A huge thanks to my mate Sam, who helped me beta this and find a name for it. Forever grateful :D

A piercing cry sounded above him, so he looked up to watch the lazy flight of the lone hawk as it spiraled in the clear blue sky. It cried again, a lonesome sound that compounded his own feeling of loneliness. With a sigh, he lowered his head then closed his eyes, trying to shake the awful solitude that had become part of his life once more. A soft breeze toyed with his hair as the sun beat down. He raised a hand to tug on a long strand then played with it in his fingers.

Regarding the lengthy strand, he thought-not for the first time-about cutting it back. He had left it to grow having little interest in how he looked, and there was no one around to call him a girl or mock his long dark locks. It had once been his crowning glory, as long and luscious as the Shodaime's had once been. But now, the thought of that brought back all of the reasons he was currently sitting on the edge of a cliff, alone and desolate.

He pulled a kunai from his pocket, turning the sharp weapon in one hand while staring at the long strand of hair in the other. His eyes glazed over and he forgot the hair and the weapon as he lost himself in the memories invoked by the things in his hands.

For many years, he had attempted to forge himself a path as an individual, wanting to be seen and respected for who he was, not as the one who possessed the DNA of a supreme shinobi. The fact he was mostly seen as a cheap knock off of the great Hashirama had driven him to prove he was more than that. He was just as unique, just as special as anyone. For a long time, it seemed that he had been accepted as such in Konoha, but in the end, that was all he had been to anyone: a clone. A non entity.

But he wasn't a clone, he wasn't even anything like Hashirama. It wasn't as if he had been created in a test tube using the Shodaime's DNA. He had been a person long before that had been forced upon him. He had been a child, with a future and a family, though he could not remember them. A child, stolen to be experimented on and forced to change into something that he had not been destined to become. His DNA had been manipulated with that of another to create a long dead jutsu. That fact did not make him someone else, it didn't make him Hashirama. No one really understood that. No one ever really looked past his Mokuton to see him. They only ever saw the ghost of Hashirama.

All of his life he had fought to be seen as an individual, wishing that his genetic makeup would be forgotten about or overlooked. But then, he was taken for that genetic make up, stripped of all fight and consciousness while being forced to feed an army of white ghouls with his body. Even at the end of it all, he was seen as little more than a clone of greatness. No one had even come to rescue him, and this alone made his thoughts ring true to his heart.

He was barely looked upon as a separate, sentient being. All people ever saw and marveled over was the Mokuton, his abilities and the fact he possessed the special DNA. No one ever saw him, no one ever saw...hell, he did not even know his real name. Kinoe? Tenzou? Certainly not Yamato, although that was his current designation. All his life he had been treated as property; a pet in human form. Given different names for different masters, never knowing his real one. He was nothing to everyone. With the exception of two men, all he had ever been seen as was a cherished weapon and someone with a life mapped out by another. But one of those men was long dead, a father figure who had seen his strength, uniqueness and individuality. The other man, had been the world to him. He had given him choices, given him a new life and treated him as an equal. Yet the thought of that man now just made him angry.

But anger was an emotion like any other, and he quashed it behind his iron will as he looked back to the sky. The hawk had stopped its circling and was flying away. He watched it until it disappeared.

If I could fly, I would fly forever, he thought.

Running away was not in his nature for he had always been strong and dependable. Never backed out of a fight, never left a task undone. Dependable, reliable, and ultimately exploited. He had known as soon as he had arrived back in the village that he had to leave; it hurt too much to stay. He could no longer live with those who regarded him as little more than a copy. He knew he wouldn't even be forgotten. He meant so little that no one would even remember him enough to start forgetting him. Only one person might have made him change his mind, but that person had already left him behind, forgotten about him.

But none of it mattered now. He had cast off his previous life with the clothes and face protector he had left behind in the small, bleak room that he had been his meagre home in Konoha. He had left the village without even a backward glance, leaving no other trace of himself behind. Like he had never existed.

He wasn't a missing nin. His life was his own now. The war was over, and so he retired and left before anyone had the chance to even clap eyes on him. Of course he had gone to see the then Hokage, and when he told her of his wanting to retire and leave, she had wanted to change his mind. But not even Tsunade could change his mind, no matter how vehemently she tried. In the end, she had shook her head and sighed.

"You have been a most loyal and valuable shinobi, and while I wish that you would reconsider, I can see that you will not. Leave with my blessing and know that you can always come home."

Home. Her words almost had him doubt his own frustration, almost had him apologize then go hide in his bare lodgings. But then, he was sure she would have said those words to anyone who had went to her with the request. There was no real home for him there. In order for there to be a home, there had to be a place worth living in, family and friends worth dying for, people who cared. Yet there was no one, not now. Even his valuable Mokuton was not needed; the war was over and the beasts no longer required to be controlled. He had nothing and he was nothing. He had always been nothing, worth only as much as he could do for others. It all left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Looking back to the kunai in his hand, he swept his hair back and left it uncut. The sun glinted on the surface of the weapon. He felt down the sharp, lethal edges with his thumb. None of it mattered now. He was alone just as he had been many years ago, except this time there was no fluid filled tank to hold him, and only bitter feelings to keep him company.

Peace. That was all he had ever really wanted; peace and acceptance. Once upon a time, a silver haired man had given him those things, but that was long ago and in a place now far away. While he sat looking out over the plain, he smiled wistfully, remembering the man who had given him the chance of a normal life. They had been close, at first like brothers and then they were lovers. But all the memory did was made him sad.

Placing the kunai back in his pocket, he stood and stretched out his body then leaped over the edge of the cliff. He landed lightly on an outcropping then dropped to the ground below.

He would walk until he could walk no longer, and perhaps then, he might stay in that place for a while. But, as he had been doing for the past year or so, he would simply rest then wander the land in search of peace.

TBC...