Three months. A single season. In the grand, bloody tapestry of the Warring States Era, it was a mere blink, a brief respite between storms. But for Indra Uchiha, returned from the crucible of the frontline, these ninety days were a lifetime of healing.
The Uchiha main compound was a world away from the churned mud and iron scent of the battlefield. Here, the air carried the subtle fragrance of blooming cherry trees and the comforting aroma of hearth fires. The sounds were not the screams of the dying and the clang of steel, but the laughter of children and the rhythmic thwack of training posts being struck. It was a sanctuary, and Indra immersed himself in its rhythms, using duty and family as a balm for his wounded spirit.
His first and most solemn duty was to Kenta's family. He had arranged for them to be moved to a secure, comfortable dwelling within the main branch grounds. The first visit was the hardest. Uchiha Kenta's wife, Uchiha Ho, was a young woman with eyes that held a permanent sheen of unshed tears, her hands often resting on the gentle swell of her belly. His little sister, Uchiha Rai, was a bright-eyed four-year-old who didn't fully understand where her beloved brother had gone, only that a sad, kind boy with blue eyes now visited often, bringing her sweet treats and letting her climb onto his back for piggyback rides.
Indra never spoke empty platitudes. He didn't say, "He died a hero," or "It will be alright." Instead, he spoke with actions. He repaired the leak in their roof with a careful application of a minor earth-style jutsu. He ensured their firewood was always stacked high, their larder full. He sat with Yua in silence sometimes, a quiet, steady presence that spoke more of his commitment than any vow could. He was repaying a debt, yes, but it was evolving into something more—a genuine, protective affection. In their presence, the ghost of Kenta became less a specter of guilt and more a memory to be honored.
His other great project was his brothers. Madara, now a fiercely intense five-year-old, was a bundle of raw power and pride. Izuna, a year younger, was quieter, more observant, with a clever spark in his eyes. They had been wary of Indra upon his return. The brother they knew was a serene, powerful presence. The one who came back was quieter, his ethereal blue eyes shadowed by a deep, unspoken sorrow.
But children are resilient, and their method of healing was not with words, but with shared experiences. They dragged him to the training grounds, demanding he watch their progress.
"Look, Indra-nii!" Madara would shout, his small face set in a comical imitation of their father's grimace. He would perform the Great Fireball Jutsu, managing a respectable puff of smoke and a flicker of flame that made him cough. "See! I'm almost as strong as you!"
Indra's first genuine smile in weeks would appear. "Almost, Madara. But you're forgetting to channel the chakra from your diaphragm. You're all throat. You'll just give yourself a cough." He would then demonstrate, not with a cataclysmic inferno, but with a perfectly controlled, baseball-sized fireball that hovered serenely above his palm. Madara would stare, his pride momentarily dented, before redoubling his efforts with a furious pout.
Izuna, meanwhile, had a different talent. He was a natural with genjutsu, able to cast simple illusions that made leaves appear to dance or a single flower bloom from the ground. His kenjutsu was precise, his small hands surprisingly steady on a practice sword. Indra found a deep satisfaction in guiding him, in honing that natural precision. "Don't just see the target, Izuna," he would say softly. "See the space between you and the target. See the air you must move through. Your sword is not a separate thing; it is an extension of your will."
Their mother, a gentle woman named Akari, watched this interplay with a heart full of gratitude. She saw how her two younger sons, in their innocent, demanding way, were pulling Indra back into the light. They didn't see a prodigy or a weapon; they saw their big brother, and they needed him.
And then, there was the music.
It started one evening, a few weeks after his return. The household was quiet. A deep melancholy had settled over Indra, the memory of Vidya and Kenta pressing down on him like a physical weight. He retreated to a small, secluded courtyard. From a storage scroll, he produced an object of his own creation: a guitar, crafted from polished sandalwood and strung with gut. He had built a piano, too, a complex feat of woodworking and elemental chakra manipulation to create the strings and hammers, and several bamboo flutes.
He didn't play for an audience. He played for himself. His fingers, calloused from the sword, found the strings, and a haunting, unfamiliar melody filled the air. It was a sound the Uchiha compound had never heard—complex, emotional, and deeply personal. Then, he began to sing, his voice soft, carrying a sorrow that was centuries old.
"I found a love, for me… Darling, just dive right in and follow my lead… Well, I found a girl, beautiful and sweet… I never knew you were the someone waiting for me."
It was Ed Sheeran's "Perfect," the song that had been his and Vidya's. He sang it for her, across the void of time and reality, his tears falling silently onto the guitar's soundboard. It was a raw, private moment of grief, a final farewell to a love he could never reclaim. When the last note faded, he felt a small, painful piece of his heart settle. The memory was no longer a bleeding wound, but a cherished, if bittersweet, scar.
He didn't realize that his mother, drawn by the strange, beautiful music, had been listening from the shadows, her own eyes wet with tears for a sorrow she could not name.
The next night, emboldened by that catharsis, he played in the main family room. He played Imagine Dragons' "Believer," its pounding, defiant rhythm a stark contrast to the previous night's ballad.
"First things first, I'ma say all the words inside my head… I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been…"
Madara and Izuna stopped their squabbling, mesmerized. The driving beat, the raw energy, it spoke to the warrior spirit within them. Clan members passing by the house paused, listening to the strange, powerful anthem.
Then he played Alan Walker's "Faded," its ethereal, electronic-like melody conjured through chakra-infused vibrations on the strings.
"You were the shadow to my light, did you feel us? Another star, you fade away…"
The music was a language of emotion they all understood. It spoke of pain, of hope, of defiance, of loss. It gave voice to the unspoken struggles of a clan perpetually at war. Indra, without intending to, became a beacon. His music didn't erase their hardships, but it made them feel less alone in them. It brought a flicker of light, a moment of shared humanity, to their hardened lives.
But life in the Uchiha household wasn't all profound music and solemn duty. With his spirit lightening, Indra's innate playfulness, buried under layers of trauma and power, began to re-emerge. And his favorite targets were his intensely serious little brother, Madara.
It began one afternoon during a language lesson. Their tutor was explaining classical Uchiha poetry, full of fire, honor, and fleeting cherry blossoms. Madara, ever the traditionalist, was listening with rapt attention, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Indra, sitting behind him, caught Izuna's eye. A silent, mischievous agreement passed between them. Indra began to whisper, just loud enough for Madara to hear, a ridiculous, rhyming parody.
"Oh, the great fireball, so hot and bright,
It burns the Senju with all its might.
But if you sneeze and lose the flame,
Oh, the dishonor, oh, the shame!"
Izuna, struggling to contain his giggles, added in a similar whisper,
"The cherry blossom, pink and pure,
Falls on the head of one so demure.
But if a pigeon does its business there,
It ruins your hair, beyond repair!"
Madara's shoulders tensed. His concentration shattered. A faint flush crept up his neck. "Will you two cease this infantile behavior?" he hissed, without turning around, his voice a perfect, comical imitation of their father's sternest tone.
This only encouraged them. Later, during taijutsu practice, as Madara was solemnly practicing a complex kata, Indra would seamlessly integrate a ridiculous, flailing move into his own practice nearby—the "Flailing Turkey" or the "Dizzy Squirrel"—throwing Madara off his rhythm. Izuna would then "innocently" ask, "Madara-nii, is that a new advanced form? It looks… very difficult."
Madara's revenge was swift and, in his mind, devastating. He would hide Indra's favorite flute or replace the strings on his guitar with cooked, floppy noodles. One time, he managed to rig a small Water Ball Jutsu above Indra's bedroom door. The resulting splash was met not with anger, but with Indra's deep, genuine laughter, which only infuriated Madara more.
The climax of their sibling warfare came during a rare, formal dinner with their mother. Madara, feeling clever, had secretly sprinkled a powerful, but harmless, souring agent into Indra's tea. As Indra took a sip, his face remained perfectly, serenely calm. He swallowed, placed the cup down, and looked at Madara.
"Interesting," Indra said, his Six Eyes seeing the minute chemical residue in his cup. "A bold choice of flavor, Madara. A sophisticated palate for one so young. It really… accentuates the bitterness of life." He then took another long, deliberate sip, his expression one of profound, mock-contemplation.
Madara stared, his plan foiled, his victory stolen. Izuna, who had been in on the plan, burst into uncontrollable laughter, snorting milk out of his nose. Their mother, Akari, tried and failed to maintain a stern face, a hand flying to her mouth to stifle her giggles. The sight of the mighty, brooding Madara being so thoroughly and calmly outmaneuvered was too much. Finally, even Madara's lips twitched, and a reluctant, grumpy smile broke through. The dinner dissolved into shared, helpless laughter.
In that moment, surrounded by the sound of his family's joy, Indra felt the last of the battlefield' chill melt away. He was not just a weapon, a prodigy, or a vessel for grief. He was a brother, a son, a protector. He had faced the darkness, and with the help of two pesky, wonderful little brothers and the universal language of music and laughter, he had found his way back into the light.
The three months had ended. The reports from the front were growing tense again. His time of peace was drawing to a close. But as he looked at Madara's scowling-but-amused face and Izuna's gleeful one, he knew he was ready. He was stronger, not just in body and chakra, but in spirit. He had something real to fight for, right here. And he would protect this symphony of chaos and love with every ounce of his celestial power.