Chapter Text
Samurai
He doesn’t get a fair trial. He was never going to get a fair trial. There is no way to have one, not when he’s all alone on the floor, on his knees, and the thoughts in his head aren’t his own.
(You’re a failure, Izuna, it hisses, deep in his brain, and he remembers the feelings more than the words.)
His clan, the Uchiha, were meant for so much more, for glory, for battle, for life. The valley and it’s fertile soil should have been theirs for the taking, the Senju crushed beneath their heel. Madara spoke though of peace in hushed whispers to him, his brother, but hushed whispers spoke back to him in the night.
(Take what is yours. You are the heir, it reminds him, and at first he thinks it could just be an accident.)
“One attempted poisoning,” Madara says, and Izuna knows that his lips aren’t blue, knows that it didn’t work, but it would have been so easy if it had.
(You can blame somebody else this way, these are Senju herbs.)
“Three arrows in the back,” Madara says, and Izuna doesn’t blink. Not one of them stuck deep enough. He was still hesitant.
(A hunting accident, a slip of the hand, nobody can blame you.)
“You tried to cut my throat while I was sleeping,” Madara says, and his voice is a harsh whisper. There is a tittering of voices around the room, all the officials of course. The elders, the witness for the Daimyo, the looming darkness in the shadows.
Izuna laughs, a bubbling giggle rapidly turning into a ragged, manic roar.
“You think this is funny?” Madara whispers, his face is guarded, but Izuna knows this must hurt. He wants it to hurt.
( Hurt him like he hurt you.)
No, it’s not funny, but it’s better to laugh than to cry.
“You’ve won Madara, you beat me and you found out, but I need you to do one more thing for me,” Izuna says. “If you ever loved me, you’ll take my eyes and you’ll put our enemy in their place.”
Hushed whispers break out in the room, but Izuna pays them no mind, he no longer cares if their traditions travel back to the capital, Madara will be more feared than ever, and fear is better than love in the Land of Fire. The elders should know better than to interfere now, only words of encouragement should be offered to Madara, he is the one they put their faith in now.
Izuna is a traitor.
With one last act, he’ll give his brother all his memories and well wishes and all of his dreams. With one last act he will fulfil all of his duties. With one last act, he’ll be his mother’s child, and all of the Land of Fire will see their mon switched in silk and feel nothing but dread.
“Why?” Somebody asks, and Izuna doesn’t need to turn away from Madara to know. It’s Hikaku, his trusted friend, his honoured general.
(His loyalty is to Madara, not to you, it cries—it always cries.)
Izuna lies. “I had to know which one of us was stronger.”
He doesn’t know why he says that, he just knows that the truth isn’t an answer he can put into words. That every decision Madara makes, pushing peace on them, letting Hashirama evade otherwise lethal attacks, telling Izuna that they really could be better off.
Madara can’t see, can’t see that they’ll be pushed around and broken and one day forgotten if they accept Hashirama’s hand. He shines like the sun and they will be eclipsed by godlike reverence, and nothing will be like it should. Like it was always meant to be.
Izuna can see so clearly, and Madara will too, if only he takes his eyes.
“It’s you, please, you must Madara, or all of me will die in vain,” Izuna is kneeling in seiza on the floor when Madara joins him. Knees to knees.
He leans in close, and it’s a pantomime on an embrace, because he’s untying the wire that holds Izuna’s hands behind his back.
“Please, take them, and let a part of me live on while the rest of me dies.”
“Are you not my brother?” Madara asks, whispering in his ear as he takes Izuna’s hands in his and brings them back to rest on his knees.
“I still am,” Izuna answers, in the smallest voice, he does not allow himself to cry, he will not weep any tears of salt water today.
(This was for your own good, all of it was for you, for us, for her.)
Madara does not say that brothers do not do this. This is a cutthroat world, and brothers absolutely do this. Sons even more so. They say that Hashirama committed patricide, Izuna is only less because he failed.
“You are guilty of treason, for attempting to slay your clan head. You will receive death,” Madara’s hands don’t shake when he pushes Izuna’s hair back from his face.
He draws a kunai from his obi and allows Izuna to hold it, Madara’s hand wrapped around his, just like when he first showed him how to hold one properly.
Izuna is the younger brother after all.
“We are not Samurai, we are Shinobi. There will be no poem, no last words, there will be no suicide here. I will take your eyes, and then your life for your betrayal.”
Izuna does not bow, does not gulp, or swallow, or beg, this is no mercy, this… is all part of the plan.
He does cry in the end, tears mixed with blood so nobody in that room will have the right to say that he did. Still, silent he remains.
The kunai is for his eyes. The tanto is for his neck. He cannot see, but when Madara stands and fists his hand into his hair to hold him still, he feels.
When the blade exit it’s sheath and it’s naked steel cuts the air; he hears.
In the moment when the steel bites flesh and the blood begins to run, bubbling up in the back of his throat, he tastes.
—
And when Madara opens his eyes the next day. He knows.