… 1 …

Whirling sakura blossoms drifted across the manicured gardens of the grand daimyo palace. The Land of Fire looked marvellous in summertime, with flourishing buds, rejuvenating sunlight and tranquil dawns. Yet, sat on the porch of his suite, he frowned.

Damn his father for putting him in this situation!

Was a match with a daimyo's granddaughter really something beneficial to the Uchiha clan? And, of all the daimyos out there, Tajima had picked the stingiest, stubbornest old fart! Probably divine retribution for all the schtick he'd given him growing up. Madara couldn't even wish this on his worst enemy – Hashirama would probably just go along with it and hope for the best. Damn …

With shifts between clan loyalties suddenly changing at the present, he couldn't waste too much time in meeting halls with the daimyo. He needed to resolve this matter swiftly and return to the clan.

"For the last one hundred years, the Uchiha have been protectors of my family's fortress and surrounding villages, so this match would solidify our—"

He stifled a groan. Remain po-faced, his father had always told him. No matter what. Po-faced. Cool-headed. Calm. All of that was going to go out of the window if he didn't have this old geezer agree that the marriage contract was not a mutual favour because it profited the daimyo and not the Uchiha, who would only be dragged into more senseless wars with minor clans until someone called in the Senju and then a total bloodbath would ensue. Yes, that sounds like a very mutually benefitting arrangement.

"With all due respect, my clan can continue this loyalty. The marriage of your granddaughter and I will not hinder the Uchiha clan's continued dedication to you and your country." Madara claimed firmly, chin up and eyes staring ahead at the greying old man shrouded in magnificent silks. "I propose that, in place of marriage, a contract of blood be drawn between us."

"Tajima offered that, too."

Madara remained apathetic-looking at the old man's sneer. "Yes. I am offering it because in the current climate life is unpredictable, but blood loyalty is stronger and more binding than marriage."

"Those are some strong moral codes you have there," wheezed the daimyo, leering, "One would mistake you for a samurai, had you not been raised a shinobi."

A miniscule, almost undetectable smirk pricked at Madara's lips. "Perhaps, or perhaps it is simply my code."

The daimyo's eyes lingered on his for a moment, then he turned away and flicked his hand. Madara had been dismissed.

When he wrote his report to Izuna later, complaining about a stubborn old goat dressed in the finest cloth, Madara felt physically drained. While he may be trained for days of combat, talking politics was an entirely different field of battle. Maybe for Hashirama, that smile of his worked on everyone he encountered. Apparently he'd been betrothed to an Uzumaki girl without his clan's knowing. When the bridal process started, he hurried to the Land of Whirlpools and married her.

He snorted.

Trust that idiot, he mused. The thought of what Tobirama's face must have looked like made Madara smile. Serves that albino rat right.

Hashirama was one of those men who believed in marrying for love, not duty. Madara had no desire to marry. Women were too fickle-minded; they had no set will. Another man may come along and off they go, trailing their dresses after a better candidate. He'd seen it plenty of times.

A pink glow passed over his paper from the open screens. Looking up, he spotted a slender figure with a peony lantern drifting through the gardens. Silvery blonde curls wound down her back, caressing her waist. Unexpectedly she turned, giving him her profile. From his room, he couldn't detail her face, but he recognised the clothes as that of a Shinto maiden: a pristine white yukata and blood-red hakama. Slightly bemused, Madara stood up to take a closer look when she passed by a large bush and disappeared from view.

Why was there a miko in the palace?

When he and his brothers were younger, they would hurry to the communal fire to hear ghost stories and fairy tales about Momotaro or Kayuga-hime. One night, as the fire ebbed to ash, one of the older women spun a tale of ever-lasting love.

"Otsuyu waited and waited. She pined for Saburo, but he never came back. In the fall, as the sakura tree wilted, she passed on. In spring, Saburo returned and was told by his father what happened. He refused to believe him.

"Why?" he said, "My love promised me she would wait."

"And she did. One night, while Saburo laid tossing and turning in his bed, a light came from outside. There, standing underneath the glow of lantern, was Otsuyu and her maid. Saburo was overjoyed. That night they made lo—"

One of the other women coughed and murmured, embarrassedly, "Not at this age."

The old woman continued her story, unfazed. "In the morning Saburo awoke alone. Otsuyu had returned home to her jealous aunt without goodbye. But they each had promised night to see the other again the next night. And this continued for four weeks, and those four weeks saw Saburo became weaker and weaker. Worried, his mother called for a Shinto priest to cleanse the household. He hung a talisman at the door to ward off anything unnatural. As twilight came—"

"Madara! You and your brothers should be in bed!" yelled their mother. Without even pausing to hear the end of the story, the five boys scurried back home …

Cracking one eye open, Izuna gazed drowsily at the ceiling. That had been a long time ago. Why had he just remembered it now?

As foretold, the daimyo had Madara served breakfast in his room with instructions that he was to wait until summoned. To say the truth, Madara was seething that he was being treated as an inferior lackey. He was the head of the Uchiha clan! Still it provided him with a chance to gather information on the daimyo and his plans.

A maid asked permission to enter and he said, "Come in." As she was collecting the bowls, he touched her arm and she tensed. "I will not harm you, do not fear."

"S-sorry, Madara-sama."

"What do you know about the granddaughter?"

The maid stumbled slightly, but Madara caught her by the elbow and helped her regain balance. "Kajihime is a generous princess, devout and—"

"Shinto?"

The maid looked bewildered. "Err, um, yes. You have heard?"

Without a response, she took it as her cue to leave. Once the door was shut, Madara pensively glanced at the screens locking out the garden. A Shinto princess, huh …

Izuna,

Please send Hikaku to the northern-west post to gather intel on the rumours of the Sarutobi trying to broker a peace treaty with the Senju. Depending on the information, we might have to act sooner rather than

He stopped short, sensing someone watching him. Deftly, he slipped a kunai out of his sleeve pocket and flung it at the screens. A small squeal stopped him from throwing another. Marching over to the screens, he pulled them back to reveal a young woman in Shinto dress. Her lilac eyes were protuberant and bright. Staring up at him with a peculiar expression, the woman seemed to have stilled completely.

"Are you lost?"

She blinked. "No," she replied coolly, "I was wondering who the guest was. The maids have been gossiping, but I must say I am disappointed."

Madara quirked an eyebrow. "Am I not what you expected for a future husband?" Anyone else would have shivered at his cold tone, yet she stood there unfazed, fixing him with a taciturn look of her own. He nearly smirked.

"I do not know what you mean," said the strange woman.

"Kajihime."

The cold look became humourous. "Ah. You think I am the princess." She laughed, "I am afraid to say that while your betrothed lives in a shrine not far here, I am not her."

His eyes narrowed. "Then who are you?"

A coy, devilish smile coiled across her lips. "Tsurara."

"Madara." He said, after a moment's pause. Above them, the moon dimmed and the glow of her lantern cast dancing shadows across the ground.

Moonlight trickled inside through the open screens. His eyes were glued to the woman loitering at his window. There was something disconcertingly familiar about her, although he knew he had never met her before. Silver curls slipped over her shoulder as she darted her eyes over to the fountain, the softly cascading water the only sound in the derelict garden. Her skin, he noticed, was so pale that it appeared not to have seen sunlight for months. It had a translucent quality. Faint blue veins fanned behind, cloistering round her neck and hands.

"Would you like to go for a stroll?" she asked abruptly.

He eyed her warily. "Are you truly a miko?"

She laughed, "If you do not wish to accompany me, then—"

"Wait." He turned, fetched his shoes and hopped through the window onto the porch and slid on his sandals. Tsurara raised her eyebrows, smiling, and said nothing. "How often to you haunt the gardens?"

"Interesting choice of words," she mused, "Not often. How often do you barter your bachelorhood for marriage?"

A trace of humour lit Madara's eyes. She had a sharp tongue, this one.

Another morning of waiting laid ahead for Madara the next day as he discovered. Tsurara had not revealed anything about Kajihime or the daimyo's plans, but he had enjoyed the wit she threw at him in her barbs. Residing in a daimyo's palace must have trained her not to trust people so easily. Perhaps if he could befriend her, she might divulge—

"The daimyo will see you now, Madara-sama."

The old fart's head maid loomed in the doorway, scowling. The Camelia suite was in a terrible state. Papers and scrolls were strewn about the place, the inkpot was overturned on the table and the window screens were only partly closed. She tutted lowly at the sight. Never had the daimyo had such a disgraceful guest in the palace! If the young lord saw this, he would—

"Madara-sama …"

He turned to look over his shoulder at the old maid. "You said he will see me, so I am going." Without another word, he escorted himself to the meeting room without her.

In the room, at the centre of a raised platform, lounged the Fire daimyo on top of several overstuffed cushions and small table beside him. A meek servant bowed her head, hands poised to pour sake. Madara inwardly scoffed at the man's sheer vanity. For an aged man, he was certainly enjoyed the riches of a life spent in idleness; it was unlikely he'd ever had to experience pain like a shinobi, or even samurai, yet he was keen to insult his clan.

"Well, how quaint." He murmured scathingly.

"Sit down. Woman, sake!"

Another maid jerked forwards, abashed at the daimyo's shout. She was flustered as she poured Madara a drink, her hands trembling slightly. Once the cup was filled, she stepped back quickly. The old man slurped his sake noisily. Madara sipped his.

"Now, about this blood contract."

A tense moment passed between the two with the anxious maids looking on. The daimyo cleared his throat, "Ahem. Well, it sounds beneficial, but should you die in battle, I would have to renew it with your successor."

"Should I ever die in battle," Madara interjected, "while married to Kajihime, you would also need to find a new form of contract."

Clearly, the daimyo didn't appreciate being interrupted as he glared sternly at the offending Uchiha. "Kajihime would bear—"

"A child requires a regent and as your granddaughter has no knowledge of shinobi affairs, she would not be viewed as a candidate. Again you would find a need to re-sign a contract with my clan."

"A blood contract would only limit the Uchiha to serve me, which would benefit you," snapped the daimyo.

"Only if you were to die suddenly," quipped Madara, a subtle snide tone bleeding into his voice. Then it struck him. "You …"

"Silence."

A concealed door behind the daimyo slammed open and a middle-aged woman emerged, her hair adorned with ornate jewel flowers. Her painted face was wrinkled into a frown. "Father, that is enough. You must rest. Any further discussion regarding this matter shall be my concern." She shot Madara a venomous look. "Leave us, shinobi."

Disgruntled but weary from the royal family's attitude, Madara rose to his feet and departed the room, intent on writing another report for Izuna. It would serve the Uchiha better to cut ties, if it weren't for the money they paid.

An eerie, pinkish glow illuminated the fountain again that night. He noticed that she always appeared in the garden at night, he never saw her around the palace during the day. Her strange eyes troubled his thoughts whenever he was left alone in his suite.

"Are you a Hyuga?"

He observed her steadily. "I thought there was a shinobi rule – do not reveal your loyalties to unknown persons." The peony lantern hung limply in the air. "I am not a Hyuga."

"Your eyes resemble theirs," he pointed out.

"And the Uchiha and the Senju look much the same," Tsurara murmured drowsily, "Appearances are fascinating. Have you heard of the shapeshifting kitsune?"

"Every child has heard that story."

"Then, the yuki-onna?"

"Yes, the Snow Woman."

"The tale of Urashima Taro?"

"Many times."

"Kiyohime?"

"The dragon lady?"

Tsurara chuckled. "She was a priestess who transformed into a sea dragon after chasing the man who spurned her."

"Think that is a bit farfetched?" Madara grumbled.

"Taking a woman's virtue and then abandoning her before marriage warrants that kind of anger." She shifted her lantern. "Though many men say different. But think about it from her perspective: promised marriage, tricked into wantonness, and then abandoned and ruined. What would she have after that? Work at a yukaku? That is hardly worth living."

"Sounds fairly bitter," remarked Madara, eying Tsurara warily.

She chuckled humourlessly. "I am bitter." She turned and looked him in the eyes, smiling wryly. "It is the truth of womanhood that makes me this way."

"I think you are just—"

"None of that," snapped Tsurara, "You are refusing to marry a woman at present."

"I am refusing an arranged marriage, not the woman," Madara groused, growing incensed. The peony lantern bobbed as Tsurara's head whipped round to look at the far end of the garden. "The marriage would benefit the daimyo more than my clan. I have never met the woman."

"Kajihime?"

"You know her?"

"No, you called me that when you first saw me."

Amused by her expression, Madara resigned himself and told her, "I thought you were her then, yes." Tsurara rolled her eyes. "Perhaps if you were, I would not be so averse to marrying you." At her mortified blush, he sniggered.

Surprising his shoulder ached the next morning, in the exact spot Tsurara had struck him for his cheeky comment. Still it was worth it, to see her lovely face shocked after frowning.

"I do not to be disturbed, I will talk to him—"

"Young master, please—"

"No, now move outside. That is a command from your master."

"Please, milord, if your father—"

Slam.

Madara looked up from his seat at the table. On the threshold stood a haughty, balding middle-aged man in an orange-red yukata. "Uchiha Madara, excuse my intrusion." He snapped the door shut behind him and crossed the room, seating himself opposite the Uchiha. "You have been negotiating with my father, the daimyo, until yesterday. My wife Hatsusebe convinced him to relinquish his demands for you to marry our daughter."

"Your name would be appreciated."

The daimyo heir furrowed his brows. "Yuge, the Crown Prince."

Madara quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed. So the marriage will not go ahead?"

"No," Yuge said. "Kajihime wishes to dedicate herself to aiding those less fortunate. As her father, I would not use her as a political tool against her wishes."

Against her wishes? So if she complied, he would … pondered Madara grimly. Without anything to add, they nodded in agreement and the prince left him alone to write another report to Izuna, giving him notice that he was returning home.

-x-

Miko = Shinto shrine maiden

Yukaku = 'pleasure quarters', also brothels and geisha houses