The Uchiha denoted Itachi, denied him his right.
The sky was clear, the water fluttering with wind, and the drifts of cloud flooded the mountains and ignored the brothers. Sasuke was sleeping and Itachi was happy.
Once, someone had desecrated the Hokages' Mountain by carving jutsus and symbols into it. There were roses under the chin of the Second. A simple technique would erase it.
Itachi never wondered what his trade was; it was fire, the Katon, the mark of an Uchiha. He would succeed his family by the age of eight. Sasuke's feet would be able to run across fire-blown water, like his, by ten. Itachi knew he was special and his brother was normal, so he expected what was appropriate.
Glorious thing it was, theology escaped him. There was no determinism to be had, and nihilist, he was argued, but no, what was existence? A few strands of genetic material and the ability to die, to reproduce as grotesque clones straddled his body.
The Uchiha denoted him, denied him his right. It flapped on his back like a siren, and adorned the walls and lanterns through Konohagakure. The lanterns were a sign of their prestige. Itachi found out about the Akatsuki on his first 'real' mission. The Mist was demons' land by the looks of it. He'd have to reply to Kisame soon. He rubbed his eyes and picked up a scroll: it was time for a mission. He said goodbye to a little clover, fire-blower darling. Babies' cheeks were delicious to the touch.
Sasuke smelt faintly of milk and shampoo.