"Hey, hey, have you heard?" the man whispered.

His stall mate, a cobbler, continued to set up his wares. "Heard what?" He sounded bored.

"About him being dead."

The cobbler paused. "Who?"

"Uchiha Madara."

A brief hush descended over the vicinity. Heads turned, before quickly looking away. Everyone had heard the rumbling in distance last night, felt the tremors and saw the flashes of blue light.

What happened? was the question on the entire village's mind.

"…You're kidding. No way."

The first man lowered his voice. "That's why the Hokage's staying in the village for a while—apparently the fight took a lot outta him. It'll probably be a while before he returns to the Iwa front."

"Damn. Well, no shit, he killed Uchiha Madara." The cobbler stacked up another box of sandals. "Thought those two went way back, though. Old friends, and the like."

The other man shrugged. "Guess the Hokage drew the line at attacking Konoha."

"But—hold on," the cobbler said, squinting. "How do you know all this, anyways?"

"Haru was on night patrol when the Hokage returned last night. He told me."

The cobbler gave his friend a look. "Haru's a damn genin. Night patrol, like hell."

"Shut up. Any shinobi worth a damn is off in Iwa or the northern borders. As long as they have working eyes, a mouth, and a shinobi registration number, a ten-year-old could do guard duty."

The cobbler snorted. "You've got a point there. Fine, fine, I believe you."

"Hell, even the Hokage's barely got any guard protection," the other man added. He paused, smiling. "Well, not that he needs it."

There was a grunt of agreement. "Especially with Madara dead, eh? Don't think there's a single man alive who could touch the Hokage now."

The first man opened his mouth—about to mention a rumour he had heard a few weeks back about a failed assassination attempt by a man with five hearts—when a third voice joined their conversation.

"There are plenty of powerful shinobi besides him. The Tsuchikage, the Mizukage… even the Hokage's brother. It seems reckless of the Hokage to conduct his business with such little concern for his own safety."

Both stall owners turned their glances to the stranger in front of them. He was a man—a very old man, by the looks of his bone-white hair and deeply grooved face—dressed in a plain, navy kimono.

"Well," the first man said, scratching his nose, "when you're the Hokage, I suppose you can get away with things like that. Besides," he added with a grin, "all the potential assassins will still be scared shitless once they find out he killed Uchiha Madara."

The cobbler barked out a laugh. "If they aren't scared shitless already, they're either an idiot or a god. My money's on the first one."

The old man observed them. "Hm."

"So, you from out of town?" the first man asked, in an attempt to make conversation, since the old man seemed interested in his wares. "Don't think I've ever seen you around."

For the stall owner, who was a long-time merchant, it was always his policy to get on the good side of potential customers.

"Something like that, yes." The stranger looked down at the merchant's stock of knives and daggers on display. "These are civilian-grade," he said in distaste. "Show me your best tantōs. Price is irrelevant."

The stall owner perked up. "Ah, so you're here for the best? No worries, no worries. I have you covered." He reached down to a wooden box beneath his stall and heaved it onto the counter, unlatching the lid. "The finest tantōs in Fire Country, straight from the capital," he said grandly. "You won't get better anywhere else, sir."

His customer stared at the tantōs, still sporting a frown on his lined face. But maybe that was only because he was so old—some old folks just had unfortunate frown lines, the merchant knew.

"This one will suffice," the stranger said abruptly, picking up a double-edged tantō that was slightly longer than the others. "How much?"

"Ah, an excellent choice," the merchant began, smiling, about to launch into a long-winded explanation of just how useful and special and exquisite that particular blade was—

Then he realized that despite the old man's expression having barely changed throughout their interaction, he was still giving off an unmistakable air of irritability. Of… belligerence.

The merchant decided to cut to the chase.

"Twelve hundred ryō," he said. "That one's from the daimyō's swordsmith himself," he couldn't help but add, the lie rolling smoothly off his tongue.

Unfazed, his customer placed a single bill on the counter. "Ten hundred, and that is more than enough."

Something in the old man's tone made the merchant decide that it might be better to let this one go. "Ah, alright," he said, with false reluctance, though he had still made a hefty profit. "I suppose you can—"

He blinked.

The old man was gone.

The merchant squinted out at the streets, but there was nothing besides the usual crowd. He pocketed the thousand-ryō bill, slightly unnerved.

"Well," the cobbler remarked. "Konoha's full of crazies, you know?"

Paperwork. Endless, endless piles of scrolls and letters and bills and reports, in ant-sized handwriting and formal diction that made Hashirama despair and want to slam his face onto his desk.

Tobirama and Hashirama's advisors were both far better at dealing with these sorts of duties than Hashirama was.

He sighed, stamping another report and moving it to the pitifully small "completed" pile.

Unfortunately, Tobirama was still out in Suna, wrapping up the details for a tentative ceasefire. And his advisor, that Nara boy, seemed so exhausted these days that Hashirama just couldn't in good conscience leave the work to him again.

Hashirama was the Hokage, after all, and now that he was back in Konoha and practically under house arrest per his healers' orders, there really was no excuse for him to not do his own work. Even if he still felt bone-tired from yesterday's battle, and would rather like to crawl up in a bed and stay dead to the world for a good twelve hours.

Of course, Hashirama also couldn't leave, no matter how much he wanted to, because the village was worryingly tight on manpower. Of the two dozen shinobi left Konoha, less than half were over the age of twenty, and less than half of that were even jōnin-level. All their best shinobi were off in Iwa, preparing for one final push that could potentially lead to Iwa surrendering within the week.

But as soon as Tobirama returned—hopefully in a couple more days, and with a signed armistice—Hashirama was leaving immediately. As strong as Konoha's forces were, Hashirama needed to be there as well, or the Tsuchikage might turn the battle into a slaughter.

A couple of days of rest would be more than enough for Hashirama—if anything, staring at invoices all morning was draining his energy much, much faster. Staying in Konoha for a full week, like his healers advised, doing nothing but sitting behind his desk and sitting in meetings, was almost unthinkable—not only because of how dreary that would be, but also because there was no chance Hashirama would sit idly by while they were so close to victory.

The war might finally end.

Hashirama smiled, a little sadly, and leant back in his chair. The trade report he had been reading was long forgotten.

Just a few more days to wait—then, he'd make sure that this would be the first, last, and only shinobi war.

…How had it come to this? His smile faded. He didn't know, he really didn't know, where things had gone so horribly wrong.

Someone knocked on the door.

Hastily, Hashirama sat up and grabbed a pen to look like he had been doing something.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened.

His assistant peeked in. "Lord Hokage. Lord Hiroto, from Kiso, is here."

Hashirama started, glancing at his schedule, which showed zero appointments. He must have forgotten to note down the meeting… again. He slumped in his chair, trying not to groan.

"Uh… Lord Hokage?" his assistant asked meekly.

"Right, right," he said, plastering on a tired smile. "Let him in."

His assistant—well, his "guard"—stepped aside, and an old man entered his office. The door shut behind him.

Hashirama looked at the man in surprise. "Lord Hiroto?"

The old man hunched before him had short, jagged white hair, and a lined face that made Hashirama think he had to be at least sixty—a rarity, in these times. But he could have sworn Lord Hiroto had been a lively young man, with brown hair. In his twenties.

Something about the man—even though Hashirama couldn't quite put his finger on it—did seem familiar, but…

Lord Hiroto walked forwards into the centre of the room, and bowed. "Lord Hokage," he said, in a rough, gravelly voice. "My son and grandson have passed away, I'm afraid."

"Ah." Hashirama sobered, giving him a look of understanding. Well, that explained it. "I'm sorry for your loss, then."

To his surprise, the lord rasped out a bitter laugh. "Don't be. Death is a familiar acquaintance to us all, no? Always those closest to us, always unexpected." His eyes glinted with a strange fervour, not leaving Hashirama's face.

"Unfortunately so." Hashirama frowned.

…Lord Hiroto was in mourning. Even the most stoic of men could turn a bit mad in times of grief.

He set his pen down. "But as for your business here today—"

"Tell me, Lord Hokage," the lord interrupted. There was an odd, intense look on his face. "I hear from the villagers that you yourself killed quite an eminent man, just last night."

Hashirama stilled. "Yes. I did."

"Impressive," Lord Hiroto said. "What was his name? Uchiha, I believe. Uchiha Mataro? Marata?"

"Madara."

"Yes, yes, that was it. I applaud you, then, on managing such a deed," Lord Hiroto said. There was a faint smile on his face. "Shinobi truly are remarkable."

This conversation was rapidly descending into uncomfortable territory. Hashirama wasn't sure what point—if any—the lord was trying to make, but he didn't particularly like where things were going.

"I wouldn't say that, Lord Hiroto. I was only doing my duty to the village."

The lord nodded. "You have no lingering regrets, then?"

"About what?"

"Killing this friend of yours, of course."

Hashirama blinked, taken back.

"I…" He gathered himself. "I don't regret it, no."

Lord Hiroto's gaze was sharp.

Hashirama cast his eyes downwards. "But I do regret that it was the only choice."

The lord nodded. "Understandable," he murmured. "It was the only choice. True enough."

"As a lord yourself, surely you can sympathize—how difficult these choices we need to make are," Hashirama pressed.

He wasn't sure why he was so dead set on justifying himself to the old lord, but he pushed forwards. If there was a line, this conversation had long since passed it, anyways.

"In order to protect those under our care, sacrifices have to be made," he said.

The lord gave a noncommittal hum. "To me, the choice has never been difficult. I will always prioritize my family, above all others." His expression flattened. "With their deaths, of course, I have nothing left to protect."

Hashirama looked at him in dismay. "What about your citizens? The people on your land?"

"I am not you, Lord Hokage." Lord Hiroto's mouth lifted in amusement. "I couldn't care less about the peasants and the commoners. But you—you care about your villagers all too much. In that respect, our beliefs are opposed."

Something coiled uneasily at the back of Hashirama's mind. His battle yesterday had exhausted him—his senses weren't quite as sharp as they normally were. He felt like he was missing something. Something big. Something obvious.

"For me, the village is my family," Hashirama said by way of explanation, trying to brush away the strange sense of foreboding.

Lord Hiroto eyed him in skepticism.

"But surely, between brothers in arms and brothers in blood, wouldn't you pick the latter?"

Hashirama pressed his lips into a thin line.

Someone else had once asked him a very similar question.

The old lord cocked his head to the side, a grim smile on his face. "Even you, Lord Hokage, place family first."

Hashirama stared at the old lord. At the smug tilt of his head, the cruel curve of his smile.

Lord Hiroto was an old man, and naturally all elderly people had lines and creases and sagging skin, but… under his eyes…

A chill ran down his spine.

"You remind me of someone, Lord Hiroto," Hashirama said warily.

"Oh?"

If anything, Lord Hiroto's smile grew.

But—it couldn't be. What was Hashirama thinking? He must have hit his head one time too hard. Maybe it was the medicine that the healers had fed him. His imagination was running away with him.

He grimaced, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "No. No, apologies, my mind is still a little addled from yesterday."

"Ah." The old lord sighed. "I see you're as much of idiot as ever, Hashirama."

Hashirama snapped his head up, freezing.

"What—what did you say?"

Lord Hiroto's back straightened. He curled a finger around a lock of his white hair.

"Was it the hair?" he mused, his formerly coarse voice deepening into a smooth baritone. Hashirama knew that voice. "I'll admit, it was a shame to cut it off."

Impossible.

Impossible.

Hashirama's chest tightened. He pushed back in his chair, the legs scraping against the floor with a harsh, grating sound. His hands gripped the armrests hard enough for it to splinter.

The other man sent him a mocking smile.

Hardly breathing, Hashirama extended his senses, reached out behind that thin veil of normalcy, and—

Was met with an ocean of swirling, burning chakra, reserves far greater than that of most shinobi, let alone a civilian lord, but how was that possible they had both fought till their last drop, mere hours ago—

"Even in this aging body, I'm disappointed you cannot recognize an old friend, Hashirama."

Hashirama jumped to his feet. The chair fell to the ground.

"Madara," he hissed, incredulous, staring into eyes that were suddenly a bright red.

A mistake.

Tobirama burst through the doors, the pointed edge of a katana sticking out the front of his chest.

"Brother," he gasped. Blood pooled at his feet. "Help—"

No.

Hashirama ripped himself out of the genjutsu, just in time to see Madara in front of him and a tantō inches away from his heart.

A thick trunk of wood erupted out of the ground and ripped the blade out of Madara's hands, depositing it into Hashirama's.

At the same time, trunks of oak and maple exploded out of the floor at Madara's feet, rising up and wrapping around his body into a twisting, living casket.

Madara smiled, didn't move or fight back, let Hashirama thicken the wood until he was entire bound from the shoulders down.

Even as Hashirama continued to solidify Madara's wooden prison, his mind whirled in a storm of confusion.

Why wasn't Madara fighting back, was he too old? No, that couldn't be right, Madara had nearly managed to stab him with that tantō, those weren't the reflexes of an old man—

Old.

Why was Madara so old?

Why, why, why—

His heart was racing, his eyes still wide with disbelief as he stared at Madara's face—not at his eyes, of course, but just slightly below, at his smile—that grim, grim smile, surrounded by impossible, baffling wrinkles—

"I see our battle took its toll on you as well, Hashirama." Madara's smile quirked up on one side. "Taking so long to sense my chakra, and almost dying by way of the simplest of illusions. Rather disappointing, given how long I've waited to see you again."

Hashirama's eyes hardened.

He raised Madara's tantō and laid its tip at the man's throat.

His hand was steady.

"How."

But his voice shook, the tiniest of wavers creeping in.

"How are you alive, Madara? I saw you die, I know you died." His knuckles were white. "Why are you so… old?"

Madara was silent. The smile on his face faded.

Hashirama pressed the blade harder. A crimson bead formed, in stark contrast to the pallor of Madara's skin and the silver of his tantō.

Madara swallowed, dipping his head a little.

The drop of blood trickled down his neck.

In a voice more subdued and more sincere than Hashirama ever could have expected, Madara spoke.

"You are the only one I've ever called a friend, Hashirama." His jaw tightened. "I considered—consider—you a brother… so I'm sorry. This was the only way."

What?

Hashirama almost looked up into Madara eyes in pure confusion—

And then Madara jerked his head forwards, impaled his own throat on the tantō, and died.

Hashirama froze.

His breath hitched.

Shock coursed through his veins like a scorching fire. Of all the things he had expected Madara might do—this had been the very last thing he could have imagined—

He tore his hand away, not sure what else he was supposed to do. Killing Madara once had been horrible enough, but twice? In a span of hours? He—

Madara's body vanished.

Hashirama's stomach dropped. Something behind him—

Hot, searing pain pierced through him. He stared down at the red-dripping steel protruding from the center of his chest.

His mouth opened in numb shock. Blood ran down the corners of his lips.

"You know I always carry a second blade with me."

Hashirama's knees buckled. Madara pulled the tantō out and let him fall to his knees with a thud.

He stepped around the pool of blood and gazed down at Hashirama.

"Earlier, you asked me what my business here was," Madara said softly. "Peace, Hashirama. Hasn't everything I've done always been for the sake of peace?"

…Peace? This wasn't peace—this was the complete opposite of an act of peace. Hashirama almost wanted to burst out into laughter. A tiny voice at the back of his head told him he was going into shock.

No. Hashirama wasn't going to die peacefully, either.

A slew of wooden spikes flew out of the walls at speeds that would have made Tobirama proud. They rammed into Madara alongside the entire length of his body, and he crumpled to the ground.

It was a bloody, gruesome sight, and as horrified as he was at himself, Hashirama couldn't help but feel the tiniest twinge of vindication.

He panted, staring at the pool of blood rapidly forming around Madara's body. At the very least, if Hashirama died, he was taking Madara down with him.

The body disappeared.

"It's called Izanagi," Madara stated.

Disbelief, despair, and frustration slammed into Hashirama like the final nail in a coffin.

"A genjutsu that allows the user to control their state of existence, in exchange for the use of their eye. One of the most dearly guarded secrets of the Uchiha clan."

"So that's… how you did it," Hashirama said faintly. He collapsed onto his back, wet coughs racking his body.

He stared up at Madara—there was no point in diverting his gaze now. He noted that Madara's right eye was already cloudy and grey.

Half-heartedly, Hashirama willed the walls to fill with pink and purple lotus flowers.

A fog of pollen spread through the room, of a kind Hashirama had cultivated to be deadly to all except himself.

Madara only shook his head.

"My right eye is blind because it is a replacement, one whose power I already drained in travelling here." He looked at Hashirama wryly. "My left eye is much more potent."

He knelt down next to Hashirama. "You heal fast," he murmured. "I can't take any chances, you understand."

He poised his tantō over Hashirama's heart.

A wooden spear flew across the room and slammed into Madara's left eye. Madara disappeared. The spear clattered to the ground. A moment later, Madara reappeared, in the exact same position, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Clever, but not quite clever enough."

He lowered the tantō, then paused.

He set it down. Picked up Hashirama's wooden spear instead.

"We're all murderers, don't you see?" he said, rolling the spear between his thumbs. "Even the great Lord Hokage cannot change human nature. I've seen the future. War, after war, after war. Never-ending."

He gave the spear a twirl, then aimed it steadily at Hashirama's chest. He held it there, suspended.

"It was an admirable dream of yours," he said soberly. "But in the end, only a dream. Mine, on the other hand… I will make it a reality."

A part of Hashirama wanted to scream at him. To shout, to argue, to snap that this was wrong and that Madara wasn't making any sense, that he was insane and mad and a stranger. Hashirama didn't recognize this person that Madara had become, in more ways than one.

But everything seemed so… detached. The world was already blurring at the edges, fading, crumbling.

Madara gazed down.

"You killed me. I don't blame you for it, of course. But I'll have to return the favour."

His eyes glistened, with—tears?

Madara closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, and when he opened them, they were dry.

Deathbed hallucinations, Hashirama thought. Of course not tears.

No, never.

Madara's face smoothed over into a mask of stone.

"It was an honour knowing you, Senju Hashirama."

Distantly, Hashirama noted that both of Madara's eyes were now a cloudy grey.

Madara drove the spear into Hashirama's chest.

The world faded to black.

Madara remembered awakening his Sharingan. Standing on the edge of the river, struck with the terrible realization that his dream of a peaceful world was nothing more than a child's fancy.

Madara remembered awakening his Mangekyō. Kneeling by Izuna's bedside, snarling at the healers to leave as they had pronounced the wound fatal, as Izuna whispered take my eyes and his heartbeat had faded away.

And Madara remembered grafting Hashirama's cells onto his chest. Feeling the rush of new strength, rejuvenated life force, and most importantly, Ashura's chakra, a grin of pure anticipation on his face.

And he had waited, and nothing had happened.

He had recalled, then, what was said about the Uchiha. Pain, loss, hate—those were the emotions that made them strong. Those were the emotions that granted them their eyes.

The Rinnegan, he had realized, was no different.

But Madara could count on one hand the people he had ever truly cared for, and all of them were already six feet underground. No one left to die. No one left to kill.

He had almost despaired. He had had all the requirements necessary for those legendary eyes: Indra's chakra, Ashura's chakra, the Mangekyō Sharingan. To be so close to his goal, yet so far away—it had been maddening.

In his desperation, he had contemplated more than a few outlandish ideas; some of them, absurd thoughts verging on the edge of laughable. Find an Uchiha with Tsukuyomi to cast it on him. Create a jutsu to inflict deep emotion. Kill a reanimated husk of his brother.

And hope that it would be enough to trick the chemistry of his brain.

That, of course, would never have worked, and he had known it.

But one of the ideas… had not been half-bad.

The Mangekyō was infamous for its space-time ninjutsu, after all.

It was an unusual idea, yes. Convoluted. Reckless. To others, perhaps impossible.

Then again, Madara had never been one to stay constrained within the bounds of reality.

Madara wrenched the spear out of Hashirama's heart with a sharp breath. His own heart was heavy with something like grief and something like guilt.

He closed his eyes. They were blind and unseeing now, anyhow.

Hashirama had been his closest friend. Hashirama had been his greatest enemy.

Hashirama had been a brother in everything but blood—and in a past life, perhaps they had truly been brothers.

But Madara had meant what he said.

Brothers in arms or brothers in blood, wouldn't you pick the latter?

True family always came first, and since the moment that his own clan had turned their backs on him, Madara's ambitions had shifted to include no one but himself.

Madara, and Madara alone, was his own family.

Still, Hashirama had been a better brother than most of Madara's clansmen, and that in itself deserved honouring.

Madara knelt in the empty silence and felt the blood seep into his kimono.

But when he opened his eyes again and stared at his reflection in Hashirama's pooling blood, any lingering thoughts of remorse were completely wiped away.

His breath caught.

Staring back at him were the ringed, violet eyes of the fabled Rinnegan.

Slowly, wonderingly, he looked down at his palm. He raised it, pointed it outwards.

"Shinra Tensei," he said, in a voice barely above an awed whisper.

The wall splintered and tore, wooden panels flying off and crashing into the adjacent room.

He might have been concerned about guards rushing over in alarm, but he knew his shadow clone had taken care of everything.

And even if there was anyone left alive in the building—well.

A slow grin spread across his lips.

Madara had the Rinnegan.

The Rinnegan.

He had done it.

He had achieved something that no one else, no one since the Sage of Six Paths himself, had been able to do.

The Rinnegan, greatest of the three great dōjutsu.

He laughed, slowly at first, then loud and bright and exhilarated, and the sound of his laughter pierced through the silence like the spear had pierced through Hashirama's chest.

When his elation subsided, he glanced down at Hashirama's body with a rueful smile.

"Even in death, you've been invaluable beyond compare, old friend."

Madara hesitated, then brushed his hand over Hashirama's eyes, closing them.

He had always wondered how Hashirama had died so soon, so young. He had always wondered, with no small amount of irritation, who it was that could have possibly succeeded where even Madara himself had failed.

Now he knew, and the answer held the satisfaction of fitting in the final piece of a puzzle.

Still smiling to himself, Madara rose to his feet, and left.

—Epilogue—

Tobirama had returned from Suna to a village in utter chaos.

His brother, the gate guards had told him timidly, was dead.

Stabbed twice, they informed him. Through the heart. Right in his office, in the middle of the day. Just yesterday, in fact, though they had removed his body—

Tobirama had flown to Hashirama's office without bothering to hear the rest.

Here, he was greeted with the sight of his brother's handiwork. Gnarled trunks twisting as if to trap an intruder, sharp wooden spikes scattered on the ground and caked in dried blood. Lotus flowers along the walls, almost jarring in their beauty. One of the walls had collapsed outwards. Blood—much too much blood to belong to a single person, or even two—splattered the walls and floor.

His voice cold and emotionless, Tobirama turned to the sweating guard next to him and asked how such a battle could possibly have gone unnoticed.

Everyone in the building had been slaughtered, the man stuttered. The guards, the workers, the visitors. The guards outside hadn't heard a thing, hadn't even suspected.

Ah, and one more thing, the guard added nervously. A note had been found on the Lord Hokage's desk, and if Lord Tobirama would like to take a look, it was still there—

Tobirama flashed over to the desk in the blink of an eye.

He picked up the note. Read its brief message.

Fury rose up in him like a tidal wave, but he held his composure.

No signature.

Unnecessary, of course, because Tobirama would recognize that handwriting anywhere.

He had seen it, many, many times, back when he and his brother had been tentatively negotiating terms of truce with the Uchiha.

That man was dead. Tobirama knew so for a fact. It was impossible.

He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, crushed the paper to dust in his hand.

But the words still burned like acid into his mind.

An eye for an eye, Senju Tobirama.

A/N: Every stage of the Sharingan requires emotional trauma to awaken, so why would the Rinnegan be any different? (I discounted Sasuke's Rinnegan, because Hagoromo straight-up poofed it onto him like magic.) This is my interpretation for why it took Madara so long to awaken his, taking advantage of the fact that Kishimoto never really did explain how Hashirama died. As for the vaguely explained time travel shenanigans—well, a little bit of time travel never hurt anybody, right?

All in all, technically a canon-compliant one-shot. ;)