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Madara wakes disoriented, with a pounding head and throbbing teeth.
Where…? He squints in the gloom, looking around him. He’s in a small stone room with thin windows letting in ribbons of silvery moonlight. Madara blinks at the dust motes swirling around and reaches out to try and catch one. He raises his hand and it makes a squelch. Blood. There’s also blood in the room. Madara looks down and sees he’s covered in it. That’s…not good. His head is muddy and heavy but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be covered in sticky, congealing blood. Where did it come from? Madara runs his hands over his ruined shirt and pants, but nothing hurts. The blood isn’t his.
“Ugh.” A noise draws his attention. There in the corner is another boy covered in blood just waking up.
Madara stills. He stills so much he stops breathing, his heart stops beating.
That’s bad. Madara jolts and his heart starts pumping again. He can feel it thump against his chest with a shaky wet beat. It’s enough to startle him over the hard stones on his hand and knees, reaching for the other boy.
He jumps when Madara touches his shoulder and then growls . Madara freezes in place as the boy looks at him and wrinkles his nose, lip curling just enough to reveal pointed teeth. After a long minute where he’s sure the other boy is about to surge up and tackle him to the ground, the boy looks away and asks, “Who are you?”
“Madara.” The name rises easily from his muddled mind, but nothing else. Not why they’re here, not who he—Madara—is. “What about…what about you?”
“Hashirama.” Hashirama pushes himself up. The action startles Madara and a hiss builds in his throat before he chokes it down, hoping not to make the odd tension worse. It doesn’t. His and Hashirama’s eyes lock together and hostility starts pouring off Hashirama in waves. “What’s your problem?” Hashirama asks, shoulders tense.
“What’s yours ?!” Madara might not understand why, but he’s not letting Hashirama act like this and bully him around. If he wants to fight, Madara will fight.
Hashirama’s shoulder’s hunch higher around his ears and he breaks first, looking away. “Where are we?” He mutters, pretending like his real plan was to look around and inspect the room all along.
“I don’t know, I just woke up.”
“Why are we covered in blood?” Hashirama grimaces and pulls apart his sticky fingers.
“What part of ‘I just woke up’ don’t you get?” Madara snaps. Hashirama glares and Madara swears his eyes flash bright yellow but then a loud slam echoes somewhere outside the room. Then a steady tap-tap-clack echoes towards them.
Madara and Hashirama share a look. There’s nowhere to hide in the room. It’s nothing but stone, windows, blood, and them. Before Madara can even open his mouth to suggest something, the door opens.
Madara stills enough for his heart to stop again.
Behind the door is a man with skin and hair as white as the moonlight pouring in from the slender windows. Even from this distance, Madara can see his purple glowing eyes and something in his mind whispers— that’s not right. The man is dressed in a fancy waistcoat with a long woolen jacket. A crescent walking staff in hand.
“Finally.” The man walks in and closes the door behind him. Run. Madara’s mind screams. He tries to push himself to his feet, shaky and unsteady, but there’s nowhere to run to. The man blocks their only exit and the windows are too narrow to even think about going out. Around the man is the only way. Madara waits until he takes another step in and then gives in to the instinct to run.
The man catches his arm with ease. Madara tries to tug free but the man won’t even budge. He tightens his hand and Madara winces as it closes around his wrist like a manacle.
“Misbehaving already, Indra?” Indra? Who’s Indra? The man glares down at him and his purple eyes start to spin. Madara feels woozy, the floor starting to roll and writhe underneath him. It stops when Madara lowers his head but the action bares his neck and the skin tingles with exposed vulnerability. He can’t bring himself to look back up at the man. “Come here, Ashura.” Nothing happens. “Ashura!” The man snaps and Madara hears Hashirama’s quiet steps as he approaches. “I won’t have you two fighting this time, do you understand? You’ll get along.” It’s a threat. Madara’s head is throbbing and empty and he knows that’s a threat. “Answer me.” His manacle grip tightens until Madara lets out a wince of pain.
“Yes!” Hashirama is quick to agree.
“Yes,” Madara mutters after him.
“Hmph. Both of you will show me the proper respect and address me as “Father” or “sir”, do you understand?” The man turns Madara’s wrist over until the soft strip of skin with its delicate veins are exposed. Madara’s skin prickles again and he wants to yank his hand back and hiss at the man. He does neither.
“Yes…sir,” Hashirama says.
“Come closer, Ashura,” the man says and then drives one of his pointed nails into Madara’s tender wrist. The pain is sharp and cutting, but nothing towards the instinctual fear that seizes him. Madara’s head snaps up and he yanks with all his might, lips curled and teeth bared as fresh blood trickles down his messy arm. The man doesn’t twitch but Hashirama backs away half a step, hackles raised, his mouth twisted in a similar snarl. “I told you both to get along.” He yanks Madara forward until he stumbles closer to Hashirama.
“Drink,” the man commands, holding his arm out to Hashirama. Both of them stop and stare at him, but Hashirama’s eyes dart quickly back to the sluggish blood dripping down Madara’s arm in rivulets.
“What?” He croaks, but his focus stays on the blood. Madara twists, trying harder to break free but he can’t move. His thrashing does make the blood run faster, slicking down the skin.
“Stop struggling.” The man squeezes his wrist hard enough something pops. “Ashura, do you not like your brother? Is he the wrong one?” The man’s words send a chill down Madara’s spine and he stops struggling. Hashirama’s eyes meet his and as much as his brain screams to run away, to break free and fight Hashirama before he can sink his teeth in, the threat rattles around in his head and stills him.
Do it. Madara mouths to Hashirama.
“N-no, he’s right. He’s the right one.” Hashirama trips over his words and moves forward, still shrinking away from the man and his purple eyes.
“Then drink.” He thrusts Madara’s arm closer and Hashirama reaches for it. His hands are cool against Madara’s flesh, still sticky with the dried blood they woke up in. The man loosens his grip. I could run. The thought flashes through Madara’s head, but the man’s piercing gaze stays him. Something bad would happen if he ran. Something very bad.
Hashirama readjusts his arm and drags his tongue over the bleeding hole. Madara shudders and struggles to keep still. Luckily, Hashirama doesn’t linger and pulls back, even as his hands stay in place. The man scowls and swats him on the back of his head. “Drink , not lick , Ashura.”
Hashirama glares mulishly up at him, but turns back towards Madara before the second blow can come. His brown eyes look apologetic, the first time he’s not been hostile or aggressive, and Madara holds onto that thought as he seals his lips over the bleeding hole and sucks.
It’s uncomfortable, the press and pinch, Madara holding his arm up at an awkward position–and then Hashirama opens his mouth to bite.
Madara can see the glint of sharp teeth, feel the difference as Hashirama’s mouth moves against his arm. The urge to fight bubbles up stronger in him–he’ll tear Hashirama a new one and make him regret–
“Enough.” The man yanks him back by his ruined collar. Hashirama’s mouth is a mess of blood and his eyes flash yellow as he curls his lip and hisses. The man is not impressed. “Control yourself, Ashura. Now you.” He turns towards Madara as his grip switches from Hashirama’s collar to his wrist. Madara’s not surprised when his sharp nail digs in and now their positions are reversed–Madara to drink from Hashirama’s arm.
He moves forward without the man’s prompting and Hashirama willingly offers him his arm. Madara seals his mouth over the weeping blood and thinks– ah that’s why Hashirama wanted to bite. His head and teeth have been pounding since he woke up in this strange place, but the blood is a balm. Hot and wet, Madara doesn’t realize how dry his throat was until he starts to drink. The ache in his teeth worsens as the blood flow slows. Madara sucks on the skin hard enough to bruise, desperate for a few last drops.
“Indra.” The man’s voice is a warning. Reluctantly, Madara pulls away. Hashirama watches him closely, eyes flickering to yellow and back. Are eyes supposed to do that? Madara can’t remember. “There. I expect you two to get along now. Any fighting will be punished. Severely.” His ringed eyes pin both of them to the spot. “Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” Madara and Hashirama both mutter.
“Now clean yourselves up, you both look appalling. Zetsu will show you to your rooms.” At the sound of its name, a creature melts from the shadows. Hashirama and Madara jump. The creature–and Madara thinks it must be a creature, not a man even with his hazy mind–is stark white. It stands upright like a person, but its skin is the wrong texture–almost rough and grainy–and it’s so emaciated that it can’t possibly be alive. Sharp fangs protrude from its mouth, but its eyes are hollow and lifeless. “If you two misbehave, you’ll find yourself like Zetsu here. Let that be your single warning. Zetsu.” He turns with a flourish, cane rapping against the ground.
“Yes, Master Hagoromo.” Zetsu bows and ushers them out after him. Madara glares at Hagoromo’s back as he disappears down the long stone hallway. He’s so focused on Hagoromo, that he startles when Hashirama presses up against his shoulder.
“Do you think…these doors all have people behind them?” Hashirama looks at him and gestures towards the long hall full of identical closed doors. Theirs is the only one open. Zetsu leads them the opposite way Hargoromo is walking. No matter how hard Madara strains his ears he can’t hear anything beyond. And he remembers how bloody the room was they both woke up in. He pushes his shoulder hard against Hashirama’s in turn.
Zetsu leads them down a set of narrow stairs, away from the dreadful hall and its identical doors. The hall below is long and drafty, but a considerable improvement. His and Hashirama’s bare feet slap loudly against the cold echoing stone. Candles are mounted high on the walls, their flickering light dispelling the creeping darkness.
“Master Hagoromo is a traditionalist,” Zetsu giggles and it’s creepy to hear that sound come from its mouth. “Here is your room, Young Master Ashura. And yours is across the hall, Young Master Indra. There is water and basins for you to bathe and new clothes to replace your rags. I’ll collect you in eight hours for your next meal.” Zetsu gives a half-hearted bow to them before turning to melt into the nearby wall. I don’t think that’s normal. It’s a gut instinct but Zetsu and normal seem to be polar opposites.
“Your father is strange,” Hashirama says. He’s still pressed tight to Madara, not moving towards the large ornate door. It’s wooden like the others, but the handle is shiny, there’s some kind of carving along the stone archway.
“My father? I thought he was yours,” Madara fires back but doesn’t move away from Hashirama either.
“I don’t think so. My name isn’t Ashura. I…I know that, but other things are muddied. Do you remember anything outside of this place?” Madara’s tempted to lie and say he does, just to have some control over this situation, but the naked fear in Hashirama’s voice stops him.
“No. Just blurs.” If he concentrates on it, everything slips away. Madara is left feeling like he should remember something, surely boys don’t just wake up in stone rooms covered in blood for no reason…but the memories disappear like smoke. If he doesn’t force it, he gets half-remembered bits. He's sure his name is Madara, not Indra. Hagoromo isn’t his father–a haze of black eyes and hair flashes too quick for him to grasp. He doesn’t recognize this place and regardless of what Zetsu said he’s positive that isn’t his room.
“Yeah, me too,” Hashirama says with a sigh of relief. “So he’s not your Father?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So we’re not brothers either?”
“No. I don’t remember you even–even in the blurry memories.” And he would never forget his brother…he hopes. Does Madara even have a brother?
“Me neither. So that Hagoromo guy thinks we are, but we’re not…what happens if he realizes the truth?” Hashirama whispers.
“Well, he won’t if you don’t tell him.” Unspoke is how bad an idea it’d be if either of them did. Hagromo’s– Is he the wrong one? –dances in his head. Madara finally pulls away from Hashirama and stalks towards his door. He reaches out and pushes it open and it swings smoothly without a squeak.
“Ma–” He shuts the door before Hashirama can get his name out.
The sight inside is…strange.
In the very center of the room, the stone floor rises up in a heavy slab with more intricate carvings on the four stairs it takes to climb up it. And on top of the slab is a bed. With a lid. That’s a coffin. Madara thinks as a flash of a small, dingier version flashes in his mind. This one, however, is as fancy as the door. It’s big, the size for an adult, not a child. The box part is a pure glossy black, so shiny it’s almost like a mirror.
Inside the box, the coffin is lined with plush red cloth. Madara itches to reach out and touch it but his hands are a mess and it looks like it’d stain. He backs away from it–the handle to pull it down and filigree on the box are gold, real gold maybe–and steps down off the stairs. The rest of the room is more decorated compared to the first one he woke up in, but not by much. There are two tall-backed chairs in a corner, a lavish blue rug underneath them and half-full bookshelves pressed back against the walls. Madara wanders over to inspect their spines, but the words are gibberish. Besides the bookshelves, there are a few painted wooden trunks, fancy and elaborate as anything else here. More flecks of gold glimmer in the paint and Madara longs to grab it and scrape as much of it as he can off and then run far, far away.
Instead, he beats down the strange impulse and tries to lift the lid of the trunk with his less bloody arm. Children’s toys stare back at him. Most pristine, but there’s a worn pony or two. Something squirms in his gut–the real Indra’s toys?–and he carefully shuts the lid and backs away.
The second half of the room is less immediately personalized. A large, dominating fireplace sits in the corner. Clothing chests and wardrobes line the walls, a vanity with an actual, not cracked mirror opposite of them. Madara startles at his reflection and races closer to the glass to get a look. He’s as white as Hagoromo’s moonlit skin. Black eyes stare back at him and give him some relief, but the purple bags under his eyes and the paper-thin skin showing snaky blue veins do not. It’s him but…wrong. His sharp teeth catch the candlelight and gleam. Madara skitters away, perturbed and wishes there’s a cloth of some kind to drape over the entire thing. He turns away from the mirror, unsettled.
Madara stumbles towards the last piece of furniture, a small table to the side of the vanity with a large basin, pitcher, and cloth next to it. Steam still rises up from the water, curling through the air. It’s enough to take his mind off the mirror.
Hot water. Madara can’t remember why but the idea of bathing with hot water… It’s a luxury. He strips out of his nasty torn clothes and dunks the cloth in the water. There’s a soapstone next to it too. Madara runs the cloth over his skin, scrubbing until the palest pink flush can be seen and the water blooms red. He picks up the soapstone next, running it all over before he wipes the suds away with the cloth.
Naked and now slightly chilly, Madara wanders towards the wardrobe and pokes through it for something to wear. Most of the clothes are old and musty. The moths haven’t gotten to them yet, but it smells like they should have. They’re also too big. For a man, not a boy.
How old was Indra? Madara glances at the adult-sized coffin and then the chest of worn children’s toys on the opposite side of the room.
This…this is wrong. Hagoromo shouldn’t be mistaking him and Hashirama for his sons. How could you mix up kids like that? How could you not remember anything before waking up covered in blood? Madara’s mind taunts in return. He has no answer to that. None at all.
Restless, he pulls out a long cotton nightshirt and puts it on. Parts stick to his damp skin and Madara plucks at them angrily. The thing is huge on him, the hem reaches to his ankles and the shoulders are halfway down his arm.
And I guess that’s where I sleep? Madara slicks his wet hair back out of his face and hesitantly approaches the coffin. Not even blurs of memory are left to help him. He extinguishes the candles in the room, each tiny flight flickering out until the room is dark except for the slivers of moonlight from the tall, thin windows. None of the light falls on the coffin or the path to the door.
With a bit of floundering, Madara manages to crawl into the coffin. It’s…weird, he decides. Very weird, but soft. On the lid above him is a glint of metal, something he missed looking at it before. Madara reaches up to run his hand over it and he realizes it’s part of a strap. To pull the coffin’s lid down from the inside.
It’s bright in the room, even with only the moonlight pouring in, he’d hate to imagine how it’d be with sunlight. Madara tugs on the strap and the lid slides closed without a single creak. True utter darkness descends over him and his eyelids grow heavy. Sleep pulls him under with ease, despite the strangeness of his situation.
Madara jolts awake sometime later when a thud sounds on the coffin’s lid.
“Hey!” Hashirama’s whispered voice filters down. “Open up.”
Madara hisses but presses on the top of the lid. It rises up in the same fluid motion, revealing Hashirama. He’s dressed similarly to Madara but his nightshirt completely dwarfs him. He’s holding onto it with one hand to keep the neckline from falling to his sternum. Clearly, it was made for a bigger, broad-shouldered adult.
“What do you want?” The room is still soaked in silvery moonlight. It can’t have been more than an hour or two since Madara went to sleep.
“Yours fits better.” Hashirama points to his nightshirt. “Where’d you get it?”
Before Madara can tell him to shove it, he’s darting away towards his wardrobe.
“Hey!” Madara sits up and yells as Hashirama tears through his–Indra’s–clothes and pulls out a smaller nightshirt. Hashirama strips his off and shimmies into the stolen one with no shame and trots back to stand in front of Madara’s coffin. He grins. Madara glares back.
And glares even harder when Hashirama leans close and says, “Move over, I’m getting in.”
“No, you’re–bastard!” Madara pushes him but Hashirama still shoves himself inside. The coffin is big enough for an adult and technically two kids even if they’d be cramped against the edges, but Hashirama ignores the obviously polite thing to do. Instead, he throws one arm over Madara’s chest and scoots closer until they’re pressed tight together.
“What. Are. You. Doing.”
“I don’t want to sleep in some creepy coffin by myself,” Hashirama says, the obviously clearly implied.
“So you want to sleep in a creepy coffin with me?” Neither of them has closed the lid yet, so Madara can still turn his head and glare at Hashirama.
“Better you than Hagoromo or Zetsu.” Hashirama shudders and somehow manages to worm his way even closer. Any more and he’ll be on top of Madara completely.
“You did not like me an hour ago and now you want to be all buddy-buddy?”
“Hey, you woke up first, for all I knew you were part of…this.” Hashirama flicks his hand. Madara grumbles but that’s not the worst reasoning in the world. “I was confused and upset and you smelled bad.”
“Excuse me, you weren’t smelling like roses either.” Madara shoves his shoulder. Hashirama only tightens his grip.
“No, it wasn’t the ‘being covered in dried blood’ bit…though that was pretty weird. You just smelled bad and it was so irritating but then when, you know,” Hashirama clears his throat, fist clenching and unclenching in Madara’s nightshirt.
“Hagoromo made us drink each other’s blood?” Madara offers acidly. Another thing he couldn’t remember in any of the memory blurs. Was that normal or not? He would guess it’s not.
“Yeah, that. Afterward…you don’t smell bad anymore. You kinda, um, smell good. Comforting,” Hashirama whispers and tucks his head against Madara’s shoulder.
Madara doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know why faint heat rises in his cheeks and spreads out.
“Yeah, well…” he fumbles and reluctantly wraps an arm around Hashirama. “You don’t smell bad either.
They drift into silence. After a minute or two, when Madara reaches up to pull the coffin lid down, Hashirama speaks again.
“I’m…scared, Madara. Of Hagoromo, Zetsu, this place, why we’re here.” Madara’s fingers brush the loop and he tugs it down, sealing them away.
“Me too.” He angles himself towards Hashirama. He can’t see him in the dark now, but he can feel Hashirama’s breath on his neck. Madara holds Hashirama tight and lets himself feel a fraction of the overwhelming fear and confusion of the situation. But…they’re together. And Hashirama might still be a stranger but…maybe Madara can trust him. Maybe everything will be alright if they stick together.