The Uchiha compound was quiet.
Not silent — Konoha never truly slept — but quiet enough that the rustle of leaves in the breeze felt like a lullaby.
The moonlight poured in gently through the windows, casting silver across the polished floors.
Mikoto sat on a cushion, folding laundry into neat stacks. Beside her, Tamamo lay sprawled across a futon, head in her mother's lap, dark hair spread like ink across her thighs. Mikoto's fingers moved gently through the tangles, brushing them out with the kind of patience only a mother possessed.
Tamamo was still three and three months old, she was still counting. Still small, still new to this world, but her eyes had aged in ways Mikoto couldn't quite place.
"Mom," Tamamo mumbled, eyes watching the ceiling, "were you always a ninja?"
Mikoto blinked at the question but smiled softly. "Since I was younger than your brother is now. My parents trained me from the start."
Tamamo turned to look up at her. "Was it scary?"
Mikoto paused. "Sometimes."
"What was the scariest?"
Mikoto's hands slowed.
She looked out the window for a moment before answering. "The first time I had to protect someone. Really protect them. It's one thing to train with wooden swords… it's another when the enemy is real. When the danger can take away someone you love."
Tamamo was quiet for a beat.
"…Did you ever get hurt?"
"Once," Mikoto said, brushing back a strand of hair from Tamamo's face. "Badly. I still have the scar. But it healed. Most things do."
"Is that why you stopped being a ninja?"
Mikoto smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "Partly. But also because I wanted to raise a family. Clan duties, raising you and your brothers — that became my mission. And honestly, it's the hardest one I've ever had."
Tamamo blinked. "Harder than fighting bad guys?"
"Oh yes," Mikoto said with a soft laugh. "Bad guys don't draw on the walls with ink or sneak sweets from the kitchen and blame the cat."
Tamamo pouted as she got serious. "The cat had a suspicious face."
Mikoto tapped her nose. "So did you."
They giggled together.
Then Tamamo asked, more seriously, "What's the Uchiha clan supposed to do?"
Mikoto folded a cloth slowly. "We protect the village. That's the core of it. But we're also expected to lead by example — in strength, in discipline, in pride. That pride can be heavy. Sometimes it makes it harder to ask for help. Or admit when something's wrong."
Tamamo tilted her head. "So… we're not allowed to be scared?"
"No, little one. We're allowed. We just don't always show it."
Tamamo was quiet.
"Do you think I'll be strong?" she whispered, worries and fear lingering in her mind, memories from that day at the forefront.
Mikoto's fingers paused in her hair. "I know you will."
"But what if I'm not fast enough? What if something bad happens and I can't stop it?"
Mikoto leaned down, resting her forehead gently against Tamamo's. "Sweetheart, being strong doesn't mean you'll always be in time. It just means you'll try anyway. That you won't stop trying."
Tamamo's throat felt tight. "Itachi was fast. That night. With the rock."
Mikoto didn't answer right away.
"I was so scared," Tamamo said. "And I couldn't do anything. Just watch."
"You were a baby," Mikoto said softly, her face shifting into one of sadness. "But… you remembered."
Tamamo nodded.
Mikoto wrapped her arms around her and pulled her into her lap. "Strength isn't just for fighting. Sometimes, it's remembering. Enduring. Choosing to be kind, even when the world isn't."
"Is that what you want me to be?" Tamamo asked. "Kind?"
In Tamamo's mind, Mikoto's face got overlapped with some man she has never seen, preaching 'You have no enemies' but she quickly focused back.
That was weird…
Mikoto's voice was quiet. "I want you to be safe. But yes… I hope you keep your kindness. The world will try to take it. Don't let it."
"Is that why Father is so serious?"
Mikoto chuckled softly. "Your father has a good heart. He just carries the clan's weight on his back, and it doesn't leave much room for smiles."
Tamamo nodded slowly. "Will I have to carry it too?"
Mikoto stroked her hair. "Maybe. Maybe not. But whatever you carry, you won't carry it alone."
They stayed like that for a while.
Tamamo, for once, didn't have a joke. Or a sarcastic remark. She only had the quiet weight of her mother's warmth and the flickering fear she couldn't name.
As Mikoto brushed a final strand of hair from her daughter's brow, she found herself watching Tamamo's face — relaxed in sleep, cheeks still round with baby softness, but her brow faintly furrowed as if even her dreams carried questions.
So much like Itachi, she thought. And yet, so very different.
They were both wise beyond their years, both born with a quiet sharpness in their eyes. But where Itachi wore his maturity like armor — silent, composed, always watching — Tamamo wore hers like a jester's mask, deflecting fear with jokes, wrapping insight in sarcasm and play.
Itachi rarely spoke more than needed. Tamamo never seemed to stop talking.
Yet both of them saw more than they should. Felt more than children should.
And Mikoto loved them both for it — and feared for what that clarity might cost them.