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There's a certain life to the wind. She speaks to those who listen, and in this case, she has spoken to Tobirama. She whispers to him as he sits outside in small phrases; puzzle pieces for him to put together.
Don't you miss the peace? The wind whispers. Tobirama does, but he is not about to admit that to some spirit that he is half sure isn't even real. He doesn't say anything to anyone. Not Hashirama, who he's sure would fret and try to help him.
Whatever that help would be, Tobirama does not want to know.
So he does not tell Hashirama. Father is an immediate cross-off, and thus all of his advisors are out, too. Beyond the problem of choosing a person to speak his problems to, there is yet another trouble in his way.
What would he say?
The wind has been whispering to me, maybe. But all that would strike would be disloyalment to his culture, to the kami that surround Tobirama's people. That is not what Tobirama wants, and so he decides against that particular phrasing.
I think I am going crazy. Somehow, no matter the soul, his words would echo back to his older brother. Which is the opposite of what Tobirama wants. He is supposed to be the White Demon of the Senju, eternally empty and ruthless.
Crazy would fill that emotionless void with something. And that is not what Tobirama wants. That is not what Father wants. Maybe Hashirama, maybe their dead siblings, but not Tobirama. Not Father.
My poor, sweet child, the wind whispers once more. She refers to Tobirama as if he is her own; as if the White Demon itself is but a mere child, perfectly still and waiting to be molded by some otherworldly force.
Don't you want to return home? she coos. Tobirama pauses his hands from where they are shaving bark off of a piece of wood with a small kunai.
"I am home," he murmurs. The wind chuckles softly, tauntingly, patronizingly, and twirls his soft, white hair in her breezes soothingly. "I- I am home," he reiterates, attempting to sound more persuasive this time. Tobirama knows he sounds weak, stumbling over his words, and he has never done that before.
The White Demon is known for its stillness, its unwilling and unmoving presence as a fighter. Tobirama may die, one day, but the White Demon will never. The White Demon will live on until the sun has died behind the waves of the ocean for its final time.
The White Demon never stumbles. Not over its robes, not over its feet, and never over its words. That would mean change, and change is bad. Change is terrible. Change is what killed Tobirama's siblings.
Tobirama clears his throat, and does not stumble again.
☆
The next time Tobirama and the wind converse, the boy is sitting on the edge of a cliff. It hangs over a pool of water, where he can see little children–all of Senju heritage, of course–splashing around while their mothers lounge on the pool's shores.
The water is deep, she whispers. I will catch you. But no one has ever caught Tobirama. Not when he tripped over a root at the ripe age of three and busted his lip. Not when he fell to the ground at the funeral of Itama and cried, silently and painfully. Not when he stumbled back from a battle, bloody and broken, and was left to his own devices.
Tobirama feels the wind at his back, tingling and rattling the ridges of his sharp, underfed ribcage. He breathes, expanding his lungs and steadying the rythmic shake that has started to take control of his body.
"Why should I trust you?" Tobirama finally asks, softly. The wind does not respond instantly, and the gentle push at his backside stops. The wind–not the spirit, but the actual, genuine force–sways back and forth for a second, as if deciding its next moves carefully.
And maybe that is all this is to the wind spirit. Maybe the only thing she sees in Tobirama is a soldier, a boy who has done nothing but kill and hurt since he emerged from his mother's womb.
Because you are a child, she begins over the sound of rushing waves, and I am a parent. I give life, and you take. Tobirama blinks, but cannot bring himself to feel enraged. He should be. He should be angry that the wind has blamed his murderous deeds on Tobirama. Some little part of him wants to yell and kick and scream that everything he has ever done is to survive, to help his clan.
But he doesn't.
The White Demon peeks over the ledge, eyes snagging on the sparkle of the waves beneath it. It really isn't that far of a fall. But the water is shallow. Hadn't she said it was deep?
And maybe if Tobirama had listened to his instincts that day at the cliffside, staring down at the future of his clan, things would have ended differently.
I can help you, Tobirama, the wind offers. Tobirama sucks in a breath, leaning back from the edge.
"How could you help me?" He asks, and for a moment he wonders how the wind can hear his soft murmurs over the crashing, thundering waterfall. It doesn't matter, really, as he comes to realise. What matters is how the wind can help him when everyone he has known hasn't been able to.
His father couldn't help him by creating the White Demon. Hashirama couldn't help him by trying to be an older brother ten years too late.
I can give you the peace you so desperately crave, child, she explains. Tobirama furrows his brows.
"I can make my own peace," he replies sharply. The wind is quiet, and there is a small breeze at his back. Urging him. Pushing him.
Tobirama stands up, brushes off his pants, and leaves the cliffside.
☆
Tobirama hears the wind everywhere he goes, now. In the market, he hears her in the flapping of the stall curtains. In the house, he hears her in the groans of the old wooden railings outside. On the battlefield, she does not whisper. She roars. She screams as something vicious courses through the White Demon's veins.
The wind urges the demon to kill. And sometimes, when Tobirama is sitting at his desk, mind racing far too fast for the wind's words to register, he thinks she is just a bit too aquainted with death than she should be.
Those thoughts disappear, every time, by the next day. And Tobirama is far too busy to be paying that phenomenon any mind.
She quiets down, again, after a while. There had been peace, if only for a week, to replenish supplies and heal soldiers. Then she comes in whispers, again.
Why do you train for a grape that will never lower itself to you? The wind asks one day as Tobirama is training. Melee, alone.
"I'm not quite sure I understand," Tobirama responds, blade momentarily pausing. The wind hums, the gentle tunes of doves floating around Tobirama.
You fight like you expect peace to offer itself to you, my child, she explains after a brief moment. Everything is still, and Tobirama has learned that means she is waiting for an answer.
But what is he meant to say to that? He tries for peace, but there are things (and people) stopping that dream. He knows peace will not bend down on one knee and offer itself. He will have to fight for it.
But she makes a point. Tobirama kills, with peace in mind as an end goal, but if the war kills all, then peace will be rewarded to him alone.
And that's not what he wants.
Tobirama wants his clan–and Uchiha, Uzumaki, Hyuuga–to thrive. He wants children to grow up and learn of their hero, the White Demon. The White Demon should not be a symbol of war, of raging and brutal massacres.
"I will achieve peace," Tobirama says. Even as he says it, he can hear the doubt laced through his own voice. The wind hears it, too, because she hears everything, and she laughs like Tobirama has just made a joke. He frowns.
You are ambitious for such a tortured little soul, she giggles. Something shifted after the bouts of yelling and screaming. The wind seems more... choppy. Blunt.
She no longer tries to coax him towards her depths, the edges of cliffs and falls. Instead, the wind has resorted to simply pitying him, blatantly.
And it makes some sort of fire in Tobirama burn.
"I have achievable goals," Tobirama replies gruffly. The wind begins to speak, but he cuts her off. "I will make them achievable."
That night, at his desk, two things dash around Tobirama's mind.
One; was that little fire he felt in the pit of his stomach passion?
And two; when had he learnt the wind good enough to know what she was going to say?
☆
Tobirama thinks he is going to die. He was stabbed (?) by an Uchiha shinobi, right near his heart. He doesn't think it hit any of his vital organs, maybe brushed by a few, but it feels like everything Tobirama has ever felt and worse. It feels like his lungs have been infected with poison and his muscles have been paralyzed.
Isn't it beautiful? The wind whispers, a trail of smoke twirling itself around the kunai currently wedged in Tobirama'a chest. It recoils, if only slightly, at a particularly ragged breath, and Tobirama stumbles forward. Her touch had made it seem... peaceful. Blissful.
"In a way," the boy manages out. It is beautiful, really, the blooming flower sneaking its way up his chest. It blossoms a bright, cheery red at first, but as the stain speads and the dull feeling of acception kicks in, the flower turns dark and ugly.
Eventually, the stain stops spreading, though by now Tobirama's shirt is sticky to the touch and practically fused to his chest like a second skin. His blood is warm, and Tobirama thinks this is why a small part of him is panicking because it feels like he is trapped in it.
Alas, for once in his life, there is no part of Tobirama that feels like the White Demon; no part of him that feels tied to the battlefield. Though the blossomed flower of blood resting upon his open chest is really a result of battle, death cradles him and coaxes him away from that train of thought.
He straightens out, trying to ignore the jab of pain the wound sends through him as he shifts towards his bedroom door. With the arm not currently grasping his chest, Tobirama heaves the shoji open and lurches inside. Heavy breathes escape his throat as the boy falls to the ground.
"Am I... am I dying?" Tobirama whispers. The railings outside creak and groan, and distantly Tobirama registers the loud thwacks of wood against wood. The forest is shaking. Or, rather, the wind is shaking the forest.
Mhm, the wind replies, back to her near-silent ways. Back to the way she was before the battles where she urged him to kill and destroy.
"...oh." Somewhere, deep in Tobirama's heart, he feels a pang of regret begin to tear. Regret for what? The things he didn't do? The things he did do?
There are so many things Tobirama wishes could have gone differently. If wishes could come true, Tobirama would wish for the village of his dreams. Konohagakure, he would call it. The village hidden in the leaves. A place where there would be no war. No child soldiers. No white demons.
But above that, Tobirama would wish he never would have been born. If he had never been born, all of those Uchiha that he mercilessly slaughtered (and for what reason?) would still be alive. At home, maybe. Playing games with their children. Teaching them how to speak.
Not lying, burnt to a crisp on a pyre, because of some age-old feud that Tobirama was too cowardly to protest against.
If Tobirama had never been born, Madara and Hashirama's meetings wouldn't have been discovered. Maybe they would have run away from the war. Maybe they would have made Konoha a reality. Maybe they could have saved all those lives.
But Tobirama was born. And he killed all those Uchiha people. And he discovered Madara and Hashirama. And he is the reason peace has been delayed for so long.
Shh, sweetheart, the wind murmurs comfortingly. A soft breeze runs through Tobirama's eternally messy grey hair. It feels like the mother Tobirama barely got to bask in. A love he's never felt, not once in his life. For a moment, everything disappears. For a moment, it is just Tobirama and the wind.
Maybe it has been just Tobirama and the wind, at least, for a while. It seems like the only reason he speaks anymore is to talk with the wind.
And then, just when Tobirama is beginning to accept that spot of darkness that is encompassing his vision at a concerning speed, his shoji slams open.
"Tobirama?"
☆
The wind draws Tobirama out of his peaceful slumber. She whispers to him like he is but a child. You are not dead yet, my little demon, he hears.
Tobirama cracks open weary, sunken eyes and finds himself staring at the peachy wall of the infirmary. A quick look around confirms his suspicions that he is, in fact, a patient.
"I thought I died..?" Tobirama whispers. The wind giggles, and when the shoji at the front of the infirmary slides open a gust of sudden wind rushes in.
"Tobirama, you're awake!" The boy blinks drearily, and for a moment he cannot understand what's going on. It's as if his brain has just started running again. There's Hashirama. His brother. And here is Tobirama.
Who's supposed to be dead.
"How are you feeling?" Hashirama asks, sitting down on a chair at Tobirama's bedside.
"Fine," the younger boy mumbles. "What happened?" Hashirama shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and the soft breeze in the room stills. Silence, waiting.
"I was going to come get you for dinner, but when I came into your room... you were, uh, bleeding out. On the floor." Tobirama rolls his eyes.
"I know that already. How long have I been here? What have we gained over Uchiha grounds? Have there been any major changes?" Hashirama recoils, blinking owlishly at his brother. They stare at eachother for a few moments.
Hashirama is surprised. Tobirama can see it in his face, the way his mouth draws just barely open and the way his pupils are ever so slightly dilated. He can see it in the way that expression turns to furrowed brows as he clears his throat. A cover up.
"You've been unconscious for two days, but there has been no major battles since then." Tobirama huffs.
"Good." And then he's throwing the thin sheet he was laying under to the other side of the bed, swinging his legs around and hopping down from it. Hashirama stands swiftly, stepping right in front of where Tobirama needs to go. "What?"
"You can't leave here yet, you're still hurt!" Hashirama exclaims. Tobirama looks up at him, unimpressed in every way, before lifting up his shirt and revealing the scar already formed there. His brother gapes. "How did you- Tobi, how did you heal so fast?" When Tobirama tries to walk away, to escape into the open world, his brother grabs his arm.
"Don't touch me," he growls, and yanks his arm out of a brother's grasp. He doesn't care to look back, because he knows the only thing there will be hurt and confusion. And Tobirama already has enough of both of those things.
So he runs. Tobirama passes people he knows, kids he grew up with, elders he has patched up after battles. Eventually, he makes it to the end of Senju territory, where he stills to a stop. A glance behind his shoulder confirms that Hashirama did not follow, though Tobirama would have been able to tell through his senses alone.
No matter. With a breath, Tobirama heaves himself into a tree, clambering up its branches until he is fatally high in the sky.
Fatal. What a lovely word, don't you think? The wind asks. She is so much louder up here, where the only real dangers are birds and falling. The wind rushes around Tobirama, ruffling his hair and the furs that line his clothing.
"Sure," he mumbles drearily. Tobirama doesn't have nearly enough energy after nearly dying and running through miles of forestry to contest the wind.
You're thinking about Hashirama, the wind whispers. There's a tinge of something angry in her voice. Jealousy, maybe?
"No," Tobirama huffs. "Why did I heal so fast?" Though he could feel the wound having healed on his chest, and his deadpan attitude towards his brother, Tobirama was just as surprised to find the closed wound as Hashirama.
And everything odd that has happened to him in the past month or so has happened because of the wind.
I wanted my favorite little soldier back, the wind giggles. You are amazing. Tobirama furrows his brows, but before he can respond there's a shout.
"Hey, what're you doing in a tree?" With a jerk of his hand to his kunai pocket, Tobirama looks down towards the shaded forest floor. There's a girl, no older than himself, shielding her eyes from the sun and squinting up at Tobirama.
"Who are you?" He calls back. The girl visibly huffs.
"You didn't answe-"
"Who are you?" Tobirama repeats, this time more aggravated.
"Haruhi!" The unfamiliar girl replies.
"...second name?"
"I don't see why it should matter!" Haruhi crosses her arms, and Tobirama takes her in for a second before dropping down to the ground skillfully. "Your hair is grey?" She asks incredulously.
"Yes it is grey- how did you not realise that before?" Haruhi sputters indignantly for a moment, to which Tobirama rolls his eyes. For a girl of her age, she really does seem undignified. No matter the clan.
"I just thought it was a trick of the light or something! You can't blame me, it's not every day you see someone with hair like that."
There's something about this girl. She seems... nice enough. But something warm blooms in Tobirama's chest. So much more different from the flower of blood that had been splayed across his chest not half a week prior. This one is a comfortable warmth. A nice warmth.
"Well, why were you in a tree in the first place?" Haruhi asks, twirling a piece of her long, dark hair in a finger.
That rules out Uzumakis, and while the Hyuuga are somewhat annoyed with the Senju, that is still preferable to an Uchiha. There is no possible way this girl is a Senju, because Tobirama knows every Senju his age. So she is in enemy territory.
Still, Tobirama cannot find it in himself to force her out.
"Resting. Why were you looking up trees?"
"I wasn't. I looked up to check the time when I saw you. Purely coincidence." Tobirama rolls his eyes.
"Sure, we'll go with that. I should be going." Haruhi gapes.
"We've only been talking for, like, a minute!"
"And what if you are of an enemy clan? What if my clan finds me, talking to you, and thinks I have betrayed them? Hm?" Haruhi recoils offendedly.
"Fine, then. My name is Uchiha Haruhi. Good day." Tobirama blinks.
"Senju Tobirama," he calls after her, though he doubts she heard him. There's silence for a few moments while Tobirama waits for something. Anything. He was finally getting somewhere with someone. And they were an enemy.
An acorn drops beside him, and Tobirama turns back towards his clan.
☆
"Father is dead." Tobirama looks up from where he is bandaging a wound on his side. Hashirama is standing, hand on an open shoji.
"What?" He asks. Father would not just die.
That's impossible.
"You heard me, otouto. Father is dead." Tobirama swallows. Otouto. What a cursed nickname. He used to love it, when Hashirama would cradle him in his arms and whisper praises. And then he used it to break news. Always aftereffects of battles.
Itama is dead, otouto.
Kawarama is dead, otouto.
"Oh." Hashirama shuffles into Tobirama's room hesitantly.
"May I sit?" He asks. This version of his brother seems so different than the panicked, anxious side of him he saw. Back then, Hashirama was worried with the thought of his last living brother's death. Now, none of that worry is there.
Tobirama nods. Hashirama sits next to him on the floor, reaching an arm out to pull Tobirama closer to him. "Will you be okay?" He blinks.
"Why would I not be?"
"Because... our family is gone." Tobirama tugs himself away from Hashirama.
"Okay. I'd like to go to bed, please." Hashirama furrows his brows, but stands up.
"Good night, Tobirama."
"Good night."
☆
Tobirama doesn't know how he got here. All he remembers is waking up in the dead of the night, blindly stumbling out of his room, and now he's sitting atop the roof of his brother's and his house. Some time ago, it belonged to his father.
But now it is just Tobirama, Hashirama, and the wind.
Aren't you tired? The wind coos. Tobirama blinks.
"Yes," he answers instantly. It scares him, how little space he leaves for thought.
Then come home, she suggests.
I am home, Tobirama wants to say. He is home. Hashirama is here. His clan is here. Everything he has ever known is here.
I know, the wind sighs, I know. Trust me. I will catch you. And Tobirama wants nothing more than to trust her. To throw himself into her breezes, watch as the land he has grown up on turn to a speck in the distance.
Tobirama wants to fly.
"You'll catch me?" He asks softly, stepping towards the edge. The roof beneath his feet feels so suddenly slippery, like it's beckoning his fall.
Of course, the wind whispers. Have I ever lied to you? For a moment, Tobirama racks his memories for an example. He comes up empty, and that in itself is enough to make him want to trust the wind.
"There are first times for everything," he finally mutters. The wind chuckles, spinning around Tobirama in a whirlwind of laughter.
Humorous, she murmurs, I like that.
"You like that... about me?" Tobirama manages. When did it become so foreign to him the idea of someone liking him?
Hashirama likes him, he thinks. His brother has always been kind.
But Hashirama is kind to everyone. And Tobirama ratted him out to their father.
Mhm, the wind replies. Tobirama peers over the roof. The soft, lush ryegrass shines in waves of dark green. The grass has always been soft, unlike the rough, dying, itchy grasses of the Uchiha lands.
Tobirama remembers a time when he did not fight. He would lay between trees, sides tickled by blades of grass and beetles. No one would bother him. There were no worries of kunai being thrown at him constantly. Those are the times he misses the most.
"Can I have peace?" He asks. When the wind does not respond, he clears his throat and reiterates. "If- if I go with you. Will there be peace?" That's all he's ever wanted. Peace. With or without Hashirama, that does not matter. He wants children to grow up in loving houses with parents that are not away every hour of every day fighting a never-ending battle.
Peace would mean rest.
Yes, the wind responds. Always.
She sounds so confident, so assuring, that Tobirama cannot help but believe her. He watches himself step forward, feet hanging over the edge of the gently sloped roof.
He feels the wind at his back.
And then the dark, warm comfort is there.
☆
In the morning, stepping across dewy, soft grass, Tobirama's brother will find him in a pile of his own shattered bones.
Tobirama's brother will fall to his knees, shaking him as if to wake him.
And Tobirama will not wake.