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This is a nightmare, Hashirama thinks as he runs through the sparse woodland, hands bloody and raw from where he got stuck in a patch of brambles and lungs burning, legs aching. He lost all sense of direction long ago and has no idea where he's going, no thoughts beyond getting away from the people he was running from. It's been two days. Two days since he was forcibly separated from his brothers, two days since he's been on the run, two days since he has last slept. And all that because he's weak.
Hashirama shakes his head and forces the thought out of his head. No time to think about that. Not now. A lapse in concentration is all it takes for his foot to get caught on an errant root, to lose his balance and stumble. Hot, blinding pain explodes behind his eyes as his vision goes white and his face meets the uneven ground. Something warm trickles out of Hashirama's nose and runs down his face, a mixture of blood and tears trickling down his cheeks and forming a small puddle beneath him.
He wants to get up, has to, but he's pretty sure his left ankle is bruised if not outright fractured, his vision is wonky, his sense of balance completely off-centre. None of Hashirama's limbs react as he tries to make them move. His breaths come harsh and staggered, each gulp of air sending a new spike of pain through his lungs. His stomach is empty and growling, his fingers twitch and slowly, bit by bit, his eyelids droop until he can't fight it anymore. In a vast, uncivilised stretch of wood and wilderness, cut off from everything and everyone he ever knew, Hashirama's world turns black.
He wakes, which is confusing at first. Hashirama remembers running from the enemy, two Uchiha shinobi that separated him from the herd, then elected to chase him instead of attacking the rest of his family. He remembers Kawarama yelling his name and Tobirama reaching out for him. He tried to help him, dispatch the two men and make sure he's safe.
Until that... monster had shown up. The tall male had thrown his sword in Tobirama's path, left him no choice but to defend himself. Another, much smaller shinobi had engaged Kawarama and Itama.
Hashirama had been on his own, no choice but to run or die. So he ran. If he drew those Uchiha away from his brothers they would succeed and live. The choice had been laughably easy. Sheer adrenaline kept him going until even that wasn't enough anymore and he passed out.
And now, he's awake. And all on his own. Hashirama groans quietly and blinks his eyes open, then hisses at the sudden light assaulting his sensitive vision. He tries to move but his body doesn't react, refuses to budge even an inch. His muscles are on fire, he's dehydrated, starving, absolutely miserable.
But he's alive. It has to count for something. Hashirama bites his teeth, thinks of what his father would say if he saw him now and then forces himself to move.
One thing becomes abundantly clear rather quickly. Wherever he woke up, is not where he fell asleep. Hashirama recalls a mostly dead forest, dark green and grey for the most part with more undergrowth than actual woodland. This place is nothing like that.
The trees are green and lush, full of life with thick leaves and sturdy bark. The grass, too, is much brighter and verdant than anything Hashirama has seen before. There's shrubbery and countless different kinds of plants and flowers everywhere and Hashirama is hungry so he ignores mother's advice about never eating anything he hasn't grown himself.
A small number of oddly reddish bushes are grouped together not far from him so Hashirama drags his lead-filled feet over there. Bulbous violet berries hang from tiny, tangled branches, weighing down the entire growth. They don't look poisonous. It's a weak defence, Hashirama knows this, but what else can he do? He's starving, all on his own, and if he doesn't get to eat something soon he will die either way.
His hands gently grasp one of the fruits and pluck it from the branch it's attached to. He's met by no small amount of resistance and by the time he finally holds the damn thing in his hand, all of his former energy is dead and gone, vanished into thin air. Hashirama glowers at the berry, inspects it for a short minute, then sinks his teeth into its flesh.
Overwhelming sweetness explodes in his mouth, unlike anything he has ever tasted before and if the gods grew their own harvest, then surely this had to be one of their chosen seeds. Hashirama moans at the deliciousness of this berry, sits down next to the bush and greedily reaches for another. For once in his life he doesn't worry about his father's opinion, their eternal fight against the Uchiha, the war he's so thoroughly sick of.
The fruits are simply too tasty to worry about much of anything.
Eventually, when his hunger is sated and his thirst quenched, Hashirama rolls onto his stomach and moves on. He feels better now, much better, though still not good enough to walk without a limp in his step or a hand on his ribs. This little paradise he has found himself in is easy to navigate. Thick roots only show up in the corner of his eyes, somewhere off in the distance and never creeping closer.
The ground itself is even and soft, the air fresh and pleasantly warm with a smell so sweet and utterly pleasant, Hashirama can't help but brighten ever so slightly as his spirits lift. There's nobody around, he's sure of it and for once, Hashirama considers that to be a good thing. No harm will come to him here in this almost mythical forest.
He follows his instincts, wanders in no particular direction, has more or less given up on trying to orientate himself. This place has a way of easing his mind and filling his with the unshakeable belief that everything is going to work out. Hashirama meanders until he comes across a river. It's a calm, steady stream, the water sparkling like countless little diamonds and running along its path with an oddly relaxing trickle.
The sun is dipping lower on the horizon and Hashirama realises that he's been marching for an entire day, despite his injuries. He should probably find a place to sleep, perhaps climb a tree in order to avoid being ambushed by predators. He hasn't seen any so far but that hardly means they aren't there.
With a sigh, he kneels down next to the current to take a few sips of water only to fall asleep between one moment and the next.
He dreams of strong roots, nature, life, and the faint calls of his name.
There's a bird. It's a cute little thing with a red belly and eyes filled with mirth. Hashirama likes animals, always has, and holds his body still as he rises from a peaceful rest. He doesn't want to spook it. It hops closer, tilts its head and trills at his. Hashirama feels a small smile creep on his lips and the birds seems to take it as invitation. It hops once more, coming to a standstill right in front of his face. It trills again, then softly picks his nose with its beak.
Hashirama nearly goes cross-eyed as he stares at the animal, then, slowly and carefully, moves his head. The bird doesn't mind, only waits patiently while breaking out into a lovely song. Hashirama blinks a few times, allows his sight to adjust to the sudden brightness. The sun hangs high in the sky and Hashirama belatedly realises that half the day has already passed.
He should move on. He feels better now, has more energy and feels less like giving up. His body still aches in places though the berries seem to have dulled the pain, making it much more bearable. Hashirama is glad he brought a few of them with his. Smiling at the bird, he slowly stretches his legs and arms, groans quietly at the loud cracks of his joints. He's quite limber and muscular for his age, yet his body is not used to sleeping on the cold hard ground like this. He's still young, this patrol his first. Hashirama never worried about that before, considering his combat training more important than actual wilderness survival. Now that he's on his own for the first time in forever, he wishes he had spent more time on such matters.
Once he's back on his feet, Hashirama squints at the sun, then looks around. The forest hasn't changed and there's no one else around. He sniffs himself, then makes a face because he smells of sweat and exhaustion. Quickly getting out of his clothes, he sinks in the river and is surprised by how pleasant the water is. Not too warm, not too cold. The perfect temperature. This entire place is odd yet while usually Hashirama would worry about that and listen to his instincts, the serene and tranquil atmosphere shushes those thoughts before they can even form.
His clothes stick to his skin. They're drenched after a good scrubbing and weigh him down. At the time, washing his outfit seemed like a good idea until the moment Hashirama realised that he has no backup clothes. So wet and dripping all over the ground, he trudges through the forest in a foul mood. He's an idiot and if this forest didn't seem to do its best to keep him alive, he'd already be dead.
It sounds silly to think of plants and trees as sentient beings yet it's the only explanation his tired mind can come with. Why else would there be berries whenever he feels hungry, a fresh stream or clean pond whenever he's thirsty, a particularly soft mound of grass whenever Hashirama runs out of energy and desires some rest.
Tiny woodland creatures follow his wherever he goes. He didn't notice them at first but as their numbers grew, it was impossible to oversee the small entourage dogging his every step. Hashirama recognises the bird that woke him earlier at the helm of this critter army, hopping merrily as birds tend not to do. Behind him are squirrels, bees, foxes, deers, even an owl or two. When he stops, they stop. When he bathes, they wait. When he eats, they crowd him and Hashirama who truly does love animals, offers them a fair share of berries.
At night, they guard his sleep. He sleeps soundly, watched and cared for by the forest and all its occupants.
Hashirama travels and travels, soon loses all concept of time and occasionally, even space. The woods move and shift around him which he, back when he first woke up in this place, didn't notice. Yet the more time he spends wandering in the company of animals, the more berries he consumes, the more water he drinks, the more Hashirama realises that sometimes roots that were in the distance moments ago, suddenly disappear. His paths is clear, always, and wherever he wishes to go, there are no obstacles blocking his way.
All it does is reaffirm his belief that these woddlands are not ordinary, nothing like the forests of his home. Tobirama would probably call Hashirama naive for not being more suspicious or at the very least paranoid. He thinks about his brothers, wonders where they are, if they're still alive and looking for him, or if they have given up. They wouldn't do that to him. Hashirama is sure of it. His spirits drop as his face darkens and just as he's about to slip into a depressing mindset, a young fawn gently bumps his hand with its snout and nuzzles his palm. Hashirama smiles, gives its snout a little scratch and moves on, sadness evaporated into nothingness.
He still doesn't know where he's going but is that really so bad? It's not always about the destination, after all. Sometimes it's about the road leading there. Everything is going to work out. He's sure of it. A cute little squirrel jumps off a branch and lands on his shoulder with an acorn in its paws. Hashirama smiles, takes a deep breath and resumes his journey. His heart beats and pulses and the whispers calling his name grow nearer.
The more he wanders, the more Hashirama gets a feel for these woods. It's an odd thing to say perhaps but he's not sure how else to express this instinctive feeling he has for where to look for more berries, where to go to reach a stream or small lake. He used to think that the forest moved around him yet perhaps he's just slowly attuning to it in a way that goes beyond mind and flesh. He walks and walks and whenever he desires for something, he feels a gentle tug at his soul guiding him in just the right direction.
As the sky darkens and heralds the arrival of yet another night, he wishes for a place to rest that is comfortable and large enough to accommodate both him and his new friends. Hashirama knows exactly where to go and when the tug leads him towards these dark and eerie roots that have always kept away, he does not fight it.
At some point Hashirama closes his eyes and feels the way with his hands and feet. Barely audible pitter-patter follows him and he knows the squirrels, birds, even fawns can keep up. His palms rest on thick wooden growth, run along sleek vines and hold onto the flora as he moves like a blind person would. He's not scared anymore. The forest shows him where to go. He trusts in the woods, the roots, the animals to guide him where he's meant to be. He has faith.
The next time he opens his eyes, he stands in the middle of a clearing. The darkness of the undergrowth is gone and instead, a thin ray of sunlight shines through the thick canopy above and lands on a lush green patch of grass a few steps in front of Hashirama. The air is much lighter now, fresh and energising. Hashirama looks around, sees all his new friends stand in a circle around him, guarding the edges of the clearing.
He takes a deep breath, then bows down to remove his shoes. One by one, his clothing comes off until there is nothing between his body and the world around him. The grass feels much nicer beneath his soles and when Hashirama kneels in the grass, he's amazed by how alive it is. He closes his eyes and listens for the barely audible rustling of insects traversing the ground, the ripple of a close by river, every breath of every living being around him.
The forest is alive and when Hashirama sits down, he can feel his connection to the woods, relishes in how he is one with nature. It's an exhilarating feeling and he craves more. So when the tug returns, he eagerly follows it into the only sunlight spot in the clearing. He gasps like the child he is upon first making contact with the sunbeam. It is warm and almost... soft, like the most loving embrace in the entire universe.
That is when he feels it.
There is a presence there, a jovial and curious spirit that smells of fresh grass after a thunderstorm, sweet flowers in full bloom, leaves and bark and resin. It's all around him, anchored in the trees of the glen and it dances and laughs and twirls, taking Hashirama by his shoulders and spinning him with it. It sweeps him off his feet in wide, lively motions and as they move every single one of his scratches begins to mend, wounds heal and his chakra returns.
Much later, in front of a warm fire and his belly filled with berries, Hashirama asks if it has a name.
The spirit introduces itself as The Wild.
The spirit is a joyful being, races between trees, twirls in the air, seeps into flowers and vines who then lovingly curl around Hashirama and envelop him in a soft cool cocoon that makes his sleep more restful than it's ever been his entire life. It doesn't talk, has no voice, but whenever it brushes against Hashirama's bare skin, his mind is filled with smells, images and distinct impressions of something more.
He doesn't know what The Wild wants from him as it seems endlessly content to just dance with him whenever the mood strikes it, or push him in whatever direction it wants him to go. It shows him roaring waterfalls, trees as thick and wide as entire houses, fields of flowers in full bloom, nesting grounds of various animals.
Some nights he rests near a lake, others on top of a hill, surrounded by lilies or in the midst of a bear family. Time soon loses all meaning as do his memories of family, duty, fighting. Gradually, Hashirama too loses all importance. He no longer has a name, a past or a home outside of the forest that will soon be his.
He simply is, and the spirit is with him.
One morning he wakes to a dull ache in his chest. He inspects his no longer quite as soft skin, pats himself down yet finds nothing out of the ordinary. The spirit flies closer, lingers against his torso, then draws him into a hug and laughs and laughs and laughs.
He has been found worthy.
With each day that passes, the pain grows stronger. He develops a mean cough, has to rest hours at a time since he cannot move anymore. The animals bring him food and when he's too exhausted, carry him to the nearest stream. The spirit lingers, watches and waits.
Eventually, when the sun rises, he does not rise with it. The heart in his chest beats, beats, beats... then stills. Vines and grass rise from the ground to encase his body and form a lush, flower-covered mound of green. Every single animal in the forest gathers around the mound, lays down in a circle, closes its eyes and sleeps. That night, they all share the same dream and it's one nature, life, and the power resting in every single leaf, root and blade of grass as it slowly, bit by bit, slithers closer to the mound and sinks into what rests inside.
When he wakes, he is alone. He immediately realises that he is no longer in his forest. The air smells stale, the trees around his body are too small, the grass not nearly green enough. There are no animals surrounding him, and he feels the glaring absence of the spirit deep in his heart. Except, when he looks down, he does not find his chest as he expected it to be.
Tiny dainty vines poke out from the skin over his heart and when he brushes against them, finds they are impossible to move. They stick to his flesh and emanate a faint viridian glow that feels oddly warm to the touch. He does not worry, panic or fear. The forest has changed him. He is calm as he gets to his feet and unruffled. He cannot find his clothes but doesn't spend much time searching for them either. He thinks of fabric sticking to his body, scratching against skin every time he moves and visibly shudders.
He does not know where he is so he kneels down on the ground once more, presses his forehead onto the grass and spreads his palms. At once, his mind is overcome by a wild mixture of smells, impressions, sounds and images. The ache is immediate yet soothed just as quickly by the gentle steady pulse originating from the growth in his chest.
He is every flower, every animal, every leaf rustling in the wind, can see through the eyes of trees, prey and predator alike. This is wilderness and he is part of it. He picks a direction and begins to walk. He has no destination, only an endless journey. These are his woods and it is his duty to return their power to them, defend his realm, and punish those who harm it. Power rests in his fingertips, given to him by The Wild itself, and though he desires harmony, balance and peace above all else, if tested, he will make use of it.
„Hashirama!“ He does not react at first, only turns around when there are hands on his shoulders. He has felt them follow him for hours, was curious enough to see what they want. This one man with his three children stare at him like they know him. He does not return the sentiment.
„Hashirama, we thought you were dead!“ the eldest exclaims, the one who smells like water, paper and ink.
„Where have you been, son?“ Son, is what the man calls him. He does not recall a family or his own face, had his own name replaced by what has consumed him.
„What... what's that?“ the youngest asks and points at his chest, at the wooden growth hidden underneath skin, flesh and muscle with vines that reach into every part of his body, nourish him, hold the power he was given. The man visibly startles, frowns, then grinds his jaw.
„He is lost to us now,“ he says.
„The forest has claimed him.“ The man is not happy about this, yet accepting. His eldest does not share his opinion.
„What does that mean?“ he demands as he approaches him, digs his fingers into the sides of his neck.
„Wake up, Hashirama! We have to go home!“ With a yelp, the boy is pulled off him by the man and shaken like an unruly bear cub.
„The woods are his home now. He's been chosen. He's the new avatar of The Wild.“ All four stare at him like that means something, likes it's special, like it changes the world. He does not worry about it. He's content to simply be.
The white-haired red-eyed boy, less so.
The child follows him wherever he goes. He does not try to shake it. The boy is graceful and takes great care not to disturb the wildlife around him. He can tolerate that. They don't speak yet as time passes, the boy grows more and more conscious and respectful of the life all around him. He ceases flicking insects off his skin and brushes them off instead. He no longer attempts to hack off branches to make a fire and gathers fallen bits and pieces instead. He doesn't try hunting after the first time he put a stop to it and consumes berries instead.
Every night, he says: „Goodnight, Hashirama.“
The name starts to have meaning again.
Peace is disturbed one day when they run into another child, one with dark hair and eyes that smell of fire and smoke. It tries to attack them yet before it can even move, vines shoot up from the ground and restrain its arms. The boy following him wants to kill it. He steps between them. Life is sacred and to be preserved at all cost. This death isn't necessary. The child's eyes spark with something he cannot put a name on. Upon being released, it lays down its weapons.
„Uchiha,“ the white-haired boy growls in fury and distaste.
„Madara,“ the dark-haired child replies and from that moment on, follows him wherever he goes.
„We should have a place. Where nobody has to fight. No children dying for a reason nobody can even remember.“ It's something the Uchiha says one night which sparks another argument between him and the one called Tobirama. He thinks of the trees that are cut down to make weaponry, the animals that are hunted to feed soldiers, the wide stretches of land that are devastated in the wake of combat.
The growth in his chest pulses and glows brighter. An end to war. The Wild agrees.
None can withstand his might. Some, those who call themselves his brothers, sisters, cousins and kin fall to their knees and whisper old prayers when he passes them in the street. The ones with dark hair, those who attempt to take the life of this one that follows him, spit fire, turn whatever they can find to ash. Madara sheds tears but strikes them down nonetheless.
He begs for one life, and one life only. The one called Izuna is spared and joins his ever growing group of followers.
„A village. What we need is a village.“ And a village they shall get. The Wild pulses, grows and glows in his body.
„I have a proposition you might be interested in.“ He looks at this fiery-haired woman who's all fire, flame, bright hot and glowing like the sun and listens when she tells him of the dark threat hiding beneath the waves to the east. Their union is celebrated weeks later. He may not join her war but heals her soldier's wounds, grants them safe passage through the woods. They may burn, char and destroy, yet treat his lands as the sacred realm they are.
She is just as old as he and the kinship they share feels... nice.
He is nearing the end of his time. It is hard to move, the vines and roots in his body make it hard to. All power comes at a cost and no one is meant to carry The Wild for long. He kisses the forehead of the one who calls him brother, embraces the one who declared himself a sibling in all but blood, presses his young ones to his chest one last time.
Then, he leaves this place of sanctuary he has created for them and wanders into the woods. He walks and walks, never stopping, never pausing even as his steps become slower, his body stiffer. Animals appear from between trees and step out of the shadows as they follow him, guard his final journey.
He walks and walks, never stopping, until he can't anymore. The vines and wood inside his body spread to the outside, curl around his petrified limbs over and over again, hug him like a mother would a child. Roots sprout from his feet and sink into the earth as he keeps growing, changing, until eventually he has become the greatest and mightiest of trees. He breathes the air through his leaves, listens to the world through his roots, lets the birds sing to him.
His friends and family crowd around him, go to their knees, pray and pay their last respects. He linger and rests, allows The Wild to pour from his soul, untangle itself from his very essence to seep back into the wilderness. He has done well. He has done it proud. He deserves to sleep.
So sleep he does.
The world spins and turns as time passes and The Wild is not reclaimed. The forests lose their lush once more as green fades to grey and life is forgotten, forced into exile, abandoned by its people. He was the last of his line, the last in a long string of guardians, and now that he is gone, the power is gone with him.
The forest fades. The lands slumber. The Wild dies.
Until, three hundred years later, there is a girl with honey eyes and pale hair and when she breathes her first, there is a spark, a faint echo of energy that pulses once in a bright clear white. It is not much, barely anything at all, yet it is still enough.
It is the beginning of something new.
It is hope.