So…I'm finally back with this story. *nervous laughter* Infinite Pinwheels is surprisingly popular, despite the relatively small amount of content compared to my main SI fic.

In other news, we finally have the names of the twins, and their current health status. Plus, Fumiko's funeral, and introductions of a few future plot points.

Canonically, Izuna's supposed to be the second eldest in the long line of siblings. Well, fuck that noise, I'm making my own timeline/interpretations. *puts on shades and backflips out of the room*

Replies to reviewers will be at the end of the chapter, for once, because of the sheer number of them.

Watching and Tiring

Not-Madara wakes blearily.

His face is half-damp. There is the stark taste of salt and bile in his mouth. Snot's smeared across his nose and lips, some parts slimy and others dried and cracking.

The reincarnated soul stares up at the ceiling blankly, before everything hits him at once.

Screaming, crying, blood, pain pain pain pain—death and cold and limp and ohgodwhy—helplessness, hopelessness—hecouldn'thelpherwhywhywhy—shouting and screaming and a raw throat—crystal-clear vision of a dead woman—rage and hatred and grief—a man staring him down—and then blissful darkness.

Tears leak from his burning, aching eyes. Ma-kun shuts them harshly, scrunching up his face, but the image of a dead Fumiko is burned into his eyelids. He opens them again, and sees the ghost of Tajima Uchiha standing over him, a weary and haunted look in his eyes.

Ma-kun blinks his eyes forcefully, but the image of Tajima does not want to leave.

The boy sits up, taking in his surroundings. He's…back in his room. He would recognize the familiar bookshelf stuffed with books, the low table in the corner with scrolls and inks and brushes.

So…After that traumatizing disaster, he was crying and screaming while clutching (a dead dead dead) Fumiko. And then he yelled some things at Tajima. Then…

They tried to take Fumiko's body away. Since Ma-kun wasn't exactly at the right state of mind, he sort of…pitched a fit. A big fit. Which led to him…Getting knocked out, most likely.

And now, he was back in his room…With Tajima hovering over him. That, or a very realistic illusion.

Maybe he's not even awake, and still sleeping, having a bizarre dream. He pinches himself, hoping to wake himself up, or dispel a genjutsu.

A pinprick of pain on his leg.

Nope.

Damn. Now he'll have to put up with more bullshit.

He turns to Tajima, who simply stands by the side of his bed.

"Otou-sama," Not-Madara croaks, grimacing when his voice comes out hoarse and cracked, and his throat flares up in pain.

Tajima stares down at him with unreadable eyes. "I have come to inform you, that you will not have lessons for the next three weeks."

Ma-kun's body slumps in relief. He's not sure his mind and body could take any training after…after…

His eyes burn, but he tries to blink the tears down. "I see," he responds tiredly.

"…Your mother's funeral will be held in two weeks," Tajima goes on, after a few seconds of silence. "We shall be having important visitors—allies of our clan—that will pay their respects, so be on your best behavior."

"Hai, Otou-sama," he responds dully, giving a sniff. He raises a hand to wipe his nose on his sleeve, but aborts the motion. No need to make the man sneer at him for not having perfect poise and manners. Not when he'll likely blow his fuse, or fall into another crying fit, or both.

The Clan Head gives a curt nod, and makes his way to the door. Oddly enough, though, Tajima pauses.

Ma-kun watches his second life's father wearily. The man steps back from the exit, and turns his body to half-face the three-year-old.

"When you have cleaned yourself, report to the midwife. The nursemaids have been having trouble with caring for the girl."

And then, with a dramatic billow of his robes, Tajima Uchiha left Not-Madara's room.

The reincarnated soul stared wide-eyed at where the man had last stood.

This…was surprising, on multiple accounts.

The fact that Tajima himself came to give Ma-kun news, instead of just sending a servant…The fact that he's giving the boy almost a month off of training…The fact that he's actually allowing—no, recommending—Ma-kun to go and care for his siblings, realizing his medical advancement and value…

The three-year-old flopped onto his back, staring up at his plain ceiling, his mind a confused mess.

Despite his efforts and wishes, his second life's mother died in childbirth, as he feared…He gained twin newborn siblings, both who were premature… His baby sister almost died right out of the womb, but he managed to save her…He unlocked his Sharingan from the intensely stressful and emotional event of watching his mother die before his very eyes…

Raising up a shaky hand, Not-Madara touched the edges of his eyes. The skin was pinched and slick with fresh, salty tears.

This…This wasn't how things were supposed to go. All of this. Fumiko wasn't supposed to die. And there sure as hell hadn't been a sister, among the five or so brothers Canon Madara had. And…

And Madara hadn't unlocked the Sharingan so early.

Letting his hand go limp and flop onto his bedcovers, Ma-kun wondered if these changes were good, or if they would make things worse.

He closed his eyes (dead dead dead red pale black clarity tears hurt) breathing in and out slowly. He dug his heels against his eyelids, a sob forcing its way past his mangled throat.

Ma-kun laid there, and cried. He's not sure how long he did so, but it couldn't have been longer than ten or so minutes. He was already rather tired from today's—yesterday's?—traumatizing debacle.

Shakily breathing in and out, he wiped his tears, and stared up at his ceiling once more.

He could cry more later. Right now…Right now, he had to try and keep his baby siblings alive.

With trembling limbs, the boy stumbled out of bed, going over to his closet to pick out a fresh shirt and pants to wear. After changing, he went to the nearest bathroom to clean his face, stepping onto the convenient step stool. The boy stared into the small mirror that hung over the basin that acted as the sink.

Haunted eyes looked back towards him. For one moment—one completely wild, insane moment—he wondered if…If he unlocked the Mangekyou Sharingan or not.

Shameful, with a rapidly beating heart and a squirming in his stomach, Ma-kun ripped his gaze away from the mirror, as if burned.

He's not sure…if it would be better or worse; confirming his thoughts or staying ignorant.

"Later. I'll deal with that later," Not-Madara murmured under his breath, hands clenched tightly on the smooth basin of the sink.

With more strength than he felt he had, the boy pushed himself away from the sink, and left, striding towards the nursery.

Momo Uchiha paced in a corner of the Clan Head's nursery, wringing her hands.

The Honorable Daughter had been giving all the servants trouble. They did not know how to deal with a babe who was all but on death's door.

The midwife and her assistants most certainly had the experience to provide a helping hand— but not even they had the knowledge that Young Master Madara possessed, on how to care for the girl.

Not to mention, all the poor boy has been through in the last twenty-four hours had no doubt caused him to be fatigued…So, they will have no help from him. And without his help, the Honorable Daughter will not live past two days, and the Head family will have to make another grave.

Things were looking rather bleak.

At the very least, they have managed to move Byakuya-sama to another room for his dwelling, so that the panic would not disturb the toddling young one.

"I-I will fetch us some tea," Momo murmured to her fellow servants, giving a wan smile to the women and weak men. The woman shuffled her way to the door—before it slid open on its own.

"Young Master!" Momo squeaked, instantly stepping to the side, to allow the boy through. She quickly gave a bow to the boy thirteen years her junior.

"Hello, Momo-san," the Honorable Son nods at her, before he strides further into the nursery with quick, lithe steps. His attention is riveted to the additional crib covered in pink silks.

"What is imouto's status?" he asks, looking around the room, before his gaze lands on Asa-obaa-sama's tired perch in a seat on the small couch in the room.

"She still has trouble breathing," croaked the old woman, before waving a hand at one of her assistants. "Dear, tell Ma-kun the rest."

"Y-Yes, shishou," the young girl squeaks, bowing to the midwife, before turning and giving a bow to the impatient-looking boy. "When the Honorable Daughter has been gasping for breath, we have tried to give her breaths through our mouths, as you have done. I-It seemed to stabilize her, but we are unsure what to do next."

The three-year-old gives a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Remind me to teach you all proper CPR, later. Thank you for your hard work, while I was…out of commission."

The boy imperiously walks over, taking a seat next to the midwife. "Momo-san, please fetch me my imouto."

"Yes, Young Master," Momo replies demurely, instantly going to the crib, gently picking up the babe, and bringing her to the boy.

With the Honorable Daughter safe in his arms, Madara-sama begins to calmly and thoroughly check the babe's body. Feeling her temperature, checking the pulse, putting his ear to her chest, patting the babe's back—all is if he is going through a checklist.

"Hmmm, I see. Still has that lung and heart problem," he mused. "Asa-obaa-sama, can your assistants build something for me? Imouto will be in need of an air pump."

The old woman's brows rise to her hairline. "And how will my assistants be able to construe this 'air pump' that you will need, Ma-kun?"

"Was no one listening to me yesterday?" the boy asks, with no real heat; more of a resigned bemusement. "A plastic container that can contract when pressed, attached to some form of tube, and a mouth-piece attached to the tube.

You put pres-sure on the container, and it makes the air rush down the tube, into the mouth of the patient. Without pressure, the container expands, sucking the air back into it. This helps the patient breath in and out, if you do it at a normal rhy-thm."

Those in the room stare with gaping mouths at the boy. Momo has known that Madara-sama was a genius, and rather taken with his medical lessons, for a lengthy enough time. However, for the others, it is one thing to know from hearsay, and another thing entirely to actually have the boy give a thorough explanation and show it.

"Well?" Asa-obaa-sama asks, amusement and exasperation in her tone, as she looks to her assistants. "You heard the Honorable Son."

Her two assistants bow to their teacher, stuttering, before they flee from the room to follow their orders.

"When I am here, in the nursery, I will look after my baby siblings myself. How-e-ver, when I am not, then the wet-nurse and nursemaids will work the air pump on them, when they have trouble breathing."

"Young Izuna has not had much trouble, when compared to the Honorable Daughter," Asa-obaa-sama says, gently smoothing out the three-year-old's hair in a rather maternal movement.

The boy stared at the midwife in a few silent moments, before he tentatively spoke. "I…Izuna?" Madara-sama asked faintly.

The midwife nodded. "Yes, Tajima-sama had given him a name, when the babes were put to the nursery."

Young Madara-sama's dark eyes seem to glaze over, a small title of his lips showing a ghost of a smile. "And…And Imouto?"

The others in the room give each other uncomfortable glances. Momo cannot help but feel pity when she gazes at the Honorable Son.

The midwife frowns down at the boy. "Honorable Daughter has not been given a name. The babe is in too much risk—"

Madara-sama gives a choked, keening sputter. "W-What?"

"When a babe seems too week to survive, the parents—oft than not—wait for the babe to gain strength. There is no use naming something, when it will be buried within the month," the midwife explains in a soothing tone.

The look on the young boy's face is one of horror, tinged with outrage. "But…But she is alive right now! It's just—She deserves a name, at the very least!" he crows, bringing the female babe closer to his chest and shying away from the midwife. As if he is trying to protect the Honorable Daughter from the harsh words and reality.

"Please understand, Ma-kun," Asa-obaa-sama says tiredly. "It is just how things are done…Speak to your father, after a week passes, over your young sister's name."

The boy's mouth turns into a thin line. "I will," he replies curtly, voice hard and resolute.

Then, the babe coughs in his arms, and the boy instantly turns his attention to his arms, cooing and soothing the Honorable Daughter. When a minute passes, and the babe seems to be unable to breath, the boy goes through the motions he did just after the Honorable Daughter was born—tap her on the back, sharing breaths with her, and poking three pudgy fingers on her chest in quick intervals.

All the servants hold their own breaths, letting them out in relief when the babe coughs and breaths freely once more.

Madara-sama's expression darkens. "I hope your assistants are able to make the air pump swiftly, Asa-obaa-sama."

Not-Madara spends hours upon hours straight, hovering next to his newborn siblings' cribs. Performing CPR when his little sister needs it.

It takes Asa's assistants five or so hours to cobble up the makeshift air pump he wanted. It was some plastic container that used to carry water, with some form of piping melded to it, and an extra lip from a different container attached to the end.

The container didn't contract nearly as much as he'd wanted, but he tested it out on himself, and considered it adequate enough. It was cumbersome and awkward, but since respirators in general weren't A Thing yet, he would take anything he could get.

Ma-kun teaches Asa, her assistants, the wet-nurse, and the nursemaids on how to use the air pump. Then, he tries to teach them how to do CPR through demonstration, whenever his sister's breathing acts up.

It's much harder to teach others without those special practice dummies that he's used to, though, so he ends up putting the lessons on hold for some time in the future. He's not going to let them practice on live people, when they don't know what the hell they're supposed to be doing; that would do more harm than good.

Apparently, CPR isn't a formal practice. Since the only contact the Uchiha have with water is smaller bodies in ponds, lakes, or rivers, there haven't been many cases of drowning. They know that you have to try and get water out of people, if they swallowed any or been under too long, and that patting them on the back helps. But that's about it.

No wonder they all looked at him in awe, when he managed to save his little sister's life. Like what he did was a miracle.

How people have survived this long in this world, he'll never know.

He's just going to assume (and hope) that other clans and people that live close to large bodies of water know how to do CPR. Or else, he's going to lose hope in humanity altogether, and let nature take its course.

He almost lost hope in humanity altogether, when it was revealed that his little sister wasn't even given a name.

He could understand the logic and customs—really, he could. Infant mortality was high. Death was just another part of this world. If you had a baby that was premature and looked like it couldn't breathe properly, you'd be resigned to them dying quickly, and burying them in a shoe box. That's how some things worked.

But for some reason, it just…It just offended him, that Tajima couldn't even be bothered to name his daughter— one of the last living reminders of Fumiko, his wife. The baby girl gained Fumiko's brown hair and pallid complexion. (Although, her paleness could be from the heart complications…)

So, before the first day of taking care of his siblings ended, Ma-kun give her one.

"Fumi…Fumina. Do you think that is a good name for her?" he asks Momo-san idly. The poor servant jolted in surprise, staring at him.

"I…I-It is a beautiful name, Young Master," Momo says softly, after biting her lip. "I-Is it…"

Not-Madara gives her a sad smile. "Yes. Named after my mother, but with a suffix to match her twin brother."

"That is… very kind of you, Young Master," she responds in a wobbly voice, tears budding in her eyes.

"Thank you…I …I just want to have something good to remember Kaa-chan by," he admits haltingly, voice breaking, feeling bitterness and a familiar hurt in his chest.

He allows Momo to pull him into a hug, trying to fight down the burning in his eyes. He only half-succeeds; a few tears slip out.

Momo holds him and coos soothing things into his ear, until he falls into a dreamless sleep.

Tajima finally finds room to breathe properly, after days of endless activity.

Planning the funeral of his wife, amongst other things, has been very taxing on him. His sleep is plagued and heavy, forcing him to slumber for three to four hours. From dawn until dusk, he moves around the Uchiha Clan compound, planning and ordering clansmen and giving thanks for condolences.

It is not until a week has passed, that the Clan Head finds time to visit his newborn children.

It is of little surprise that he finds his eldest sitting vigil in the nursery. One of the servants had worriedly informed him three days prior, that Madara sleeps and eats in the room, and leaves only to go to the bathroom.

Tajima supposes that it is his fault, for giving the boy three weeks off, and then telling him to help Asa-obaa-sama with caring for the babes. Madara is so passionate, bullheaded, and soft, that there realistically would be no other outcome.

The thought of making Madara train harder to overcome this weakness comes to the man's mind. And then he promptly feels weary.

He does not want to fight with the boy. Not now.

Halting outside the door of the nursery, Tajima steels himself, before entering.

The man's keen eyes swiftly sweep across the interior of the room, before falling upon his eldest. Madara is sitting on the couch, rocking a bundle in his arms.

The wet-nurse and nursemaids instantly bow lowly and greet Tajima, when he steps into the room. Without a second glance to them, the Clan Head strides to his first son.

"Hello, Otou-sama," Madara says, dipping his head in greeting, unable to bow from his current position. The boy's skin is pale, and there are deep bags under his eyes, yet a steely resolve that tells Tajima that despite being fatigued, Madara will keep caring for the babes every hour of the day.

"Good day," the man replies blandly, looking pointedly down at the bundle in the boy's arms.

"Meet Fumina, your daughter."

The world freezes. Tajima stares. Then, his body gives a twitch, as he forces himself to not lash out—both physically and verbally.

Irritation turns into a very low level of Killing Intent. Madara leans back into the cushions of the couch, a slight cringe, but keeps meeting his gaze.

"You named it?" he asks through gritted teeth.

There is a tense pause, before the boy scowls up at him. "'It' is my imouto— and yes, I named her, since you did not give her one."

Tajima lets out a slow exhale through his nose, trying to keep his temper in check. It is successful enough that his anger is quickly swallowed by weariness and grief so overwhelming, that he must close his eyes.

"Fumina," he murmurs, bringing a hand up to rub at his temples. He lets out sigh, praying for patience, as his heart seems to drop down into his stomach.

"Madara," he begins, as he stares deep into his son's eyes. "What if the babe dies?"

The boy's face contorts into that of offense. "She is not—"

"What. If. She. Dies?" he queries, emphasizing each word. Madara falls silent.

"She was born weak. Naming her has formed an attachment, a connection. Burying the babe would bring up more negative connotations, if she is named. If she has an identity," Tajima explains slowly, voice low, and gives a breath that could be considered a sigh. "I do not want you to go through that, my son."

Tentatively, he reaches out, and places a hand on his son's head. Comforting others is not a good skill that he has, and paternal instincts have fled him, replaced by a stressed leader of a shinobi Clan.

But even then…He does not want to see the inevitable heartbreak in Madara, if the female babe (his daughter, a small voice in his heart whispers) dies. Madara, so full of hope, who named the girl— after their mother. After Fumiko.

The sentimentality and hope will shatter and come crumbling down, when the babe doesn't survive. It will affect his son greatly, especially if it were to happen so soon after Fumiko…

"I can't just abandon her," the boy whispers. Madara holds the babe closer to his chest, a determined set to his small shoulders, staring at the Clan Head squarely. "You may have given up on Fumina, but I won't. I will not rest, until she becomes strong enough to survive. And by then, you will have to recog-nize her as your daughter."

Tajima retracts his hand, mouth a tight line. He tries very, very hard to push down the urge to take the boy's shoulders in his hands, and shake him until he sees reason.

An irritated sigh passes the man's lips. He has been sighing rather frequently, since stepping into the nursery. He supposes the mounting stress, and Madara's nature in breaking rules and traditions, has worn down his patience.

"I warned you," he says, voice dark and many shades of fatigue. "However, I will allow her to keep the name Fumina that you have bestowed upon her, as I have never had plans to have a daughter."

With one final moment to take in the determined visage of his three-year-old son, Tajima turns on his heel, and leaves the nursery.

He's constantly vigilant, and it's wearing down on his mind and body.

Fumina and Izuna—his baby siblings—they aren't in the clear yet. They may never be, actually. They could live with the consequences of their premature births for the rest of their (most likely short) lives.

He will still try, though. That's all that Ma-kun can do.

He takes full advantage of his hiatus from training. And seemingly so does Asa-obaa-sama. That crazy old woman drills him a lot about his CPR methods, and his theories, whenever she isn't busy healing the others in the compound.

She easily manages to take his mind off of things, off of the overwhelming dread that wants to crush him. He…He really appreciates it.

There is still the weight of a damned continent weighing down on his shoulders, but with that old crone looking out for him, it…It feels less.

Two weeks come and go. And all too soon, the day of Fumiko's funeral comes.

Ma-kun wakes groggily in the nursery by a servant. He isn't able to wave the young man away, who proceeds to change him into a formal, black kimono.

The reincarnated soul forgets to be embarrassed or exasperated from the special treatment. All he feels is a bone-deep tiredness and grief within his absurdly small body.

As he's escorted out of the room, he pauses at the doorway, looking back longingly at his baby siblings. They will only have the servants and nursemaid to look after them; even Asa-obaa-sama and her assistants will be going to the funeral.

Momo-san gently squeezes his shoulder, and he looks back up at her wan smile, giving her a nod, and leaving the room proper.

It's a procession down the hall. He's surrounded by an entourage of servants, as they go down to Tajima's office.

The man is exiting, just as they stop in front of his door. He's in a black kimono fit for his station of Clan Head, Uchiha fan proudly embezzled on the back, a proper little black hat perched on his half-shaved head. It would be comical, if not for the occasion.

The man nods at them, stepping into the entourage next to his son. Ma-kun ignores him, gaze fixed vaguely to the middle-distance, as they walk through the halls.

They exit the Head Clan House to the courtyard. The sky is overcast, tingeing everything a light grey. Not dark enough for it to start raining, but enough to block much of the sun's rays.

Feeling sluggish, he blinks, realizing something.

"Where is Byakuya-otouto?" he asks to the general entourage.

It's a bit of a surprise, that his father answers. "In his room. He is too young to attend such a ceremony."

"Ah," Ma-kun replies dully.

It doesn't particularly feel fair, to exclude the toddler like that. Fumiko was his mother; he deserves to be a part of her funeral.

However…Byakuya would not remember Fumiko much. It would be needlessly cruel to make him attend. And he wouldn't really understand the weight of things, the need for the ceremony, anyways.

Not-Madara is just too tired to fight this decision. He'll let it go.

…Let it gooo, let it gooo…

'God damn it, me. This is not the time for this,' he chastises himself, in his mind.

The spark of nostalgia and playfulness leaves as quickly as it came, leaving Ma-kun to feel dull once more.

Working on autopilot, he follows his entourage, while Tajima breaks away to speak to others. Talking to important people, acting modest, gaining condolences. The usual, no doubt.

"…ung Master…Young Master."

Idly, the three-year-old turns his attention to the person calling for him. It's Momo-san whispering to him, trying to rouse his attention. The young woman gestures over at something, and Ma-kun follows the direction with his eyes.

Oh. People are right there. Trying to talk to him.

"Forgive me," he murmurs quietly, without much inflection. He has no energy to waste on playing the good little genius heir, on being a proper host of his station. He only has the hollowness that's a gaping maw, and maybe just a little bit of fucks that will morph into tears. That's it.

"As I was saying—It's quite the tragedy!" said the fat nobleman in front if him. He dabbed his beady eyes with the edge of a fancifully embroidered handkerchief. No doubt, made of silk and golden thread.

Ma-kun gave a small hum of affirmation. The nobleman looked vaguely familiar. Has he seen him somewhere, or…?

"Yes, yes. Fumiko was my dear cousin, did you know? Quite the lovely lady, she was," the man went on.

"Oh," the boy replied, feeling vaguely interested. "What a co-in-ci-dence."

Actually, he could see the similarities this nobleman shared with this life's mother. The exact same shade of light brown hair, and kind eyes the color of warm honey scotch.

"Yes, a mighty coincidence—say, have you met my daughter, Aiko?" the fat nobleman said, voice gaining an excited quality. He gestured to his daughter, a little girl with big eyes and sandy hair, dressed in fine silks. The girl had been standing next to him, and the two were flanked by either bodyguards, or servants. Or both. Maybe both.

"Hajimemashite," Not-Madara stated, putting the minimal amount of politeness needed in the address. His bow was more a small dip of the upper body, almost as if he was swaying in place, than a proper one for nobility.

"I have brought you dango, Madara-kun," the girl said, voice sweet and demure. "It seems to be something you really like, yes?"

The noble daughter took a package from one of her servants, and held it out to Ma-kun, who simply stared blankly at it. Then, the dots connected.

Oh. This nobleman had been at his birthday party. And this girl was his daughter, who had been there as well, and eaten dango with him.

Well then.

He can't be rude now. Also, it's free dango— even though it feels like a bribe, or as if they're buttering him up to be in his good favor.

"We've also brought flowers for your mother, of course—but having a little something sweet also helps to ease the pain," the nobleman said, his voice irritatingly chipper for a funeral.

"…Thank you very much," Ma-kun replied softly, nodding his head and taking the package from the little girl, who beamed.

"Well, we'll best be off, and let the others get their turn to chat with you," the fat man said, waving his ring-covered fingers and leading his daughter away.

The reincarnated soul sighed, as many others flocked to him to give their condolences, or ask for his baby sibling's health. It became…tedious. And all of them seemed to blend together, one after the other.

He also kept getting gifts, that he had to pass off to his servants, after the number was too much for him to carry on his own.

It…angered him. It's as if these people didn't know how to properly express their sorrow, so they showered him in things, like some spoiled prince. Like they couldn't properly keep up the pretense of acting like this was a funeral.

The entire ordeal was…needlessly large. There were a lot of people. Almost the entire Uchiha Clan, plus the nobles and important people that held ties with the Uchiha, and other visitors.

They were in the portion of the graveyard where the close family of the Clan Heads were buried. The area had wooden poles, topped with black silks of mourning. Priests held prayer beads and purifying instruments, there to oversee the ceremony.

There was a finely carved casket for Fumiko, covered by flowers from the visitors that bore them as gifts and blessings and tribute. A painted picture in a frame was placed in the middle of the casket, a pretty little representation of Fumiko Uchiha when she was happy and whole, and even younger than she was.

Being buried was a luxury. Especially when so many people died during these dangerous times. Only the most important people were buried in coffins, holding a special ceremony and a gravestone and a slot in a cemetery.

Most bodies were left to rot, or cremated. Since the Uchiha's Clan's main chakra affinity was fire, cremating the bodies was easy. Ashes made of slain or fallen clan members was the norm, a quick and respectful way to give the clan member a passing from the world into the spirit realm.

If they'd made her into ashes, at least there wouldn't be such a large debacle made of it. At least there wouldn't be so many people here with empty words and gifts. It would be more…Real? Meaningful? Something along those lines.

Here, he was surrounded by flocks of people, yet felt utterly alone. He felt hollow and raw and tired and weak. He hurt, and he just didn't want to be here.

It was too much. Too much, too much, too much.

When the priests finally began to sing their prayers and do their dances, it all hit him at once, piercing through him like a sword to the heart.

Madara Uchiha broke down crying, and didn't stop.

He watched with blurry red eyes, as his mother's casket was lowered into the grave. His entire body heaved and quaked, and he didn't care if people were watching him, scrutinizing him. He didn't care if it wasn't proper for someone of his status.

He'd lost a mother, when he had never lost anyone close to him was stuck in a body that was three years old. He was in a world full of death and blood and ninja magic bullshit.

Fuck it all, he deserved to cry and grieve.

He didn't care anymore.

Tajima gave the boy a week after the funeral, to get all the crying out of his system. On the eight day, the man entered the nursery—the boy's new abode—and gave him a new training schedule.

Madara was playing a game with Byakuya, poking the weak points of the two-year-old's body and naming each spot. The light jabs caused the smaller boy to giggle, and he tried to bat the quick fingers away.

For a moment, Tajima did not see his two sons. Instead, he saw a younger version of himself, playing with his older brother.

A hard blink later, and the ghosts of his past fled. Madara turned his sights to the man, the smile on his face falling like leaves during winter; it simply left a barren face.

"Good morning, Otou-sama," Madara said, voice cool.

"G'mornin', Otou-sama!" Byakuya chirped, face open and innocent.

Tajima dipped his head to his sons, before turning his gaze to Madara.

"You will return to your lessons. In the mornings, we will do physical conditioning. The evenings will be for history, reading, calligraphy, and your medical lessons. Evenings, you will be taught how to use your Sharingan."

Tajima had been ready for some form of disrespectful retort. Perhaps the start of a debate. Even a mulish look.

The man did not expect the tired look, which only held a spark of interest within its depths.

"Lessons on the Sharingan…? I did not think there was much to learn," Madara replied idly, threading his hand through the small wisps of Byakuya's hair.

"Did you, now…?" he responded, prodding his son to give his reasoning through an expectant look.

"The Sharingan is ca-pa-ble of copying any jutsu that it sees. It has a perfect memory. It can break any genjutsu. It can predict the movements of o-ppo-nents," Madara started, raising one finger for each point, until Byakuya took hold of his hand, causing the older boy's mouth to tinge with vague amusement. "Using it too much causes strain. It can have from one to three tomoe. It unlocks from great stress or trauma. Use them too much, and they bleed."

Tajima silently stared at the young boy, who was blinking up at the man with fatigue.

"…Then you will not be in those lessons for long. You seem to have a very good grasp of the details pertaining to our dojutsu," he decided with a resolute nod.

"Hai, Otou-sama."

"I wanna Charigan!" Byakuya exclaimed suddenly, looking between Madara and Tajima.

"Sha-rin-gan, otouto," Madara replied slowly, patient and fond.

"Yes. That."

"You will get the Sharingan one day, Byakuya. Just not yet," Tajima replied. He paused, before extending his arms forwards. "Come. It is time for your word lessons."

His eldest held a small frown on his face—a spark of his former countenance—but eventually passed the two-year-old over to the father.

"O-kay, Otou-sama!" Byakuya said, when Tajima finally arranged the boy in his arms in a proper hold, still unused to holding his children for any length of time. "Bye-bye, onii-chan!"

Madara raised a hand, waving it slightly. "Bye, otouto."

Tajima frowned at how laconic and dull his heir seemed, toting his second son out of the room.

Perhaps he will have more interest and energy, during training. If not…It will be a problem.

His heart felt heavy. But with a new routine imposed on him, Ma-kun…Well, he actually felt better, in an odd way.

A routine was a safety net. It gave him a reason to put energy into activities. To make him live each day.

His younger siblings—they did this as well. They had to be cared for, cherished, protected. They took up much of his attention and energy, and they were a genuine joy to watch over.

But, really, they could only do so much. He could only rely on them as a means to live, before it became unhealthy. Before it became an obsession. A crutch.

He had to keep going on. He had to live for himself.

And, oddly enough, Tajima imposing lessons and a schedule on him helped do just that.

Not-Madara had much more free time in his schedule than before, of course. With Fumiko…dead, Tajima didn't have to worry about him sneaking off to visit her. And in this instance, it was much better to have Ma-kun watch other his siblings, so it would be a moot point to make him too busy to see them, anyways.

This free time was well used, as well. After a few weeks in the Sharingan lessons with one of his other clansmen, Ma-kun learned everything he really needed to know about his kekkei genkai.

The 'future' knowledge from the manga most definitely helped in that regard, as well.

Ma-kun wrote down everything he knew about the Sharingan, both in English and Japanese. Then, with a small pulse of chakra to the pathways in his eyes, he activated his Sharingan, and instantly memorized everything. One careful application of a beginner's fire chakra exercise, and the information in English was turned to ashes.

This was the start of a long project that would no doubt span multiple years.

It was important to remember information about his clan and the Naruto universe. Not-Madara's memories from his past life would no doubt deteriorate over time—especially considering that they were memories that were not even properly stored within his mind. Simply a byproduct of the merging of souls, or some other cosmic bullshit accident that came through reincarnation.

He didn't know the full capabilities of the Sharingan—how much eye strain they truly caused, the rate of which the health or eyes of the subject deteriorated, how much brain capacity a user truly had or how much information they could potentially store—he didn't know all those fiddly details. But he had theories, and he had time to figure these things out, one piece of the story at a time.

The next target of his to memorize with his eyes would be the medical knowledge he already gave Asa-obaa-sama. Then after that, a guide on English, so he wouldn't forget his first language, the language in which he would write all his groundbreaking 'future' information. A natural cipher, perfect to keep his secrets whole; not even a Yamanaka would understand the seemingly foreign babble in his memories, if they tried to pry into his mind.

Looking down at the scroll holding his knowledge on the Sharingan with dark eyes and thin lips, Ma-kun rolled up the scroll, and hid it under a loose floorboard in his closet.

If his family ever unlocked the Mangekyou…If he ever needed to teach his family, to help them understand their kekkei genkai properly…There would be a distinct need for that scroll.

He hoped there wouldn't, but considering just how messed up this world and his clan was, well…There was no guarantee.

Review Replies:

Reply to Guest on the mangekyou: Thank you for liking the fic! I've had it planned from the start that Madara would get the Mangekyou Sharingan. Infinite mangekyou is still up in the air. Maybe he'll figure out some medic jutsu to help with eyes; that seems like a problem he'd have to figure out.

Reply to Blacksun: Since I've given you so many emotions, I suppose I've done my job right? And wow, that's really brutal —total content for Tsukiyomi right there. Most Clan Heads have to be sociopaths in the Warring States Era; everyone's at war with one another, and people die every day. It's a brutal time to live in.

Not-Madara is essentially what most normal people would be like, when put in this world and situation. Sure, it's more based on my feelings, but the beauty of this story is that many sympathetic people can put themselves in Ma-kun's shoes.

Your praise is really high! Damn, it's making me blush. I'm honored that you like this story and my writing so much. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to get a book published, but if I ever do, I suppose I now know that I have a fanbase?

Reply to greymouser: Thank you for liking it so much! Chapter 5 was indeed very emotional, which is what I'd planned. Tajima will probably get his just deserts by Ma-kun in the future. (Far in the future, considering how long it takes for me to update and move along the plot.)

Reply to awww yisssss Guest: That's the thing with this fic. From Ma-kun's perspective, Tajima is a huge dick. But from his own reflections, Tajima's a stressed dude who's got a lot of shit on his plate. It teeter-totters. And thank you for liking this story!

Reply to Ka: Good. I've done my job right. More tears for for me to drink Imeanwhat