Chapter Text
“I don’t know how you did this Senju but I just know it’s your fault” Izuna spat out, glaring at the ground in front of him as if he could make it part by will alone and swallow Tobirama whole. He had not looked up once, which was just as well since Tobirama was not interested in providing that outburst with a response.
They were only a couple of meters apart, bodies slumped against the rough surface of the cave. The damp air clung to his skin, thick with the scent of wet stone and something metallic. Tobirama suspected they may be underground.
Their arms were bound together and attached to chains that sprouted from the wall they were leaning on. Their legs were given more freedom, each chained individually to a lower attachment on that same wall.
It allowed for some movement; the restraints wound around their arms and feet but left the rest of them largely unrestricted. Not that it would make a difference. Chakra suppressant seals were plastered on their skin. Tobirama shifted slightly, the chain around his arms following his movement with a loud clinking noise.
Izuna exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly waiting for a fight. His fingers twitched, but he remained still. Not looking. Not speaking beyond his initial outburst.
Tobirama allowed himself a glance at the Uchiha, noting the way his jaw tensed, the way his fists clenched like he was trying to resist the urge to lash out. He was angry, of course he was, but there was something else lurking beneath the rage. Frustration, maybe. Or unease.
Good.
That meant Izuna hadn’t figured out their captors yet either.
---------
Hashirama was worried. That in itself was nothing new—worry had long since woven itself into the fabric of his being. He worried for his clan, for a peace that slipped further from his grasp with every spilled drop of blood, for the future of the children born into this endless war. Even now, as the bitter chill of winter crept into his bones, he worried for the people who would struggle to survive it.
The source of his current worry was the fact that the one person who eased this burden for him was not here. His younger brother had always been frustratingly self-sufficient, brushing off concerns with curt reassurances and that sharp, calculating gaze that saw far more than it ever revealed. Hashirama had long since learned that Tobirama did not allow himself to be worried over. But that didn’t stop Hashirama from trying.
He was meant to return two days ago.
Delays in recon missions were not uncommon, but Tobirama had always sent word in the past. This mission was supposed to be simple. They had heard that the Hagoromo clan was looking to expand South towards the Nara territories. Concerned but cautious, the Nara had requested confirmation—nothing more. Getting directly involved was too risky. The Nara, ever the tacticians, saw little benefit in exposing themselves over mere rumors. But the Hagoromo were allied with the Uchiha, and that made them a direct threat to the Senju. Rather than risk their own forces, the Nara leveraged this fact, passing the task to the Senju under the guise of cooperation.
They had, of course, not said that outright. Instead they claimed investigating it themselves was “too much of a bother” and asked that the Senju go instead since they “cared so much”. Hisharama’s eyebrow twitched remembering that conversation. Curse his appeasing nature and his brother’s inability to let anything regarding the Uchiha go.
The Nara territories were a day away at a standard shinobi’s pace, half that if you were Tobirama. So his delay didn’t make sense really, and Hashirama was officially giving himself permission to go from worry to borderline panic. He briefly considered sending out a search party. Hashirama could already hear Tobirama’s voice in his head, clipped and exasperated, berating him for the inefficient use of resources and sheer idiocy of the notion. Hashirama scowled. Tobirama was mean even in his head.
A sharp tap at the window disturbed his thoughts of tracking seals and search parties. Hashirama turned, his gaze snapping to the source of the sound—a small brown hawk perched on the ledge, pecking insistently at the glass. There was a note strapped to its black. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, sliding the window open to let the bird in. It ruffled its feathers before settling on the desk, watching him with dark, unblinking eyes. Carefully, he reached out and detached the note, fingers tightening around the parchment. Unfolding the paper, his eyes skimmed over the words, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just a handful of sentences.
To the head of the Seju Clan,
As of this writing, your brother, Tobirama Senju, is in our custody. Rest assured, he remains in adequate condition.
Should you wish to see him returned unharmed, you will make your way to the Yamanaka territories by next Monday, where our gracious hosts have agreed to facilitate a discussion regarding his release. We trust that, as a man of reason, you will recognize the opportunity being presented to you. We would hate for unnecessary complications to arise.
Given your clan’s insistence on diplomacy, we are certain you will not squander this chance for peaceful resolution.
With measured regards,
Madara Uchiha
Hashirama’s breath caught. For a long second, all he could process was Tobirama. Captured. His chest tightened as his mind conjured images he didn’t want to see—Tobirama, bound in chains, injured, his sharp eyes burning with defiance even as blood slicked his skin. His fingers curled around the letter, the paper crumpling beneath the force of his grip.
No. No, no, no. This was bad. He needed to move. Now.
He read the letter again. His brow furrowed.
Madara was arrogant, aggressive—never one to hide his contempt behind flowery language. If he had Tobirama, he would have either paraded him as proof of Uchiha superiority or dealt with him outright. Negotiations? With the Yamanaka as neutral ground? That wasn’t Madara’s style.
‘Adequate condition’. What did that even mean? Madara would have demanded Hashirama come, not extended a formal invitation. He would have taunted, issued threats that barely qualified as ultimatums. He was dramatic, yes, but not like this. Not practiced. Not superficial.
Hashirama’s grip loosened, smoothing out the creases in the parchment. His heart still pounded, but now, a different kind of unease coiled in his gut. He needed to see Madara.
The question was how.
He looked back at the hawk which had started pecking at the many files that littered his desk. Hashirama supposed he could write back to the Uchiha clan head, attempt to arrange an earlier meeting—but the message would never reach its intended recipient. He could send word through one of their own carriers. But that would almost certainly be intercepted. He could—
A hand, warm and grounding, settled gently on his arm.
“Hashirama, darling, are you alright?” Mito’s voice cut through the fog in his mind, calm and steady, like the first breath of air after surfacing from deep waters. He blinked. When had she come in?
She stood before him now, gaze soft, concern etched into the delicate lines of her face. His throat felt tight. Without a word, he handed her the scroll. Mito took it, fingers brushing his briefly as she pulled away. The warmth of her touch lingered, an anchor he hadn’t realized he needed until it was gone. Hashirama watched as her eyes flicked across the page, taking in each word with the quiet efficiency he had always admired in her.
She said nothing at first, rolling the scroll back up with measured care before placing it on the desk beside them.
“Madara does not have Tobirama.”
Hashirama exhaled slowly, nodding. He had already come to that conclusion, but hearing it aloud, spoken so certainly, helped steady him. Mito was not one to speak without thought. She was sharp, deliberate. He had told her everything about the man he had once called his closest friend, and she had seen him firsthand on the battlefield. The Uchiha were an old clan, their traditions deeply ingrained, but this—this careful, practiced formality—did not belong to Madara. And that, perhaps, was the most troubling thing of all. It meant his brother was truly missing, his captor an unknown and the Uchiha written off as the scapegoat.
“I need to find a way to talk to him.” Hashirama’s voice was firm, but his pacing betrayed his agitation. “Clearly someone is trying to frame him for taking Tobirama.” His jaw tightened as the words left him, the weight of his brother’s absence pressing down on his chest. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And that means he’s the only one who might know who actually took him.”
Mito nodded, following his train of thought with ease.
She had always known that people thought of Hashirama as a sentimental fool. He was dramatic, prone to outbursts of unfiltered emotion, and impossibly, frustratingly softhearted. He would leap headfirst into chaos without hesitation, wear his heart on his sleeve, and cry over fallen enemies as much as lost friends. And yet, when it mattered—when it truly mattered—Hashirama Senju was the most terrifyingly competent man she had ever known.
Watching him now, pacing the length of the room, mind working through every possible angle, she could see it happening. The shift. The moment where all that reckless, overgrown warmth condensed into something razor-sharp. He was still the man who would laugh too loudly, who would talk about peace as if it were an inevitability rather than a dream. But when pushed to the edge, when everything was at stake, the weight of his lineage settled onto his shoulders, and he carried it as if it had never been a burden at all.
“And how do you intend to get Madara alone, away from his clan, dear husband?”
Her voice was even, steady, a carefully placed stone on uneven ground. Hashirama halted mid-step, turning to face her.
Mito tried her best to keep her expression collected. She was worried. Tobirama was her family, just as much as Hashirama was. He had been from the moment she married into the Senju. He was the one who never hesitated to challenge her, the one who could match her in sharp wit and sharper glares, the one who understood her silences as easily as she understood his. He hid his care behind curt words and narrowed eyes, but Mito had long since learned to read between the lines. And now, he was missing. But Mito had not let that terror show.
Hashirama needed clarity right now, not more panic. If she let herself unravel, he would unravel with her, and he couldn’t afford to. Not yet. So she had swallowed down her fear, wrapped herself in composure, and stood as the counterbalance her husband needed.
She could fall apart later.
Hashirama dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. He was still running too hot, thoughts spinning too fast. Mito could see it in the crease of his brow, the restless energy still thrumming beneath his skin. But her words had forced him to pause, and that was enough.
“I..I don’t know Mito. I was trying to think of something before you came in. It all seems —
“HASHIRAMAAAAA!”
The sheer volume of the voice nearly shook the walls. The air itself seemed to tremble with the force of the fury behind it. Both of them startled, instincts snapping to attention as they turned sharply toward the sound. They barely had time to exchange a glance before they were moving, racing out of the office, down the hall, and past the open corridors. The courtyard was already in chaos.
A mass of Senju shinobi had gathered—at least two dozen of them, their combined efforts barely managing to contain the raging storm that was Madara Uchiha. Chains, glowing with sealing jutsu, wrapped tightly around his torso, binding his arms to his sides. Kunai pinned the edges of his battle-worn robes to the ground, their hilts rattling as he struggled. Several high-ranking Senju stood in a defensive circle around him, hands flashing through restraining seals faster than the eye could track. The very earth beneath Madara had cracked from the sheer force of his chakra, thin fissures spiderwebbing outward beneath his feet.
And yet, despite all of it, he still looked like he was one wrong breath away from tearing them all apart. Wild, dark eyes snapped to Hashirama the instant he stepped into view.
“You,” Madara snarled, heat simmering beneath each word “Where is he? What did you do with him?!”
Hashirama was well and truly confused now. He blinked at Madara, thrown off by the sheer absurdity of his arrival. The Uchiha was furious, nothing unusual there, but the raw desperation in his voice, the near-wild panic that edged his rage, was not something Hashirama had expected. A gentle nudge at his side jolted him back into the moment, and he registered the scene unfolding around him. The courtyard was still thick with tension, Senju shinobi keeping their grips tight on restraining seals, waiting for Hashirama’s command. He needed to diffuse this before it spiraled further.
With one hand seal, Hashirama activated his Mokuton, the wooden tendrils bursting from the earth, snaking out and wrapping around Madara’s form with swift precision. The Uchiha had been struggling against his bonds, but now the living wood kept him firmly in place, alleviating the Senju shinobi of the burden. Madara’s chakra flared as he fought against the restraints, but there was no use. They both knew he would not be able to escape.
"I think," Hashirama said carefully, voice measured, "we better talk inside."
Madara’s glare was a burning thing, and the air crackled with the intensity of his anger. He jerked against the Mokuton’s restraints once more “I don’t think so,” he snarled, each word thick with venom. “Where is my brother Senju? What the hell have you done with him?”
Hashirama’s calm facade cracked, a flash of anger flickering across his face for the first time in a long while. His hands clenched at his sides, his temper flaring in response to the sheer force of Madara's words.
"Where is your brother?" Hashirama shot back, his voice growing sharper. His mind raced, trying to process the situation. “Where is mine?”
Both of them stood frozen for a heartbeat. The words hung between them, the confusion mirrored in their eyes. Neither of them could make sense of the other’s words. Mito stepped forward, her expression calm but firm, her voice cutting through the escalating tension. “We need to talk. Inside. Away from prying eyes.” Her gaze flicked to the gathered Senju shinobi, sensing the unease building. "This isn't something that should be decided in the courtyard."
Before either of them could respond, a man stepped forward, one of the Senju elders, his posture stiff with righteous indignation. “Talk? This is no time for talk. This is an attack on our clan, and we have him restrained. We should kill him now, before he escapes.”
The elder’s words hung in the air, sharp and accusatory. A few of the shinobi around Madara shifted uncomfortably, but no one moved to act.
Hashirama’s body grew still. His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “My clan heir is missing,” he hissed, his tone filled with the kind of venom that made it clear there would be no further argument. “This calls for unprecedented action.”
Hashirama didn’t wait for another word. His hand swept out, and the Mokuton surged forward, its wooden tendrils coiling, tightening around Madara’s form with an almost suffocating, unyielding force and pulling him forward. The Uchiha grit his teeth, the muscles in his body straining as he fought against the restraints, every movement laced with raw frustration. His chakra flared with a wild intensity, but it was no use—the Mokuton held him firmly in place. The living wood guiding Madara past the threshold of the main house, while Mito followed close behind, her presence as calm and unyielding as the tension thickening in the air. Her sharp gaze never wavered, the subtle tension in her jaw betraying nothing as she observed the unfolding chaos.
In mere moments, they arrived back in the very office where this whole mess had begun. Hashirama set Madara down with deliberate care, the wooden restraints remaining steady and firm, before he took a step back. The room felt unnaturally still as the two men stood facing one another. Neither of them wanted to break the suffocating silence. Finally, Hashirama exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed, as he crossed his arms and leaned back on the table.
“Look Madara I don’t—
“If you think I’m going to fall for—
The words spilled from both of them simultaneously. Hashirama’s shoulders slumped in weariness, a long, exhausted sigh escaping his lips. He slouched against his desk, the weight of the situation sinking in, his body finally giving in to the fatigue of a day that had stretched far too long. "This is not how I wanted this to go," he muttered to no one in particular, shaking his head.
“You think I care about what you want, Senju?” Madara’s tone was laced with venom. “You’re stalling, but I’ll ask it again—where is my brother?”
Hashirama’s eyes narrowed, his expression stone. “Your brother?” He pushed himself off the desk, taking long rigid strides towards Madara, voice low and controlled despite the fire raging behind his eyes. “You think I took Izuna? Madara, you’ve lost your mind if you think I would do something like that.”
“What the hell else am I meant to think?” Madara’s voice rose, raw and frantic, the desperation clawing its way to the surface. “You sent the message! It said you had Izuna. I wasn’t gonna sit on my ass, you fucking tree, I came to get him.”
“A message?” Hashirama repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion, disbelief creeping into his voice.
Madara sneered, his teeth bared in a snarl. “You got pollen in your ears? Yeah your stupid bird delivered the scroll.” he spat, his words dripping with contempt. “You gonna make me keep repeating myself? Where is he?”
Hashirama’s shoulders tensed.
“A scroll?” His voice dropped, a shadow passing over his face. “Mito?”
Mito’s hand lifted to her mouth, fingers pressed against her lips as the realization began to hit her like a wave. Her gaze flickered to Hashirama, then back to Madara. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place in her mind, and her voice came out quietly, measured but with a sharpness that betrayed the sudden clarity. “Uchiha-sama…”
Madara’s intense eyes turned to her, his anger simmering but no longer blinding him. He was hanging on to her every word, desperate for any clue.
“Where is this scroll?”
His mouth opened, clearly about to unleash another round of curses, but he faltered when he saw the calm resolve in Mito’s expression. He studied her for a long moment, annoyance flickering across his face before he begrudgingly grunted, clearly displeased.
“Check my pocket...”
Hashirama walked over to Madara, his steps slow, deliberate. He reached into Madara’s pocket, hidden beneath the red armor. His fingers brushed against the scroll before pulling it out with careful precision. Hashirama’s brow furrowed as he unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the lines with increasing irritation. The more he read, the more his jaw tightened, face scrunching in utter frustration.
To the esteemed Madara Uchiha,
Oh, how my heart aches as I write this, knowing the grief it will bring to you. I wish, more than anything, that I did not have to send these words—words that no man should ever have to write to his greatest adversary, let alone one whom I once called my closest friend. But fate has a cruel way of pushing us down paths we would rather avoid, and I am sorry to say that this is one such instance.
Your beloved brother, Izuna Uchiha, is in our custody.
Please, do not think I say this lightly, for I am tormented by the very necessity of this. I want nothing more than to see peace between us, and yet here we are. You must believe me, Madara, that every moment spent with him has felt like a dagger to my soul. I know how much he means to you, and I only wish I could ease your pain by undoing what has been done. But the time has come for us to meet, to speak, to understand one another once more. My heart grieves at the thought of what must follow, but I believe, with all my being, that we can still find a way forward.
You must come, Madara. Come to the Yamanaka territories next Monday. I beg you, for the sake of all that we have fought for, for the future of the children we both wish to protect, that you set aside your anger and come to speak with me. We must resolve this, together, as we once did when we dreamed of a world of peace.
I know the weight of this request is great, and I know it will hurt you as it hurts me. But please, do not let your pride, your rage, cloud the possibility of reconciliation. Please come, for Izuna, for your clan, for our dreams. I will wait, as I always have, with open arms and a heart full of hope.
With the deepest sorrow and a prayer for peace,
Hashirama Senju
“You…” Hashirama’s voice trembled between exasperation and a deep sense of disbelief “You thought I wrote this?!?!”
Madara bristled, a flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Yeah, well, it’s your usual sappy nonsense, isn’t it?” his tone was sharp, as if the conclusion was so obvious it hardly deserved acknowledging.
Hashirama’s eyes bulged as he unwinded the scroll again, shaking it in his hands like it had personally wronged him. Mito, usually quite composed, pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly through her nostrils.
“ ‘Oh, how my heart aches as I write this…’ ” he read aloud, tone bordering on hysterical “Really?!”
Madara’s lips quirked into a small smile, clearly enjoying the show.
But Hashirama was on a roll. He pointed back at the scroll, practically glaring at the words. “And this one— ‘Every moment spent with him has felt like a dagger to my soul.’ A dagger?! A dagger, Madara??”
Madara’s smirk widened as Hashirama ranted, but he didn’t say anything.
“And then, at the end…” He let out an exasperated groan, crumpling the message in his hands. “You seriously thought I would write a message like this? What am I, some lovesick poet?”
Madara, still unfazed, chuckled softly. “You do tend to get a little over-dramatic, don’t you?”
Hashirama, still looking like he’d swallowed a whole lemon, scowled. “Why would I write you a love letter to tell you I kidnapped your brother?!”
Madara opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned.
“…Okay, yeah, in hindsight, that part was weird.”
Mito hummed. “And yet, you stormed our compound with no plan, got yourself immediately captured, and are now restrained like a particularly ill-tempered house cat.”
Madara jerked against the Mokuton in indignation. “Let me out of these right now . ”
Hashirama sighed, massaging his temples. "Mito, my love, please don't antagonize him."
Mito smiled serenely. "I would never."
Madara growled. "She's lying."
"Obviously," Hashirama muttered more to himself than for Madara’s sake.
The Uchiha yanked at the restraints one more time, then slumped in frustration. His breath came out in short, irritated bursts “Usually, Izuna would be the one stopping me from running into things like this…” his voice was low, laced with an edge of dejection. The words quickly sobered Hashirama, the weight of Tobirama’s absence making a sudden reappearance.
Clearing his throat, Hashirama refocused. “Right. Well, we also received a message.” He turned away, striding toward the desk where the scroll lay. He plucked it from the surface, his expression shifting as he made his way back to Madara. Without a word, he held it up in front of him, letting the Uchiha read. Madara’s eyes flickered over the parchment, and as realization dawned, they widened in sharp recognition.
Hashirama, unable to contain himself, blurted out, “You know, I knew this wasn’t you immediately! Really, Madara, how could you—”
A pointed look from Mito cut him off mid-sentence. He coughed into his fist, reining himself in. “Right. Sorry. Two missing clan heirs. Very important.”
Madara was silent for a moment, his mind racing as he tried to grasp the situation. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but intense. “I do not have Tobirama.”
Hashirama blinked, fighting to suppress his frustration. “Obviously.”
“You do not have Izuna.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Hashirama shot back, exasperated, before pausing.
“Then—
“Someone else has them” Hashirama finished grimly “And for whatever reason they want us to blame each other.”
Madara groaned, his head falling back against the wood with a frustrated thud “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Mito, who had been watching the exchange largely in silence, folded her arms tightly across her chest. Her eyes flicked between the two, sharp and calculating. “Well, gentlemen,” she said coolly, “it seems we have a shared problem.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “The real question is: What are we going to do about it?”
Madara scowled. “Well, I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to find whoever took Izuna, and I’m going to break every single one of their bones.”
Hashirama shot him a sharp look. “You do realize that they’ve also taken Tobirama, right?”
Madara rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You can gently scold them or whatever it is you do.”
Hashirama’s frustration reached its peak. “First the letter, now this!” he snapped, his tone rising. “If you think whoever took my brother is going to face anything less than the full extent of my wrath, Madara, then clearly... you don't know me at all."
Madara raised an eyebrow, but Hashirama pressed on, his anger contained and a steelnes in his expression that Madara rarely saw these days. “Tobirama was sent on a recon mission south, near the Nara territories, about ten days ago.”
Madara's gaze sharpened. “Izuna was also headed south, towards the Hyuga,” he said, his voice steady but his concern still evident, trying to keep the nature of Izuna’s mission vague. Mito considered this for a moment before speaking
“Well... it seems we have a starting point.”
---------
Two bowls were placed on the floor, alongside a complimentary flask of water.
Tobirama squinted at the contents, but the dim glow of the lone torch affixed to the cave wall did little to illuminate them. The man who delivered their meal remained silent. His face was obscured by a plain white mask, his body hidden beneath long sleeves and loose-fitting pants that barely rustled as he moved. He did not glance at them, did not acknowledge them beyond the mechanical placement of their meal. Tobirama tracked his every step with clinical detachment, committing the sound of his footfalls to memory, searching for any indication of a doorway or an exit in the darkness beyond. But the man simply melted into the black. For a long moment, neither Tobirama nor Izuna moved.
Then, with a resigned exhale, Izuna leaned forward, the chains around his wrists clinking in protest. He grabbed the bowl closest to him, inspecting it with the unimpressed expression of someone accustomed to better. Tobirama did not immediately follow suit. Instead, he eyed his own bowl warily. The contents were murky, a thick porridge-like substance that clung to the sides unevenly. It was impossible to determine what it was made of in the dim light.
Izuna, however, was evidently not too bothered. With a careless shrug, he scooped up a portion with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth, chewing with no sign of hesitation.
Tobirama turned to stare at him. Izuna met his gaze with a slow, deliberate chew before swallowing. "What?" he asked, voice muffled as he went in for seconds. Tobirama's lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t need to say anything; the silent judgment was written all over his face.
Izuna let out a short breath. "Please. If they wanted us dead, they wouldn’t go through all this effort just to poison us with porridge." He dipped his fingers back into the bowl, utterly unconcerned. Tobirama didn’t move. His bowl remained untouched.
Caution had been ingrained in him since childhood. He was not the type to accept what was given without question, not when every act of generosity could be a calculated move. Survival demanded scrutiny. And right now, nothing about their situation inspired trust. His gaze flicked back to Izuna, who was already halfway through his meal, eating with the carelessness of someone who had never learned restraint. Typical.
Izuna caught the look and scowled. “Oh, what now?” His voice was sharp with irritation, his chewing slowing as he narrowed his eyes.
Tobirama didn’t answer. He simply turned his attention back to the porridge, expression unreadable.
Izuna’s scowl deepened. “You think you’re too good for it? Too good for this?” He gestured vaguely at the bowls, at the chains around their wrists, at the situation they were both trapped in. “Let me guess, Senju pride won’t allow you to eat prisoner food?”
Tobirama exhaled through his nose, a barely perceptible sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Izuna rolled his eyes. “Then what is it? Enlighten me, oh wise one.”
Tobirama picked up his bowl at last but didn’t eat. Instead, he tilted it slightly, watching the porridge shift sluggishly within. “Caution is not arrogance.”
Izuna snorted. “No, but in your case, it’s just as insufferable.” He shoveled another bite into his mouth, chewing deliberately loud. “If this was poisoned, I’d already be dead. Or writhing on the ground. Take your pick.”
Tobirama didn’t respond. He turned the bowl in his hands, studying its contents from a different angle, as if the right perspective might reveal some hidden threat.
Izuna groaned. “You cannot be serious.”
Tobirama remained impassive. “A person can go weeks without food.” He paused for a second before giving Izuna another pointed look “And there are a multitude of poisons that take hours or even days to properly present their effects.”
“Oh, for—” Izuna cut himself off with an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You’re actually planning to starve yourself, aren’t you?”
“Starvation implies desperation.” Tobirama finally set the bowl down, apparently deciding it was unworthy of further examination. “This is strategy.”
Izuna scoffed. “This is idiocy.”
Tobirama’s gaze flicked up, cool and unwavering. “Says the man eating unknown food from unknown captors with the blind trust of a stray dog.”
Izuna bristled. “Stray—?!” He huffed, wiping his hand against the cave floor “If I drop dead, you can say ‘I told you so.’ Until then, you’re just being difficult for the sake of it.”
Tobirama said nothing. His silence was pointed.
Izuna exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head back against the wall with an exaggerated thunk. “You are exhausting.”
Tobirama hummed. “So I’ve been told.”
Izuna shot him a glare but didn’t bother arguing further. They lapsed into silence. The only sounds were the distant drip of water, the faint crackle of the torch, and the occasional scrape of Izuna’s fingers against the bottom of the bowl. Tobirama leaned back against the wall, his stomach empty but his resolve intact.
They must have sat like that for hours, the remaining food in front of them long forgotten. The torch on the wall burned low, its glow flickering weaker with each passing moment, casting restless shadows against the damp stone. At some point, Izuna had shifted, angling himself more comfortably against the wall, arms draped lazily over his knees. He had not spoken again.
The masked man reappeared from the darkness as soundlessly as he had left. In his hands, another tray. More bowls. Tobirama straightened, his muscles tensing instinctively. Izuna lifted his head as well, alert once more. He set them down wordlessly, as he had before. But this time, after placing the new portions, he hesitated. His head inclined slightly, not quite facing them, but clearly assessing. His gaze, if it could be called that, lingered on the untouched bowl in front of Tobirama. Then, without inflection, he spoke.
“You did not eat.”
Tobirama said nothing. The words were not a question.
A pause. A shift in the man’s posture, barely perceptible. “Eat,” he said, “or we will force you. We will not be accused of mistreating our prisoners.” He did not wait for a response. Instead, he turned on his heel and disappeared once more, swallowed by the dark.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Izuna blinked. Then, slowly, he turned to face Tobirama, eyebrows raised. “The hell was that about?”
Tobirama remained silent, gaze flicking back toward the spot where the man had vanished. His mind worked quickly, methodically, analyzing the implications. Izuna, however, had no patience for calculated reflection.
“No comment? Nothing?” His chains rattled slightly as he shifted. “Seriously, Senju, you’re not even a little curious?”
Tobirama finally looked back at him. “Curiosity is not the priority right now.”
Izuna let out an irritated breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Right, right. Of course not.” His lips pulled into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Why ask questions when we can sit here in meaningful silence instead?”
Tobirama exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting to the new bowl of food in front of him. It looked the same as before—thick, unappetizing, an indistinct blend of something meant to sustain rather than satisfy. He was aware of Izuna watching him, eyes sharp with expectation. Tobirama did not speak immediately. He was turning the masked man’s words over, examining them from every possible angle.
They would force him to eat if necessary.
They would not be accused of mistreating their prisoners.
“We are trapped here,” he said at last, his voice carefully even. “For now, cooperation benefits us more than defiance.”
Izuna blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden explanation. He leaned forward slightly, chains scraping against the floor. “Huh.” His mouth quirked up. “Didn’t think you’d let me in on whatever’s going on in that over-complicated brain of yours.”
Tobirama did not respond to the poorly concealed jab. He simply continued.
“They do not wish us harm,” he stated, careful with his wording.
Izuna scoffed. “Yeah. No kidding.”
Tobirama’s fingers tapped against the stone. “I could continue refusing the food,” he said, almost contemplatively. “See how far they’re willing to push. They are concerned about appearances—about accusations of mistreatment. That is an exploitable weakness.”
Izuna blinked, looking at him like he’d grown another head. “You want to provoke them. On purpose.”
Tobirama met his gaze, unflinching. “They want something. And understanding their boundaries is key.”
Izuna gave a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “So you’re betting everything on a game of ‘how much can we annoy them until they crack’?”
Tobirama's eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone remained steady. “There are only a few people in my life who care about my well-being. All of them share the name Senju.” His gaze flicked toward Izuna, considering. “Well—Uzumaki, in the case of my brother’s wife.”
Izuna frowned, sharp eyes watching him closely now.
“I imagine,” Tobirama continued, watching him carefully, “all of yours have the surname Uchiha.”
Izuna stiffened just slightly. “Obviously.”
Tobirama gave a subtle nod, as if confirming a thought to himself. “So, it stands to reason that whoever took us is aware of our connections.” Izuna’s brow furrowed. “And how displeased they would be if we were... mistreated” Tobirama added, recalling the masked man’s earlier words.
“What are you saying? That they’re trying to extort our clans?”
Tobirama’s gaze flickered toward the darkened corridor where their captor had disappeared. He exhaled through his nose, considering. “I can’t be certain. But possibly”
Izuna clicked his tongue. “Great. So we’re bargaining chips. That’s always fun.”
“Potential bargaining chips,” Tobirama corrected, ever precise. “The way they treat us depends on who they intend to negotiate with—and how much they believe we are worth.”
Izuna’s gaze shifted, lost in thought. The more he processed what Tobirama had said, the more his chest tightened with unease. Bargaining chips. That’s all they were. His pride flared at the thought. His mind raced with the image of his clan being exploited, of the thought that someone, anyone, could think they had the right to manipulate them. Izuna clenched his fists, the chains biting into his skin as he sat there, trying to contain the fury that welled inside him. He hated this feeling of helplessness, being at the mercy of some unknown captors, reduced to mere leverage.
Yet, as much as he hated it, he couldn’t deny that Tobirama was right. The Senju always had a way of seeing things from every angle, calculating every move with a precision that bordered on unsettling. Izuna’s gut churned at the thought of relying on a Senju for anything, let alone something as critical as this. And the worst part? He knew Tobirama was the only one here with a clear head—something he, himself, couldn’t always claim.
Izuna leaned back against the cold stone, closing his eyes for a moment. His hands flexed at the ends of the chains, the weight of them suddenly more apparent. His mind was a mess. His pride, his rage, and the bitter knowledge that he had no choice but to rely on the very person he had spent his life at odds with. His clan, his brother were dependent on him.
Izuna opened his eyes, meeting Tobirama’s gaze once more. “Alright, Senju,” he said, his voice rough, his tone tinged with a reluctant acceptance. "I get it. So, what do we do now?"
“Nothing.” Tobirama responded, tone flat as he finally made himself comfortable. The man leaned back against the stone, crossing his hands in his lap. “For now, we wait.”
---------
In the end, it had taken them sixteen hours to reach the Nara territories. Though it wasn’t quite the blistering pace Tobirama would have set, it was still considerably faster than an average shinobi. Hashirama paused, inhaling deeply. All around them, the forest stretched endlessly, dark and silent beneath the canopy. His eyes scanned the thick mass of trees.
"Any sign?"
Madara, walking a few paces ahead, turned his head slightly. He narrowed his eyes, then fell still, concentrating on the land around them. He stayed like that for a long moment, his gaze distant, before slowly shaking his head. A grimace twisted his features as he exhaled sharply.
Hashirama clenched his jaw, forcing himself to swallow the knot that had risen in his throat. He refused to let the silence settle too heavily between them.
"Alright," Hashirama continued, pushing forward despite the growing tension. "It’s entirely possible they moved further south. The Hyuga are farther away, still." His words sounded more like a guess than a plan, but he had to keep moving forward. They couldn’t afford to be stagnant now.
Madara didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let out a low, frustrated sigh, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain one more time "My range extends to the Hyuga territories from here," he replied, his voice low and grim. "They're not there, Hashirama."
Hashirama felt a tightening in his chest, his optimism battling his rising fear. “That... That’s okay. We’ll figure this out.” His voice wavered slightly, the crack betraying his uncertainty. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
“Stop doing that,” Madara growled, his voice low and edged with frustration.
Hashirama blinked, confused by the sudden shift in Madara’s tone. “What do you mean?”
“Trying to counsel me like some lost child,” Madara spat, his eyes flashing with anger. “Pretending that everything’s going to resolve itself because the god of shinobi wishes it to be so.”
Hashirama’s jaw clenched, his pulse quickening as the weight of Madara’s bitterness settled over him. He took a breath, pushing back the rising tide of frustration and stepping toward Madara, eyes narrowing in determination. “I am trying, Madara,” he snapped, his frustration rising in kind. “I’m not pretending everything will be fine. I am sorry that I don’t resort to lashing out and damaging everything in my way”
Madara’s gaze hardened, cold and calculating. “You want to say what you’re actually trying to say, or are we going to keep talking in riddles, Senju?”
“Not everything I say has to have some hidden meaning meant to offend you,” Hashirama shot back, frustration creeping into his voice.
“Yet, this does,” Madara retorted, his tone dripping with disdain.
The silence between them stretched longer now, as if both of them were waiting for the other to break first. Madara exhaled sharply, the tension radiating from him in waves. “This is why I believed that stupid scroll in the first place,” he muttered, half to himself. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You really are…”
Hashirama’s eyes widened as a sudden thought flashed across his mind, like a spark in the dark. “Madara, the scrolls!”
Madara raised an eyebrow, waiting for Hashirama to calm his excitement enough to speak. He crossed his arms, not entirely sure where this was going. “What about them?”
Hashirama’s breath caught as he pieced things together. “They both said the same thing... Yamanaka territories. Next Monday.” His pulse quickened with the realization. “The meeting is less than five days away.”
Madara processed the information, the realization dawning on him like a heavy stone. “That’s why they’re not here,” he muttered, feeling like an idiot for not connecting the dots sooner. “They’re already at the location.”
“They won’t risk transporting two shinobi of Tobirama and Izuna’s caliber across Fire Country,” Hashirama continued, his eyes glinting with a new urgency. “They have to be near Yamanaka territory.”
Madara groaned, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “That’s in the opposite direction,” he grumbled.
Hashirama’s eyes never wavered, his voice firm and unyielding. “Two days away from here. A little over thirty hours if we move fast enough.”
Without another word, Hashirama spun on his heel, his legs propelling him forward in an almost reckless burst of motion. The ground beneath him blurred as he sliced through the forest with ease, the air filled with the swish of leaves and the rhythmic thud of his footsteps. Madara was right on his heels, moving with precision, every step a counterpoint to Hashirama’s relentless energy. Despite their differences, they were in sync, like they always had been. The forest seemed to bend beneath their speed, trees flashing past them in a green blur. They were going to make it to Yamanaka territories in thirty hours—tops.