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He grunts as his feet impact the ground, chakra pooling to help absorb the shock, knees bending to cushion his landing. Izuna, a step behind him, lands just as easily, well-practiced in their routines. They’ve done this so many times now, can run the border of the Uchiha lands with their eyes closed if they wanted to.
Letting the tension uncoil from his shoulders now that they are safely behind their walls, the feel of his clan’s chakra surrounding him like gentle hearth fires, he reaches up and pulls his gunbai off his back, flexing his shoulders to release some of the ache of carrying the weapon for so long.
“I need a bath,” Izuna mutters, staring down at his mud spattered pants and sandals. A misjudged step on unassuming leaf litter had left him wet and mud spattered for most of their patrol. Madara had almost fallen from his perch in the tree, he laughed so hard. Needless to say, he’s going to keep one eye open tonight. He knows Izuna, and like all little brothers, they know very creative ways to get revenge.
They’re nearly home, the house in sight, when a sour note enters his mind, a hint of worry and desperation kept barely in check by a will of iron and he turns instinctively, eyes seeking out the one who is giving off such negative feelings.
Kaya, a distant cousin, and one of their best smiths, is approaching with purposeful strides and a face twisted with worry. Madara lets her approach, “Cousin, what’s wrong?” he asks, not doubting something has happened. He isn’t clan head yet, but his people act like it anyways. His people love him, they know him and he will always listen to them.
“Madara-sama, I’m sorry to disturb you after you only just returned,” she murmurs as she wrings her hands. He nods for her to continue, “You…you wouldn’t have happened to have seen Akane while you were on patrol?” she asks quickly and Madara brings up the memory of a smiling young girl, quick to laugh and always wanting to help. She’d only just started to take courier missions for the clan, finally old enough and skilled enough to be let away from the compound by herself.
Slowly, Madara shakes his head, “No, we didn’t cross paths, but we didn’t run into any other patrols either,” he adds. They usually don’t since just the two of them can move faster than a full patrol. “Was she supposed to be coming back?”
She nods, “She was tasked with delivering the message to the Tsuchina Clan for our order of ore. She should have been back hours ago and none of the other patrols have seen her. I…I’m worried something has happened,” she admits.
“We’ll go look for her,” he decides and relief blooms on her face. He looks to Izuna and his brother nods, strapping his blade back around his waist as he slings his gunbai back over his shoulder. “Which route did she take?” he asks.
“She usually follows the river north and then heads east once she reaches the small island with the pines,” she details and he nods, knowing what island she speaks of.
Gripping her shoulder silently to comfort her, he steps back and they leave at a run. There are so many reasons why she’s late. Maybe the Tsuchina Clan asked her to a meal. They’re always welcoming, always shoving food at visitors. A twisted ankle could have slowed her or she was forced to hide from passing enemies.
Or she’s been caught, killed, kidnapped. So many things could happen to a child caught by enemies and with her blood, bloodline thieves must always be taken into account. He would be foolish to not consider the possibility and he swallows as he jumps from tree to tree.
Izuna is a silent shadow next to him, more than likely thinking the same thoughts. It will be a miracle if she is unharmed and they’re both already bracing for the worst. He hates that he can’t be optimistic about this.
He throws his senses out in a wide net, hoping to pick up on her chakra signature, looking, begging silently, to see the tiny flame that is Akane in his mind. Please kami, let them not be too late.
They’ve turned east, pushing hard, skirting just an hour north of the Senju Clan’s border when he feels it and his heart stops. He knows the feel of this chakra, has felt it on the battle ground between their clans: the cold deep still water, but with the hidden torrent of a placid river.
He feels a spark of rage building in his chest, that a Senju, that Hashirama’s brother, would have killed her is abhorrent. He braces on his next landing and pushes himself harder, faster, Izuna barely able to keep up. There are no other signatures nearby, just the one and his heart bleeds.
He expects the Senju to feel them, knows the man is a sensor like him, but the chakra point doesn’t move. He slows as they near, not wanting to go into this blind, but already he can smell the sharp tang of Katon jutsus and blood. If Senju Tobirama hasn’t noticed them yet, he will soon.
They land and his eyes whirl to life, the shadowed clearing coming into hyper focus, what little moonlight there is becoming nearly as bright as day as he steps into the clearing, eyes zeroing in on the pale figure in the clearing…and he freezes, Izuna’s sharp breath the only sound to be heard.
The signs of battle are stark across the clearing: black scorch marks, disturbed earth and the humidity of water hanging in the air and the dead litter the ground like trash. The center of the clearing is clear though, but for the two figures there. Akane, kami no, is still on the ground, pierced through the gut, eyes open and staring at nothing.
Tobirama is beside her, kneeling next to her, hand gripping hers tightly, as still as a statue as he stares down at her. He takes in a soft inhale, only his Sharingan noticing the faint shudder in his frame, and then the statue moves, a hand reaching up to close her eyes as he crosses her arms.
A faint tremor in his hands is the only sign of disquiet in the normally stoic man. They clench, just enough to stop the tremor and then he looks up, right at them…and he’ll never be able to unsee the guilt and grief in those eyes, the barely held together pieces of a man broken by war.
A flinch as his eyes flick down instinctively after years of fighting Uchiha, and he moves, jumping back, putting space between them. He follows the man’s path, but neither he nor Izuna move, still caught up in the scene they just came upon.
Izuna is the first to rally, anger sparking, a roaring inferno in his senses and he watches the flinch, barely concealed but Madara is watching, sees the ways his eyes are wide, knuckles white where they’re fisted by his side. “Did you do this Senju?” Izuna demands, voice trembling in his anger.
He sees the way red eyes flick to Akane, to Izuna, to Madara, the paleness of his already pale skin, dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the almost fragile quality to his chakra, like one wrong move will shatter the ice he seems to have made himself into.
And he knows, knows without actually seeing it, that Tobirama didn’t do this to Akane. He can’t say how he does, but he’s learned to trust his gut. It told him he could trust Hashirama when they met as children and still insisted he could trust the idiot, even when they battled so often. “Izuna,” he murmurs: a command and a reminder of why they’re here. Izuna turns to look at him and he sees the way Tobirama shifts further back but doesn’t leave, not yet. His brother must see something in his gaze because his shoulders sag, the strings cut and his chakra diminishes to the embers of grief.
He looks back at Tobirama who is still inching back and he asks the only thing he can, “Why?”
Tobirama freezes in his tracks, surprised by his words more than anything. He watches the thoughts play across his face, as he tries to figure out what to say before he finally speaks, voice soft and hesitant, an echo of old grief underlying each word, “I wasn’t fast enough to save my brothers,” he murmurs. “They died, alone and afraid, far from home, surrounded by their killers. I…I couldn’t…I wasn’t fast enough.”
Before either of them can react, he turns and in a blur of speed, shunshins from the clearing. Madara senses his path until he passes the Senju border and then turns back to the tragedy at hand. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice husky with grief.
Pulling the blade from Akane’s too small body, he picks her up, cradling her in his arms. With a muffled yell, Izuna strikes a tree, leaving a small crater in its bark. Madara looks down at the scattered corpses, noting the Fuuma Clan symbol sewn into the armor. Grinding his teeth, he turns away. That is something for another day. Right now, he has a child, a cousin, to return home, one last time.
“Let’s go,” he says softly. Izuna follows him silently as they retrace their steps.
The first patrol spots them and stares silently, eyes wide with grief, soft cries escaping at the sight of the child in his arms. He sees the bloody retribution in their eyes and shakes his head no at them, not now. “Finish your patrol and then return home,” he orders and they nod, because before they can get their revenge, first they must grieve.
Others spot them and he orders the same. Kaya is waiting by the gate as they return. Her wail at the sight of her child, dead in his arms, resounds throughout the compound, the clan coming at the sound of such profound grief. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to her, tears flowing freely. “I’m so sorry.” She clings to Akane’s body, pulling her from Madara’s hold and rocking her back and forth, sobbing and all he can do is apologize, over and over. Why is it always the children that must pay the price?
~*~
The first time he comes across the heads of bloodline thieves stacked on a spike, he’s not sure what he feels. He studies the heads absently, noting the clean cuts on their necks: someone skilled with a blade took them in one swipe. The looks of shock on their faces are evident that they were taken by surprise.
The Heguchi Clan symbol on their armored, and headless bodies, is evidence enough of what they were. The Heguchi are mercenaries that specialized in hunting bloodline shinobi. They are fast, ruthless and are particularly well known to target clan children when they are far from home.
Lazily watching the crows circling the already ripe smelling dead flesh, he turns away, signaling the patrol to follow. Someone is making an example, a very loud example. He approves.
~*~
When a patrol stumbles upon the bodies of their clan, dead and left where they fell, he feels a spark of anger. When they tell him who it is that is dead, he falters. He hated the idea of child hunters, no matter that they went after his enemies. Children shouldn’t be killed just for being born to the wrong clan, no matter who their parents are.
These Uchiha though, he remembers the stories they would tell in the night, not realizing he was listening. He remembers the joy in their voices as they recounted killing Senju children, running them to ground like wolves on a hunt. Remembers one story told, of a boy, barely ten cornered and left to rot for his family to find. He’d been sickened by them, shinobi so desensitized to the violence that they felt nothing for taking the life of a child.
He’d ordered them to stop hunting when Tajima had passed, secure in his position as Clan Head. It seems they decided to take back up their old work, despite his orders. A note is handed to him with only three words written on it in precise brush strokes: No more children.
He orders their funerals, and while he regrets the loss of life, he doesn’t regret the old stain on their clan’s honor being burned away once and for all. He tucks the note away for later contemplation and heads out to console his grieving clan, ideas whirling through his head.
~*~
The battle rages around them, Hashirama not attacking seriously, though neither of them are. Their old friendship still clouds the air between them, the thought of ‘what if things had been different’ staying their hands more than anything.
He jumps back to avoid a burst of roots, eyes quickly scanning the battlefield. Izuna is off to the side, fighting against Tobirama. Hikaku is fighting a Senju woman, her naginata keeping him at a distance, neither giving ground. His clan is scattered, embroiled in their own fights.
Something draws his gaze back to Izuna, to the flash of silver steel and pale white as Tobirama wields his blade against his brother. He senses it before he hears it: a spike of fear so strong, it makes him stagger. He sees Tobirama’s head snap up, red eyes searching and widening as he himself turns to see what has happened.
He can only watch in horror, the world slowing around him as only the Sharingan allows, seeing in perfect clarity as Butsuma, eyes wide with mad triumph, brings his blade down on Daisuke, the boy pinned by the boulder at his back, eyes wide in fright.
He almost misses it, would have if his Sharingan wasn’t activated. Watches the lone kunai come sailing through the air between them and suddenly, a flash of white and then the ring of steel as two blades meet in a resounding crash.
Tobirama is between Butsuma and Daisuke and Madara blinks, glancing back to see Izuna’s stunned expression, blade red with more blood than a simple slash would cause and he looks back to see red seeping from the paler man’s back where Izuna’s blade sank home.
He hears Butsuma’s yell, “What is the meaning of this?” his eyes sparking with rage at his son.
Tobirama settles into a better stance, shaking his head, “No more,” and Madara realizes just how quiet the world has become, the fighting coming to a halt, all eyes on this confrontation between father and son.
“Either kill the boy, or stand aside,” is barked out, the man’s chakra lashing like a whip.
“He’s a medic,” comes the albino’s exclamation as he holds his position.
“He is our enemy,” Butsuma snarls back and his sword lashing out, Tobirama knocking it aside.
“If you kill him, you leave our own medics to their mercy. They’re not fighters,” he tries again and Madara can see the frantic beating of the pulse at his neck, can see the blood spilling from his wound, and knows the man is dying, even as he stands as a wall between his father and his enemy.
“Either his blood will spill or yours will for this treason,” Butsuma howls, lunging for Tobirama.
“Tobirama!” Hashirama yells next to him and he’s been so caught up in what has happened in just a matter of seconds that he forgot the man was there. He watches as his once friend runs, putting everything he has into moving, to protect his brother from his father but even Madara can see he won’t make it in time.
“No,” Tobirama whispers and the ring of swords clashing sounds again as he fights Butsuma.
He’s almost surprised when the wooden pillar surges from the ground, halting Butsuma’s triumphant roar as he lunges for the opening as Tobirama winces in pain. Hashirama comes upon him with righteous anger on his face and killing intent seeping from ever move he makes and even Madara shivers, realizing that this is what he would have faced, had they fought for real.
“Tobirama, enough,” Hashirama orders his brother, hand stilling his struggle to rise, “As eldest, this is my fight.”
“Anija,” the man clutches his stomach, red staining his pale hand as he pants in pain.
“Rest,” Hashirama whispers and he steps forward, towards Butsuma.
“You will do as you are ordered,” Butsuma is shaking with rage at the defiance of his sons.
“No more children,” Hashirama says softly and clearly and Madara starts, recalling a note, months before, carefully tucked away in his desk, a reminder to not become his father and knows that it was Hashirama or Tobirama whole killed his clan members.
“Then you are weak.” The man’s hatred bleeds through and Madara bristles at the tone, knows what this man is capable of.
“If I’m so weak, why do you fear me, father?” Hashirama asks softly, taking a step closer, killing intent rising and Butsuma takes a step back, fear blooming in his eyes and then he rallies, pushing the fear aside and readies himself. “I had hoped you would at least see reason on this.”
“They are the enemy, no matter what age they are. To show them mercy now is to allow them to stab you in the back later on,” Butsuma screams, spittle escaping his mouth at the force of his voice.
“Maybe, but I won’t become a child hunter for you,” Hashirama declares and the two clash. The fight is over in seconds. For all Butsuma’s hold over his clan, he was never as strong as his son, could never stand up to such a force of nature. He falls with hatred and fear in his eyes as Hashirama turns away, shoulders heavy with grief but mouth firm in his resolve.
And then the man’s eyes land on Tobirama and all the fight leaves him, rushing up to his brother. Madara looks as well, sees Daisuke determinedly trying to heal the Senju, another child, a Senju medic, next to him, ignoring the weak attempts to make them stop.
“Tobirama, you’re going to be okay,” Hashirama cries out as Tobirama weakly looks up at his brother, already pale skin nearly translucent with blood loss, veins standing out under his skin. “Tobirama, just hang on,” he cries, hands clutching his brother as the man begins to tilt, unable to hold himself up, eyes fluttering closed.
“No, no, come on, you can’t do this,” Hashirama cries desperately and Madara’s heart clenches, knows the pain he is feeling. “I can’t do this without you,” he pleads, hands reaching desperately towards his brother’s abdomen, glowing green as he shoves the children out of the way, pressing his hands to the bloody wound. “You will not die!” he yells, the glow growing brighter as he pushes more and more chakra into the healing. “Please,” he cries softly, tears running down his face.
The battle field is silent, listening to the desperate pleas of the new Senju Clan head as he leans over his brother. “No, come on, you will fight, damn it!” he yells.
The Senju woman with the naginata comes up, dropping her weapon to pull at the man’s arms. “Enough Hashirama,” she whispers, voice broken. “Enough.”
“No,” Hashirama shakes his head. “He never gave up on me; I won’t give up on him.”
“He’s gone,” she hisses, tears flowing just as freely.
The glow fades, sobs shaking the man’s shoulders as he clenches his hands in bloodstained armor. “No,” he moans softly, hunching over his brother, the woman following.
Tears prick his own eyes and he turns away, looking at Izuna as his brother comes up to him, shock still on his face as he stares down at his sword, coated in Tobirama’s blood. “Wait!” someone whispers and he turns around to see Daisuke bent over Tobirama’s head, ear pressed close to the man’s mouth. “He’s still breathing,” he says, eyes wide.
“What?” Hashirama sits up. Shaky hands reach up, pressing trembling fingers to his brother’s throat, feeling for a pulse. “Oh gods,” he cries, reaching to tug the paler man into his arms, “Thank you,” he whispers, over and over again, shoulders shaking again with relief.
Madara sighs faintly in relief and sees it on Izuna’s face as well. “Let’s go,” he orders to his brother, looking at his clan members and nodding for them to follow.
“Madara,” Hashirama calls out and he turns to look at his once friend. “We can change it,” he says, tears still flowing.
Madara looks to his brother. He looks to each of his clan members, seeing the exhaustion written on their faces. He recalls a child, dying, scared and alone and comforted by a man that is his enemy. He recalls a note, a reminder and a threat in once sentence. No more children.
He looks at Hashirama, the man unflinching in his beliefs, never afraid to look him in the eyes, despite most fearing his clan’s gaze. “Perhaps it is time we stopped fighting long enough to give each other time to heal…and discuss where our future will lead,” he says with a nod and turns away.
Izuna falls into his usual spot on his right, Hikaku on his left. The clan follows close behind and they depart the battle field. He has many things he needs to look into. He needs to speak with his brother, the Elders, the clan as a whole. This can’t be his decision alone, despite many in his clan expecting him to make the decision for them. He will not be his father or the Clan Heads that came before him.
But for a moment, he can feel hopeful, that maybe, just maybe, change can happen.
~*~
The river is as he remembers it, their little oasis of solitude and happy memories washing over him. Those months here with Hashirama had been a balm on his soul that he hadn’t known he needed. The only taint being the final day they were friends.
Reaching down, he picks up a stone and flicks it across the river, the rock skipping before clattering against the far side. He can’t help but smirk.
“I see you took my advice to heart,” Hashirama says, stepping from under the shade of the trees to look at his onetime friend.
“Please, I would have gotten it eventually,” Madara scoffs, falling back into old patterns he thought long forgotten. With a scowl, he smooths his face back to blankness, “Why are you here Hashirama?” he demands.
“I could ask the same thing of you,” he counters, his frame at ease, unlike the last time he saw the man, three days before.
“How is your brother?” he finally asks as the silence goes on, only the gurgling of the river and the chatter of birds breaking it.
Hashirama smiles like a man that has been given everything he could have ever asked for, “He woke up a few hours ago,” he proclaims, sounding relieved.
“That’s good,” Madara says, looking away.
“Do you still dream of our village?” Hashirama asks out of the blue.
“What?” he asks caught off guard.
“Our village where children can live without having to die in battle. I think about it every day,” he admits. “I wish I could have built it to save my brothers…and yours as well.”
“You can’t mean that,” Madara grumbles, more to be contrary than because he disbelieves him.
“I do mean it though, a place where everyone could live in peace. It is what I want more than anything. I would die to achieve it and I would die to protect it,” he says with complete sincerity.
Madara stares at his once friend and feels his heart beat heavily in his chest. “Isn’t it time we put something good into this world, rather than more death? We have the power between us to change it. I can’t do it alone.”
He skips a stone across the river and Madara catches it by reflex. “You once skipped stones with me, despite knowing who I was, who my clan was, because we shared an idea. All I ask is that you allow our clans a chance to build something good. Isn’t that worth more than anything?” he asks.
Madara looks down at the stone and sees three words written on it. No more children.
Clenching it into his fist, he looks up at his onetime friend and feels a spark of hope building in his chest. “I can try,” he says with a nod.
“That’s all I ask,” Hashirama says with a grin.
End.