwest, he signs with pointed efficiency. Itachi gives a hum of acknowledgment, and steps into a shunshin. Shisui taught him this one. It does not go far, but it uses very little chakra and is almost untraceable.

Seventy yards northwest is a nondescript patch of grass, but when Itachi closes his eyes he can sense chakra directly below, muted and sedate. It is difficult to pick out among the battle raging to their right, but he can sense them.

To his left, Kakashi flashes through seals, placing both hands on the earth. It splits, not with dramatic speed, but steadily, as if a thick liquid is being poured to force it apart. Subtler than simply opening a chasm. Itachi wonders when he learned it.

The tunnel that he drops into a moment later is dry, cool, and deserted. It smells of rock and dust and, fainter, the sickly-sweet scent of snake venom.

Kakashi sniffs the underground air critically, straightening up from the crouch he landed in. “Definitely Orochimaru’s place,” he says cheerfully. “We should have brought him an air freshener.”

Itachi ignores this with practiced ease, turning silently to face southward. The tunnel is well lit, but there is no visual sign, only the pull of something familiar somewhere on his radar.

They discussed it in cursory sentences on the journey, while sprinting across the sprawling grasslands. Kakashi, like the previous three days, expressed no opinion, attempted no command, offered only strategic suggestions. This is not his task. Itachi did not attempt explain it to him, how the knowledge that Orochimaru must have the bodies of his family stashed away in the Land of Rice Fields rankles in his stomach. They had discussed only in brief the reason for going on attack: because Orochimaru in possession of Sharingan was all the more threatening to Konoha, and although neither of them said it, to Sasuke. So they had decided, without really needing to discuss it, that Itachi, as the Uchiha, would take point.

He follows the sense of familiarity southeast, uncomfortably aware that they are heading in the exact direction of the conflict. But there is nothing they can do about it; they came to destroy the Sharingan before Orochimaru could use it, so they will finish their mission. Itachi is acutely aware that neither he nor Kakashi has considered, at least outwardly, abandoning their goal, despite the fact that they are accountable only to themselves. Old habits die hard, his mother would have said, and Itachi swallows down on the familiar bitter wave of grief and guilt.

They round a corner, and Itachi pulls up so sharply that Kakashi nearly runs into his back.

Mist is spilling out from the far end of the tunnel, a fluctuating white wall that completely blocks their view of the far end. The space is eerily silent, without even the sound of the torches that has so far accompanied their passing.

Kakashi tugs his mask down and sniffs the air again. “I don’t think it’s poisonous,” he says dubiously. “Sense anything?”

Itachi stretches out his senses, mentally feeling forward down the hallway. There is a chakra presence in the mist, the same chakra from outside, but so diluted over space that he cannot pinpoint the person’s body.

“It is our friend from outside,” he observes. Kakashi grunts agreement, eye narrowed critically. He no longer wears any hitai-ate, only a band of black cloth tied around his head to cover the Sharingan. He looks completely rogue, unaffiliated, entirely in black but for the green trim of his haori. If Sharingan no Kakashi were not a seventy-thousand-ryo entry in every Bingo Book, no one would bat an eye at his presence. Itachi, still in the Akatsuki cloak, envies him this unburdened anonymity for a moment.

A body comes flying out of the mist in front of them, deep red blood windmilling gracefully out of his slit throat. Itachi steps carefully to the side to avoid being hit.

“Well,” says Kakashi meditatively. “Our friend is a fighter.”

“A good thing he is our friend,” Itachi offers.

Kakashi turns one raised brow on him. “Enemy of my enemy? Bold for two shinobi with as many enemies as we have.”

The we is easy, rolls off his tongue unhesitatingly. Itachi thinks he must have forgotten the differences between them. Kakashi has a decade-long record of effective, violent, and extremely high-profile assassination. Itachi was in ANBU for less than a year, during which time Kakashi kept him out of the spotlight as much as possible, and had only begun to gain a slight reputation when he received Danzo’s orders. He is going to express something about this to Kakashi, but another body, a kunoichi’s, skids out of the mist, leaving a smear of blood across the floor. Her limbs are bent at odd angles, and blood is pulsing sluggishly from a vertical gash up her whole torso.

He meets Kakashi’s eyes. They can either linger here while the fighter in the mist systematically works his way through Orochimaru’s shinobi, and then has time to move on to them, or they can move now, where there are still almost a dozen other chakra signatures in the mist to hide among.

No decision. Kakashi is not patient by nature, only by training, and Itachi is not particularly inclined to delay their task any further either. The restless, crackling energy of Kakashi’s chakra is affecting him.

Kakashi eyes him wolfishly, single bright eye calculating and feral. He’s waiting for the go-ahead, Itachi realizes, and remembers all over again that they are equals now. He dips his head once, and Kakashi glides unhesitatingly into the mist.

Itachi follows him a beat later, one hand on the grip of his sword beneath his cloak. Genjutsu is less effective than he would like when he cannot see or sense his attacker. Even the Sharingan cannot seem to parse this mist. It is oppressive, cold and wet and making each breath feel heavier. And there is a malicious chakra all around, in every particle of the fog, a killing intent so violent and strong it makes Itachi’s heart quicken in spite of himself.

In front of him, Kakashi’s lean form is stealing smoothly through the mist. The gray edges of his hair bleed into the vapor. His shoulders are tense, a kunai already drawn.

A shinobi materializes to Itachi’s right, ragged breaths loud in the silent mist. Wild green eyes fix on his cloak, then track up. Itachi activates his Sharingan, but waits, curious.

The shinobi takes in a long, horrified breath. “He’s here,” he gasps out. “He—”

He cuts off abruptly. There’s a sickening crunch of bone, and the tip of a long knife slides out the front of his chest. His head drops limply almost instantly.

“Hatake Kakashi,” says a low voice from behind the dead shinobi. “I heard you left Konohagakure.” The speaker is still swathed in white mist, effectively invisible even to Itachi. His chakra signature is barely more concentrated at the source than in the rest of the mist.

Itachi flicks a glance sideways at Kakashi, who has straightened from his hunter’s prowl, twirling a kunai lazily with one hand.

“Momochi,” he says, sounding mildly interested.

Itachi flips mentally through his personal Bingo Book. Kirigakure no Kijin, Momochi Zabuza. Wanted by Kiri for eighty thousand ryo for allegedly attempting to assassinate the Mizukage. One of the highest bounties in Kiri’s seemingly endless list of missing-nin.

The body drops abruptly to the ground with a heavy thud. Momochi Zabuza materializes out of the fog, as tall as Kakashi but far broader, keen dark eyes flicking between the two of them. He’s spattered liberally with blood, holding a massive broadsword almost as tall as Itachi across his shoulder. It is completely clean, incongruous with the rest of his appearance.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Momochi,” says Kakashi, sounding bored. “Attacking Orochimaru?”

Momochi looks Itachi up and down, and insolently, directly into his eyes. “Who’s the Uchiha?”

“My apprentice,” Kakashi lies easily.

Momochi’s eyes narrow. “You want to watch out with him. This snake fucker likes stealing apprentices. Especially with a fancy little kekkei genkai like this one.” He tips his chin up at Itachi.

“I am not going to be stolen,” says Itachi calmly.

Momochi’s gaze snaps back onto him. “Yeah? You could teach that stupid kid a thing or two. Got me running all over the goddamn Continent to pull his ass out of the fire. Fucking worthless.”

“Want us to keep an eye out for him?” Kakashi says casually. “We’re searching too.”

Momochi’s eyes slit into a what Itachi presumes is a grin, but the whole lower half of his face is covered in bandages. He is reminiscent of Kakashi, oddly enough, face half covered, eyes sharp and calculating and a little feral, spiky hair sticking up above his askew hitai-ate. “I know where he’s at. One of these wimps told me.” He nudges the body at his feet with one blood-spattered toe. “Southeast tunnel. Prison wing. Coming?” He tilts his chin in the direction they were already heading.

Itachi can think of good reasons to stick with him, namely that he appears to be able to cut through dozens of shinobi without great effort, and good reasons not to, namely that he might attempt the same on them, so he feigns deference, and turns to Kakashi questioningly.

Kakashi gives him a flat look, mask shifting into what Itachi knows is a smirk. He flips his kunai up and back into his sleeve, fingers flickering through hand signs. All clear. We go.

This is enough for Itachi. Kakashi has been an active shinobi longer than he himself has been alive. His field experience, and practical knowledge of the world, is maybe more extensive than anyone else that Itachi has ever worked with, including Akatsuki.

Momochi, apparently satisfied with their tiny exchange, says, “I’ll take point.”

Kakashi shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

That is all for the formalities. Itachi is not entirely sure how the two older shinobi came to this understanding so quickly, but he also knows that other people find safety in numbers and strength in connections; Shisui told him so, in a long conversation one night perched atop the Uchiha compound. Itachi, given the opportunity, will almost never chose to fight with others. Shisui was an exception to this rule. Kakashi is another.

Walking behind Momochi Zabuza is something of an experience. Itachi keeps his Mangekyou activated at first, but after stepping over the fifth dead body Momochi tosses over his shoulder, he lets it die away quietly. The Demon of the Hidden Mist is maybe the most efficient killer Itachi has ever witnessed. He is a machine, honed to athletic perfection, not one motion wasted, and unbelievably fast. No wonder he was able to mount the assault that he was. And his sword, which Itachi has remembered the name of, Kubikiribocho, one of the Seven Swords of Kirigakure in all her brutal splendor: the sword is its wielder’s mirror, straightforward, clean, deadly.

“I don’t think Orochimaru is even here,” Kakashi hisses over his shoulder. “But clearly he has something worth protecting, if he left this many shinobi here.”

“He would have come out to meet us,” Itachi agrees. “Or fled with whatever he is protecting, and he would be long gone by now.”

“He’s not here, I asked,” Momochi says over his shoulder.

“Stop eavesdropping, Kiri,” says Kakashi.

Momochi rolls his eyes. “Are you dumb? You’re about one fucking foot from me.”

“I’m having a private conversation with my friend, here,” says Kakashi, buoyantly impaling a shinobi on his tanto. He shakes the body off with exaggerated distaste. “D’you think they’re thinning out?”

“Maybe for you,” Momochi grunts, and cuts a man in half in one smooth stroke. “I’m thinning them out for you, idiot.”

“This is the place,” Itachi interrupts before Kakashi can respond. It’s a nondescript side tunnel, unmarked, but his senses are all pinging high alert. There’s something—something—that he needs to see this way.

“How do you know?” Momochi asks, skeptical. “Sensor?”

Itachi does not answer to Momochi Zabuza, so he pretends not to hear. The tunnel is well lit, broad, with wooden doors at regular intervals on either side. The closest one is labeled LAB, and what he wants is inside it.

Itachi beelines for it. Momochi is swearing in the background, but the roar of blood is so loud in his ears Itachi can barely hear him, let alone process the words. He can sense Kakashi’s presence a few paces behind him, but the character on the door is seared into his mind. LAB. A lab where Orochimaru has Sharingan, which means he has Uchiha, which means he has the bodies of Itachi’s kin, the bodies Itachi himself drove a sword into. His chest feels almost too tight to breathe, the way it did when Sasuke burst into the room and asked him why, brother, why?

He lays a hand on the doorknob and takes a deep breath. Kakashi says firmly in his ear, “Itachi.”

Itachi turns to face him. Kakashi looks right back at him, gray brow furrowed. “Let me go in first.” He takes Itachi’s wrist in one gloved hand and tugs gently, away from the door. “Come on. I’ll open it. I’m faster than you, if there’s an attack.”

He is right about that. But Itachi’s hand is frozen on the doorknob. There is a member of his family beyond that door. He knows it in his bones, beyond sensing it with chakra, he knows beyond doubt that someone of his blood is in Orochimaru’s lab. And it’s harder, somehow, than it was to walk into the Uchiha compound to kill his kin. He knows now, with excruciating clarity, what it’s like to murder your own family, and what his mother looks like crumpled dead on the floor, and the gasping, choking sound of his father’s last breaths.

Kakashi’s hand tightens on his wrist. Itachi lets go of the door. Kakashi shoulders him briskly out of the way, and opens the wooden door.

Silence. Itachi’s heart is pounding wildly against his ribs like a trapped thing, but he breathes steadily, steadily. A shinobi controls himself, even when his body wants to panic.

Kakashi steps silently to the right, and Itachi can see the whole room. A swift impression of a medical facility, simple white walls, an operating table like any Konoha hospital room. Another wooden door at the far end, labeled BLOCK A. And things that don’t belong in a hospital room, like the body of a snake, a row of what look like tissue samples labeled with names, a large tank of water in the corner, and the thick leather straps across the table, holding down a body.

Itachi sees it all in an instant, and ignores it, because the body on the table—the body on the table is Shisui.

“Is that—” says Kakashi, sounding surprised for once, and crosses from the door to the surgical table in two long strides, pressing three fingers against Shisui’s pale neck.

Itachi takes a shallow breath. He watched Shisui fall away into the waterfall. Shisui had dug out his own eye, held it out to Itachi, tears of blood marring his lively face, and simply leaned back until he had fallen, graceful and swift even in suicide, and vanished into the pounding spray of the falls. Itachi remembers, because at that moment he had thought he would die from the pain of it, a grief so sudden and severe he could barely remember to breathe, and the howling agony of the Mangekyou .

“Dead?” Momochi asks curiously from the doorway right behind Itachi. He sidles past Itachi into the room. “Unlucky bastard.”

Kakashi looks past him, meets Itachi’s eyes steadily. “Alive.”

Itachi’s eyes burn with a sudden pain, and he feels the familiar warmth of blood trace its way down his cheek. The world comes into agonizing focus. And he can see the faint rise and fall of Shisui’s thin chest, and the barely-there flutter of a pulse in his throat. Alive.

He’s at Kakashi’s side without realizing he’s moved, staring down at his cousin’s face. Shisui is stone-still on the surgical table, but it’s unmistakably him, the same messy dark waves, grown long, the same broad nose and straight mouth. There is a clean strip of bandage around his head, covering both eyes.

Itachi’s eyes are throbbing, the dry stabs of Mangekyou pain piercing his head. A drop of blood rolls off his nose and lands on Shisui’s cheekbone.

“Shut it down,” says Kakashi next to him. “You’ll wear yourself out.”

Itachi ignores him. Shisui’s chakra signature feels off, but it’s there, flaring with his slow heartbeat. He must be sedated, or too weak for consciousness. He lays a hand over Shisui’s chest and pushes a short, deliberate burst of chakra through his system.

His cousin stirs, face tightening out of its slack unconsciousness. His eyebrows twitch. Against all odds, Shisui is alive, and Itachi is going to keep him that way.

“Okay, he’s alive,” Momochi says. “Are we taking him or leaving him?”

“Taking,” says Itachi simply, and lets his Mangekyou die away. The pain in his eyes ebbs. Shisui is breathing on his own, and his chakra is steady if weak. There is no other option.

Kakashi undoes the leather restraints around Shisui’s wrists and ankles, and heaves him in one smooth motion over his shoulders. He turns to Momochi. “Lead on.”

There is no particular reason for them to stick with Momochi now, but Itachi does want to see more of what Orochimaru has in this hideout. And Momochi has accompanied them thus far, waited for their investigation of Shisui, and shown zero desire to attack them. Kakashi is fair-minded; Itachi is not surprised he won’t abandon their temporary alliance with the other missing-nin so quickly.

He puts himself behind Kakashi, who will be limited now in his defense and movement. Itachi would carry Shisui himself, but Kakashi is undeniably larger and stronger. The best he can do is defend them.

With one finger, he lifts the bandage over Shisui’s eyes. Whoever wrapped it did so carefully and expertly; he wonders if it was Kabuto. Underneath, Shisui’s skin is clammy and pale. Both eye sockets are empty.

Blind. Bile rises in Itachi’s throat. Another problem for later; he still has Shisui’s other eye in one of his summons. Danzo had the other one, eight months ago. They will need to ascertain if Orochimaru has it now.

Momochi pushes open the far door, the BLOCK A door Itachi dismissed earlier. He springs into the hall beyond without waiting to see if there’s an attack, massive broadsword flashing in a brutal arc.

“Cells,” he grunts. “Bet you mine’s in here.”

Kakashi and Itachi follow him into the hall, which is just endless rows of doors. Each is numbered neatly. It smells of dust, and faintly, blood.

Momochi proceeds to kick in every single door along the entire hall, glancing in each one before moving on. Itachi peers into them as they walk by. Most are empty; a few have blinking prisoners sprawled in the corners. Experiments for Orochimaru, by their proximity to the lab and Orochimaru’s propensity for human experimentation. Itachi ignores them. His interest in intelligence is lessened by Shisui’s presence, and it is unlike they know anything anyway.

“Fucking finally,” Momochi announces at maybe the twenty-fifth door he’s kicked in. Itachi is watching Shisui for signs of wakefulness, but he glances up at this proclamation.

Momochi is standing with his arms folded at the mouth of a cell, glaring at someone within. “Come on,” he says gruffly. “We’re leaving.”

“No, Zabuza-san,” comes a child’s voice. Kakashi trades a glance with Itachi. They both stroll up to Momochi’s side. The child in the cell is slight, taller than Sasuke. Maybe nine or ten. He has long, silky dark hair and huge brown eyes. He does not look visibly harmed, but he is curled sadly in the corner of the room. He and Momochi both ignore them completely.

“Why the fuck not?” Momochi demands.

The child peers up at him, eyes huge. “I failed you, Zabuza-san.”

Momochi grunts. “My ass. I busted up this whole stupid hideout to get you out of here. You better make it worth my while.”

The child considers this for a moment, then climbs silently to his feet. Shinobi training, Itachi notes, from the way he moves. And with a kekkei genkai, Momochi had said; rare in Kiri these days.

“You hurt?” Momochi asks roughly. He takes the child by the upper arm, looking him up and down critically. The child shakes his head.

“Good,” says Momochi. “Let’s get moving.” He turns around. Kakashi takes a step back, shifting Shisui on his shoulders.

They’re coming out of the lab into the hallway when Itachi glances back at the kid. He hasn’t moved, frowning slightly. Itachi pauses, and the others pull up almost right away.

“Kid,” Momochi says. “We’re going.”

“There is another child, Zabuza-san,” says the kid, voice nervous but clear.

Shisui’s fingers twitch, and his head turns as if he’s listening. Kakashi puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and Shisui recoils.

“Cousin,” says Itachi. Shisui freezes. Itachi puts a hand on his shoulder. “Shisui, it’s me.”

“Ta…chi,” Shisui croaks. Itachi’s fingers flex despite his best efforts, scraping in the fabric of Shisui’s shirt. Alive.

“There is another child here, Zabuza-san,” the child says again. “We should take him.”

Momochi rolls his eyes heavenward. “Haku. Don’t push it.”

“Itachi,” rasps Shisui again, more clearly. “Water.”

“When we get outside,” says Kakashi.

Shisui shakes his head, hard. “No. The water.”

The child—Haku—nods. “We take the water, Zabuza-san.”

Itachi frowns. He glances toward the tank of water in the corner. He knows his cousin is probably delirious, but the instinct to take his advice is an old one.

Haku is ahead of him. He places a small hand against the glass side of the tank, shuts his eyes, and inhales. Frost spreads across the glass; Itachi can feel the chill even a yard away. The tank shatters, and water gushes out across the floor.

“Kid,” says Momochi, impatient. Haku turns to him, eyes pleading.

Kakashi’s watching the puddle, frowning. Itachi notices all of a sudden that the water is not even flowing, although the floor is slightly tilted toward a drain in the center of the floor. To hose down the room, as surgical chambers often have.

A head emerges from the puddle.

“What,” says Kakashi flatly.

The head looks at him. It’s another young boy, a little younger than Haku by the baby fat on his face, with pure white hair and slanted purple eyes. He’s pouting, and Itachi forcefully shoves down the memory of Sasuke it brings up.

“Come on,” Haku tells him. “We’re leaving, see? I told you.”

“What,” says Kakashi again.

The rest of the boy’s body emerges from the puddle. He’s wearing dirty cargo shorts and no shirt. He chews on one thumb with sharp teeth, surveying the adults in the room. His purple gaze lands on Shisui, and his eyes widen slightly.

“You’re taking him with you?” he says loudly to Kakashi.

Kakashi looks at him sardonically from one hooded eye, silent. “Yeah,” he says eventually, and heaves a sigh. “You can come, but we’re leaving. Now.”

The kid frowns harder. Itachi notices there is no water left on the floor. Not emerged from the puddle, then: he was the puddle.

“Come on,” Haku says again, more insistent. “Let’s go.” He reaches out for the kid’s hand. Momochi rolls his eyes skyward again.

“Hozuki brat, behave yourself or we’re leaving you,” he says eventually. “Haku, watch him.”

The kid, still suspicious, takes Haku’s hand, darting a poisonous glare at Itachi. Itachi almost laughs. He’s almost exactly Sasuke’s size, and apparently equally feisty, if less cute.

They make it out of the base without further incident. Shisui has passed out again. The water kid has taken up a position right behind him, alternating between watching his limp form on Kakashi’s back and shooting suspicious glares at Itachi. Momochi has apparently given up on interaction and is grimly leading the way, loping dangerously along the hallway. Haku, perfectly obedient now that they have the other child, is trotting serenely at his heels.

The chain of events that leads to them all making camp together fifty miles away is as follows: Itachi, Kakashi, and Shisui are all obviously sticking together. Hozuki refuses to leave Shisui, unconscious or not, and refuses equally firmly to talk to Kakashi or Itachi. Haku, gently but firmly, says that he is not leaving Hozuki. Momochi rubs his temples like his head hurts, smacks Haku upside the head, threatens him with his massive sword, and finally turns to Kakashi and says, “Look, I won’t kill you if you won’t kill me. On this one’s life, I swear.” He points the sword at Haku.

Kakashi glances disinterestedly at Haku, who looks frightened but stubborn, and turns to Itachi. They have a very brief discussion, in ANBU sign, during which Momochi taps his foot pointedly, and which leads to Itachi carrying Hozuki and Momochi carrying Haku at a full sprint across the plains directly east into the Land of Whirlpools, where they collapse gratefully in a stand of tall birch trees. Or at least, Momochi and Hozuki do; Itachi does not wish them to know he is tired too.

“I’ll take watch,” says Momochi, rolling lazily to his feet. “Haku, with me.”

The kid gulps audibly, but gives Hozuki a brave grin before following the Demon of the Hidden Mist out of their clearing.

Kakashi lowers Shisui carefully off of his shoulders and onto the thin grass of the forest floor. Mini Hozuki crouches beside him. Kakashi looks up at Itachi. “Okay, Uchiha?”

The use of his surname is deliberate; Kakashi wants a soldier’s practical answer, not whatever lie Itachi might tell a friend.

“Fine,” he says anyway. Physically he is fine. And mentally, over the past fifty miles, the absolute gutting shock of Shisui’s living presence has worn away into relief and worry, with a familiar tinge of the usual guilt. The rest will come later. He nods toward his cousin. “Can you check him out?”

He knows nothing about medical ninjutsu. He knows how the body works, because all Konohagakure shinobi are required to, but the chakra control required for even diagnostic medical ninjutsu is beyond what he has been able to achieve. Kakashi has a very rudimentary knowledge, enough to keep someone alive until they can see a real medic, as he informed Itachi way back in ANBU.

Kakashi nods, shuts his eye, and places a glowing green hand on Shisui’s forehead. Itachi waits.

When Kakashi opens his eye, he’s breathing hard. Medical ninjutsu is difficult, and he has never had the largest chakra reserves. But he says to Itachi, “I think he’s okay, mostly. Underfed, definitely dehydrated, but nothing really wrong with him. Systems all working okay.”

Itachi nods. “Can I wake him up safely?”

“I don’t see why not,” Kakashi says. “But I’m not a doctor. I’m going to get water. I’ll leave a dog here if you don’t mind.” Itachi nods, and he clambers to his feet.

Itachi turns his focus to Shisui, ignoring the dog who wanders up to lie by his cousin’s curly head.

“Are you going to wake him up?” Hozuki demands, eyeing the dog suspiciously.

“Maybe,” says Itachi. “What’s your name?”

Hozuki glares at him. “Suigetsu. Are you going to wake him up?”

“I said maybe,” Itachi says calmly. “Do you know him?”

If looks could kill. “Why do you care?”

Itachi deliberates. This kid cannot be more than eight. And he appears attached to Shisui. “He’s my cousin.”

Suigetsu must decide this is enough, because the glare softens on his face, and he says, “I was with him in the lab.”

“Did he talk to you?” Itachi presses.

Another pout. Itachi notices he has a little fang that juts over his lip, sharklike. Probably from Kiri, then, like Kisame. It might explain some of Haku’s attachment, too. “Yes. He was funny. Orochimaru didn’t like his jokes.”

Itachi’s mood lightens a little at that despite himself. He cracked jokes, he probably taunted Orochimaru, he somehow got this hostile eight-year-old to trust him. It is Shisui, a skinnier, battered, blind Shisui, but Shisui. The relief of it is immense.

“Can you wake him up?” Suigetsu almost yells. “Now?”

“I am,” Itachi tells him calmly, and puts his hand over Shisui’s heart like he did in the lab. He takes in a slow breath, and lets his Mangekyou swirl to life in both eyes. All seems normal to his enhanced vision, so he lets chakra flow from his hand into Shisui, nudging him awake.

His cousin stirs, and both hands come up to poke at the bandages over his face. Suigetsu catches one of his wrists. Itachi watches closely.

“Hey, Suigetsu’s here,” Shisui says, with a brittle cheer Itachi can tell is for the kid’s benefit. Shisui always wanted to shelter Sasuke, and their other cousins, from the realities of their lives in Konoha. His voice is rough, frailer than before.

“Hi,” says Suigetsu. “I’m thirsty, and these guys are creepy, but we busted out of Orochimaru-sama’s place okay.”

“Just Orochimaru, kid,” says Shisui wearily. “Hey, if you’re thirsty, can you run and get some water? I hear water to the south.”

“Fine,” says Suigetsu, shooting a sulky look at Itachi. He lets go of Shisui’s wrist. “Don’t die yet. You still have to show me that thing.”

Itachi waits till his footsteps retreat southward, and says, “Hello, cousin.”

Shisui stretches a hand towards him. A fine tremor is visible in his fingers. “Itachi.”

Itachi takes it tentatively in his own. Shisui’s hand is clammy, the old calluses softened by his imprisonment. He lets out a shaky breath, relaxing minutely under Itachi’s touch.

Itachi opens his mouth to speak, but Shisui beats him to it. “Where are we? How long has it been?”

Almost eight months. Seven months, two weeks, six days. Itachi thinks he probably should pretend he does not know the exact day.

“Eight months,” he says instead. “How did you survive?”

Shisui shudders slightly. He never would have done that nine months ago. He was the older brother Itachi never had. He was willing to share with Itachi his worries, his concerns about the clan, his insecurities, but never any visible fear. He was the best shinobi the Uchiha clan had produced, maybe since Uchiha Madara; he was cheery and personable and got along with everyone, even the elders. He was confident, supremely powerful, a child for whom everything, shinobi, civilian, and family life, came easily.

“Hauled out of the river by Danzo,” he says now in a clipped tone. “ROOT prison, sixteen days. Then he handed me to Orochimaru. I don’t know how long I spent there.”

“About eight months,” Itachi says softly. “We are in the Land of Whirlpools. Hatake Kakashi and I suspected Orochimaru might have obtained a Sharingan, so we infiltrated his base.” Itachi realizes too late that Shisui does not know what he did to the Uchiha, nor that he is a missing-nin, and reporting recent events as if he is still a soldier of Konoha might be misleading. But it is so much easier to recite in military efficiency, the language taught to soldiers so they might clinically discuss war. “Momochi Zabuza was also infiltrating. We broke out you, Suigetsu, and Haku, Momochi’s apprentice.”

Shisui’s brow contracts in a frown. “Momochi? But—ANBU—the Land of Whirlpools? Why take—” He withdraws his hand from Itachi’s and sits upright, tense. “How would Orochimaru have gotten someone’s Sharingan?”

Itachi is saved from immediate response by Kakashi reappearing with all their water supplies replenished. He tosses a bottle in Itachi’s vague direction, eye on Shisui.

“Uchiha,” he says. “Good to see you awake. Feel okay?”

Shisui dips his head, holds it down for a beat. Military discipline from eight months ago, when Kakashi outranked them both in Konohagakure; the last time Shisui saw the light of day. Saw anything, presumably.

“Fine, sir,” Shisui says. “Thanks for the rescue.”

Kakashi flaps a hand dismissively in the air, sending Itachi a quizzical look.

“Should I join our friends on watch?” he asks. Shisui’s brow furrows at the deference.

“No, I am sure they can handle it,” says Itachi calmly. Kakashi can inform Shisui about the events in Konoha in the eight months he stayed after the massacre. And it will be easier to break all the news to his cousin if they are not alone.

“Itachi?” says Shisui. He sounds young, voice weak and rough from disuse.

Kakashi sits down, draws a knife, and picks up a hunk of wood off the ground to whittle, a habit Itachi recognizes from long stakeouts.

Itachi takes a deep breath, and says to Shisui, “I am now classified as a missing-nin from Konoha. Kakashi also defected. The Uchiha clan, except for you, me, and my brother, are all dead. I killed them, to prevent the coup and preserve the village.”

Kakashi picks up a beat later, “The story in Konoha is that Itachi snapped and committed the clan massacre. I found out from the Sandaime’s records he did it on Danzo’s orders. I quit ANBU and my service on the spot. They marked me a missing-nin.”

Shisui is silent for a moment, still shaking just the smallest amount, then visibly straightens his back. He turns toward Itachi, pain etched on his gaunt face. “You did it?”

Wood flakes off of Kakashi’s knife. The sound of Momochi’s low rumble filters faintly into their clearing.

“Yes,” says Itachi simply. There is no point making excuses. He did it. He will die for it. He would do it again, because he thought himself into circles trying to come up with another option. He could not think of one then. The political maneuvering was and is beyond him, and through it all was the looming shadow of Sasuke’s life; the fact that Itachi could not, would not, accept a future where it was not guaranteed.

Shisui lets out a long, slow breath. He reaches out steadily for Itachi’s wrist, and squeezes, too tightly. “Danzo gave me the order,” he says softly. “I refused, so he ambushed me and took the one eye. And I couldn’t—I didn’t see a way out of it. I couldn’t do it. So I—” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Itachi.”

Itachi bows his head, keeps it down for a moment. Shisui couldn’t do it. Itachi knows the weight of his own sins; every breath he takes is a breath his mother will never take, because he killed her. The burden of it is tremendous, and Shisui passed it on to him. He smothers the anger that threatens from inside him. He has done it, and he will bear it until Sasuke comes to kill him, and Shisui could have shared the guilt with him, but tried to die instead. He understands, to his core, why Shisui made that decision. He would have done the same, had he not had Sasuke to protect.

“I am too,” he says simply. Kakashi goes still across from him, but Itachi is watching his cousin. “But there is nothing that we can do about it now.”

A tear traces its way down Shisui’s thin cheek. “Sasuke?”

“In Konoha,” he says. “Alive.”

“He knows?”

Kakashi opens his mouth, and Itachi foresees the conversation that is about to follow. Kakashi is going to tell Shisui that Sasuke is coming to kill him in the next few years, because Itachi told him to avenge the clan. Kakashi has not brought it up yet, but Itachi knows he wants to, from the way he has asked about everything but Itachi’s little brother. He can’t have this conversation with Shisui yet. Itachi does not want him to ever have it. He wants his brother safe and alive. And he does not want Sasuke to feel the double betrayal of Konoha and of the Uchiha. Better he trust the village, respect his own clan, and hate only Itachi than know the whole story.

But Kakashi surprises him, and says only, “No. Sandaime kept the whole thing secret. He’s still only eight.”

Shisui only nods. He’s still holding Itachi’s wrist in a bruising grip. Itachi looks at Kakashi, who is eyeing his cousin appraisingly. His gloved hands flicker in sign. Enough. No more intel.

“First things first. Let’s take a look at your eyes,” Kakashi says cheerily, leaning forward to put a hand on Shisui’s shoulder.

Shisui, battered, exhausted Shisui, takes up his cue without hesitation. “Or lack thereof,” he answers wryly. “Danzo has one. I gave Itachi the other.”

“It is in one of my summons,” Itachi says, forestalling the inevitable question of whether he had implanted his dead cousin’s eye into his own head. He had never even considered it.

“Excellent,” says Kakashi, unwinding the bandage. “Shisui—can I call you Shisui? Too many Uchihas around—do you feel up to getting it back right now? It should be doable. Your body will want to heal, since it’s your eye.”

“Yes,” says Shisui unhesitatingly. “I think I’ve spent enough time being blind, thanks.”

Kakashi glances up at Itachi. “Uchiha. Get me the crow and sleep. I’ll make this kid help if I need anything.” He jabs a thumb backwards toward Suigetsu, who is emerging with more water from the bushes at one side of the clearing.

Itachi summons the crow and leans against the tree, sliding his weary eyes shut. Tomorrow he will have to decide what to do about Akatsuki, and about Shisui, and deal with Momochi and eventually, answer Kakashi’s (and probably Shisui’s, now) inevitable questions about his plans going forward.

“You can’t make me do anything,” Suigetsu says to Kakashi.

“I can and I will,” Kakashi says, voice flat and faintly threatening. “You owe me. We freed your skinny ass from Orochimaru. And it’ll be helping Shisui anyway, which you apparently love.”

Silence. Suigetsu is probably struggling to think of a response. Itachi smiles slightly.

“Oh, leave him alone, Kakashi,” says Shisui lightly. “He’ll help, won’t you, Suigetsu?” Itachi cracks an eyelid open. Shisui is smiling encouragingly in the kid’s direction.

Suigetsu is still glaring, that little fang poking over his lip. “Fine,” he says grudgingly. “I’ll help you. Not him.” Kakashi rolls his visible eye at the contempt in his voice.

Shisui’s face turns unerringly toward Itachi. His eyelids are closed. He could be meditating like they used to in the trees outside the compound. “Sleep, cousin. I can hear you thinking.”

Shisui might be blind, too thin, scarred from months of captivity, but he is still Itachi’s older, wiser, cousin, and he is still right. Itachi closes his eyes.