A/N: A couple of notes, before we begin:
1) The depiction of (Japanese) culture in this fic will be inaccurate in many ways; although I did do a lot of reading, I did end up taking artistic liberties with a great many details; however, it is not my intention to offend anyone and while I tried my best to remain true to the spirit of the culture that is depicted in Naruto if you feel as though there is something offensive, please understand that it was not my intention to offend.
2) This being a fic set in a time period we do not (as yet) know much about, there are characters I have introduced for the sake of creating a well-rounded (I hope) story. I won't call them 'original characters' per say because, as the current timeline stands, we know these people (e.g. Ino's grandparents) did exist - however, their names and situations are completely made up (although, in keeping with (my perception of) Kishimoto- sensei's style, I tried to introduce 'parallels' in personality. this might have also been due to sheer laziness DX).
3) I am of the school of thought that believes Kushina was on Sakumo Hatake's team. While this does not play a major role in this fic, it is mentioned.
4) Also: the depiction of Madara Uchiha - if you've any questions by the end of the fic, drop me a message and I will be pleased to answer.
5) Finally - while I write primarily to satsify the raging fangirl that resides within me, a little feedback goes a long way. If you like this piece (or even if you hate it), please leave a thought - the best kind being, of course, relevent concrit.
Now: on to the fic!
The Woman from Whirlpool, Part I
Character(s): Mito, Hashirama + Founders, Kushina, Minato
Pairings: Hashirama/Mito, Minato/Kushina
Warnings: Sensuality
Dedication: For ncfan, who left a comment that inspired me to try and see if I could really write Mito. I tried: now it is up to you to decide if I succeeded.
Her hair was still red, Kushina remembers later, faded, but red, as if determined to hold on to its vitality. And she was tall – taller than Kushina would have expected (had she thought to expect) – a straight-backed woman with ink-spattered hands who, despite her narrow shoulders and delicate wrists and tiny ankles exuded the kind of strength that seemed to defy mountains.
Kushina was twelve years old and a kunoichi; she knew all about strength.
She was sitting on the bed when Kushina entered, a scroll on her lap and another on the bed, her face furrowed with wrinkles (that still could not hide the graceful lines of her nose, her mouth, her eyes) and when Kushina came in, pushing the door open with uncharacteristic hesitation, she stood, sliding the scroll off her knees and coming forward.
"Kushina," she said, and her voice, rich with the timbre of Whirlpool humming beneath the Leaf, made Kushina's eyes fill and her heart ache.
"Hime-sama," Kushina sank into a bow, and Mito laughed.
When Kushina remembers the laugh, she remembers the feel of it, the clear ringing of bells, and the hand Mito placed on her cheek, papery skin and calloused fingers.
"Mito," Mito said, "to you," and then, "come sit with me," and she placed a hand between Kushina's shoulder blades and guided her to a seat.
Kushina can count the number of times she's been afraid on one hand – Minato says nothing fazes her – but she remembers the fear that sank into the pit of her stomach when Mito told her her destiny, she called it – her heart pounded in her ears and her chest constricted as though someone were crushing her with a boulder.
Mito's eyes were ageless. "Love," she said, "you'll win with love. A vessel filled with love has no room for unhappiness."
Kushina had stared at her, speechless, for a moment. "And you?" she remembers the words tumbling out of her mouth as words were wont to do (with her), breathlessly. "Is that how it was with, Mito-sama?"
She watched Mito turn her face towards the window, weak winter sunlight drifting through the spotless glass panes. It opened out over the village, towards the mountain, where the first morning rays hit the Shodai's stone likeness, so that, if you were awake at sunrise, his face would be the first thing you would see.
When Kushina thinks back on it, she wonders if it – the window, the room, her seat - were chosen by chance.
"Me," Mito said, her voice light, musing. Her fingers rested on the back of her hand, closely clipped nails, an inkblot on her index finger and another on her thumb. "Oh." She looked out the window, a little smile on her face. "He was easy to love."
Kushina set her chin on the back of her hands. Mito's smile widened.
"Mine – it was an arranged marriage. They're not so common anymore, even in our village, but back then every respectable marriage was an arranged one. Clans built alliances through marriage. Families were brought closer – "
She is told she is lucky to have an escort at all: Whirlpool has barely been standing for a year; the village needs every man it has got –
Mito slides her hands into her sleeves and waits for her father's tirade to pass. Worry is making him brusque and quick to temper – his bark has always been worse than his bite – and besides, at no time has Mito even dreamt of answering back. Well-behaved young women never do, be they kunoichi or heiresses or fuinjutsu specialists who can blow a man apart by touching them on the back.
"I'm sorry, father," she says quietly, when Kaien Uzumaki stops to draw breath, "I didn't mean to presume."
"But Kami, I wish I could go with you," her father says suddenly, his voice thick, and Mito is drawn into his embrace, his arms crushing her kimono (later, Kaori, her attendant will, very strongly, reprimand her for the wrinkles crinkling the silk). He holds her at arm's length, surveying her face. Mito takes note of his eyes, bluer and brighter than usual. Her throat constricts "Mito – take care of yourself. Please."
"Yes, father."
Kaien reaches a hand into the sash around his waist and pulls out two sealed scrolls.
"The documentation formally announcing the alliance," he says, and gives her one of the scrolls. "And here's your marriage license." He places the other in her hand. "You shouldn't have any problems," he says. "I am told the Senju are going to honor our history."
He gives Mito a formal bow and she sinks into one of her own. "Thank you, father."
Sitting in the norimono headed for the docks Mito opens the front of her kimono, and uses the sigil emblazoned over her sternum to seal the scrolls within herself.
Kaori is resting her silver-dark head against the curtained window, her eyes closed, asleep after the rushed commotion of the last week.
Mito folds the panels of her kimono flat and reties her obi, brushing ineffectually against the ink spatter over her knee. Ink always seems to find Mito; she is forever prey to blots and stains, and there is that one mark on her index finger that seems to have seeped into her skin, if her constant attempts to remove it are any witness.
Now she, too, leans back and closes her eyes. The journey to the dock will take half a day, and there will be a further day's crossing by boat, and another two days on foot, before she reaches her destination, and despite her father's words, Mito is not sure what kind of reception she is going to receive.
The morning of the fourth day Mito and her retainers leave the Tachigo Town Inn. It is the last leg of her journey, but she knows it is the first of a beginning.
She has been up since dawn, watching Kaori manage everything with her usual quiet efficiency; after giving the norimono bearers the day's instructions she had come over to Mito, a worried frown creasing her eyebrows. Taking the hairbrush from Mito's hand she had proceeded to brush the snarls from Mito's dark, red hair.
"Mito-sama," she had said, "are you alright?", and Mito had told her she was no different than usual.
The reply hadn't seemed to satisfy Kaori, but after a near-lifetime of catering to Mito's moods she knows Mito's stubbornness has no equal, and so she had fallen silent, and within the next five minutes they were in the palanquin, the bearers had lifted it, and they were on their way.
Hidden Leaf. Mito whispers the name, tasting it on her tongue. Suitably foreign, she decides, and plucks at the fabric of her kimono. Today the outermost layer is a pale green, silver flowers blossoming all over the fabric, and her obi is silver, too, the cord a darker green than the kimono. She is wearing five layers, and she is roasting, and when she voiced the thought aloud Kaori informed her there would be twelve on the wedding day.
Mito decides she is a stronger woman than she thought she was. A lesser one, she is sure, would have fainted upon hearing something like that.
It is a beautiful day, Mito thinks.
The norimono's curtains are drawn back, and Mito can hear the rustle of trees overhead and the crunch of footsteps on fallen leaves as the palanquin bearers traverse the dirt road winding between the giant oaks and cedar trees that, she is told, cover most of Fire Country's terrain. Their trunks are so wide ten men could stand behind one and not be seen; the foliage so thick sunlight reaches the ground in gold patches filtered with green, dappled patterns sweeping over their heads and hands and faces like water.
Mito holds her hand out the window and watches the variegated play of light and shadow over her fingers till Kaori tells her to sit down and not make a target of herself.
A birdsong trembles in the air – a thrush, Mito thinks, the cadences of its tune, soft and loud, an apt accompaniment to the whistle of the wind through the trees and the sound of sunshine.
Maybe, Mito tells herself, she can be happy here.
"Why," says Hashirama Senju, his voice thick with frustration, "are you being so difficult about this?" He doesn't usually feel the need to shout, but today, for some reason, he is fighting to keep from it.
He is sure it has something to do with the obstinate set to Madara Uchiha's shoulders and the fact that Tobirama just rolled his eyes and didn't even bother trying to hide it. They are going to be the death of him, Hashirama is sure, their combined tenacity sending him to an early grave.
"I don't see why I have to receive the delegation from Whirlpool," Madara tells him bluntly.
"Because you are a part of this village and – "
"I'm not the Hokage," Madara reminds him, "so really who you decide to make alliances with is none of my business."
"Yes, it is, because you helped found the village and you're on the village council and if you had taken my advice in the first place you would have been Hokage and any decisions I make have to have your approval –"
Maybe he can make a quick escape while his brother is otherwise occupied, Tobirama thinks, and begins edging closer to the door. He hears the knock on the door – more of a tap – and barely steps back before it is flung open by Sasuke Sarutobi's little boy, Hiruzen.
Tobirama has heard the four-year-old is a genius with ninjutsu, but it seems he is greatly lacking in the 'subtlety' and 'tact' departments because he announces, "in here! This is the Hokage's office!", and beckons a young woman into the room.
Whirlpool, Tobirama thinks, taking in the red hair, blue eyes and elaborate, ink-spattered kimono. It seems as though there wasn't a need for a fancy reception. He looks behind her, toward the hall, for the rest of the delegation, but there seems to be no-one else.
"I've had enough of this!" Madara growls, "you're so completely irrational!"
"I'm irrational?" Hashirama loses the fight against his temper. "If I'm irrational what does that make you? –wait a minute, Madara – we're not done here!"
Madara stalks out of the office, barely giving a passing glance to the Whirlpool delegate, and slams the door shut behind him, shooting Hiruzen a malevolent look and sending the boy rushing to get out of his way.
Hashirama squeezes the bridge of his nose.
"Excuse me," the girl – woman – says, and Hashirama looks up, noting her presence for the first time.
"Yes?"
She holds a scroll out to him. "I was told to give this to you," she says, and there is something in the tone of her voice, an aloofness, that makes Hashirama look at her more closely. His eyes widen, minutely.
And then the rest of the Whirlpool delegation - an older woman and a man who seems to be the ambassador – arrive.
"He hardly paid attention to you!" Kushina remembers exclaiming.
She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, but Mito, unlike her teachers, didn't seem to mind her outburst. She recalls being surprised at how laidback Mito seemed to be; the way people talked about her made her seem like more of an ice cube and less of a woman.
"I told myself I didn't like him," Mito confessed. "And I was sure he didn't like me much, either. But to tell you the truth, Kushina, that is probably what made him more fascinating."
He is too tall, Mito decides, yanking her brush through her hair. Too tall and too slender (almost delicate-looking) and far too attractive – and if she isn't mistaken he doesn't want to marry her at all. He hardly looked at her, for Kami's sake, too caught up in his argument with that other man (Mito doesn't like him either. He sets her on edge) – and from what she'd heard of the conversation, he hadn't even remembered the betrothal whatsoever – he'd only been expecting the papers cementing the treaty between their villages –
"Mito-sama," Kaori approaches and takes the brush from her. "Are you alright?"
Mito stares at her reflection in the mirror – pointed chin, straight nose, large eyes – and her hair, long and thick and red – and she decides if Hashirama Senju does not find her attractive he must be a monk.
"I don't like him," Mito announces, as if the louder she says it the more convincing it will be, and Kaori sets the hairbrush down, opening her arms. Mito sets her cheek against Kaori's shoulder.
"You hardly know anything about him," Kaori tells her, and Mito purses her lips.
"You can tell a lot about a person the first time you meet them," she declares, "and I can tell that I don't like him."
"Your ladies," Kaori says, inclining her head toward the four women standing beside her.
Mito puts her brush down and carefully caps her ink bottle so she does not spill it. The strokes of the seal of summoning glisten on the paper. It is one of the earliest seals children from Whirlpool are taught. Mito thinks she is rather out of practice.
"Kana Hyuuga," Kaori introduces the first. Kana bows her head. She is a small, petite woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties.
"Hitomi Sarutobi," is the next one. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a chignon so tight it hurts Mito's head to look at it: but her face softens when she smiles and lowers her head.
"Azumi Yamanaka," is the prettiest of the four, eyes a brighter blue than Mito's, a full mouth and dainty hands being the least of her various charms.
"And Yuuka Uchiha," Kaori gestures to the last girl, who sinks into a bow. When she raises her head Mito sees a pale, heart-shaped face, eyes so dark they are almost black, and a thin-lipped mouth that is wry even in repose. There is something about her that Mito can't put a finger on – but it gives her the strangest feeling, something akin to sorrow – and then she smiles, and her face lights up.
"I can't believe Hokage-sama set the wedding date a month from now," Azumi proclaims, and Mito wonders, for the hundredth time, how she can talk with pins in her mouth. They are sitting around the table in Mito's room, sewing. Mito schools her face into a neutral expression. She has always disliked needlework – she learned because it makes her eyes keener and broadens her patience.
Also, Kaori never took 'no' for an answer.
"I mean," Azumi continues, adding another panel to Mito's uchikake (the silk is red. Gold butterflies for joy, cranes for good fortune, swallows for fertility) "if I were him I'd have married you in a heartbeat, Mito-san."
Mito did away with the '-samas' two hours into their acquaintance, and was pleased with her success, which she had never been able to attain where Kaori was concerned.
She laughs, "Thank you for the vote of confidence, Azumi-san."
"For us, however," Hitomi Sarutobi says. Her voice is surprisingly soft for such a stern-looking woman. "It's fortunate." She inclines her head at Mito's unsewn uchigi panels - brightly colored yellows and greens, pinks – set carefully next to each other. Mito hates the ceremony of it, and looking at the layers, the thought of wearing the juunihitoe is aggravating, the elaborate brocade uchikake especially terrifying. Mito is sure before the day is out she will have melted into nothing more than a puddle (wearing an elaborate costume, of course).
She thinks longingly of Whirlpool, where, at this point in the summer, the canal, a stone's throw away from the house, will be warm enough for Mito, dressed in her shift and yukata (oh, the glory!), to swim. She knows there is a river – the Nakano – here in Leaf; she saw it, tantalizingly blue, on her first day in the village – but her current living arrangement is a guest-house in the Senju compound, and she is told she is quite a walk away from it. Mito does not mind the walk but Kaori does, and when she pressed her point, the Whirlpool diplomat, Akira-san, explained to her quite firmly, that it would not do for the future First Lady (the term is so ostentatious) to go traipsing through the village to go swimming (Kami, how scandalous).
The formality, Akira-san, further clarified, was because the daimyo of Fire Country (among other important people) would be attending the wedding, and as it is the first major event to occur in the village since Hidden Leaf's founding, it is important to make a 'good first impression'.
Being the daughter of a village head Mito cannot dispute the importance of good impressions, and besides, she would never dream of complaining, at least not out loud.
This is what she has been preparing for her whole life.
"I can't imagine doing something like that," Kushina had interrupted. "You were so brave, Mito-sama. Giving up your life for someone you don't know – a sacrifice like that – I don't think I could make it – "
"But," Mito said, blue eyes soft, "you are making a much greater sacrifice, Kushina. You are far braver than I ever was."
A week passes, during which Mito talks, sews, and sometimes walks out in the gardens. Hitomi Sarutobi, who used to be a Senju and the Hokage's cousin, remarks apologetically that the grounds around the clan buildings aren't complete yet; there hasn't been enough time and they are sorry Mito has to see them anything less than complete (and perfect).
Mito, used to the precise, disciplined walkways around Whirlpool, finds the huge, gnarled trees hung with rose-vines, the little bridges with knots whirling out of their frames, the saplings set in what, at first sight, may seem haphazard formations but on closer inspection reveal an artistry that is awe-inspiring utterly fascinating.
Hitomi tells her it is all Hashirama Senju's doing; the village's Hokage has been the Senju clan head for less than two years but already the houses, walkways, and the very personalities of his people show the mark of his influence.
Mito realizes there is much more to Hashirama Senju than she first realized – obviously far from just another pretty face.
She doesn't have many opportunities to find out more, however – the Hokage is rarely to be found within the compound, and when he is he is surrounded by people – and so all Mito has discovered is that he is kind to everyone who speaks to him and thoughtful in his replies to their questions.
Mito wonders if she will die of curiosity.
Akira-san delivers the invitation to Hokage Tower.
Mito sits seiza in front of the low table, reminding herself to take deep breaths. She adjusts her collar. Today, she is wearing a cream-colored tsukesage, red peonies scattered over the silk, matching her obi.
The sound of cicadas chirping drifts through the open window, and a warm breeze whispers against the woodwork. The kettle, resting on the brazier, is within hand's reach, the natsume set just in front of her. Incense sticks burn in the alcove; the room smells of sandalwood and tea.
It is a few moments after sunset, and Mito is rediscovering her initial irritation with him and telling herself that she isn't going to sit like this all night when she hears footsteps on the verandah, the click-click of geta against wood disrupting the relative quiet. A knock resounds against the shoji panels; Mito slides the door open and bows.
"Hokage-sama, welcome," Mito tells her guest. "It is an honor to have you visit."
The tatami mats rustle as Hashirama Senju steps into the room. He smiles, fixing dark eyes on hers and bows in return, keeping his gaze on her face the whole time.
"Uzumaki-san," he says. "It is my pleasure."
Mito replies to this with a nod and gestures towards the cushion set in front of the table. "Please, sit."
He sits cross-legged; Mito settles herself across from him and sets the plate of dango and another of wasanbon in front of him.
"Please help yourself," she says. Blood, sweat and tears, she thinks, went into the making of these – and hours away from her scrolls, which she is sure she can't forgive.
She watches him pick up the skewer, carefully so the mitarashi sauce does not drip onto his clothing (a red silk kosode belted with a silvery-black sash and black hakama) and bites into the dango, bright white teeth (is that even natural) flashing.
Mito inwardly rolls her eyes at herself.
"This is absolutely delicious, Uzumaki-san," the Hokage tells her, the most appreciative look Mito has ever seen gracing his features, "you are incredible."
Mito plucks her sleeve demurely. "I had a lot of help," she says, ducking her head and looking at him through her lashes.
Forgiven already? the sly voice in her mind pipes up, and Mito tells it to hush . You're not very good at feigning disinterest, the voice persists. Mito ignores it.
He looks at her, a curious expression on his face, and Mito realizes with a start he has no idea what she's trying to do (or maybe she's even worse at the 'seduction game' than she thought she was; not much of a kunoichi at all). She is torn between feeling utterly foolish and giving into the laughter bubbling up within her, her face heating up.
"Uzumaki-san," Hashirama says, "forgive my forwardness, but are you – " Mito's heart rises in her throat; she does not like where this is going, "trying to – ah – lead me on?"
Mito can't help it; she laughs – a very unladylike exclamation of mirth – and immediately claps her hands over her mouth.
"Oh – I'm so sorry," she says, "I don't know what came over me – "
"No," Hashirama says, a little crease between his eyebrows, "it's fine – I was just," he falls silent for a moment and then a flush appears over his cheekbones and he lowers his face into his hands, "I suppose it would be extremely brazen of me to say I don't mind?"
"Brazen of you? Hokage-sama, I – "
"Please," he looks up at her, "it's Hashirama."
Mito bites her lip; suddenly, the low table set between them isn't much of a distance at all.
"Hashirama-san," she begins, slowly, and he shakes his head.
"You probably had a dreadful first impression of me," he says gently, "and I apologize profoundly for that, and while I know ours is a betrothal settled by our parents, I would – like for us to be friends, at least, and then – maybe – "
His gaze finds Mito's and holds. His eyes are a gray so dark they are almost black, his lashes as long as Mito's own.
Mito finds she is suddenly out of her depth. She swallows, gathering her thoughts. See, her mental voice chides her, I told you you weren't any good at acting.
"It doesn't hurt to try," Hashirama prompts. "We're going to be the leaders of this village, Uzumaki-san, you and I, and I'd really like it if we could work together for the betterment of our people – I've heard you're a genius with Whirlpool fuinjutsu, Uzumaki-san – "
"If I'm to refer to you by name, I'd like for you to call me by mine," Mito interjects. She gives him a smile – the first real smile she has smiled since she walked into Hidden Leaf. She wonders if he knows how good a politician he is.
His eyes soften and his mouth curves upward, and if he was beautiful before he is even more so now.
"Mito," he says, "It would be an honor to have you help me serve our people." He holds a hand out to her, as if they are equals and she is not just a woman and a kunoichi and hesitantly, Mito takes it.
His fingers are long and calloused and his palm is warm; his hands, as he brings up the other one to enclose hers in both of his, dwarf hers.
Mito smiles at him. "I would be glad to," she says. He makes no move to release her hand.
"Would you," Mito says, "like some tea now?"
In the next room, Azumi, pressing her head against the panels, shakes her head. "They're laughing again," she says, her slender eyebrows creased in a frown. "Is that a good thing? I didn't know Mito-san could laugh like that!"
Kana Hyuuga purses her lips, her needle flying nimbly through the fabric pooled in her lap. "Come away from the door, Azumi-san, and stop prying; it's rude."
"As if you aren't curious! Oh, Mistress Hyuuga," Azumi says good-naturedly, "possessor of the Byakugan: would you be so kind as to tell us what is going on?"
Kana smiles despite herself. "No," she says, "that would be a misuse of my ability."
Azumi sighs. "You're all like old women," she tells them, "you ought to have fun every once in a while."
When Hashirama walks through the door later in the evening, his brother sits up from where he is lying on the couch, putting his book down.
"Weelll," he says, playfully, surveying Hashirama's bright eyes, "somebody had a good time."
Hashirama slides off his haori. "Very funny," he says, "reading The Tale of Genji again? What is this, the tenth time?"
"Eleventh, actually," Tobirama informs him with a sniff, "it's a work of art, I assure you – and don't change the subject!"
He finds out through Hitomi that Mito misses swimming, and the next day there is a small lake behind her house, trees set around it, shielding it from prying eyes.
Mito, waking up to Azumi's excited clamoring, pulling on a robe and rushing out with her sees little white peaks drifting over the surface, breaking on the bank, the trailing branches of a giant sakura tree skimming the surface.
"They tell me you're the God of Shinobi," Mito tells him the next time she sees him. Kaori and Akira-san have decided it is alright for Mito to see Hashirama before the wedding ceremony – with certain limits, of course, "and that, like the Rikudo, wherever you walk, the world comes to life."
Hashirama looks away. "I'm not a god," he tells her softly. "I'm not even much of a man. There are so many things I wish I could do – that I can't."
She nearly collides with Madara Uchiha while walking in the compound one day. She is crossing the bridge towards her rooms and he seems to be coming from the direction of the main house. She is pulled to a stop just short of running into him, Yuuka's cautious hand in the crook of her elbow.
He is not as tall as Hashirama but the sheer presence of him is overwhelming, and his face is impassive (apart from the twist to his eyebrows). He looks from Mito to Yuuka; Mito notices the other girl dip her head.
"Hime-sama," Madara gives her a little bow. His voice is a rich baritone. "Yuuka," and then he strides past them, towards the gate.
"I should go home," Yuuka says quietly, "I apologize, Mito-san – may I – "
"Home?" Mito looks at her. "Of course you may, Yuuka – but why? Is it because of Madara Uchiha? Do you know him well?"
Yuuka smiles at Mito. "Yes," she says, "he's my husband. I am so sorry, Mito-san; I'll see you tomorrow," and she, too, turns and walks towards the exit, leaving a stunned Mito standing on the bridge behind her.
Just beyond the gate Yuuka catches up with Madara; if Mito squints she can see him stop and look down at her – Yuuka lifts her head, her hair falling away from her forehead. Mito can see the smile that crosses Madara's face despite there being several meters between her and the gate. Yuuka places a hand on his shoulder. Her lips move; Madara shakes his head. Yuuka's shoulders sink. She presses her face against his sleeve; he runs a hand over her head.
As they recede into the distance a breeze ruffles Madara's hair, lifting it away from his back. The Uchiha crest gleams in the sunlight.
"You didn't tell me he was married!" Mito tells Hashirama, who is diligently copying the seal she has drawn him onto a piece of paper.
"Tell you who was married?" Hashirama says absently, his face furrowed in concentration, "show me that stroke again – the sixth one."
Mito picks up her brush. "Here, it's like this," and she traces the curve out, "and by 'he' I mean Madara Uchiha."
"Oh," Hashirama says, looking up at her, "I didn't think to. Isn't Yuuka-san one of your companions?"
"Yes," Mito replies, "she is – and yesterday I found out she's the Uchiha matriarch." She can't keep the indignation from her voice, although she isn't sure why she's indignant at all.
"All of your ladies are village clan heads' wives," Hashirama explains, "Hitomi Sarutobi is Sasuke Sarutobi's wife – he's the head of the Sarutobi clan – Kana Hyuuga is – "
"I know that," Mito says, "but I didn't think Madara Uchiha – "
Hashirama gives her a slightly exasperated smile, "What, you too?" he says, and before she can ask what he means he continues, "the Uchiha have always married young, Mito." He places a hand on Mito's shoulder and shakes her a little. "What are you thinking about, anyway? I need you right here – you have to teach me this seal before the afternoon's up or word will go around the so-called God of Shinobi can't learn a simple fuinjutsu."
Mito raises her eyebrows at him. "That would be a catastrophe indeed."
The next two weeks fly by. Mito's juunihitoe is sewn and set aside. Her ladies argue over the proper way to set her hair and paint her face. The guests begin arriving – colorful paper streamers and kusudama are already suspended all over the village – there will be lanterns, and flowers, too, Azumi informs Mito excitedly as they sit around the table, adding the last stitches to the uchikake: Tobirama Senju and Madara Uchiha (Hashirama's 'brothers') are arranging the entertainment – it will be like a festival – clearly, the Hokage means for the wedding to be a symbol of better times to come.
Hashirama is so busy now Mito barely sees him; the village is bustling with all sorts of people invited and uninvited alike. The compound is full to bursting; Hitomi says all the clan compounds are, and Yuuka remarks she hopes nobody else shows, because at this point she and Madara have moved their futon into the corridor; there is no room left in the house.
There is always a steady stream of visitors to her rooms; Mito feels as though she has never done this much sitting still and pouring tea and smiling brightly at strangers. Whirlpool, she realizes, is small, and out-of-the-way, and nowhere near as important as Hidden Leaf.
If not for her clan and their fuinjutsu, it would not even show up on a map.
The night before the wedding Mito sits in front of the mirror. Kaori pours scented oil into her palms and works it into Mito's hair. She soaks wads of cotton in rosewater and pats down Mito's face, neck and hands.
In the morning they will wash her hair with water infused with orange and roses; meanwhile, it is braided down her back.
Kaori arranges the futon and Mito sets her head on the pillow. She reaches out with her fingers and touches the empty space next to her.
She wonders what it will feel like to have another person lying there.
"Were you scared?" Kushina asked, the question that of a child and not a kunoichi – but Mito smiled.
"Of course I was scared," she said easily, "there isn't a word that can be applied to what I was feeling – terrified, excited, nervous, thrilled – it was none of those feelings and all of them - when it is your turn, you will understand."
She placed her fingers under Kushina's chin and tilted it up. "Never be ashamed of feeling afraid, Kushina. Bravery is not the absence of fear: it is triumph in spite of it."