eyes open, chin up

by asuiah

Summary:

“Are you afraid to die?”

What would you do to keep a secret that your own family would kill you for?


(He dreams of being enveloped in a great, churning sea. He dreams of thunder overhead, lightning on his tongue, ozone on his breath, the waves reaching out with great sea-foam hands. He hears the call of a whale, the pull of a cyclone, the whoosh of a great tsunami, feels the embrace of a god.


As he wakes, the ocean calls out to him.)

Chapter 1: prologue

“Are you afraid to die?”

Itama had asked Tobirama that once, his voice small and trembling, his chakra shivering like a stunned rabbit. He’d crept into his room with silent feet on the night of Kawarama’s funeral, pale and red-eyed and seeking comfort, seeking stability. Hashirama had disappeared as he tended to do, escaping from the tense atmosphere that clouded the clan without even a word between them.

“Of course,” Tobirama had answered, but it had not entirely been true. Itama’s eyes locked with his, already so pained despite his youth, tired in a way they shouldn’t have been, shiny with tears. 

Itama had always been more soft-hearted, much like mother in that aspect. At the funeral, he’d wept with his face hidden behind his sleeve, because Shinobi did not cry. Tobirama had stood silent, still and stiff next to Itama and Hashirama, because being a sensor was just as much of a curse as it was a benefit, and if he’d moved he might’ve just fallen apart right then and there.

Are you afraid to die? That’s what Itama had asked him.

No, he thought, as his little brother curled against him, warm and alive. He remembers Kawarama’s body. Grit. Bone. Chunks of dyed tissue. The taste of bile, acid on his tongue. An endless ocean of blood. Kawarama’s chakra, growing smaller, pulsing with fear as it fades. Hashirama’s screams.

(Kawarama had died scared.)

No, death did not frighten Tobirama as much as what it could take from him.

Chapter 2: underneath

Notes:

This is a work in progress. Be warned that while I've planned this story, I may take long periods of time between updating. Soon I'll also be going away to work deep in a national park, and they don't have wifi. I'll have power to charge my phone so I can write in my notes, but I'll be frustrated by my lack of keyboard no doubt lol.

Originally this chapter was like 18,600 words, but that was just too much in one go to post, so I kinda cut this chapter in half so it's 10,647 now. I've decided to revise some stuff on the next chapter too, so it's coming, just not yet.

I haven't written Tobirama before, so I just want to warn everyone that I might not get his character right, but also this is AU and that will impact his history and experiences, so he'll be a bit different anyway. Thanks for reading.

(He dreams of being enveloped in a great, churning sea. He dreams of thunder overhead, lightning on his tongue, ozone on his breath, the waves reaching out with great sea-foam hands. He hears the call of a whale, the pull of a cyclone, the whoosh of a great tsunami, feels the embrace of a god.

As he wakes, the ocean calls out to him.)

 

Bubbles surfaced around Itama’s mouth as he blew air into the water, his eyes alight in joy, his bright face glowing with the soft, chubby-cheeked cheerfulness of youth. His head raised above the soft pull of the river, giggles joining the peaceful sounds of the forest, his face dripping. Tobirama watched him calmly, smiling from his place on the rocks, the cool water flowing around his ankles.

Sunlight drifted through the trees, splashes of warmth grazing along the forest through seamless silhouettes of leaves. He let out a breath, tilting his head back, embracing the sun on his face. Such weather was rare these days, the water barely warm enough for swimming, the nights growing ever colder, yet Itama and Tobirama always found their way back. Being here, enjoying the tranquility of nature, the silence of the woods, a short distance away from their clan—they'd always felt freest. Mother would always bring them here, and though Itama and Kawarama hadn’t remembered their time with her at the river, Tobirama had—and he made sure to bring his brothers with him when he could, even if that meant he was juggling his time between missions, or switching his patrol shifts with other clan members and repaying them with small favors. It was always something he tried to make time for.

Sometimes there would be Senju patrols that passed by when they were there, but he’d always sense them coming, and what they’d see is Tobirama practicing his water release, and Itama running and jumping on the surface of the river, practicing his chakra control. They wouldn’t see Itama smiling and splashing in the sun, nor Tobirama, weaving water in the air with no hand seals. Father wouldn’t approve of them slacking off, they knew.

(It’s their little secret, just the two of them.)

He leaned over, dropping a hand to the water. His fingertips grazed the surface, and then he pulled back, his arm pulsing with the heat of his chakra. Droplets of water followed his hand into the air, hovering smoothly; he wiggled his fingers and watched as the droplets moved around, forming different shapes with each movement. A strong wind shivers the branch above, and for a moment the sun pierces through, the water orbs glowing in an ethereal manner.

“It’s pretty!” Itama said in awe, floating on his back in a relaxed manner, his head tilted sideways to watch him. “Will you do the other trick again, nii-san?”

“Which one would you like to see?” he murmurs, halting his chakra and watching the orbs lose shape, falling back into the river with a dozen tiny splashes. “The mist?”

“Yeah!”

Tobirama’s eyes roamed the river, searching for the biggest break in the trees; downstream there was a large sunny area in the shallows. He moved closer towards it, and Itama floated along after him eagerly. A hand drifted along the surface, a hum escaping his mouth—he could feel the river, the pull and release of the low, smooth nature chakra, the fluid movement of the current dragging along his senses. He closed his eyes and reached out with his chakra, and the river rose to meet his call like an old friend; strength singing in his blood, the hum of power vibrating along his skin, the thrum of something otherworldly settling in his bones. A familiar weight drifted into the back of his mind, like eyes on his back, and he breathed deep through his nose and opened his eyes.

The river rose, the sounds of water sliding over rocks dissipating slightly, a halt to the atmosphere settling in around them. Droplets slowly rose, hanging in the air everywhere, thousands of them, slowly evaporating into mist—a spray of water clouding the sky, the sun piercing through in a shimmering glow—a kaleidoscope of color hanging in the air, reflections of light dotting the area. Tobirama stared up at it, tension draining from his face, something peaceful settling in his chest at the sight of a rainbow hovering in the frozen spray of river water.

Itama is utterly enraptured, despite having seen it dozens of times as he’d practiced his powers. “You’re getting better every day!” he breathes, his eyes shimmering with awe. Tobirama smiled faintly, letting go of the water, sighing in pleasure as the cool spray rained down on their heads.

He glances at his brother again and holds back a laugh. His hair is a mess of black and white, opposing strands all clumped together wetly and flicked in all kinds of directions. A little bit of dirt still clung to his hair in a thin layer.

“Come, I’ll wash your hair,” he said. Itama smiled big and swam inelegantly towards him, all splashes and spluttering and cheerful chaos. He turned his back on Tobirama, submerging in the river, his head tilted back, face to the sky, his eyes closed.

Tobirama gently tugged at Itama’s hair and began to scrub at his scalp with light pressure, the movements coming easily. They’d done this too many times to count, Tobirama and Itama, though usually it was Hashirama who would force his fingers into Tobirama’s hair, and Tobirama would fight to get him off, annoyed by how his scalp would end up aching from Hashirama’s exuberant hands...

(But that was before his brother’s Mokuton manifested, before he proved himself worthy of a god, anyway...)

Itama peeked an eye open. “Is Hashirama back yet?” he asked, like he knew what he’d been thinking. Perhaps he’d been tugging too hard.

“No, I can’t sense him in the compound yet. He’s still on his mission.”

“Oh,” said Itama with disappointment. “Maybe we’ll see him after training…”

“If he gets back in time, perhaps,” Tobirama agreed quietly, and didn’t speak more of it.

Hashirama hasn’t been the same—not since Kawarama’s death. After the funeral, they’d barely seen a hair of him, and not for lack of effort. Tobirama, though a little hurt, had decided to let him have his own time to grieve while he and Itama occasionally dragged him away and reminded him that they are there for him, but… it’s been months, now, and… Hashirama is still gone. Taking more missions like Tobirama does, going off somewhere when he was home, somewhere other than the shrine he loved so much…

Avoiding them. Though he couldn’t fathom why.

When was the last time they’d seen him somewhere other than dinner? Dinner where their father liked the silence most days, and dominated any conversation at the table on other days. Talking to Hashirama used to be so easy. Now he’s been getting into fights with father left and right; whenever Tobirama saw him he’d have some kind of bruise, and he’s unsure if it’s from training or being struck by Butsuma, but when he’d try to ask his brother would make some kind of excuse to leave and he’d quickly be on his way.

The distance hurt. Even more so since it was so deliberate. Tobirama had always looked up to Hashirama as his younger brother, and their closeness was something they’d had their whole lives. Being without it made him feel like he was being punished somehow.

How did they let it get this bad? He wondered.

He was shaken from his thoughts by a gasp. Itama was staring up in the direction of the sun. “I’m late for training,” he said with a groan. “Kaiza will be mad.”

Right. Training always began two hours after sunrise, when it was still slightly low in the sky. Tobirama glanced up at the sun too, and cursed. “I need to prepare for my mission,”  he said.

They frowned at each other.

“Come say goodbye before you go?” Itama asked, hopping out of the river and stretching.

“Always.”

 

 

(He returns drenched in blood, his heart in his throat, his leg aching something fierce, exhaustion burned into his bones.)

Later, there will be rumors like usual, of Shinobi slaughtering each other by the edge of the civilian villages, of a white-haired child who fought hard with no mercy, of another few dead men from that clan, you know—

—the one with the red eyes.

 

 

Days later, Tobirama finds Itama at the charm tree.

The tree sat outside the shrine, in the middle of a koi pond, grown by a blessed one of the clan eighty-seven years ago. It was tall and leafy with many branches. This tree looked very different from other trees—the roots were strong and thick, and they grew from beneath the water, arching up above the surface, little gaps in the roots full of large crystals that reflected on the pond. Moss and ivy climbed up the roots, clinging to the bark, a pretty green against the vivid burnt umber of the trunk. It stretched tall and wide towards the sky, thousands of charms hanging on the branches, glittering in the setting sun, tinkling against each other in the wind.

Some left simple little charms as offerings. Most came by to meditate or pray, but at this time of night, their surroundings were quiet—most clan members came here to pray during the mornings, or after lunch time. Others came at night if they’d missed their usual times because they’d been on a mission. Hashirama would often sit here and meditate if nobody was around, but that lessened a little while after Kawarama’s death...

Tobirama used to pray here too, before mother died.

It was peaceful. Itama stood on the surface of the water with his chakra, inspecting the branches for new charms, while Tobirama sat with his shoulders relaxed, watching the brightly colored koi float along the water, darting around the sunken roots.

“Hmm, there’s some prayers for land, food, vengeance… Here’s a new one…it’s long.” Itama tilted his head back, narrowing his eyes to peer further. Then he jerked back, eyes wide, nose crinkled in disgust.  “Eww! A busty blonde? Gross pervert!”

Tobirama pressed his lips together in thinly veiled amusement. “Two guesses to who that one is,” he muttered.

“Tomoe-ojisan,” Itama said flatly, and Tobirama smirked. “That shameless letch…”

He turned his nose up at the charm and moved to stare up at another branch with renewed focus. Tobirama looked at the direction his brother was studying. A few general charms hung there, praying for safety, abundance, death to their enemies, revenge against the Uchiha. Common prayers by their clan members, all pretty gold colors and delicately brushed ink. And right on the lowest twist of the branch, larger than all the others, there was a monstrosity of a charm. They peered at it in stupefied silence, then Itama laughed.

“Wow! It’s ugly,” he said cheerfully. “Who made that charm?”

It was a mockery of a thing, practically an insult to Sarutahiko-okami-sama. Tobirama eyed the sloppy writing, the half-hearted stitch of the edges, the eyesore of color chosen as the background. There was even a disfigured little doodle of Sarutahiko-sama waving impishly—missing an arm, a leg and half his face.

“Touka,” he decided. He couldn’t imagine anyone else openly disrespecting their clan’s god so boldly—so foolishly. If their elder brother saw it he would lose his head at the disrespect to the god who blessed him, hunting her down for a showdown full of tears, obnoxious screaming and wilting flora.

Itama studied it with narrowed eyes then smiled, slow and mischievous. “Wanna stick it to Hashi-nii’s forehead with a seal while he’s sleeping?” he asked, sounding eager.

“Hashirama would have our hide,” said Tobirama, eyeing the charm with disgust. “Father, too.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Itama offered hopefully. It was, honestly, tempting.

Tobirama could’ve accepted, could’ve reached out and taken the offering. He could imagine it, Hashirama chasing after Touka, nature wilting around him, the tree branches darting out to grab her while he screamed for justice—more shocked outrage than actual anger. He’d be so distracted by the disrespect to Sarutahiko-sama that Tobirama doubted he’d even come after them for sticking it on his forehead in the first place. The commotion of it all would draw people out, and then… 

Father.

Goosebumps unraveled down his spine. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably.

“No,” he said, adopting a chiding tone. “Best not have father getting involved. You know how he is.”

“Yeah… I do.” said Itama, dejected. He let go of the charm, watching it dangle on the branch of the tree. His shoulders were slumped. Tobirama forced himself to look away.

(No, he thought quietly to himself. Itama didn’t know how their father was. Hasn’t seen what he was capable of. And he hoped it would stay that way.)

 

 

He dreamed of— sitting against the wall in the hallway, knees drawn up his chest, his heart pounding with anticipation. 

He’d sensed the mid-wives rushing to Father’s room two minutes ago. Tobirama, who’d felt the flicker of a new chakra burst into existence — warm, masculine, beautiful, utterly pure — had waited a few moments before he followed, slipping out of his own room, tiptoeing in the shadows. His brother had just been born, he thought with happiness. The youngest, after Itama. What would they call him? He wondered. Would it be similar to their names? Would it end with ‘ama’?

Butsuma had just stepped into the room, but hadn’t said anything. Tobirama thought it was strange. It was a long silence, where he heard nothing but the sound of the his newborn brother’s cries, his feeble lungs shouting his existence to the world.

But then he feels it. The rumble, the ominous shake that took over his father’s chakra. Rage, white-hot, tearing through the shock. A kunai pushing through the mist. It was something horrible, his chakra — blank and numb and crushingly terrifying. A volcano nearing it’s eruption.

“Red,” Father says, very, very softly. Nearly a whisper, but so vast that Tobirama heard it through the walls as if it’d been uttered right at his side. He held his breath, confusion rushing through him. He stood up quietly, uncertainty tensing his shoulders.

“Don’t,” said Mother, her voice shaking. He could sense fear from her, rocking her chakra, swallowing it. It make him feel sick, something uncomfortable tightening his stomach. “Don’t. Please.”

“Is that what you want? Mercy?” he asked coldly, a threat bleeding through his cutting voice. “Fine. Mercy is yours, wife.”

He sensed movement, too fast for Tobirama to comprehend. A choked yell pierced the air. His brother wailed. Gurgled. Pain, confusion, fear, agony —  it all clouded his senses, sending him tumbling to his knees hard, then in a terrifying, timeless instant, it was all gone.

His mother— screamed.

 

 

Butsuma’s hands were entwined near his mouth, his elbows on the wooden desk. Half-lidded dark eyes peer at him, watchful, hard as steel and twice as cutting.

“A merchant clan is passing through the nearest village. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Uraka Clan,” he said severely.

Tobirama was familiar with them. It was a civilian clan, relatively well known by their trade. On a few missions he’d come across them on the road or at some of the feudal lord’s festivals and had bought supplies from them in their large public stalls. There were many of them; he remembers they had a whole alley to themselves to sell their goods, and that they tended to split up when travelling with caravans because of rogues or bandits. It wasn’t uncommon.

“They spurned our offers, giving us no reason as to why. When investigated, it was found that their primary buyers are the Uchiha,” said Butsuma. “Their death would be a blow to our enemy—they’d be left scrambling for food suppliers, their resources would be more limited, and they’d leave their forces weaker as they send out more shinobi to clear it up. The enemy’s backup supply has already been narrowed down and taken care of. After this, it’d be the perfect opportunity to gain ground.”

Tobirama stayed silent. He knew his Butsuma enough to know that he was leading up to either good news, or grim news.

“I asked Hashirama to eliminate the Uraka,” he paused, then he cut his eyes towards Tobirama. “He refused.”

A mixture of relief and despair pulled at his chest. He could see why his brother turned it down. He stared at the bridge of Butsuma’s nose, already understanding where he was going with this. It’s not the first time he’s stood here and heard similar words, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

Butsuma scowled. “He didn’t understand what a great opening this has given us. We can finally put a dent in their forces. If all goes well we might even end that insufferable brother of the clan head, the one who claims to be a blessed,” he scoffed, shook his head, breathed a long sigh. “I haven’t been hard enough on Hashirama. Even so, I expected better. Your brother has disappointed me, Tobirama—” he said, and then his expression twisted into something of a smile. It looked wrong on his face, pulling on his scars, turning it into something darker, crueler.

“—but you won’t.”

He forced down the sick feeling in his stomach from his father’s faith in his ruthlessness. He kept his face blank, only nodding firmly. His throat was tight, so he didn’t speak, but Butsuma was satisfied in his silence. He tossed a scroll to Tobirama, who caught it easily, without flinching—a sign of weakness is something his father would not allow.

Tobirama opened the scroll mechanically, his eyes roving over the information, swallowing quietly. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected, he reminded himself. He’s done similar missions before, has come out largely unscathed from most of them. It didn’t quite quell the tight feeling in his chest.

It’s true that he’d been forced to grow up faster than his siblings, and it showed. While Hashirama held the favor of their god as the blessed, and the most powerful, he was still just a child forced to be a Shinobi. He lacked that grown-up maturity still. Tobirama was a prodigy, a tool; even younger than Hashirama, and the perfect Shinobi that their father hoped for. He was better than strong for his age, his chakra control was great, and he was unbeatable in water release. He was quiet, calm, and he followed orders without question.

It is something Hashirama resents about him, he knows.

Hashirama hesitates. Hashirama always hopes. Hashirama always asks, always argues with Butsuma, always gets away with it either by Tobirama stepping in to diffuse the issue or because of his status—both as heir and blessed one.

There’s no status that protects Tobirama. He’s the spare child, the spare heir. He can’t hesitate or fight like his brother, and he has little choice in that fact. He knows what weakness means for him under his father’s command. He’s read his mother’s journals. He’s seen the horrific outcome first hand with his own eyes, even. But Butsuma fixates upon disobedience—not blind, unshakable deference, and he knows that as long as he is the ruthless, distant Shinobi that his father wants, then he’ll be satisfied enough not to dig deeper. 

And Tobirama has a lot to hide. A lot to be unearthed.

(If father had known that Tobirama’s water release did not need any hand seals—well.

He’d be long dead, that’s for sure.)

“When should I leave?” he asked simply, trying not to show how much Butsuma unnerved him.

“An hour. Don’t disappoint me.” It’s a dismissal, and Tobirama is eager to comply.

He packs what he needs and then spends the next forty minutes with Itama. He doesn’t eat, because he thinks he might throw up later, though Itama looks disapprovingly at him for it. He drags his feet when it’s time to leave, and Itama hugs him extra tight the way he does when nobody’s looking.

“Good luck on your mission, Tobirama-niisan!” he says. “Come home safe!”

He smiles hollowly, nods, lets the emptiness settle in his heart, and then he’s gone.

 

 

Murder is easy, as usual. Too easy.

(Or should he call it a slaughter? That’s what it felt like, surrounded by civilian corpses, the reek of death burning his nose. Their chakras had all been so small, like little fireflies blinking out of existence, forced into a hibernation they’d never wake from.)

Duty, that’s what their father called it. Protecting their family, their clan. It’s us or them, he’ll say.

He washed his hands in the stream on the way back. Rinsed his mouth from the taste of vomit. There wasn’t a speck of blood on his armor.

Hashirama knew anyway. He always does.

“Tobirama, how could you?!” he explodes, speaking to him for the first time in—what? Days? Weeks? His eyes were dark, and for a moment they were just like father’s, full of rage and disappointment. “How could you kill them?! They were innocent! There were families—kids!”

He was right. They had been innocent. Supplying the Uchiha was not a crime. He could still see their bodies in his mind’s eye, blood-streaked and stiff in death, the scent of urine and iron still haunting his nose. He tries not to look at the faces of the civilians he murders, but sometimes it’s unavoidable, and if it’s not—well, his imagination wasn’t lacking. Bile crawls up his throat, self-loathing thickening his tongue.

He sets down his warm cup of tea, the comfort of it no longer encompassing, and he hides the return of the shakiness in his hands by placing them under the table. Pain bleeds through the numbness that had taken over. How many children had there been? Five? Ten? It didn’t matter. They were dead.

His lips pressed flat. “I had no choice,” he said stiffly.

“No choice?!” Hashirama slams his hands down on the kitchen table, rattling the half-full mug. He leans closer, nearing Tobirama’s face. “There’s always a choice between what’s easy and what’s right! Those people did nothing to earn death! And father’s plan— do you really think the children deserve to starve, even if they’re Uchiha? You know this isn’t right! That’s why I turned down the mission!”

He felt as if every single cell in his body stiffened, his throat going tight. He stares at Hashirama, speechless. He wants to argue with him—wants to tell him that it’s not how it works, that they’re not the same—but Hashirama will never understand. Hashirama wasn’t there, after all, he didn’t know the truth of Butsuma, didn’t know what could be awaiting Tobirama should he fail to be as he’s expected.

(It’s not the first time they’ve argued about this, because it’s not the first time that Tobirama’s been handed his missions. But it’s the first time they’ve fought since Hashirama’s distanced himself. The chasm between them is jagged—and it cuts.)

“I’m not you, Hashirama,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “I’m not able to just—turn down missions, like you can.”

Hashirama recoils, reeling back like he’s been slapped. “Are you—?” His face is stunned. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you seriously blaming me for this?” What? That’s not what he said—! “I’m not the one who slaughtered innocent civilians here! Families!”

Frustration eats at his chest. What could he say? What could he tell him? Hashirama already knew his privilege as the clan heir and blessed one. He and Itama didn’t have that advantage. Tobirama spent so much time taking missions to make his father satisfied enough that he’d lay off his brothers, hopefully give them enough time to train and grow strong enough to protect themselves. He’ll only be satisfied for so long, especially now that Kawarama has died. Every Shinobi lost is another on the battlefield, taking their place. Itama will be next, no matter how young he is.

Itama’s only six, but even a toddler with a weapon is still considered an enemy. Butsuma would say that all that pudgy baby-fat, that delicate soft paper skin, all of that is just a deception. A Shinobi is a Shinobi, no matter how small they are, no matter the height they stand, or the way they cry when you cut them down. Kids were weapons—weapons that grow older, sharper, more deadly. Child-hunters weren’t uncommon, not in clans that were deep in war. It was unkind, but it was their way of life.

And Tobirama, Itama—they weren’t exceptions to that.

(Kawarama died because he wasn’t. He was only seven years old.)

Tobirama is the Senju Clan’s prodigy, their asset, their perfect tool. He’s admired just as much as he is feared. He hates it, hates the way he staggers when he finally gets through the doorway of his room after missions, how his hands will always be bloody no matter how much he wishes otherwise, but he needs the strength to be able to protect his brothers, needs strength to be respected, needs strength to be able to stand up to his father one day. Can’t Hashirama see that? Tobirama’s just doing what needs to be done. They all are.

Hashirama’s dream of peace, it just wasn’t in their reality, not yet. They had to survive first. So why was he being punished for that?

What did he want? Tears? Regret? He’s sick with guilt, he’s already drowning in it—why couldn’t he see that?

Hashirama’s his older brother. Isn’t he supposed to know him better than everyone else? Does he want a show of weakness? Proof that he isn’t what he says he is? He can’t—father will kill him.

(Father will kill him—he will. They’ve never talked about that night, never acknowledged Tobirama’s presence in the room, but he’d rushed in at his mother’s scream and Butsuma had passed him when he stormed out the door. He’d already killed one child, and it may not have been his—but the look in his eyes—if he had to kill one of his own children, he would. Undoubtedly, he’d do it. And it’s not just the secret of his brother’s death Tobirama’s keeping silent on.)

Tobirama closed his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Hashirama’s chakra churns in agitation when he doesn’t immediately open them.

(Disappointing Hashirama—or disappointing Butsuma. He wasn’t sure which one he feared more. Both seemed inevitable.)

“I had no choice, Anija,” he repeats hollowly, and leans back into the chair. He keeps his eyes closed, part in denial perhaps—or maybe he just can’t bear to see the expression that will be crossing his brother’s face. It doesn’t help any. He can still sense it all.

(Wilted petunias, poison sap, acidic berries—he can taste it all in his brother’s chakra, entwined in his godly energy, bearing down on him. His negativity is always harsher, always more horrible against his senses, because it’s so unlike anyone else’s. A blessed one’s ire is so much more powerful—so much more agonizing to withstand.)

“You know…” Hashirama says at length, his voice thin, and quieter, and the disappointment and disgust is much, much worse than the rage. “Before this, I thought you understood. But... you’re just like father—just like the rest of the clan. And you don’t even look sorry for it.”

He doesn’t flinch. It’s hard, but he doesn’t. His fingers are digging into his knees, his skin wet with blood and aching fiercely under his nails. There’s stinging behind his lids.

He hears Hashirama shift. Footsteps drag along the floor, purposefully loud. Then they stop, exactly where he knows the door-frame to be.

“And if she were here, I think mother would be disappointed, too.”

This time, he does flinch. His eyes jerk open, blinded by the sudden rush of tears. A sob catches on his tongue, and he’s choking on it, heaving with it, trembling with the force of it. Distantly, there’s a flicker of fear at Hashirama seeing him like this, but his senses tell him that his weakness stays unseen. His brother had been walking away before he even finished his sentence.

Hashirama’s— already gone.

 

 

Growing up, there hadn’t been much room for fantasies in war. Father doesn’t believe in fairy tales, doesn’t like the happy, warm weakness they bring. The only stories allowed in their compound surround Sarutahiko-sama, old myths and tales where he gifts mortals with land and abundance, others where he wars with other beings—gods who are usually painted in a bad light, and Sarutahiko-sama always as the victor. It wasn’t something that appealed to him, not after learning so many legends from their mother when she was alive.

Instead, Tobirama had usually read his mother’s journal under the covers in the form of a lullaby, until he’s dozing, tracing the words with his eyes, exhaustion weighing down his lids.

The journal’s years old, and well-used. Once upon a time the pages had been pristine, made from the bark of the gampi tree—washi paper, mother had called it. Though he’d taken great care of her journal, it was obvious it was old. The paper was worn, the outside leather marked and scuffled, and it hung slightly open on specific areas, like a few pages had been ripped out. Itama had accepted it into his hands gently, reverently, his watery eyes running over the handwriting with a slow, meaningful gaze. Tobirama had blinked back tears at the sight, a knot forming in his throat, shame weighing heavy in his stomach.

After he’d given it to Hashirama to read a few years ago, his brother had let it slip that it was mother’s, and father had gone white with rage. Mother had written many things he didn’t agree with, after all, and Hashirama had taken her values on, clashed with father again and again like he channeled all of her hopes and dreams in spirit. Tobirama had taken it—hidden it—before father could destroy it, but the damage was already done. He couldn’t be seen reading it. He couldn’t hint that he followed the same beliefs without Butsuma knowing it was he who hid it. Hashirama got punished for trying to protect it and not sharing it’s location, but Tobirama still kept his mouth shut, and his brother didn’t blame him for it.

Only Hashirama knew it was Tobirama who first had it, that it was Tobirama who had given it to him to read—and Hashirama wasn’t telling.

(If there was one thing they could always agree on, it was to protect the only thing left of mother from their father’s rotten hands.)

But it had meant Kawarama and Itama weren’t included, that they didn’t know anything about their mother except from word of mouth from their elder brothers, cousins, clan members. It was painful, watching their eyes light up at the smallest speck of information about her. Tobirama hid that joy from them. They hadn’t been old enough to keep a secret back then, and next thing they knew Kawarama had died without knowing, without understanding who their mother was—and Tobirama promised himself Itama wouldn’t die the same way, ignorant of her and the quiet strength she held. Not completely.

He and Itama sat on the bed, a paper seal for privacy stuck to one of Itama’s walls, Tobirama using half of his attention to sense their father’s chakra signature to make sure he wouldn’t walk in and see it. He rests the journal in his lap, leans back against the headboard, and he reads the words out loud to Itama for the first time.

(They start from the beginning, together.)

“My mother sent this empty book with me on my journey, in vain—she had thought. I am not one to journal, not when my daily routine remains quite boring, but an allowance must be made in this instance. I am to be married to a war-heavy clan—to the clan head, by no surprise of my elders, and together from the rational fear clouding my head, with it came my decision to write. It’s unusual for me to accept any kind of gift from my mother, but I fear that my spoken reflections, by some, will be thought too grave; my tongue can only be bitten many times and it occurred to me that I’m unsure if I will survive even speaking freely, however much I pray to divinity.”

The Senju are fierce warriors, I had heard from sisters and cousins and the whispers of the help from the crack beneath the kitchen doors—mighty, powerful, they’d said. I wasn’t sure if I’d believed them until this moment, as they sat around me guarding me from both outside the carriage and in; I can hear the shifting of their armor plates, but there are no footsteps, just primal, male intimidation, the knowing of their presence itching my skin. I’d expected burly, large men with permanent scowls, locked jaws, and angry eyes. Instead there were men of all sizes, burly, stick-thin, even boys, I was horrified to find, barely reaching the stomach, practically a babe. I’d seen a woman in armor—I could hardly believe my eyes. She had not garnered the same respect, she was not as equal as they made the woman seem at first glance, but she was there with hard, locked-door eyes, scars running up her hands, a willingness to fight in the slide of her shoulders. I was in awe. I was in fear. The reality of my situation had crept through the numbness, and even through the tension my mother and I hold, I find myself thankful that she has given me this gift—at the very least so I do not have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs like a fearful girl on the cusp of a fainting spell.”

My hands have begun to shake as I write—I fear for all my knowledge, this has crept upon me. I forcefully have not put much thought into my future in the Senju, not until this moment, though not with the help of my clan—who, at every waking moment had asked questions even I couldn’t answer. I had put it out of mind, perhaps in denial; the strife of the wars have reached ever as far as we, after all, and I knew that fearing for my life in my clan, the Hatake, was much different from fearing for my life in the Senju, who are all but in the eye of the hurricane, in the very center of the bloodshed, standing tall on bones and blood money that my father was all too eager to trade me for. Butsuma Senju, my husband-to-be has replied to my inquiring letters with short, stiff answers, like he is being held at knife-point, and I fear that such a well-fought man might not find it in himself to open his heart to me, and just that thought brings forth streams of new terrors; that perhaps he is already in love, or that he may find himself better off with willy shrews and seductive concubines warming his bed, or that he may even treat me like you would a cold sack of flour, expressionless and feeble and undoubtedly an object. I fear to have a daughter, just so she could escape this terrifying uncertainty that hangs over me at being at the mercy of man in a man’s world. I only hope that any son I bear will grow loving and nurturing the woman of their choosing, that this violent, war-ridden world will not find it’s place rooted even within their hearts, that they choose kindness. There is already too much grief in the air—we need not more.” Tobirama’s voice tapered out into a slow, quiet whisper, his eyes running over the shaky handwriting with tender care, warmth curling in his chest even as his thawed-out heart ached with loss.

“She must’ve been really scared,” said Itama. He’d laid down against the pillows halfway through, simply listening to Tobirama’s calm voice as he read. The warm, golden light of the oil lamp danced across his soft, young face, so free of shadow, the light of his eyes making him look ever gentle and snug in the fur of his blankets.

Tobirama nodded. “But she was very strong, even if she didn’t know it yet.”

“She sounded smart, too,” his brother whispered. “She wrote so formal...” His eyes were half-lidded with sleep.

“Yes,” he murmured. He leaned down and placed a quiet kiss on his little brother’s forehead, smiling as Itama sighed contently. “She was the smartest woman I’ve ever known.”

Itama’s eyes crinkled in a sad smile. “Yeah,” he yawned, watery eyes sliding shut, a stubborn tear escaping down his cheek. “I wish…I’d known her…” A whisper of a giggle escaped him. “...I hope…I make her…proud...”

His breath evened out, light snores breezing the air. Tobirama pressed his lips together tightly and stared down at the worn journal in his lap, his heart clenching.

He wished that his brothers had known her quiet strength like he and Hashirama had, too.

“I’m certain that she already is,” he whispered. How could she not be proud? Itama was everything she had wished for—kind and hopeful just like Hashirama. He brushed a stray hair from his brother’s forehead, reaching over to the bedside table. Cold shadows drenched the room as the warm light flickered and died, and Tobirama left for his own room silently, clutching the journal under his shirt, gazing at the moonlight creeping in through the windows of the hallway, thinking of mother; her smiling visage, kind red eyes, her blood splattered nightgown—

—and the pages torn from her journal, buried beneath the floorboards of his room, hidden and forgotten.

 

 

“What do you think of the gods, Tobirama-niisan?” Itama suddenly asks one day.

Tobirama shifts. “I have some opinions that perhaps shouldn’t… be said aloud—or repeated.” His narrowed eyes locked on Itama. “What prompted this?”

Itama bit his lip, glancing at the privacy seals on the wall. “All father and the clan talks about is Sarutahiko-sama,” he said hesitantly, his brows furrowed. “All the other gods… they only tell us they’re bad, that they’re weak, that they don’t deserve to be worshipped. I thought it didn’t make sense. They’re always defeated by Sarutahiko-sama in stories… but your power is strong, so how would the water god be weak? I don’t understand…”

Tobirama was silent for a moment. He searched Itama’s face, and what he saw there made him relax. “Mother used to tell us stories,” he said lowly. “Her clan—the Hatake—they held a very different perspective on the gods than our clan does, Itama.”

His brother’s face brightened. “Mother’s clan? Really?”

He nodded. “She talks a little about it in her journal, in the next few entries. It was hard for her to adjust to our clan when she married father.”

Itama’s face twisted with confusion. “Why?” he asked. “Because we follow Sarutahiko-sama?”

“No,” said Tobirama. “Because they wouldn’t allow her to follow any god but Sarutahiko-sama.”

His face fell. “Oh,” he said quietly. “That’s so unfair.”

“It is. But you know how they are. It’s treason to follow another god.”

“That’s why you’re so scared?” Itama says. “Of father?”

“It’s one of the reasons,” Tobirama said softly.

Itama’s face hardened. “He’s stupid then,” he said angrily, clenching his fists. “They all are. Because your power is really strong, and if they weren’t so stupid then you’d be able to use it, and maybe then Kawarama wouldn’t have died!”

Tobirama flinched, his face stricken.

Itama’s eyes widened, then welled up. “Sorry, Tobi-nii,” he whispered regretfully, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Tobirama murmured with a sigh. He reached over and smoothed his hair down gently. “It’s okay. I miss him too.” Two thumbs brushed away Itama’s tears, tender and kind.

“Will you tell me the stories?” Itama asked, craning his neck to stare up at him hopefully. “The ones mother told you?”

Tobirama smiled down at him. “Of course. Tonight, I'll tell you one.”

 

 

( “Can you see it? It’s there.” he whispered, pointing  up towards the string of stars. “In the old tales, Sarutahiko, our god, and Susanoo, the sea god, were rivals for a time. They fell for the same mortal woman, but she was unsure who to choose. They decided to have a show of strength to decide who she would marry. Susanoo made the ocean float to the sky, and took her for a stroll to explore the extreme depths of the sea floor whilst the water and sea animals clung to the heavens for all to see. ”

“Cool…” Itama whispered with awe.

Tobirama nodded, smiling. “Sarutahiko, though, decided that something permanent would endear her, so he pulled an island from the sea and gifted it to her. He’d grown a great deal of exotic fruits, plants, and drawn up the finest gems and metals from deep in the earth to litter the grounds. ”

“Wow!” Itama turned his head to peer at him, “ If you were a god, would you pull up an island for me?”

“I suppose," he said, smiling. “Just don’t tell Hashirama—otherwise he would want one too.”

“ Cool !” Itama beamed. “And would you pick up the ocean for me too?”

“That sounds like a bit more work,” Tobirama says thoughtfully. “The whole ocean is too big. Perhaps just a lake.”

“A big lake,” Itama demanded. “A pretty one—one that mirrors all beauty on it’s surface.”

Tobirama arched an amused brow. “Yes,” he chuckled. “The prettiest lake— f or my strong and manly little brother.”

“Hey!” he cried out, reaching over to poke at his face with persistent, stubby fingers. “Are you mocking me, Tobirama-nii san!?”

“ Why would I do that, Itama-hime?” he asked.  “I would never be so rude.”

“Arrrgggh!” His brother cried, swinging playful hits at his shoulder. “I’m no princess! I’m a boy! A man!”

“Hmm,” Tobirama says noncommittally, biting back a smile. His brother let out an fake battle cry.

Tobirama chuckled and dodged his elbow. “Shall I continue?”

“Fine,” Itama pouted. “What happened next?”

“They argued for a long time about which was better, and in their rage, they lost themselves. She died from throwing herself between their blows, trying to stop the fighting . Amaterasu, taking pity, laid her to rest in the stars. That’s her constellation  up there— the lady Himwe.”

“That’s really sad,” he said. “But I don’t get it. If they wanted to know who’s was better so badly, why didn’t they just ask her?”

“I suppose they must’ve treated women even worse back then,” said Tobirama. “In mother’s journal it was like that too, and that was not long ago in comparison.”

“Not long? But how is Touka a shinobi then…”

“Touka is Touka,” Tobirama said dryly.

Itama laughed. “Yeah, you’re right! It’s confusing…”

“There are some more progressive clans than others,” he explained finally. “The Uzumaki Clan’s Head are usually women. They are also trained to fight. Mother’s clan never allowed anything like that. In our clan it’s rare for women to fight. Touka just refused to be overlooked, and her mother supported her.”

Itama hummed. They laid there for a moment in silence.

“What are you thinking about?” Tobirama wondered.

“That it would be cool to be a star,” Itama said. “Like in the story. When you die, you could look down at everyone you left behind, and watch over them — and they’d always know you’re there, so they won’t feel alone. Amaterasu’s nice for doing that.”

Tobirama gazed up thoughtfully, his eyes tracing along the night sky. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Maybe if we pray, the gods will put mother and K-Kawarama up there,” he said with a small sniffle.

“Maybe they will,” said Tobirama. He reached out and grasped Itama’s hand in his own, squeezing comfortingly. “Let us pray, then.”)

 

 

Time passes like a blur.

Butsuma sends him on more missions. Some of them are supposed to be Hashirama’s. After every single one of them he comes back to find his brother there, waiting expectantly, his eyes tight with stubborn anger.

Hashirama’s never there to make sure he’s okay. He never asks if he’s injured, never checks him over like he used to. When he sees Tobirama come home wearing blood on his armor he looks to him and thinks of the people that are dead, of the innocents that didn’t deserve to die—he looks at his younger brother and he sees a sword that cuts too quickly and without question.

He yells and screams and wants Tobirama to be different. He tries to reason with him sometimes, on good days, begs him to stop. On others he just argues with him and talks over him and tells him that he’s just like father, and slowly Tobirama—starts to believe him. Starts to wonder if he lost himself trying to keep his family safe. Starts to toss and turn at night over the idea that he’s slowly slipping through his father’s fingers and into his skin instead.

(“I just don’t understand,” his older brother says, quiet and defeated. “Don’t you see what he’s doing to you? Mother wouldn’t have wanted this. I thought you… I thought you loved her.”)

The judgement hurts, but Tobirama knows he’s not wrong. He’s a killer, and he kills without question. The clan looks upon him with hope and fear. They look at him and they see a force against the Uchiha. They look at him and they see hatred against their enemies, and they’re proud of it.

They look at him and whisper, why can’t Hashirama be more like him? They whisper, why didn’t Sarutahiko-sama bless Tobirama, too? They whisper, how lucky we are that he’s so unlike his mother…

No, he thinks. Hashirama is right. Mother wouldn’t have wanted this.

He starts returning slower, washing the blood away in the river before he can get home after every mission. Bows his head in silence as Hashirama looks at him in disappointment, in disgust. He stops trying to defend himself, and just lets the words roll over him, into him, burrowing deep in his chest and making a place there. He accepts them.

His brother sees the bowing, the blank apologies, never hears him argue back. Tobirama keeps going on missions, and keeps silent.

Hashirama starts expecting it, the deference, the cold quiet. He doesn’t yell at him as much—he just appears resigned. Like he’s finally accepted it. Like he just expects the worst out of him.

(He just accepts that his younger brother is a miniature father with their mother’s face, hair, eyes, and he looks no further.)

It wears him down—the crushing weight of his secrets. The consequence of his actions.

The nightmares get worse.

Some days he wakes up with hot tears on his cheeks and the taste of salt in his mouth, screams ringing through his ears, blood gushing in his mind’s vision, the echoes of chakra signatures vanishing from the earth, their essence thick with terror. Those days are the worst ones, because he feels like a walking wraith, feels like the white ghost the Uchiha think him to be, feels like he’s not quite in his body.

It’s not easy, not when Butsuma calls him in when he’s feeling that way, not when he gets berated for not paying attention, not when he’s putting all his focus into not throwing up at the sight of him. The child-killer. The man who murdered his brother. His father.

It’s not easy, not when he comes home, exhaustion straining his bones, and Hashirama just shakes his head at him, his chakra recoiling at his presence.

All his spare time is spent trying to distract himself. He ignores the nausea, draws up experimental seals, practices jutsu. He leaves charms at the shrine. He spars with Itama, tells him tales of the gods under the stars, reads mother’s journal in the safety of a dozen privacy seals.

They grow closer. In between training, Itama spends every moment that he can by Tobirama’s side, and the presence of him—him and his chakra—it’s like a warm hug.

(The grief never really goes away, but it helps that he’s not so alone.)

 

 

The door jerked open, but having sensed him coming, Tobirama didn’t jump. Itama stumbled in, and the breeze that swept in made a whoosh of papers flutter to the ground in a scattered heap, adding to the growing pile. “Your room is a mess!” he complained, picking one up, peering at it with interest. “What’s this? Are these new seals?”

Quick as a flash, Tobirama stood from the desk and snatched it from Itama’s hands, his heart thumping fast. “It’s an exploding seal!” he said sternly. “Don’t just wave it around like that!”

“Cool!” Itama exclaimed, wholly unconcerned. “An exploding seal! That sounds dangerous!” He reached out, making grabby hands. Tobirama dodged him and backed away, groaning with annoyance.

“It is,” he said, clutching it to his chest protectively. “It’s very dangerous— You can’t just wave it around, Itama—”

Itama bent at the waist and dug his hands into the papers scattered on the floor. “What’s this one? Oh wow, this one is big—”

“Don’t just grab them!” he cried.

“But you just let them sit on the floor—”

“Because I trust myself not to accidentally implode them!”

Itama laughed at him, waving his hand absentmindedly.

“Insolent,” said Tobirama, not without affection. He shook his head. “Who gave you sugar? You’re unusually excitable.”

“Tomoe-ojisan,” Itama said, without a hint of shame.

“The old letch?”

“Mmhm!” His brother stuck his tongue out and dove on Tobirama’s bed. “Tobirama-niisan, teach me!”

“Teach you?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Sealing!”

“I don’t think so,” he said flatly.

“What?” he whined. “Why not?”

“There is no way I’d be able to get you to sit still for more than five minutes after you’ve ingested sugar,” Tobirama said. “Not without paralyzing seals and a lot of rope.”

“I’m not that bad,” Itama complained, like he didn’t turn into the clan’s most successful escape artist with the right amount of sweetness and boredom. “C’mon, please? Tobi-nii?”

He paused and considered it. Itama used to always beg Hashirama to teach him. Tobirama was usually busy reading, training or studying if he weren’t on missions, and had little time to teach, so he was never asked. But he found it was nice… he felt wanted, like his little brother liked his company, which, logically he knew he did… but it was nice to hear it.

He eyed his little brother suspiciously, then heaved a half-hearted sigh. “Alright,” he says, turning his face slightly away to hide the small smile at Itama’s cry of joy. “But you have to do as I say! No more grabbing at dangerous seals!”

“I swear! I won’t let you down!”

He could feel he was going to regret this.

 

(“Tobirama-niisan… I’m… really sorry for blowing up all of your seals…”

“It’s…fine.”)

 

 

“He is a harsh shade of handsome, was my first thought upon meeting my future husband—and yet, to my utmost dread, my next inspections had not been so kind; the way he had stood stiffly with the company upon our arrival, the steely sweep of his eyes over me when I’d tiredly lumbered from the carriage, the look of cool appraisal on his face not unlike a man searching the worth of a promising object... I feel the chill of his gaze even now, as I write this in my generous chambers in my lonesome, for how I cannot forget the disregard that had been hinted in his expression on the arrival of I, his future wife. We are to be wed in two short days on the stair of the shrine that I’d seen hinted through the gaps of trees through soft, golden lantern light, a shot of warm against the icy night that I’d savored  when my guard had escorted me to my rooms. I’d thought it had looked pretty, then—peaceful in a way which I found unfamiliar. Even for Butsuma’s ugly impression I find myself looking forward to it, imagining how the moss-covered stone path may look in the sunlight and how the abundant flowers would shiver in the breeze as my husband bent down to kiss me to seal our marriage. Would his lips feel as rough as the rest of him looks, or shall they be soft and warm—contradictory to his closed-off, tempered demeanor? If I wished it so, could my ice temper his stubborn, iron blaze? My mother would scold me for my high expectations, I remind myself; but I can only hope, for otherwise my future from where I sit looks very grim...  

There is much tension in this household. The help had flinched away from me as if my gaze caused them a great deal of pain, and the greetings of the Senju clan-members and entourage of elders had been rigid and frosty enough to linger in the air, even after they had all drifted inside at their quick dismissal. They distrust me and it shows. Already I ache with longing for the grey-bleach summits of the Hatake land, my thoughts lingering on my sisters and their well being in particular, the bittersweet feelings towards my parents rising beneath it. I would miss being surrounded by those that share my look and breathe the same chilling air—the light eyes of my fellow clan members, the snow-touched hair that swayed in the wind as my younger sisters pulled me along towards the beauty of the lake, every moment grander and unutterably lovely, the nin-wolves nipping at our heels as we laughed. The yearning in my heart led to fearful thoughts, unbidden; Would I ever see them again? My father had traded me at the first chance of higher influence and blood money—I feared for my sisters who sit on the cusp of womanhood, innocent and carefree as they toe the mirrored lake and run from mother’s lessons, following every whim that floats to mind. Would they follow my own fate, traded away like rusted coins from the purse, doomed to the wiles of a man’s gambit? Would they fall into the hands of someone who would wish far worse on them in comparison to my husband’s cold, distant poise? I find that hope is all I have left—the only thing steadying the shake of my hands as my body belays my true terror, my reality finally setting in. This journal is of great comfort, but perhaps sleep will do me more good…” he finishes reading, closing the journal.

“It’s unfair,” Itama said, “how mother and her sisters weren’t allowed to marry who they choose…”

“It is,” Tobirama agreed. “Though, we wouldn’t be here otherwise, would we? Mother might regret not being in a loving relationship, that is true. But I can’t imagine she’d regret you, Kawarama, or Hashirama.”

Itama smiled warmly. Cutely. “Yeah,” he said. “Tobirama-niisan is so cool, so I know she’d never regret you either.”

Wouldn’t she? He wondered, thinking of Hashirama’s cutting words after his mission. But no, he knew. His mother didn’t truly have the heart to regret any of her children. Not even... His breath stuttered, then he sucked in a deep sigh, and smiled. “Right.”

He watched, content, as Itama raised his eyes to the ceiling with a thoughtful expression. “Hey Tobi-nii?” he asks, “What happened to our mother’s sisters?”

“I’m unsure,” he says after a moment. “Father never let me contact them. He never let mother contact them, either.”

“That’s really mean,” his brother muttered. “I’d be really mad if I couldn’t talk to you.”

“Me too,” he said. “Perhaps one day we can meet them—when we’re grown up, and father can’t stop us.”

“That sounds nice,” said Itama. “Hashirama would like that too! And Kawa—” he stopped abruptly, blinking back sudden tears. For a moment, it’d seemed like he’d forgotten.

He rests a gentle hand on Itama’s head, combing his fingers through his hair soothingly. “I think Kawarama would’ve loved the idea,” he reassures softly.

Itama hiccupped. “I really... miss Kawarama,” he whimpers, burrowing deeper into Tobirama’s chest. His chakra is like a wounded, trusting animal, reaching out with noiseless cries, curling around him.

Tobirama closed his eyes, sighing deeply. “As do I,” he murmurs, dropping his chin onto Itama’s head, eyes stinging, choking down the grief. Images flash through his mind—Kawarama as a toddler, giggling, reaching up towards him with small, demanding hands—mixed laughter by the river—tiny fingers poking at his cheek annoyingly—grit, bone, blood and tissue, deep, haunting terror—

His throat clenches, a cold shiver slipping down his back. Tobirama squeezed his arms around him tighter.

“I wish Hashi-nii would hang out with us again,” Itama adds in a small voice.

He runs a hand soothingly through his hair, eyes prickling. “I know. He will, someday soon. I’m sure of it.”

They sit there in silence for a moment, breathing in the comfort.

“Tobi-nii?” Itama whispers, and Tobirama feels tears dampening his shirt. “I hope you know that I love you lots.”

The deep breath he takes in is thick with sorrow, dry and rattling in his lungs. For a moment he doesn’t understand how someone so pure has been born into such a bloody clan. He feels his face crumple, his eyebrows furrowed as he’s overcome with a flood of emotion. “Oh, Itama,” he says, “I love you more than you could imagine.”

“Even though I blew up all your seals?” Itama asks.

“Yes,” Tobirama whispers, smiling, a few stray tears escaping from his half-shut eyes, savoring the adoration pouring from Itama’s chakra—open and warm, comforting like incense and warm tea on a cold winter’s night, a body next to his as the moon looks down at them through the open window. “—though if you do it again, I won’t be so forgiving...”

A choked laugh wheezed from Itama’s throat. “I’ll keep that in mind, Tobi-nii.”

 

 

He dreams of a storm, mighty and harrowing, rocking the ship that churned and shook under Tobirama’s feet, the thunder shaking the sky. He’s clinging to the sodden railing, yelling at the top of his lungs as his body is thrown around, the whoosh of the waves spraying against his face.

There’s a man beside him, sitting on the railing, his body swaying with the ship as if he’s one with the colossal waves. “What are you so afraid of?” he asks, smiling.  His deep-set, inquisitive eyes are set on Tobirama, searching.

Tobirama just looks at him, hoping that he can read the ‘are you an idiot’ in his expression, then stares down at the edge of the whirlpool the boat is wandering towards. The air fizzed and shook, then the branched lightning hissed and struck down, down into the whirlpool, a blinding flash lighting it up for a brief moment. The moment was long enough for Tobirama to glimpse through the dark, enough to see how monstrous the whirling sinkhole really was—and it was. Bigger than the ship, bigger than a million ships, it was the grotesque mouth of a god ready to devour all life. He feels tiny and small and hopeless, his heart trying to wrench itself through the cell of his ribcage. Thunder boomed and the ship trembled beneath his fingers, hard rain drenching his hair, and the man beside him laughed.

“There’s no reason to fear it,” the man said, simple and amused, still sitting there with his legs over the edge of the railing, swinging over open air, his smiling eyes gazing into the deep abyss. “It’s inevitable. It’s nature. Just laugh.”

“Just laugh?” Tobirama repeated dumbly, body shaking, nails digging into the hardwood, the break of a killer wave drenching him against the deck.

“How else can you live?” says the man. Then he stands up, and he’s so tall it’s like he’s higher than the mast, which is strange because he didn’t seem so tall sitting down.

“Well?” he says—then he jumps, laughing the entire way, and because his voice is so booming, like the thunder, Tobirama can hear him even once he reaches the bottom, swallowed by the sea.

Tobirama gasps. Then, for reasons unknown, he throws himself up onto the railing, standing with newfound balance even when the mist from a wave slaps, splatters against his back, and he gazes into the abyss—

And then he jumps too.

“You didn’t laugh,” he hears someone say, but he’s already waking up.

Notes:

Tobirama's mother will have a really heavy impact in this story. I've wrote 1/4 of her entire journal at 6,483 words, but it's definitely gonna be 18,000-25,000 words about her finding her voice, her hopes and dreams, that kinda stuff. Once I finish the entire thing I'll post it in the collection in it's entirety so you guys can read the full thing if you'd like, but it'll all be in this story through little snippets too.

Chapter 3: bathed in fear

Summary:

Tobirama breathed heavily, sweat pouring down his throat, his heart drumming in his ears. He leaned back in his chair, shivering. The air was charged with residual chakra, rolling fluidly against his tingling skin.

Three red slashes curved his face, his chin. Seals.

(Thunder trembled the ground. The earth groaned and shook. Lightning touched down, down into the sea, down into the mouth of the god—)

The Uchiha didn’t take Butsuma’s plan very well, as expected.

Tobirama ran. His legs bent to cover the impact, again and again as he darted through the leaves, his trained footfalls barely a brush of wind against the high tree branches. Behind him shadows danced, flashes of pale skin under the fading light, soundless movements catching the corners of his eyes—Touka and Kaoru. Even without looking he could sense them, two dry stars of chakra brushing against his senses, tasting of steel and grim determination.

In the distance, he sensed them—their signatures like ants, one small and feeble, and the other not so. He let himself fall, catching himself on a thick branch, scanning ahead. He felt his shadows stop above him, waiting patiently.

How far?  Said the tapping, Kaoru’s fingers knocking slowly against the tree trunk.

“Four hundred meters,” he said under his breath. Touka whistled in reply, the sound a perfect imitation of a bird. I’ll be your eyes from above, it meant. He glanced up, his eyes catching on the twirl of the senbon between her fingers, the flash of a smirk, of hard eyes, the acidic scent of poison brushing his sensitive nose.

An airy huff whispered through the leaves, then Kaoru dropped down next to him silently, kunai sliding from his sleeves and into his hands. He cocked an eyebrow at Tobirama, smiling crookedly, but his eyes were dark, his lips a bit too flat. He saluted mockingly, the kunai held loosely between his fingers glinting in the light, ready for battle.

Tobirama inclined his head, his lips pressed tightly together, dread coiled in his chest. None of them really wanted to be here, he knew. He could barely sense them in the direction they’d skirted around—the Uchiha skirmishing with their clan; Hashirama’s chakra like the faintest breeze to his senses, the roar of Butsuma muted by the distance, dozens of little sparks surrounding them, clashing against each other.

He loathed to be away while his family was fighting. It was likely Hashirama would return unharmed, however—the battle was a mere pretense by the Uchiha, after all; a diversion to hide their efforts of gaining new food suppliers. Their goal was not to slaughter, but to distract. They’d retreat when they were sure they’d provided enough cover for their clansmen to leave for the capital unnoticed.

But it was useless, Tobirama knew. Butsuma had planned this weeks in advance—had thought of all the ways they’d retaliate with manic obsession. The Uraka Clan’s extermination was a mere catalyst for their actions. Without food, the Uchiha have been driven into a corner—and now they’ve become predictable.

(“Strip them of a basic need and then what, Tobirama? They cannot survive for long without it, and so it becomes their focus. Their movements become easy to foretell.” Butsuma’s eyes glinted menacingly. “And if not… well — ”)

Touka breathed another bird-like whistle, sharp and quick.

There was a shiver of chakra, then Tobirama and Kaoru burst through the trees, the enemy’s shouting alerting their presence. His tanto blurred silver in the moonlight, cutting without hesitation. Something squelched, blood splattering on the ground. The Uchiha—young, male, mid chakra grade—went down with a stuttered cry.

He glanced right, where Kaoru danced around a hail of kunai. The air blasted with heat, a fireball roaring towards him, hot enough to melt the flesh off bone, the chakra tasting of ash and rolling anger. Kaoru recoiled, his chakra spiking with panic, and Tobirama’s hands blurred, seals searing through his mind. Power shivered through the air, goosebumps rising on his skin. He heaved and water streamed out of his mouth, clashing with the fireball, evaporating in a hiss of burning steam.

Senbon whizzed overhead. A wet gurgle sounded, high and choked and wretched.

The enemy was dead before they hit the ground.

Tobirama stared down at the bodies—too small, too young—his chest heaving, his heartbeat shaking the air. There’d only been two of them—children, easy to go unnoticed from the skirmish, the Uchiha must’ve thought—but easy to outnumber.

It was too easy, he thought, detached, Butsuma’s voice ringing through his head, bile on his tongue.

(“And if not… well — I suppose you’ll have to be swift enough to counter it, won’t you?”)

Too easy, his thoughts echoed.

 

("There he goes again… everyone looks so angry. Why doesn’t he give up? Hashi-nii must know the elders won’t ever want peace with those — ”

“Hush, Itama. Hashirama is in a position where he can fight for his future without much backlash, unlike us. Don’t fault him for taking advantage.”

“But what’s the point, if no-one will listen?”

“Because he wouldn’t forgive himself if he gave up. Peace with the Uchiha... Hashirama has a good dream, if not unrealistic. But that’s what dreams are, sometimes. Dreams aren’t perfect; they’re just developed desires.”

“ But… nii-san, don’t you hate the Uchiha?”

“No, not really.”

“Why not?” he asked. “They kill our family."

“As we do theirs. It’s true that I will do what is necessary to protect our family, but I also understand that they too, are human. We are mere reflections of each other.”

“But father calls them demons. He says they have no emotion, that they worship evil beings, that they’re evil and merciless and…”

“Father has never  properly  looked an Uchiha in the eyes,” said Tobirama.

“What’s wrong with that? We aren’t supposed to, anyway. Their eyes are cursed.”

“They may have the Sharingan,” he said, “but their emotion is all in their eyes, Itama. Not their face.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Everyone who calls them blank, expressionless, evil… they have never looked at them.”

“So I should look at their eyes ?”

“No,” he said. “Just understand that they are as human as you and I, and that it does not make them any less dangerous despite it.”)

 

(The first time Tobirama Senju had met eyes with an Uchiha, he had seen agony.)

Six years old, at battle for the first time. His hands, shaky and small, clutching his kunai. Blood scenting the air. Bodies drenching the snow a bright, crimson red. Tobirama remembers.

He’s been facing an unbeatable Uchiha with the tragic eyes, the one who had just—given up, accepted death, who looked so tired, who—for a moment—simply stood and watched as Tobirama went to slice his throat.

The one Tobirama had spared—a hairs-width away, his heart choking his breath, eyes caught in the Uchiha’s dead stare. The man who had spared Tobirama in return, that hollow look searing his back as he retreated.

Uchiha Yoshirou, the brother of the clan head.

(Eyes like a blood moon, like exhaustion, eyes that had seen too much, eyes that looked so defeated despite his overwhelming power. Tobirama remembers.)

The Uchiha clan’s blessed.

 

Tobirama gazed up at the stars, the stones surrounding the pond hard and cold beneath him. Out of the corner of his eyes, light danced, the lanterns glowing through the dim forest. He hears the charms swaying in the quiet breeze, clinking together with bell-like chimes.

He hears a quiet sigh. Tobirama cranes his neck to look to his brother, standing beneath the charm tree, gazing at the wishes on the lowest branch. “It’s sad,” he says quietly. “These have been here for years, and nobody gets what they asked for.”

“Gods are fickle beings,” said Tobirama with the same quietness.

Itama’s hand brushed the charm, fingers glancing the script. “Mother never asked for anything,” he said. Tobirama’s eyes swept over the familiar charm, nearly hidden by the vast amount of charms hanging around it. The design was simple, delicate. Feminine.

I am grateful for the seasons, it read.

“I’m always wondering why,” Itama continued.

“Mother liked finding things to feel grateful about,” Tobirama murmured. “It made her feel happier, she said—because she focused on the positives, rather than the negatives. I suppose it gave her hope, too. Asking for things from the gods, like our clan does… it wasn’t her way. She did pray in silence, sometimes. I never asked what she was praying for.”

Itama’s fingers catch on another charm. His hair flutters in the wind, two-toned, dark and light.

I am grateful for our abundance of food.

“Is that why Hashi-nii never writes charms?” he asks, tilting his head. “Is that why you don’t?”

I am grateful for the sun.

“We did when we were younger,” he said. “Some of those she wrote for us, because we weren’t very neat with our writing yet. See this one?” Tobirama stands, reaches high, grasping a hanging charm at the base of the branch, tucked into a crevice of bark in the trunk, slightly hidden.

“Oh,” said Itama. “So—you all did it? Not just her?”

“Yes. Though, we were toddlers. We didn’t understand it until later.” He tilts the charm down slightly so Itama can see it.

I am grateful for my family.

He gasps. “It’s so pretty!”

“We worked on it together,” Tobirama remembers wistfully. “Mother knew how to sew, so she always made her own charms. For this one, Hashirama and I fought over the colors, and when we finally agreed, she couldn’t find the color we wanted in her threads. Instead of asking us to pick something else, she tore a part of one of her dresses and used the fabric.”

He gazes at the back of the charm. Silver silk. Around it, the thin, delicate frame felt cold to the touch, steely and metallic. It stood out from the others, light and lavish.

“One of her expensive dresses ruined, just because we wanted silver. She just smiled. Our mother was—beautiful,” he said, and he was smiling. “Inside and out.” A lot like you, he thought.

“Then I’m grateful she’s our mother,” said Itama. “Even if I don’t remember her—everything I hear about her makes me love her even more.”

He runs his fingers through Itama’s hair. “I’m glad, Itama.”

His brother leaned into his hand, his chakra all gorgeous warm light, like a lantern. “What about you, Tobi-nii?” Itama peered up at him with smiling eyes. “What are you grateful about, right now?”

“Well,” said Tobirama. “I have you, don’t I?”

 

Tobirama breathed heavily, sweat pouring down his throat, his heart drumming in his ears. He leaned back in his chair, shivering. The air was charged with residual chakra, rolling fluidly against his tingling skin.

Three red slashes curved his face, his chin. Seals.

“I did it,” he breathed, something rising in his throat, something like a sob, but relieved. “It worked.”

His head lolled against his shoulder, satisfaction high despite his chakra reserves being near-empty, breathing through a smile.

Fūinjutsu, to Tobirama, had always been something of a comfort. It was something removed from anger, from fear, from the hard cruelty of war. Sealing was stark lines—maths—imagination—chakra. It had more uses than just being a weapon. It could be used in battle, that’s true, but it relied on in-depth understanding, creativity, and countless hours. Many shinobi didn’t have the patience for it, didn’t find worth in the endless time passing when there were weapons or jutsu that could get the job done just as well, and faster. Hashirama never had the patience for it, either. Itama, while a determined student, lacked the determination to create his own; instead copying down Tobirama’s privacy seals—learning how to make sealing scrolls—explosion tags—the basics. Nobody immersed themselves in them like Tobirama.

Sealing was his, something he excelled at, something he felt he could openly be proud of. Something that he didn’t have to hide. Something he didn’t have to fear.

Butsuma allowed his study because he assumed Tobirama was just adding another weapon to his arsenal. He wasn’t wrong, really. Tobirama did use seals in battle—had many ideas for techniques, but it wasn’t where his heart is.

(Help, rather than harm. Protect, rather than destroy. Creating inventions to make lives better. Tobirama has always wanted to do just that—has always wanted to grow into a man his mother would be proud of. Someone who could reach for their future. Someone who had hope.)

His hand rose, tracing the fresh seals on his face. Permanent red ink, like tattoos. In the tiny mirror on his desk, his face looked sharper. The seals made him look intense, more intimidating, but that hadn’t been their purpose. He could feel the effects of them already, the extended reach of his senses, the overwhelming capacity of it.

Even still they grew, stretching further, all the way to the end of fire country, past it. He felt a little dizzy. His head drooped, his chin brushing his collarbone.

He stared down at the desk for a moment through blurred eyes, just thinking, his sapped brain running circles, looping through his fears. Would it get worse now, feeling so much more deaths because of his enhanced senses? Would Hashirama think he did it for all the wrong reasons? Would mother be proud of him now, as he is? He wondered if she’d understand his actions. If she would have done differently had it been her. Wondered how she’d once found the courage to just—stand up to Butsuma, to protect them. Wondered forlornly if he’d ever be anything like his mother, or anything like someone she would’ve smiled upon.

His hand grazed over the cover of the sealing journal, his fingertips tracing the familiar red spiral embroidered into the leather. Mindlessly, he flipped it open to the front page, his squinted eyes straining as he traced the old handwritten message etched beneath the title.

Tobirama, it said neatly, We don’t know each other well, but I’m a friend of your mother’s. She mentioned that you were interested in sealing, and I had this lying around gathering dust. My own grandmother was an Uzumaki, married into our clan to the then-head’s brother, and this was her Fūinjutsu journal. Hopefully you find it as helpful as I once did. Best wishes. Senju Masashige.

It was a generous, thoughtful gift, and all those years ago Tobirama had been speechless upon receiving it. Back then, all he’d known of Senju Masashige was that he had been his mother’s guard. Before he’d died when Tobirama was six, he was a distant figure to be sensed in the surroundings, his chakra a steady thrum of power and confidence.

Tobirama had once looked up to him. He hadn’t spoken to him often—the man had been ordered to stick to his mother’s shadow, to remain unseen for the most part—but Masashige would always leave him little gifts, tips on sealing, neat notes on a rare array that he’d once completed, quietly supportive. It had endeared him even more to the art.

He hadn’t truly known Masashige outside of being an acquaintance; not until after his mother’s death, where his memory was held in her pages, a mere ghost, unknown beyond words written fondly in dark ink. To everyone else, Masashige was remembered a traitor, remembered by the skin of his neck slicing red beneath Butsuma’s blade, his eyes wrought with defeat as they dulled, his crimson hair limp against the grass. He was remembered as a warning to the clan, to never stray, to never put your faith in other gods. Tobirama had mourned him, but nobody else had—except Hashirama, and mother.

Red hair, he lamented, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Red blood. Mother’s red eyes.

(Red, echoed Butsuma’s voice, searing through his head, the haunted sound of his brother’s wet gurgle, a beautiful chakra essence gone from the world in an instant.)

Masashige’s child had been born into the world bathed in every kind of red, like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

(Tobirama’s half-brother had been born a death sentence.)

Never again, he thought, the seals pulsing on his face, determination settling in his skin. He thought of Itama. Hashirama. His only brothers left. The seals he inked on himself to protect them. To sense them, even from far, far away, on his missions.

(Never again.)

 

(Itama leans back against his chest, watching the stars. “Hey, Tobi-nii,” he whispers quietly. “Why do we fight? Against the Uchiha clan?  What started it all? Everyone who I ask, they just say they’re demons, that Sarutahiko-sama wanted us to kill them.”

“The reason for our war has been long lost,” Tobirama sighs, his eyes slipping half-shut, wondering how to simplify such a blood-drenched, shadowed history. “As for why we still fight? For survival—in the barest, simplest explanation,” he murmurs. “ Neither will relent in battle, not with the way things are. Father tells us much about the Uchiha—that they have no souls, that they’re cursed. That they follow a fake god, a cruel god. It will seem like it is true when you see them in battle. But both of our clans are just trying to survive while being equally as greedy—to fight for history, power, vengeance and fear. It’s true, it’s not black and white, but knowing that and living through it are different things. The lies told of them doesn’t mean they wouldn’t turn around and kill you if you reach out with kindness.”

“Do you think he could do it, one day? Hashirama-nii?” Itama wonders. “Do you think he could stop the fighting?”

“I can only hope so.”)

 

Poison is a cold, unforgiving friend.

He kills with it for the first time under Butsuma’s hard, daring stare, their clan member’s eyes like daggers against his back. It’s worse this time, because it’s not a instant death—it’s not kunai—and his victim is screaming from the poison, and it’s slow, and it’s cruel, and he wants to tear his skin from his body—wants to go to sleep and dream of kinder things and never wake again—

(“I do not like it either,” Butsuma had said the first time, not even trying to hide the lie behind his voice. “But it must be done. Poison is a fine tool, and you need to see it’s effects to learn it properly. You understand, don’t you, Tobirama?”)

Blood drenched his hair. He could smell it, could almost taste it by how thick the scent of it was. Metallic, irony, pungent. Then a whiff of something biting and acidic—poison. It was heart-wretchedly familiar, though this one was more powerful, fast-acting.

( “—watch me like vultures, like they smell the approach of rot, like they see a senseless body half in the grave already. One of them has done it—” )

He turned, retched, tried to keep moving. Twigs splinter under his feet, cackling thinly. The trees almost seem to part under his tunneled gaze, opening into the clearing by the river.

He staggers and stops by a mound of wildflowers, gazing unseeingly—numb, bitter tears weeping from his eyes. He hadn’t been here since he buried an infant. There’s no marker, no gravestone, but Tobirama could never forget.

(He doesn’t know how long he stands there, just staring.)

When he arrives back home, night has fallen, and Hashirama is there. And Tobirama—

“You always say that! ‘I had no choice’!? There’s always a choice!”

Mouth shut. Eyes down. Tobirama just takes it.

 

“Tobirama-nii,” Itama says one day, a wondering lilt to his voice, “Why won’t you build a shrine for the water god?”

Tobirama, from where he sat at his desk, stiffened. The hand he’d been using to draw seals with was frozen, half-way through brushing a line, curling into something white-knuckled and tense.

“A… shrine?” he echoed, staring down at his hands. “Do you… do you even know what you’re suggesting?”

“Yeah,” said Itama. “I know.”

He took a silent breath and felt it shiver down his airway. What Itama was suggesting was… blasphemy at best, traitorous at worst. The Senju have devoted themselves to only one god, and have vowed to never stray from their faith.

Tobirama had been only five when he made his first offering to the god of the earth. Only six when their god blessed his elder brother, gifting him with the Mokuton for the first time in decades.

(Only six when he’d grasped Hashirama’s sleeve tight, shaking as he watched his father executing one of their clansmen for daring to stray from their god.)

“Then you know I cannot…” he said carefully.

“And if you did anyway?” Itama replied, tilting his head. He looked unlike himself—sharp, observant.

“Father,” Tobirama reminded simply, which was enough of an answer in his opinion. He expected understanding to cross his face, the matter dropped.

But Itama’s lips only thinned in response, his eyes flaring. “Not even in secret?” he pressed. “Don’t you want to hear Susanoo-sama’s voice? To understand why he blessed you? Don’t you want answers? You can get them, if we build a shrine, Tobi-nii. We could.”

Tobirama had known, distantly, that Itama didn’t know much about the consequences of worshipping another god. Itama had only been seven months old when Tobirama had watched his father tear through Senju Masashige’s neck like a wrathful beast for daring to betray their beliefs. Itama’s worldview on gods was Tobirama by the river, commanding the water with a pulse of chakra and a smile, and stories at night under the stars, tinged with longing about their mother. Itama’s worldview on gods was vague, scornful whispers of weaker deities, obsessive worship at the shrine, desperate false hopes on their charm tree, a distant knowing that he’d be punished if he didn’t stay in line. He doesn’t understand what horrible lengths father will go to if they ‘renounce’ the earth god.

(Tobirama is unsure himself. Being blessed is one thing, unforgivable in his father’s eyes, but… would they spare them if it was just a hidden shrine? Would they take it as seriously as they would if it were another clan member? Would they be spared for being from the main family? Was it worth it? Because he thinks it couldn’t be worth their lives; hiding it like a dirty secret when they didn’t even need a shrine in the first place. A shrine could hint at more, could hint at Tobirama’s potential for being a blessed that he’d kept so carefully hidden. And… they’re shinobi in a warring clan. Some secrets don’t stay hidden. He’s on thin ice as is.)

Tobirama shakes his head. “It’s evidence, otouto—if they found it—”

“But they won’t!” he cried, his voice carrying a slight whine. “They couldn’t! You’re a seal master—nobody could get past your seals—!”

“They can and they will,” he interrupted, his face flat, his lips turned down. He jerked his head sharply and they locked eyes. “That kind of arrogance would be my downfall. There are always those that may be better, and there is always those with the potential for it—”

“But if you’d just listen—”

His shoulders were stiff. He tasted the echoes of ash in his mouth. Screams played on in his head. Danger. He turned away, his shoulders rising in defense. “No, Itama.”

“But—”

“No!” He shook his head firmly. “Father will not—!”

“Just listen!” Itama yelled, his chakra whipping out like a slap.

Tobirama froze, his words dying on his tongue.

His younger brother had never shouted at him before. Itama’s curiosity would usually show itself through suggestions, dangerous little comments here and there, of things he didn’t agree with, things about their clan, their situation. Tobirama was the one who always convinced him back from risky behaviour, drew him away from explosive outbursts, curbed those moments with logic, with care and understanding. Itama had always saw the sense in what he’d say, and would let it go. They both understood, to a point, that they couldn’t speak their truth so blatantly like Hashirama. But… even so, they’ve never fought over it like this.

“Just listen,” Itama repeated, quieter, his voice hitching. “Please.”

Tobirama looked up so slowly his neck seemed to creak, his eyes catching on the tears rushing down his brother’s cheeks. His heart stuttered. There was a sickening twist in his gut.

(He’d never made Itama cry before, either.)

He nodded sluggishly—haltingly.

Itama let out a long breath. “You know what you told me once?” he asked, his voice low. “You said… that maybe things happen for a reason. That the change in a pattern can be for the better. That people can’t grow without change,” he clenched his fists like he was trying to hold onto his last string of bravery. A shaky hand came up to scrub at his eye. “I believed you, you know? And I want you to believe in yourself, too. I want you to be able to use your power to grow, just like Hashi-nii does with his...because…you deserve it, Tobirama-niisan.”

There was such depth to Itama’s eyes that Tobirama found himself nearly overwhelmed by them. When had his brother grown up? He thought, his throat tightening. Had it been when he wasn’t looking? Away on missions? Why did his eyes look so old? So tired?

“I just want what’s best for you,” said Itama, voice quieter, a little wobbly.

Tobirama felt his lips turn down. “Is that not supposed to be my line?” he asked, his tone deceptively balanced, avoiding his opinion. He already knew his answer, dreaded it.

Itama just looked at him.

He glanced away in shame. The words wrenched out of his chest, tearing through the choking fog that seemed to hold his lungs captive. “…You know I cannot,” he said into the silence, wishing with all his heart for Itama to understand.

Tobirama wasn’t an idiot. He’d known for years that his power over water was not some innate ability he’d had from the Senju line. A god has blessed him as well, and it has grown strong despite his reluctance to use it fully.

He knows his father would kill him if he were to find out—his god-given gift was powerful enough to decimate his enemies even as he used it at quarter strength, playing it off as a personal jutsu of his creation; it is not the Mokuton. And anything else is a threat, a rival of their god, a danger to the succession.

(An enemy to be struck down.)

Itama stared at him, his eyes damp with a simmering fire that he’d not seen in him before. Determined. Supportive. I’ll stand with you, his chakra says, curling around his own, warm and lovely and honey-like.

“Please, Tobirama,” he said softly, using his full name with a meaningful, slightly urgent tone. “Please think about it.”

He turned away. His chest seized with tension, his eyes burning. Itama is like Hashirama, he thinks. Hopeful, determined to bring change. Optimistic. Eyes laden with vision.

But Tobirama knows the Senju. Knows their gritty underside. Knows the truth of the matter.

This clan would not stand aside to welcome change.

This clan is the taste of blood and spit and children dying trying to make their fathers proud. It’s cut-throat, much like all others are, sitting on the perimeter of danger with attachment to their earth and their roots and their dead, dead bodies buried for the sake of long forgotten reasons. It’s the tip of their god’s tongue as he breathes life into their soil.

It’s a civilian who drops their eyes to the ground in fear in the presence of a Senju.

This clan is narrow views, old secrets locked, forgotten; blood and dirt thick under fingernails. It’s his elder brother wielding the power of the earth freely, unbidden and powerful because the one who blessed him is a god loved by their ancestors. It’s silent whispers that any power that tastes foreign is traitorous.

Tobirama knows that this clan will kill him if they ever find out the truth behind his water jutsu. Knows they will slay him regardless that he’s the clan head’s second son. Knows that he will not draw any sympathy from his efforts to spare himself. Knows that if people were so forgiving then they wouldn’t be at war in the first place.

He knows that if he’s not killed for having the shrine, he’ll be questioned about it, and he can’t have them searching for answers—not with so much to hide; his mother’s journal, the truth of her miscarriage and her murder, the godly power laying dormant within him. The latter being discovered will surely be his death; and Tobirama doesn’t want to die, if only so his brothers won’t be left alone with their father.

“I’m sorry, Itama,” he says, and struggles to keep his tone even. “But I cannot contemplate it. It’s safer this way—not just for me.”

The disappointment is hard to bare, because it’s something Itama rarely looks at him with. It’s even worse feeling it wafting off his chakra, thick and foggy, tasting of bitter berries. He disguised his flinch by turning away quickly, and it struck Tobirama that Itama was no little boy anymore, chasing after his brothers.

He could lose him to his secrets, just as he had Hashirama.

I’m sorry, he thinks, over and over, despair chilling his body, I’m so sorry. I’m just trying to protect you, can’t you see that?

(For a moment, Tobirama wanted nothing more but to share it all, everything, just to get that understanding back, just so he wouldn’t feel so alone.)

Itama is silent, after that—so still that Tobirama would’ve forgotten he was there if not for his chakra churning around him. He looks away, resumes his seals, trying to focus, but there’s a familiar ache quickening his heartbeat, a insistent tugging on his mind, drawing his attention back, back to the secrets, to his power, to mother, to the night that changed everything.

(It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done, keeping these dark secrets locked silent.)

 

“I am best when listening. My mother made sure of it—a lady must listen, and only speak when spoken to, and for all of her tight-lipped decorum there were times where I watched her struggle to bite her tongue and submit under my father’s iron will. My mother’s power had been best in the drawing room under tittering and falsehood, and my lack in that element had always made her forlorn. I have learned to watch and to learn through sight, through ears, for speaking only came easy to me when I wished to express genuine feelings to my sisters by well-lit oil lamp and light, childish laughter. They told me that in those quiet, warmly shrouded moments, I’d sounded a lot like grandmother; wise and melancholy, with enough depth to challenge the sea. Public speaking was much more harrowing. But I find that watching is the most calming of all. It is an art—observation—one that is valued even in ninja, more so within a clan like mine who rely on spymasters, on whispers and rumors of battle and plots; the Senju are no different in that regard, I could guess, however my outsider status made them wary to speak around me. I couldn’t find it in myself to trust these walls either, for even they have ears. So I listen and I hear what even eyes and actions do not tell me.

But to raise a lady to listen—to be quiet, to listen to what others have to say and absorb it—is to have her know the myths and legends and take on your beliefs. My clan has favored each and every god under the moon and stars, and has valued all for their domains and blessings. In truth, I had not given any thought to Senju’s beliefs. It was rare for a woman in my clan’s sphere to widen beyond the domestic, and this change proved that; my  mind had been more wary of marriage, of travelling with Senju Shinobi  and meeting Butsuma Senju. The mention of Sarutohiko-okami-sama warmed me with familiarity, with knowing that this clan had something mutual with me after all—our gods. I am only a day short of my wedding, speaking of topics I thought safe. Foolish of me to forget that no men nor man like having such beliefs challenged—foolish of me to think they followed the same beliefs of my own clan. Yet, I did not think that such a mention of Tsukiyomi-kamisama would be a debacle of such a scandal. And so the iron-thick, arrogant beliefs of this clan were rather… sprung on my person in a way that lacked grace and any sort of consideration. The crux of the matter being that Sarutahiko-sama was the only god worthy in their eyes, and that to follow any other meant death, or banishment—which was as good as, if not worse.

The elders had spelled out their warnings with pretty, delicate words—they danced around their threats with ill-hidden ire behind pleasantries. ‘A matter of being agreeable,’ they had  said strongly. What matter? I’d wondered in shock, for what I held belief in ultimately had little consequence to them... surely they knew I wouldn’t just force my religion on others? The elders—men in their mid forties, the eldest of the clan, hence their titles—had only looked at me, and their distrustful, cool eyes whispered what their mouths would not, that I would never be seen as one of their family, not now nor ever. What they’d said next had been telling, not to mention—blunt and unforgiving.

As the Clan Head’s bride, you hold certain responsibility—to honor a false god is blasphemy—insubordination of the highest degree—a dishonor only forgiven in death.

It was no warning—it was a promise. The truth of the matter being that the deal of my marriage, their Hatake Clan ‘truce’ and goodwill was a delicate thing, far beneath the worth of their godful worship. The implication was there, that should I continue I would find myself caught in an ugly situation, be it a rumor or threats against my well-being. They wouldn’t kill me, not when my clan would want revenge, not when I have not yet bore the heirs for Butsuma—but they could hurt me, emotionally and physically if they wished it.

It had caught me so off guard that I’d only stared at them like a witless fool. For a moment I’d wished for my mother. For all of how the thread of our relationship has frayed, it was her that my eyes had followed in awe, for she had handled situations far worse than this with just a blank smile and distant eyes, resolved it only with a few cutting words and the twist of her heel. But even she listened to her betters, as she’d been taught, as I had. Those cutting words, those simmering stares, those had always been reserved for outsiders. The Senju weren’t supposed to be outsiders, not to me. What would she have done in this situation?

A lady must listen. In the Hatake that had been drilled into me. And so I listened, and there I came to love the gods as we all do. But I am here now, with the Senju. Must I listen to their beliefs, now? Must I discard my own? I find I cannot fathom it. Forget the gods? How could I do such a thing, when their very essence lives within us all, when it surrounds us? The sky, the earth, the sea, the plants and crops and air; all of these things are the lifeblood of the gods, the very source of their being. How could I deny that? How could I stop my way of life on the whims of elderly men who refuse to expand the worship of one in their narrow-minded walls? How could I disrespect the world around me like that? It is to deny the earth, the sun, the moon, the stars, the sea itself!

But what could I do? A woman’s voice is not worth much, not in weight nor value. In my clan that fact wasn’t always at the forefront of my mind, because as much as my mother preached my etiquette, they were family; my father was a stern, distant figure in my life, my mother stiff-necked and overbearing, and my sisters were wild things—little fairies, spirited and carefree, barefoot over soft grass, hair-swaying in the winds, laughing and running as our minder yelled from the foyer. As the Hatake heiress my life was strict but not unkind, I wasn’t listened to, that is truth, but I had enough solid, frozen ground to fight for what I wanted—the right to learn to read and write, to learn to ride on horseback, the chance to learn to swim. Here out in this big world, soft summer soil beneath my feet, a mere tadpole in this shark-ridden sea, my voice is—meaningless.”

Tobirama knows the significance of the entry. They’d only had the conversation the other day, after all, and while he didn’t intend to read it to chase away Itama’s hopes for the future, he also didn’t want to skip it. That would cheapen it, cheapen mother’s experience, and Itama deserved to know this, at least. He deserved to understand.

Especially since he’s still hiding so much of her truth from him. From Hashirama, too.

They don’t speak this time after he finishes reading, not right away. Outside it’s storming, lightning flashing across the sky, the wind howling wrathfully, rattling the windows. Itama stares up at the ceiling blankly, not a hint of sleepiness present. The air is strange and thick.

“Please understand,” Tobirama murmured quietly. “You know I like listening to stories of the gods too, but this is dangerous. That’s our reality in this clan. I just want you to be safe—I want us to be safe. The stories—father would blame mother first, Hashirama second. But a secret shrine? Itama…”

Itama turned his face away slightly, towards the wall. His eyes glinted in the light, betraying his tears.

“It’s not fair,” he croaked.

“I know,” said Tobirama. He reaches out hesitantly, runs his thumb along Itama’s forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, nii-san,” he whispers, leaning into his touch.

“I know. It’s just the way it is.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Itama said, and for a moment he seemed older, more mature, his gaze a thousand-yard stare. “It shouldn’t be the way it is.”

Tobirama’s words were stuck in his throat, his vision blurred around the edges. He nods.

As he watched Tobirama, something in his brother’s face seemed to change then—something that twitched his eyes, his mouth, his whole expression, like lightning branching across his cells. His eyes darkened. His lips turned down. “What was it?” he asked then, barely a whisper, and Tobirama’s heart sank, finally recognizing Itama’s expression. “What was it that made you so scared, nii-san?”

(The words startle him more than he’d like to admit. Just what had he seen on his face? In his eyes?)

Tobirama says nothing—because he wants Itama safe—because the answer has been there in plain sight all along, and it’s just a matter of time before something clicks.

The silence stretches on. Itama’s expression seemed to grow distant, unreadable. Looking into his eyes, he couldn’t help but see something different there. Was it determination? Defiance? Anger? How odd. Itama used to be so easy for him to read.

(It’s strange, but he couldn’t help but feel as if Itama was slipping between his fingers, slowly, inevitably, tragically.)

Tiredness weighed down his bones, a sinking helplessness in his stomach.

Tobirama says, “Good night, Itama.”

His brother doesn’t reply. He closed the journal, tucked it under his shirt as always, and leaves for his room, old grief crawling up his back like a stubborn ghost.

 

The have a skirmish with the Uchiha on Tobirama’s birthday. Then they have one three days after. Then again, and again, and again, days blending into weeks, weeks sinking into months. Teams of Uchiha die trying to supply food to their clan.

The Uchiha grow desperate, grow angrier. Their faces begin to look slightly gaunt, their bodies thin without enough sustenance. Butsuma laughs and laughs after every battle, his plan sinking into reality, locking in place.

(Both sides so desperate to destroy each other, hate mirrored in every look and every breath and it’s all burned into their brain—desperate, desperate—desperate—)

 

He dreams of the man again, the one that had jumped into the whirlpool—the one that Tobirama had jumped in after.

“What are you scared of?” the man asks, and this time they’re swimming in the dark over calm water. It feels strange, though—the water feels too silky, the smell too rancid. Tobirama looks left, over the black sea, and sees something dark with glinting scales break the surface, big and slimy and creature-like, disappearing again in the next moment. He feels himself pale, the air feeling overwhelmingly ominous. His legs thrash in the slow current.

And the man is just floating on his back, smiling up at the stars, kicking his legs lazily to keep up, utterly relaxed. He looks so small in the water, yet his presence is all-encompassing, inescapable.

“Much,” says Tobirama, with feeling.

“Humor me,” he smiles, that peaceful, carefree look fixed on his face.

The air reeks with something half-dead, rot clogging the air. He could taste foulness on his tongue, could feel the stench seeping into his pores.

“I don’t know,” Tobirama said, as something slimy touches his ankle and moves along in the water. His stomach shudders. His lungs feel as if they could collapse under the weight in his chest. His legs kick frantically, but he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. “Losing my brothers. Feeling powerless. Father.”

He hums, considering. “Not death?”

“There are many things worse than death,” says Tobirama.

“I suppose I wouldn’t know,” the man says, almost mournfully, then hums again, “Hm—hmm. I remember. You didn’t laugh, but you did jump, even though you were scared.”

He stays silent, wondering where the man is going with this. But, he doesn't end up saying anything, and they swim there in a moment of forever, and he doesn’t know how long they’ve been floating there. It could’ve been fifteen minutes or seven years.

“What would you do, then, if one of those things did happen?” the man says after what feels like eternity.

“Which one?” asks Tobirama.

“Any one,” he says. “None of them. All of them. You tell me.”

“That’s not an answer,” Tobirama says, but he continues anyway. “I suppose I could live with feeling powerless, but I wouldn’t like it, and... I’d run if my father found out about me, or even before then...” he paused. “But if I lost my brothers, I’d die.”

“Why would you die?” he asks with interest.

“Because I would feel them go, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, alone,” he said. “It’s not very nice out there.”

“No,” the man agreed, with a deep frown. It’s the first time Tobirama hadn’t seen him smiling all carefree. The water bubbled beneath them. “It’s not.”

“Why did you want to know?” he wonders.

“Well, we’re all creatures of curiosity, aren’t we?” he answers, and the sea begins to shudder. “I’m just trying to understand.”

Tobirama blinked, then he felt a strange pulling sensation—below his feet. He looked down, his body tensing—

“You should use it, you know,” his voice echoes. “Practice, or else you will lack control, lack the skill to use it,” the tone lowers, saddens, “Or else it will be too slow to come to your call when you need it most.”

His breath lurches from his throat, his lungs lost to the tide. Something screamed through the water, through the hair on his arms, shaking his eardrums.

“Goodbye for now, Tobirama Senju.”

The air shuddered and the currents folded in the depths beneath their feet. Sharp, door-sized teeth tore the surface, surrounded them, and with a choked gurgle they were swallowed with the murky sea, down into the stomach of something great, down into the depths of the abyss.

Notes:

Sorry that this chapter took so long getting to you, and the fact that it's a few thousand words shorter than the last one, and that the tone is a little different. Even though I'd already written most of it when I published the last chapter, I got writers block and it took me ages to get back into the swing of things. One time I was literally staring at my keyboard, lost in thought for three hours straight. Not to mention, my job killing me at the moment. All of your super kind comments really pulled me out of it, inspired me a lot. There were a lot of long ones! I love long ones! I had so much fun reading and replying to them. Thank you guys. There's not much happening in this chapter, but the next two are pretty busy and painful, I assure you.

Chapter 4: bloodthirsty

Summary:

When does a caged animal fight back, and better yet, when does it stop?

Notes:

It's been a while! I took my time because I randomly became a business owner. Was it planned? Absolutely not hell no. But it's flourishing! And I have had no time on my hands... :(

But here's a huge chapter of around 9000 words since it's long-awaited (and extremely late despite my promises). I actually cut it in half because it was too long, the original chapter was like, 17000 words or something, yikes. Needs more work, anyways.

Hope you guys enjoy it!

“You would go back on our contract?” the voice echoed furiously, the man’s gaze an intense, fevered stare. “Our alliance?” His fists were clenched, the slant of his mouth twisted in indignation.

A tall pale man with blond hair stood in front of him, gripping his hands together, his face frozen around a nervous smile. “You- you must understand, Tajima-sama,” he said. “What you’re asking of me is impossible. We rarely only sold your clan leftovers of our own personal harvests — we deal in mining, weapons, jewels — not agriculture. We can’t spare resources to expand in that area and doing so now would be to paint an even larger target on our backs. The merchant clans marked this area as a red zone because so many people minding the caravans were…“ he cleared his throat, looking down.

“Killed, yes,” Tajima looked down at him callously, his eyes like a black frozen lake. “I know all too well.” His face was tight, his voice dripping with distain.

Sanada wet his lips and avoided his gaze.

“Let us not dance around the reason, Sanada; the Senju have grown desperate if their final solution is to starve us out.” He turned and paced the office, his footsteps whisper-silent against the hardwood floors even despite his anger. “Senju Butsuma always was a rotten coward,” he murmured then, low and scathing, almost to himself.

The blond man fidgeted in silence, shifting on his feet. His dark eyes kept darting around the room, his throat bobbing with each nervous swallow.

Tajima stopped his pacing, settling his gaze on Sanada. “Listen to me,” he said coldly, straightening his back. His full height had him towering over the already tall man, casting a huge shadow. “In doing this you’ll be exactly where they want you. We’ve been called on to protect your clan’s business from your competitors for years, and the very same people who would seek to destroy you have hired those—those Senju bastards! This is bigger than just the Uchiha Clan. If we starve, if we die, you are left defenseless.”

Ire twisted Sanada’s mouth, and he straightened. “With all due respect, Tajima-sama,” he said. “My business is stretched thin as is. I fund this war but at what price? The Senju have been hired against me, yes—but I don’t have their full attention. I supply weapons in return for your protection—yet I now have more enemies than I know what to do with just by associating my clan with yours. Last time someone slipped through your defenses I lost three miners and two smiths before your reinforcements arrived.” He shook his head. “My hands are tied.”

“You cannot even supply our clan with food until our seeds take? For a few months? Our clan has always stood by as your trusted ally! I’ve given you protection,” he argued. “Connections. You never would’ve gotten to where you are if not for me.”

“And I’m grateful, but it’s not enough,” his lips pressed tight. “Everyone’s talking about the Uraka Clan. They’ve put things together. You’re falling from grace, Tajima. The risks outweigh the rewards.”

“And will you be prepared to pay the reparations, then?” said the Uchiha. “From where I’m standing your hands look perfectly fine and capable,” he gave a pointed glance around the tasteful study. “So as for the breach of our contract…” he stared straight at Sanada as he said challengingly, “I would say that a year’s worth of weaponry shall do. Compensation, if you will.”

Sanada’s eyes widened in outrage. “What?” he cried, “That is far too much!”

But the Uchiha was leaning in, his mouth curling foully. “It is nothing less than what I am owed for this utterly disgusting lack of loyalty,” he hissed. “You are honor-less. The contract you signed stipulated that if we were put in a position where we needed extra resources in the case of emergency, you would supply them in exchange for our continued services.”

“The contract was signed without unique circumstances like these in mind, Tajima-sama,” he defended. “Weapons? Yes, surely, but food? For a few months, and then what? We’re entering summer, Tajima. You’ll have a minuscule harvest and I’ll be right back to doing the same for winter. If circumstances were different, if I had known something like this could happen—”

The Uchiha laughed in his face. “You’re being willfully deaf and blind and it’s going to end you!” he spat. “Do you think me a fool? Where are your priorities? You’re clearly not the forward-thinking businessman I thought you were. You think expanding your personal garden will bring you more enemies? You think the Senju will focus their energy on you even more from this? That you’ll gain their “full attention?”” he said, tone condescending.

“Your seeds won’t take!” Sanada burst out.

The room stood still.

Sanada’s panicked breaths rose and spread through the air. “They won’t take,” he repeated shakily. “Your enemies are blessed by the earth itself—they won’t take.” His eyes pleaded. “Don’t you see? They’ll come for me if I feed you. Because I’d keep feeding you, forever.”

Tajima’s eyes burned brightly, a shadow of red overtaking his face.

“Don’t I see?” He stepped forwards, and Sanada took a trembling step back. “Dare you see? Even if you had their full attention, it changes nothing. You were already their enemy.” Tajima said scathingly. “We’re the only ones standing between you and the Senju. We’ve fought them into stalemate for centuries; and the moment we fall, the moment the Senju show up on your doorstep, you’ll share the same fate that countless others have already—slaughtered with your eyes closed.”

He stared back, face white, jaw clenched, and the fear in his eyes was potent.

Tajima smiled with grim satisfaction, seeing his point finally landing. “You have grown leery under our protection, Sanada. Now let’s see you actually work for it. If you can’t provide us with what we need, then find someone trustworthy who will, else we withdraw our protection entirely. In such a case, who would you find? Nobody else is strong enough to withstand the Senju. Not in Fire Country.”

With that weighty threat, Tajima turned his back on him.

“Madara, come,” he called over his shoulder.

Sanada gasped and jerked back, shaking as a shadow melted from the dark corner of the office to follow the Uchiha Clan Head.

The young man looked over his shoulder to meet his eyes, his expression strange, before he turned and left. The door slammed shut, the sound ringing through the air with a sense of finality. 

 

Blinking slowly, Tobirama savored the peaceful surroundings—the river’s gentle flow, the warmth of the sun—wondering how easily life could drift between joy and turmoil. Just as he felt the weight of that thought lift, Itama’s voice sliced through the tranquility.

“Amaterasu is mean.” Itama announced, shattering the calm.

Tobirama hums out something, a mild disagreement.

“I’m never praying to her again.”

He blinked, dazed. “That’s disrespectful, Itama,” he said, but it came out half-hearted. His mind swam.

The sounds of meadow grasshoppers carried along the warm breeze, a buzzing, rattling purr. Tobirama leans back, closing his eyes, simmering in the pleasant heat of summer. Spiked grass picked against his hair, yellowed in growth, peeking out like weeds from the river rocks. Bugs darted by, some buzzing loudly as they swooped down, curious about Tobirama - but they mostly left him alone.

He opened his eyes, blinking slowly against the sun’s rays, his gaze following the river. Calmer today, the reflection of the trees shivered along the surface, splotches of dark green silhouettes moving against the sun-bright sky, branches swaying against the wind, the leaves creating openings, welcoming golden light. He watched, enraptured, as a stray leaf drifted down, large and green, settling on the top of the water, arched like a water-spirit’s boat.

A hand, pale and small, reached out and scooped up the leaf, holding it above their face as they floated on their back, as if to ward of the sun. “Too small,” Itama grumbled, flicking it away.

“There’s shade near me,” Tobirama mumbled, closing his eyes again.

“I don’t wanna leave the water,” he whined, then, “Amaterasu’s mean,” he repeated petulantly, as if he thought the goddess had turned up the temperature solely to disrupt Itama’s peace of mind.

He sounded like he wanted him to empathize, but the heat made Tobirama feel merciless. “Grin and bear it,” he groaned, turning over. “And stop calling the sun goddess’ name in vain. I suspect doing so will cast a large shadow over your life,” he muttered. “Though a shadow is what you wanted, so perhaps…”

Itama spluttered at the thought, and Tobirama’s mouth twitched into a smile at the sound of outraged splashing. “Quit teasing me! Can’t you do something, nii-san?” His voice lowered in secrecy, “You know..”

At the idea, a thrumming pulsed down his veins, and a flicker of power darted out, as if excited. He grimaced as he forced it down. “I would, but my power as of late has been too active,” he sighed. “It’s hard enough to hold back as is—I don’t want it to grow stronger.”

There was a moment of quiet, and Tobirama peeked his eyes open, watching the sway of the leaves against the sky. A butterfly flapped past, red and black winged, following the path of the wind, and he thought it reminded him of the Uchiha. It brought his attention to the way his legs twinged from his last mission, the pain that still thuds like an aching heartbeat in his shoulder.

Behind him, Itama said, “Is that really such a bad thing?”

Tobirama did not answer.

He wonders if he should get up, escape the conversation. It’s a conversation he wants to avoid forever, one that makes the distance between him and Itama stretch ever so widely. But he is tired, always tired following Butsuma’s will, and he knows he might not have peace like this for a long time.

So in the sun, Tobirama stews.

Itama waits for his response, but he says nothing. He instead curled in on himself, closed his eyes against the sun, mind foggy, drifting in the hot summer wind. Unwilling—as ever—in his silence.

 

(He dreams of lying in a gentle hold, his cheek resting against warm silk, his mother’s long hair tickling against his forehead, half-awake as voices spoke quietly around him.

“Indeed, crickets sing in the night-time,” she was saying, a great lift to her tone, like she was telling an enchanting tale. “They’re very useful in my Clan’s land—you see, one can even tell the temperature based on how often they’ll chirp.”

“Wow, really?! They’re so smart!” came Hashirama’s voice, loud with eagerness, young enough to still carry a lisp.

“Yes—but quieter please, my love,” he could hear the smile in her voice. “Else you wake your brother.” A comforting hand whispered through Tobirama’s hair. Her arms curled tighter around him in a loving squeeze.

His brother gasped softly, and another hand, smaller, brushed against his cheek. It was familiar, softer than the gentlest breath caught in the wind. “Sorry, otouto,” he said solemnly, his voice much closer, “I was just really excited about the crickets!”

His mother laughs quietly, but it blends into something deeper, more haggard, almost rough. He struggled to pry open his eyes but they were shut tight. A sense of wrongness shivered over the atmosphere, a strangled groan rustling through the trees. All of a sudden her hand felt leathery, waxy—textured like cured meat.

“Tobirama,” she says with a voice mangled and drowning, “You must use it. You must.”

A seeping chill flowed through him. Only his mother could comfort this cold that rests so deep in the bones, could inspire such safety in her fingers as they scratch at his scalp. Yet, only a corpse could have such a foul, bitter smell, like acid on the tongue—

“Tobirama.”

—like bugs clinging to rot.)

 

He dreams frequently—blurry flashes that are confusing and hazy, things that don’t really stay with him when he wakes; the nightmares, though, they always loom, memorable, almost tangible.

He’s sees Hashirama leaving him to die on a battlefield of bones— he sees Uchiha Yoshirou standing near him, white face bathed red in blood, cutting Itama open like a butcher hollowing out a pig’s insides— 

He sees himself burning alive upon a pyre, screaming as the fire licks up his throat, thick smoke drowning his voice; and it’s his father lighting the flames.

The man appears to him only once, but it’s a glaringly distant thing, this dream. He’s sitting on the beach, waves lapping against his feet, and the sea is sad. Sad in a way a thing can look when something’s been stolen from it, pillaged and left abandoned and ugly, all the fish having been carried away, all the life seeping out—drained.

Tobirama had sat, staring into the horizon, the man next to him in the corner of his eyes, his face expressionless—disappearing as soon as he turned to look, appearing again only when Tobirama would look away. There but not—a strange mirage that rolled in and out of existence, just barely out of reach. Like a wave, he’d thought. No words are exchanged between them, but a thick, heavy silence hangs—  so thick it’s almost tangible.

The feeling is one he carries with him when he wakes, and it’s like an dull weight that settles in his chest, slowing him down. Anchoring him to a place of strangeness, of intangibility, where the ground feels wobbly under his feet, where nothing feels right anymore—if it ever did.

His everyday mood turns, and ages, a rotten and sour thing.

Itama notices.

“Are you okay, Tobi-nii?” he’d mumble, earnestly concerned. And Tobirama would simply nod and squeeze his brother’s shoulder softly.

“I’m just tired,” Tobirama would say. Itama never looked like he believed him, but never pushed further. He didn’t really have the time to, anyway; more and more they’re pulled away from one another—Tobirama being sent out on more missions, and Itama’s training excelling towards Ninjutsu, pulling more of his attention.

But sometimes he comes back quicker than expected, and Tobirama visits the training grounds sometimes when he can watch, and Itama’s always happy to see him there.

During his brother’s assessment, his trainer, Kaiza, tells Butsuma he thinks Itama will be ready for his first mission soon, an easier one, but still a mission nonetheless, and the thought makes Tobirama’s stomach roll—makes him itch with the need to protect.

But Tobirama's heart sinks as he meets his father’s unyielding gaze. The weight of expectation bears down on him like a heavy cloak, suffocating his voice. Grasping at straws, he feels the helplessness claw at his insides, a tight knot of dread forming in his chest. No matter how keen his senses are, they can’t shield his brother from the inevitable dangers lurking beyond their borders. The thought gnaws at him, an ever-present shadow darkening his resolve.

A week passes.

Then another.

Tobirama, for the first time in years, hangs a prayer on the charm tree.

Desperate people really do desperate things, he’s reminded, an age-old truth. He hangs it with shaky fingers.

He forgets, in that moment, that he has been dealt a bad hand in life. He forgets that the gods rarely do answer their prayers.

He forgets that when the gods truly do speak, people rarely listen.

 

Three days later, Tobirama dreams of drawing symbols in the sand.

Over and over, like an omen.

It chases him into reality; an epiphany that grows into sleepless nights, ink blotching his hands, teeth gritting together in concentration - it ignites a fire of urgency within him.

He stares down at the seal. It’s rushed and unrefined, a far cry from what he envisioned, but time slips away like sand through his fingers.

Ordinarily, a new seal like this would fill him with joy, that innocent awe he once felt as a child. But the weight of the world presses heavily on his shoulders, and as he stares down at the seal, he wished, just for a moment, that he was no child. That he was instead an adult, strong enough to protect his family. Yet here he is, weak and powerless, trying so hard to be more than he is.

And he was trying so, so hard. He’s trying his best.

(This seal; his blood, his sweat, his tears.)

Grimly, he places his brush down, and wonders if his best will be good enough.

 

“Keep this seal on you always, little brother,” he urges, pressing it firmly into Itama’s hands days later. “If you’re in danger, if you need help, you must use it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Itama replies instantly, that unwavering trust lighting up his eyes, and Tobirama allows himself a moment of relief.

“What’s it do?” he asked, glancing up, eyes wide with wonder.

“All you need to do is infuse a small amount of chakra into the seal, and I’ll come find you. It doesn’t matter how far away you are— I will. It won’t be immediate, but rest assured, I’ll be there.” Tobirama’s expression hardens. “And Itama, the moment you set it off, you fight. As hard as you can, until I get there. You fight for your life, understood?”

Itama’s hands tightened around it. He looks unsure, his brows drawn, teeth worrying his lip. “But- what if you’re on a mission?” he says.

“Your safety remains my priority,” Tobirama assured softly. He set a hand on Itama’s head and tousled his hair. “That’s my responsibility, as your big brother. As it always will be.”

His eyes were a little teary. He’d tucked it into his pouch, smile bright enough to soften Tobirama’s tense expression. “Thanks, Tobi-nii!” he said sincerely.

Then he’d bowled into Tobirama’s torso, clinging like a panda on bamboo, and the older boy breathed deep, slinging an arm around his brother’s small frame.

And maybe that takes a little bit of weight off his shoulders—just a fraction—knowing that he at least had something. A warning. A marker.

A sprout of hope.

 

Tobirama leaned against the bark of the charm tree, his feet balanced on thick roots, breathing in the thick smell of incense.

He reached up and thumbed at a charm, eyes glazing over the words and fine stitching, lost in thought.

“Look who’s back.”

Tucking the charm behind a cluster of leaves, he let out a long breath. “Is there a reason you watch me?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

The woman behind him laughed. “That’s no way to speak to your betters, boy,” she said. “Your mother taught you finer than that.”

He stubbornly stared at the charms, unwilling to meet her gaze. “Do you need something, Aunt?”

“Touka’s been missing you, boy,” she says, her tone softening.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes, silent, and turned his stare on her.

“Don’t make that face. She’s sorry.”

His expression didn’t twitch. “It matters not.”

He wanted to say more, to voice the hurt and disappointment, but the words felt trapped behind a wall he couldn't break down.

“Of course it does, Tobirama,” she said. “You miss her. She misses you. And Itama misses seeing you both in the same room.”

He held her gaze, defiance etched into his features. “I hold no grudge,” he said, and it was true—but the thought of facing her, of her piercing eyes seeing the cracks in his life, made him want to push her further away. It’s easier this way…

…especially since she’s always had a big mouth.

But pushing her away was easier said than done.

“Your actions say otherwise,” she countered, her voice flat. “And I know you’re not happy with me, either, for not taking you seriously. I’m sorry for that. But you need to move forwards, together.”

Tobirama remained silent, the weight of her words settling heavily in the air between them. He shifted his gaze back to the charms, tracing the intricate patterns with his eyes. She doesn’t understand, he thought, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “It’s not that simple,” he finally said, his voice low.

“Isn’t it?” she pressed gently, stepping closer. “You’ve both been through so much. You can’t keep shutting people out, Tobirama. It’s not good for you—or for her.”

“Letting others in just gives them a target,” he shot back, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “I won’t be responsible for anyone else’s pain, especially not Touka’s. She doesn’t need to see what I carry.”

His aunt moved to say something else, but someone stepped into the grove, waiting rather than moving past them to the temple.

Her hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he felt her chakra curl in fright. His eyes shot up.

“I was hoping to have a word with Tobirama-kun.” The man’s eyes drifted toward him, slow and cold, sending a jolt of dread through Tobirama. He hadn’t sensed the man’s approach, his aunt’s distraction having shielded him from the impending threat.

Tobirama felt the weight of Eiichiro's gaze, sharp and calculating, as if assessing every flaw, every crack in his resolve. He swallowed hard, anxiety coiling in his stomach. The man was a shadow in their clan—fearsome and enigmatic—and the last person Tobirama wanted to be cornered by.

His aunt's grip tightened on his shoulder, her chakra radiating a thick distrust usually reserved for strangers. “We were just catching up,” she said, her voice a careful balance of politeness and warning. “I’m sure you can understand how important family is.”

Eiichiro’s lips curled into a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Family is indeed important, but duty often takes precedence. You know how it is, don’t you, Tobirama-kun?”

There would never be a good reason for Eiichiro—who unofficially led their clan’s child-hunters—to seek him out. The thought of what they might want sent vile, abhorrent images flooding his mind. There is little this man could ask that his father would deny.

In this clan, cruelty holds its own power.

His aunt’s hands claw into Tobirama’s shoulder. Startled, he glances up and finds her eyes narrowed.

“Ah. Sorry, Eiichiro-sama, but Tobirama has his hands full helping me right now. How about another time?” she says politely, though her smile was strained.

“Hm. Indeed.” he glances down at Tobirama, stepping forwards into his space. He bent his head to smile at him, and the sun darkened his silhouette into something foreboding. “Please do come by and see me at your earliest convenience, Tobirama-kun,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

 

Soon skirmishes held a different meaning to the Senju.

Less of a clash by happenstance, now more of a calculated assault. It was no longer focused on taking territory, sabotaging missions, fighting without vision, and it made every difference.

Taking down a merchant caravan once could have many reasons of speculation, Tobirama knew.

Eliminating nearly every single caravan that attempts to venture to the Uchiha border’s supply post over the course of a few months was something different entirely.

By Butsuma’s order, Tobirama keeps an eye on the movement of the Uchiha’s supplies. He can always tell what kind of formation makes up a protected caravan, and the fact that he can sense them coming all the way from home makes him invaluable and Butsuma knows this.

It’s a small thing at first, but then the Uchiha notice it’s not just a one-off; it’s every time, and if they don’t do something, they’ll starve.

They couldn’t have known that there’s a skilled sensor within the Senju, and it shows.

The Uchiha send their highly skilled ninja and still they retreat more often than not, and in some cases, they fall to a Senju’s blade. It’s a cycle that goes on and on, and soon they’re sending a quarter of their forces to collect a caravan.

But Butsuma is always prepared—because he has Tobirama.

Butsuma’s team often consists of a small portion of the clan’s strongest. Tobirama, in his youth, is one of the weaker members, but his knowledge makes him invaluable. They fight hard and they fight smart, and they sometimes lose a Senju, but for every Senju death there’s at least two dead Uchiha. Sometimes the Uchiha get their caravan, but it’s never enough to feed their whole clan for very long. Most of the time the Senju hold their spoils, pillaging the caravan of goods of which they have no want nor need.

If they’re stripped for time, they seal away what they can of the items of most importance, and destroy the others, but still it’s too much—there’s a greedy over-abundance in their storage. Their food is cooked unsparingly with extra touches. It’s not like they’d been lacking in food before, but now they could comfortably over-indulge.

It goes so well that it makes Tobirama wonder. It’s odd, he thinks, that he never senses Uchiha Yoshirou’s chakra amongst their enemies, distinct as it was. Where could the Uchiha clan’s strongest be at such a crucial time?

The thought stews.

Over dinner, Butsuma is horrifyingly gleeful.

Tobirama’s guilt grows with every bite. His clan, being the patron clan to Sarutahiko, the earth god, had never had such a problem with going hungry. The Uchiha starve. They, unlike the Senju, do not have the means to grow their own food. They have always dealt in charcoal, wood-making, finer taste. Trading, and protection for nobles, escort missions, even assassinations—like their clan, that’s where their fortune lay—but the Uchiha had nothing to fall back on. Butsuma was hitting them hardest where it hurt - their resources.

(The Uchiha’s allies, seeing them going downhill against a greater force and pulling back their hand. Their sellers, growing weary of being attacked for selling their wares. People they protect frightened because their enemies hire the Senju, the only ones with a chance against the Uchiha, the same ones starving them out. What emerges is a vicious cycle. A deadly competition. One side wanes, torn between anger and hunger, whilst the other grows stronger, gains more ground.)

When Tobirama arrives home from his latest mission, Hashirama is waiting in the kitchen, a few days back from his two-month-long cordial visit with the Uzumaki Clan, taller, older, and more sure of himself than Tobirama had ever seen.

(Though the Uzumaki are their close allies, their distant family, Tobirama had still checked in on Hashirama. He’d overextended his reach every few nights to the point of piercing migraine to confirm that he was safe and secure. The moment Hashirama had stepped back into his range Tobirama had known, shoulders easing, relief settling in.)

“What have you done—” is the first thing that flies from his mouth.

Hashirama is pale in anger. He’s standing there with his fists curled and bowl-cut falling too-long in his eyes, shadowing them. Tobirama hasn’t seen him since he escorted him to the border, but still he gets no greeting, no warmth. He did not expect to get it.

The weight of his family's expectations pressed down on him like the heavy armor he wore. Memories of his childhood—days spent training with Hashirama under their father’s stern gaze—flooded back. They were once innocent boys, dreaming of peace, unaware of the path that war would carve through their lives.

He has blood still covering his armor, dried and darkened by the wind to a colour resembling rust; he’d forgotten to wash it in the river on the way home, filled with a sense of urgency as he had been. His leg pulses with pain, and there’s a shallow cut branching his eyebrow; the caravan had not been unprotected, after all, and they’d been skilled, but to see Hashirama’s utter lack of care was disheartening, even in the face of his rage. Even if Tobirama himself deserved it.

He braced himself.

“Two months! Two months I have been gone and you have imposed suffering on a whole clan!”

Tobirama doesn’t understand how Hashirama seems to think he did it all alone. Like Tobirama is the only Senju capable of making the Uchiha suffer.

“I did what I was ordered to do,” he answered.

“You did more than that,” Hashirama said scathingly. “An entire merchant caravan in cold blood! The Uchiha that were protecting them, too! You think slaughtering them is a strategy? They’re suffering, Tobirama! Can’t you see that?” His words raw, a mix of anger and desperation, echoing the chasm that has grown between them.

“If I did not kill them…” he stared ahead, expressionless. “One of our clan would have, and they would die still.” His throat burned. “We’re at war, Hashirama.”

It was like an echo, said dozens of time before. We’re at war, Hashirama. Would that phrase ever change? Would he die repeating that same old excuse? Am I just a weapon, an extension of Butsuma’s will? 

“So what? You just accept it?!” He could hear the indignant disbelief in his voice.

Accept it? He breathed in, fighting down the urge to close his eyes. “I don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said, struggling to control his voice, grateful that it comes out even.

But Hashirama scoffs. “This again?”

His fists clench at his sides. He bites his tongue. Something inside him ices over.

“Didn’t you see the Uchiha the other day?” Hashirama spits, referring to their last skirmish, just after Hashirama’s arrival home. It had happened in another area whilst Tobirama was out on a small mission, so he hadn’t been there.

“Father’s plan has them looking like walking skeletons. In the battlefield I saw a boy as young as six with bones protruding from his skin, he was so thin. They’re getting weaker, and all we do is cut them down indiscriminately. This isn’t war anymore, this is genocide!”

That didn’t make sense to Tobirama, because as far as he knew, genocide was a term reserved for cutting down a whole power of those who couldn’t fight back, and the Uchiha deserved far more credit than that. As ninja, as warriors, they don’t make it easy; they strike with the same vicious streak that the Senju cultivate. If Tobirama were kinder, he would be dead.

Hashirama’s heart might be in the right place, the morally sound place, but it also comes from a disrespectful one. Helping the Uchiha is well and good, and if approached right, could change their future for the better. Tobirama knew that, still knows that, because mother did, too.

But Hashirama looks too far beyond the reality of what the Uchiha Clan is, and that is - a mirror.

It was best to be silent, say nothing, let Hashirama draw upon his own conclusions, Tobirama knew. But he was just so, so tired on the inside. He was at the end of his tether. It was in the way the pounding in his head drifted, merged into the walls, the floor; his surroundings beating like a drum. It was in the way his bones still jolted with unease, the way his nails bit at his palms.

And Tobirama is just—abruptly furious. “It’s not one-sided, Hashirama. You forget they kill as much as we do,” he said coldly. “Have a good look around—we bury the same amount of graves! Our clans are just as bad as each other!”

They’ve clashed for generations—for centuries. The Uchiha are merciless enemies, and holding back against them, pitying them, not only would it make them angrier—them no doubt thinking he was mocking their weakness, comparing them—but it also had the potential of getting himself killed. If Tobirama wasn’t as fast as he was, if he didn’t have his seals—he’d be long buried already. To actively hold back like that would be placing one foot in the grave—never-mind what he was holding back already.

(But that was different, of course. That too was a matter of survival.)

“So that makes it okay, does it?” Hashirama’s voice was harsh and condemning. “They’re starving! All because you said yes—nobody else could’ve done it, you know—not even me. Don’t you get it?! He sends some of our clan to distract the Uchiha, whilst you—the fastest, the one who could sense them from miles away—you lead Father’s team to eliminate most—if not all—of their attempts to feed their children!”

Tobirama is struck silent, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes sting, his stomach surging in shame. The moment stretches into something worse than uncomfortable.

He says, lowly, “You don’t think I noticed?” The disgust in Hashirama’s eyes—in his chakra—is palpable. He runs his eyes over Tobirama’s seals in contempt. “He knows exactly where they are, when they’ll be there, where they’re coming from. You shouldn’t have ever told him about your new seals. You should’ve never even created them in the first place! All they bring is more death!”

He doesn’t correct Hashirama—doesn’t tell him that it had been Touka who betrayed his trust and told father about the seals—because he’s reeling.

Tobirama swallowed, quietly devastated, fighting the urge to touch the seals on his face because—he hadn’t made these seals to destroy. He’d made these seals to protect his brothers, to sense them where-ever they go.

Hashirama’s words hung in the air between them, wrecking silent destruction.

He continued, voice hard, “Even before I left, I saw all the times you sensed them bring in a caravan, and I saw you run off to tell father, like a good little soldier.” His gaze is acrid, biting. “You might not be the one cutting them all down but you’re the catalyst. You should have turned down this mission. You should have said no.”

(It wasn’t every time, he wants to say, wants to scream—because he let them go whenever he thought he could get away with it—)

Tobirama found his voice. “I can’t say no—don’t you understand?” he chokes out, near frantic, almost hysteric, “It’s not so simple, Hashirama—”

Because how could Tobirama help anyone when he couldn’t even save himself?

(He just wants him to see—)

“No! Don’t you see how wrong this is? Why can’t you just try? For once, just—” But his brother was shaking his head. “I’m so sick and tired of this,” he hissed. “You’re just like him—just like the rest of the elders—trying to justify your actions with false intent—” He stops, takes a long, deep breath that seems to shudder as Tobirama watches, wide-eyed.

He shakes his head. The fight seems to drain out of him, leeching from his face, down his spine, sinking to the floor under his feet. “I always thought—” he mumbles. “I always thought it’d be the both of us. Not just me, against it all.”

Hashirama’s strongest weapon has always been his mouth.

Somehow it hurt more than the accusations, the anger; the idea that Tobirama made him feel this way—frustrated and alone. Like Tobirama has abandoned him. And he has, in a way. He hasn’t shown him support because of what it would mean for him, for their family. He hasn’t had his back, except from in the shadows.

A rush of shame curled his shoulders, drawing them in. He should’ve done more, been better.

He found his voice. It came out choked, more a croaky whisper. “And if it had been? Then what?” he said, and he saw something flicker on Hashirama’s face. “You think they’d just turn around and agree just because I say so, too? You think they would tolerate those kinds of beliefs from me? If they don’t believe their own blessed, my input would be meaningless.”

“Isn’t it worth trying?” Hashirama pleaded, his voice bounds softer. He’d put down his battle armor and his anger and for the first time in months Tobirama saw his Hashirama, and it was like the vulnerability Tobirama had expressed had stripped him back to his core, where something tender and forgiving rested. “If there’s even a chance—of peace—I want to take it. Because the alternative is cruel, Tobirama. Sarutahiko-sama doesn’t want it, and neither do I. We’re destroying ourselves in destroying the Uchiha. Please.” He held out his hand. “We can prove it to Father, Tobirama. We can, together.”

But he was wrong. Hashirama doesn’t know the extent Butsuma could go when things don’t go his way. Doesn’t know what he’s capable of, what he would do. And it’s not really his fault that he doesn’t see, doesn’t know. That’s Tobirama’s burden. That’s Tobirama’s responsibility.

It was like torture— seeing Hashirama so open again. Having the chance to make things right, yet knowing he couldn’t. He couldn’t take his hand, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn’t make things right. And he couldn’t explain.

Coward, he thought to himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Hashirama closed his eyes, but it was like he’d known. Resignation and anger crossed his face, twisted his wobbly mouth. His hand fell.

Tobirama could feel his brother’s chakra, the thick coil of roots unearthing something secret, something raw and painful, a deep, old wound born from Tobirama’s abandonment. Unearthed again.

Images flashed through his mind, things he’d pushed back. The way Hashirama would always glance back at Tobirama, a silent wish to back him up as he argued against Butsuma. Hashirama’s voice pleading at him during training, only to be met with cold dismissal. Hashirama knocking at his door, and Tobirama keeping quiet, pulling the blankets over his head, too exhausted to talk to anyone after his mission.

They were small things at the time. Together, the memories looked sour.

He tasted bile at the back of his throat, like a reminder.

Hashirama said, his voice certain, “No, you aren’t.”

And Tobirama let him believe.

 

 

Tobirama drifts into the bathroom, knots turning in his throat, his chest festering with a kind of twisting, directionless anxiety.

It’s a kind of feeling that hits you when it’s all over, when you’ve got nothing left to give, when your eyes are raw and done, when something shudders through your heart and up your throat.

It’s a feeling that squirms and whimpers and cries out—a kind of anxiety that grows in a lonely place, in an empty place. Near enough to feel faint—to feel sick.

Logically, Tobirama has done everything right to keep Butsuma off his tail, out of his business. His actions towards his brothers protect them, and himself. Still it’s so harrowing, so heart wrenching seeing their faces; seeing their hurt, feeling it through their chakra like it’s his own. Is this the right course of action? he asks himself, over and over, and the question stays unanswered, hanging there suspended in confusion, in uncertainty.

In regret.

And it’s shameful, feeling such a regret when he knows it protects his family, but he craves the closeness that he once shared with Hashirama, the belonging. He misses the way he used to smile freely. Tobirama’s always been selfish like that, wanting to covet his family’s happiness instead of a greater good.

Those moments felt like distant stars, twinkling just out of reach, illuminating a darkness he now navigated alone.

It was a bitter irony—his love for them entwined with the very actions that distanced him from their warmth.

Tobirama eases into the bath, the water hot enough to hurt, skin burning a bright red. His muscles clench in a rigid state. Stubborn tears drop from his chin and mix with his bathwater, and he attempts to steady the gasping breaths that try to leap out of his chest. Steam blurs the air.

He dozes in the water, exhausted and sore and mentally drained.

He breathed in and out, in and out, breath like waves coming home to shore, deepening.

Rolling in and out, hissing, brushing the sand. Slow and steady.

(Too dazed to notice the way the water creeps up in the air, up his neck, over his eyes. Too detached to process the way the smell of the air changed to something salty and ice-fresh, the way a hand smoothed down his hair, brushed a thumb over his brow—the touch reeking of an infinite, lasting sadness.)

Tobirama woke in his bed, nose still caught on a scent that swept in and out of the air, bones aching with something old and deep—assumed he’d stumbled back, half-asleep—and thought no more of it.

 

In the depths of slumber, a voice emerged from the shadows, soft yet insistent.

“What do you fear?” it asked, resonating like a bell tolling in the silence.

He knows—strikingly and strangely—that this time, it is a dream. A real one. There is no presence, no power in the air. Even so, that man’s voice inspires something, a kind of naked verity that graces him, one he has never even acknowledged within.

“Myself.”

“Why?”

The answer forms in his mouth, blood pooling from a wound.

A tooth, deep-rooted and aching.

I don’t want to become my father.

 

“Do you know why you’re here, my boy?”

It would’ve truly been unwise to let this summon go unanswered, Tobirama thought, stood in the warm-toned interior of Eiichiro Senju’s office.

He met Eiichiro’s gaze, unease curling in his stomach like a coiling snake. “I’m afraid not, Eiichiro-sama,” he replied, the formality a shield against his growing dread.

“Hm,” Eiichiro hummed, the sound unsettling. “I thought it was time for a... candid conversation. I’ve been hearing quite a bit about your progress, and I’ve even had the chance to observe a few things myself.”

Tobirama’s jaw twitched. “Its an honor to be under your attention, Eiichiro-sama.”

Eiichiro chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, no need for all that formality. But I know you won’t stop, will you? I’ve always admired your discipline, Tobirama.”

His voice was smooth, too smooth, dripping with something darker. “Hardworking, diligent. You do what others—” his smile widened into something predatory, “—namely Hashirama, can’t.”

Tobirama stiffened, a surge of disdain rising in him. How I despise men like you, he thought, though his face betrayed nothing. The man’s easy charm was suffocating, like a slow strangulation hidden beneath pleasantries.

“Or should I say, will not.” He leaned back against the seat, exhaling smoke, and the movement shifted his robe, allowed Tobirama to glimpse the long rod of wood that had replaced his leg, the skin around it still red and raw. “Your father, Butsuma, has been quite vocal about you—how you pick up the pieces behind your brother.”

Tobirama simmered and fought to keep his expression flat. “You’re mistaken,” he said, his voice cool. “I don’t clean up after Hashirama. I follow orders.”

Eiichiro’s grin widened, almost pleased. “As he does not,” he murmured, more to himself. “Hashirama is... good, yes. Perhaps too good for his own sake.” His eyes gleamed, fixing Tobirama with a gaze that felt too knowing. “In a shinobi clan, that kind of goodness is a liability. You understand that, don’t you?”

Tobirama ground his teeth. “With all due respect, elder—Hashirama is still Sarutahiko-sama’s blessed.” He stared evenly, voice hard. “And my elder brother.”

“And there it is,” Eiichiro said softly, his smile growing sharper. “The thing that binds you to him. But there’s no need to pretend otherwise, Tobirama. You don’t feel the same bond he does, do you?”

It was more an observation than a question.

The words hit Tobirama like a blade, cutting deep. His throat tightened.

You’re wrong, he thought, but the insight chilled him. Eiichiro and the clan thought, just like Hashirama, that he doesn’t love his own brother.

“Modesty is all well and good,” Eiichiro continued, his voice lowering to a near-whisper. “But let’s not pretend here. I see what you are, Tobirama, because I see myself in you.”

Tobirama’s heart stuttered. The suddenness, the rawness in Eiichiro’s voice made him feel cornered. He swallowed hard, but his stomach churned with revulsion.

“Yes, I see myself in you,” Eiichiro’s smile widened into something almost grotesque. “I see it. You’re sharper than those around you, more ruthless than your peers. I witnessed it myself, during your poison training—oh yes,” he added when Tobirama’s face blanched, “I was there. Your father allowed me to observe.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t recognized him in the faces, back then. He’d been so overcome with horror he hadn’t even looked, hadn’t bothered to pick out the chakra signatures.

He held up a hand. “Your first poison lesson,” a finger went down, “Each of your tests alongside your peers, where you outshone them all,” three fingers pressed flat, “And then… Kawarama.” His voice darkened, eyes glinting. His hand became a fist. “You lost yourself, Tobirama. You didn’t even know I was watching.” He bared his teeth in a grin. “It was… enlightening.”

The room span as he stumbled back. Tobirama’s chest hitched, caved in with his breath, once, twice, like a swallowed cough.

He knows, the thought dawned, bleeding with terror. He saw it all.

Panic crawled down his throat, gripped it’s claws tightly around his heart.  He knows, he knows, he knows. The words reverberated through his brain, whirling, scattering. He took an uncertain step back on weak legs. His tunneled gaze darted to the door.

Eiichiro’s gaze shifted, almost leisurely. “Oh, no, no…” he said, sending a chill down Tobirama’s spine. The ease in his voice felt like a predator playing with its prey. It was too soft, too calm. “Don’t even think about it.”

He was lifting the pipe from his mouth and smiling eerily. “Stay,” he commanded, the single word weighted with unspoken menace. “You have nothing to fear, you see. I kept your little…secret, and I’ll continue to do so.” He smiled that awful smile again. “In exchange for your cooperation.”

“What do you want?” Tobirama hissed, eyes wide, pulse thundering in his ears. Rolling dread rooted him in place.

But he said nothing. Eiichiro simply watched, savoring the moment. His head lolled, his body language conveying clearly how powerful his leverage over Tobirama made him feel.

And Tobirama - he found his eyes flitting over his face, the veins on his wrists, his neck, the silence ringing like deaf shrieks, his fingers twitching. A thought rose, whispery and faint. He could kill him here. He could. Nobody would know his secret, then. Eichiiro is a cripple - he’s not seen active duty for years after his injury, only commanding his squads and immersing himself in the elder’s council. His fighting days are long past. He could feel the killing intent building, surging with every heartbeat.

“There it is,” came a low, gnawing whisper. Eichiiro’s eyes darted quickly over his face, dark satisfaction radiating from him. “I wondered when you’d consider it.”

Bile crawled up Tobirama’s throat.

Eiichiro leaned back, the satisfaction fading into cold calculation. Tobirama hadn’t even seen him lean forwards, and the realization chilled him, swept through his whole body in another churning wave of horror.

“Fear is a useful tool, isn’t it, boy? Powerful,” he said with something like reverence. “It’s the mind killer. It can root deep into your enemy’s heart. It can control. It can cripple.” His eyes weighed heavily. “And you - you reek of it. You always have.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know what you look like?”

Tobirama’s throat was dry, his voice barely audible. “No.”

“You look like secrets,” Eiichiro breathed. “Like you’re hiding something worth killing for.” His eyes gleamed with a twisted sort of admiration. “Something ground-breaking, earth-shattering. Something with potential. And there you were.”

“How did it feel?” he whispered, and he looked as if he’d been yearning for this very moment for years. Exhilaration lined his face. “Watching the Uchiha choke? How did it feel when the river grew so hot it burned him alive?”

“That’s- that’s not what happened,” Tobirama choked out, face pale as death.

“Oh, but it is,” Eiichiro pressed.“The smell was strange, not unlike charred pork. I remember the way his flesh slipped off his bones and spread through the water. Burned alive - an Uchiha. In the very element they’re so weak against... Oh, don’t look so shaken. He drowned and perished long before that.” His grin was feral. “A fire in the water. How poetic.”

He tossed something onto the table with a dull thud.

The simple charm laid face-up, plucked from the top of the charm tree itself, and in Tobirama’s own handwriting, it said mockingly: Please protect Itama on his first mission.

The taste of blood slipped between his teeth and his stomach rolled; The fright that filled him was a fast, staggering blow to the brain. He raised his eyes, his limbs weighing boulders as the man looked back at him, eyes half-lidded and blasé.

They both knew Tobirama was cornered.

“They’ll take him, too,” Eiichiro said softly. “If you don’t act, they’ll take everything from you.”

I’ll take everything from you.

The unspoken threat echoed through his brain.

“What do you want?” Tobirama rasped, his voice weak, desperate.

He hummed.

“Your skills would serve my squads well.” he smiled, the cruel satisfaction returning. Wispy smoke trailed into the air lazily, oblivious to the way his stomach sank to the floor. “You could rid us of the Uchiha heirs before they take your brothers. Better that than rotting in a traitor’s grave, don’t you think? I’m anything but wasteful.”

The weight of his words settled like a stone in Tobirama’s gut. The murderous intent still simmered beneath his skin, but Eiichiro’s control was absolute. The elder had him trapped in a web of coercion, with no easy escape.

Tobirama’s breath hitched. His mind whirled with possibilities—of striking now, silencing him for good—but even as the thought rose, he knew it was impossible.

“Nobody would fault you for it.” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “No doubt you hold a special hatred for them, don’t you? The clan would expect it. You see.. there’s a certain... coldness to you, Tobirama. A sharpness, something you share with your father. It’s in your nature, isn’t it? That quiet disdain, that ruthlessness. Attacking the Uchiha heirs will not burden you.”

But he couldn’t be farther than the truth. Tobirama swallowed, holding his gaze. “They’re our enemies,” he says, non-committal, voice low. “I doubt you’ll find anyone who feels otherwise.”

“Except for your elder brother, perhaps. He still believes in peace, doesn’t he?” he mused.

A flicker of heat surged in Tobirama’s chest. He didn’t want this man’s attention on his brother.

“If I do this…” Tobirama’s voice was strained, barely above a whisper, the fear and fury coiling into a knot in his throat. “You won’t say anything to-…”

He cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. He can sense Hashirama outside, waiting. Alarm clogs his throat. How did he know? How could he…?

Eiichiro raised a brow, lips curling as if amused. He set the pipe down.

“I won’t tell your brother, nor father,” Eiichiro promised, eyes gleaming with victory. “I’m a man of my word. You don’t have to accept now.” He waved a hand dismissively, though they both knew the truth. “Think about it.”

Tobirama forced himself to move, each step heavy and deliberate as he made his way toward the door. His heart pounded a relentless rhythm against his ribs, a war drum echoing the dread swirling in his gut.

His fingers twitched, longing for the relief of his kunai. But his legs kept moving, carrying him further away from the monstrous man seated behind him.

As he reached the door, he glanced back.

Eiichiro’s smug smile twisted the air. That smile felt like a noose, tightening around his throat, suffocating him with the weight of unspoken threats, as if daring him to defy the trap he’d laid.

The door shut behind him with a hollow thud.

 

Hashirama ambushed him the moment he stepped out of Eiichiro’s garden gate, grabbing Tobirama by the shoulders and yanking him to a stop.

“Don’t. Not here, Hashirama,” he hissed, his voice sharp, urgent. “Move.”

But Hashirama wouldn’t relent. His grip tightened, his eyes wide and wild, pupils blown in a way that made Tobirama’s stomach turn. “What did he say to you?” he demanded, breath loud and ragged. “Tell me—what did he say?!”

“Nothing,” Tobirama choked out, his face bloodless. “He said nothing.”

But the weight of it all was too much. His chest felt like it was caving in, air trapped, unable to escape. He grabbed Hashirama’s wrists and pushed his hands away roughly—he can’t breathe—

The world is spinning, shrinking around him.

He’s going to die—like—like—

(Masashige’s mouth leaking blood, a body falling deeper against a tanto, red hair in the grass as Tobirama choked on a scream. He died a traitor, Butsuma’s voice roaring over the crowd. And Hashirama—)

He stomps past him without a word, desperately trying to stop the trembling of his chin, his lips, his shoulders. He doesn’t look back, at his face, at his figure standing back there, frozen. He can’t show his fear, because he can’t protect Hashirama from the consequences of the truth, not yet, not until he’s stronger.

(Don’t look, Hashirama’s shaking hands over his eyes.)

You have nothing to fear, you see. I kept your little…secret.

Tobirama is—terrified.

Notes:

I can't wait to show you more of Tobi's aunt - I finally give you a nice, reasonable adult who cares! But to counteract that, I immediately give you suffering by introducing a horrible, vile adult!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of WIP Series
• Part 1 of in the hands of a water god