—-
"Sir, it's not that I can't do it, it's that I can't do it well enough."
The horizon that surrounded the pair was pink, set ablaze by the setting sun, and Hashirama (though cold and his body a stolen, cracking husk of earth and sacrificial flesh) could not contain his unabashed awe upon witnessing the natural splendor of the earth closing its eyes to the night. It was a wonder the Senju had not witnessed since his passing years prior. Bleary eyes, blood and heaving breaths, sharpened blades sparking howls of pain which begged to wrench the night in the agony he'd once felt. He remembered the cold, and he remembered the parting of the overhead sun, as though telling of his end—the grand spirit of shinobi, the reaver of life—silenced by a blade and fatigue fitting of a warrior.
Hashirama remembered his regret then—his palpable regret, his longing to return home to his wife, his family, how he regretted not turning back to behold her sweet, sweet face when Mito had called for him. Never again, no more war—yet he died in the filthy midst of what he had once tried to abolish from the world of men. Hashirama remembered his regret, the bleeding cold within his chest, and the last, fading hints of pink and purple left in the wake of his final sunset.
The senju closed his power riddled gaze to the light and soaked in the sun, imagining for a moment what the warmth would feel like upon his flesh. Upon living flesh. He smiled, "Relax, my friend. Nothing is ever accomplished in a stressed man's mind."
"You say that so easily."
"I say so easily because I know so."
Yamato bit his lip in a streak of uncharacteristic, childish impulse and lowered his gaze, feeling very much like he'd just been scolded by his father (though the tone had not been berating in the slightest) there was something very stern about how the elder ended his words Yamato could not shake. He sighed and, at the very best of his abilities, tried to relax himself against the tree opposite his back.
"You will never truly master this ability if you're constantly repressing and tense, Yamato-san." Hashirama declared with certainty that filled Yamato's heart with clouded emotion he quickly masked behind a steady, unwavering frown.
"It is the shinobi way, sir," Yamato replied, his voice weary and telling of a long, relentless day of training. "To hold our emotions and thoughts at bay, that is what it means to be a soldier."
"Though my brother may be correct in some regard when it comes to containing yourself on the battlefield, his stringent set of rules does not apply to you."
The younger shinobi rose a brow at that, and incredulity ebbed into his voice as easily as be breathed, "I mean you no offense, Lord First, but I'm not following what you're saying."
It was then Hashirama turned away from the horizon and fixed the young Mokuton user with a look that held no heft of anger, nor lift of a contained smile. There was only truth, only bold, unmasked truth, and it was a look Yamato quickly found set him in a state of unease.
"Then you're not listening."
—
A day had passed and Yamato was, for the first time since his troublesome childhood, frustrated with the borrowed power that ebbed from his fingertips. In his youth it seemed the life giving essence struggled against his will and sprang without control into shops and stone walls in winding, terrible wooden branches with want to escape. It was only with repression, the elimination of a fraction of his human element that the outbursts from his wood element had quieted, and some manner of tenuous control washed over Yamato like a blanket of relief.
A security blanket Hashirama had so blithely asked him to discard.
Yamato's freed hand curled against the unblemished skin of his wrist, and his lips split into a strained grimace as he poured carefully calculated increments of chakra into a steadied hand, one that resonated with a white hot light against the dimming evening sky. Another sunset. Another failure.
"I—I can't-! This is pointless; I don't understand how this is helping me hone my Mokuton abilities."
"You have to first learn to walk before you can run, my friend." Hashirama answered Yamato with a smile that bristled the short hairs along the young shinobi's neck, "Life is never so simple, Yamato-san. My wood-element is not a systematic, calculated attack like most typical, elemental driven Jutsu. You must know that by now! The Wood Release is life itself, and life is a spontaneous, unpredictable, and often powerful thing."
Hashirama turned again, and his armored frame seemed almost haunting against the dying rays of the fleeting evening. "The smaller things, the most delicate formations," his breath was nonexistent as the thrumming of his absent heart, and yet Hashirama extended a hand which bore the small, pink petals of a budding flower, "—are often the most difficult to bring to life."
"I can't, I can't—!" Yamato caste his gaze skyward and his depthless eyes met with the strange, and jutsu riddled gaze of his better—the man he'd been chasing his entire life—of Senju Hashirama, "I'm not like you! I wasn't born with this—I wasn't meant to handle this—"
"if you want your abilities to become truly strong, Yamato-san," The senju's voice emerged in a gentle rumble, one that only grew closer as he knelt before the trembling former Anbu with a plea framed within the pits of his sad, unnatural eyes.
"You have to let go."
Sadness washed against the back of his teeth, and Yamato could all but feel his heart breaking as he turned his gaze away for the second time.
"Yes, sir."
—
Confidence.
Hashirama was confident and humble, was powerful and kind.
And it was those very character aspects that made had him a powerful foe, and a legendary founder of the land Yamato had sworn an oath of fealty to protect.
Power, Confidence.
Power.
Confidence.
Both things Yamato sorely lacked.
"You cannot be angry, my friend. You have to be calm, at peace to form something small and delicate."
Another evening, another tiresome day ended with the late founder of Konoha standing against the evening sunset, arrested in his childish awe of the passing hours and season's encroaching orange, red and yellow splendor.
"You must be calm, you must be tender and attentive, you must be human."
Yamato stared without a word at his aching palm.
Easier said than done.
—
"Life is unpredictable, powerful, and very, very delicate at times. It's very hard to control what is so spontaneous and susceptible to change. You have to remember, Yamato-san, that you are merely a vessel for this power—hands to simply guide what has a mind and will of its own. You ask for its protection, you do not demand it. So let go, Yamato-san…Listen to its heart and allow it to become an extension of your arm."
The autumn season was one Yamato had greeted with reluctance, and it was not with any sound or logical reasoning. He disliked the cold, the promise of unneeded baggage to heft winter clothing on his missions, and the sure, and inevitable turning of the lingering summertime leaves. He hated that mismatch of yellow, browns and reds, hated how the leaves made a mess with his constant comings and goings, hated how they crumbled so easily whenever he reached to take one into his hands.
Hated how very, very red the light made some of them to be.
He hated how the red reminded him of spring time, of red lace and dresses that danced about the dainty ankles of a laughing young girl. He hated how that red would bloom, how it would spread and remind him of her—of her dress, her pale skin and dark flowing hair, Of her delicate wrists, her long slender arms, the curve of her neck and back when she would lean and smile.
He hated how the fall made his heart ache, how it made his eyes burn.
The calm and steady autumn winds stirred Yamato from his thoughts, bringing him back to the bed of verdant life that had begun to spring beneath him. His dark rimmed eyes trailed the lush path of green absently, searching for a pattern, some system or rhyme to its beginning that he would not find. Another fall evening and Yamato rose his gaze to find Hashirama staring out at the sunset, bereft of awe and childish wonder which had once curled his unnatural features into a mask all its own. Instead his shoulders dipped and his face was blank, leaving only the frame of his eyes and the light gathering crease of his nose to tell of the obvious sadness that languished just beneath the surface.
Yamato felt an intense urge to call him back, and pull his attention away from the sight that obviously upset him—only to have his request die on the cusp of his lips as the subtle hints of red blossoms teased the edge of his awareness. His breath caught, his dark eyes widened, and a smile broke across his chapped lips with a victorious bark of laughter.
"Lord first, I've done it..!" It was only after he'd presented the elder male with his cupped hands and his delicate red flower that rose in a fragile bloom from his palm that Yamato realized just how childish he sounded. His knees met the ground and sank into the verdant soil, moistening his Konoha standard with his added weight as he slumped forward and held his once offered palms to his chest. It was so small, it was so precious; it was so very, very precious.
"Give it some sun," Hashirama instructed, his smile returned as he reached out to guide Yamato's hands to the equally delicate, diminishing sunlight. And with that the small blossoms reached towards the kind light, extending red, red petals into the distance in hope of catching some of the drifting memory the day time left in its wake. It grew, impossibly so, impossibly red, geranium red, peppered in dark freckles and slivers of orange that striped along the edges of each beautiful petal. Yamato reached for it, mesmerized by its golden halo caste in the twilight, uncaring how his eyes burned with images of her.
'You never did give me your first name.'
She smiled, and oh, what a smile..
'Moriko, just call me Moriko.
"It's small, Yamato-san…But it's a start." Hashirama's hand rose and firmly planted itself upon the young man's shoulder, "The hardest part is over."
"It's so small," Yamato mirrored softly, "It's so small…"
Hashirama could only smile, "This ability will come second nature to you before long, Yamato-san. Your wood element had only barely scratched the surface! Given the opportunity, this flower could have been a barrage of roots, a wall, or an impenetrable forest."
"—'Opportunity?'"
"You have someone you want to protect, don't you?"
Yamato flinched inwardly, and the burning in his eyes brought moisture to the waterline of his dark hues. He nodded and Hashirama's grip tightened.
"Then you will have all of the power you need."