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I was born on a spring day, eight hundred and thirty six years after the destruction of the world.

I remember the scent of rain, playing in the snow and that the music never semmed to end. Pap would lift me up each night he came home and it seemed to me I could fly. Mama would stir out tea in the afternoon, telling stories in her lovely voice and I would admire her wrists and glossy hair. I had a small doll, a cat, which I carried everywhere for company and there always seemed to be playmates to have tea with, serious faced anbu would would submit themselves to my play filled whims.

I never doubted my parentès love, even in their last days. Their romance was infamous, a warning amongst the clans and an object of admiration amongst those free to love. I woudl sneak out of bed at night, padding carefully to the door to peer out into the warm sitting room and watch them sit together. They would talk in gentle voices, touching arms or stroking hair with casual ease or sit and comfortable silence. On occassion papa would spot me, though I think they always knew when I was up, and he would wink one green eye.I would join them on those nights, caught between their love, because I was the creation of such a wonderful feeling.

Papa always worked hard, and I did not see him often. The soft spoken anbu that guarded our apartments told me stories of how great my father was, how he was fighting hard to protect the whole village. I was very proud of him,though I thought he should be spending more time with me. Mama still took the odd missions, and there were important meetings where her pressence was helpful. She would, with her gentle beauty, serve tea or tell stories to ease the minds of delegates while father would impress them with his his charisma.They would be gone for weeks at a time, gone to places I could not imagine, and I would cry but there was always a little gift to buy back my love when they returned. I was a spoiled child.

Shortly after my third birthday, on a very gray and unappealing day, they announced the coming of my sister. I do not remember noticing my motherès increasing belly or the glow around my fatherès face before this, but it seems o me it must have been there before. I was jealous of the little creature to be, but the appealed to my pride as a sister to be. Papa gave me a little doll with carefully painted glass features and said caring for her would be practice for the new baby. Mama ate sweet things, pulled many, tiny clothes from storage, and told me stories of when I had been tiny like that. She would nap often and the comfortable nights seemed short but my parents were close for those nine months so I was happy.

Mother nearly died giving birth to my tiny sister, a fact that I would not hear of for many years. The day she was born I went out to the gardens to play with a few of the other children that seemed abundant around the tower, I remember I had pretty red gloves, a dark haired boy hit me in the face with snow and when I came inside again an anbu took my hand and we walked with the spiral stairs. Someone had cleaned the rooms and it smelled strangely, and when we went to my parents room my mother sat with a wrinkled little person who did not impress me. Green eyed like my father, fair haired like our mother, she was the exact oppocite of me and each even as a newborn it was impossible to ignore have very like them she looked.

When mama could get out of bed again they had a party for the baby, one in the day which I could attend and one in the night I could not. Many people, whom I was told were very important and I must be on my best bahavior around, came to isit the new baby and give her blessings. They named her Rikyo,though she seemed neither great or clever to me. I could not play with her as I could the doll, and when she cries mama would stop paying attention to me. I was just learning to throw kunai, I would have a tutor in the next year, but no one ever seemed to be watching me anymore.

I recall learning to pain while my sister sat in a little rocking swing and gurgled at our efforts or slept. Mother had to squint to see and I worried for her. She spoke of colours, how beautiful they were, but I did not know the hint of sadness in her voice told the future of us both. I enjoyed painting, I liked to try and recreate the screnes of the village from out window. They were never any good but mama encouraged me and papa would compliment us each night so I worked hard. When I was older I would become a painter and make the most beautiful portraits, pictures that would make everyone wish to know me.

The the age of six that dream ended. My first tutor, a kindly chuunin was premoted and father decided I ought to have th same training her had. Father was a Kagetsu, the son of a powerful clan, and had trained since childhood under their tutoladge. Training with them meant leaving the tower, my patents a little baby Rikyo who could finally play and enjoyed following me from room to room which she babbled. Mother protested, the clan was sure to mistreat me she argued, but papa said they would only judge me on my own skills. I had to be strong, I was his daughter afterall, and nothing would be gained from hiding in the tower. I cannot remember another time when my parents argued more bitterly. Mama cried, she threw a precious statue father had given her as a gift and shattered it to dust. The tension lasted a week and I would hide from sight so they wouldnèt remember to fight again.

Finally it was decided I would go, but each day I would return home instead of staying with the other toungsters on the complex. Mother insisted that I train once a week with her and that formal education be in her care. I would learn my manners from her, not the harsh, robotic, repitition.