As of 2014, this series is now being continued.
Author's Note: It took four years for me to come back to this story. At first, uncertainty plagued me whether or not I should continue—I have reread the original content and found it almost unworkable. After all, I wrote it when I was in high school, was naïve enough to think I can pull it off. But I realized Insignia of Rarities has been one of my oldest and most beloved plots. There is no justice in killing the work of my fourteen year-old self. I want to do right by it. So here we are.
I hope it's not too late to finish this fic. To those who were with me in the beginning, no matter how few, thank you for understanding. I hope you find your way back to this story and enjoy it once more.
Uchiha Madara does not believe in gods. But when the claim of a human deity threatens to tip the scale of war towards the Senju's favor and endangers everything he holds dear, Madara steps in. Now he will stop at nothing to destroy her. After all, false idols should be burned to the ground. Hashirama/OC/Madara
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「insignia of rarities」
( it is told and retold )
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« by arsenous elation »
. . .
if i believe
in death be sure
of this
it is
because you have loved me,
moon and sunset
stars and flowers
gold crescendo and silver muting
of seatides
—if i believe, e. e. cummings
∙ PRELUDE ∙
They say history tells the tale of the victor. Heroes, generals, kings and queens, all of them immortalized even after their bones have crumbled into dust. Songs are sung in their honor, blades raised in their blessing. Their names, their triumphs echo throughout the generations.
But what of the vanquished? Are they not remembered in history as well?
They are remembered, only the stories about them are written differently—for them, there are no exaltations, no hymns. There are only poems and songs about their demise, their loss. They wither in the shadows as their enemies bask in glory. But this, this tells us something: history does not solely tell the tale of the victor.
History tells the tale of great men, both tragic and triumphant. They are the ones who shaped the world, men and women who dared, won and lost.
Great men who are remembered for their influence, their madness, their power.
I am destined to be neither. The world will forget me and I am at peace with it. I need no songs, no great stories written about who I was in this life. I would be erased in history books because of my folly, but that bears no importance to me now.
I live in a time where war tears the land, rebuilds and tears them down again. Countless nameless souls have died fighting in wars, all for the cause of those great men. The lives of many children, lost… Generations of youth wiped out to fuel the hungry fire of glorified violence.
What of them? What of their sacrifice? Such waste of life. Hearts born only to meet the blade.
But beyond their untimely deaths there is a small glimmer of light. For they are dearly remembered by their loved ones not for their success or their failure. To each mother, brother, sister, lover, they are human. More than just casualties of war. More than just pawns. More than just ideals. They are alive, in the memory of their touch, their smile, their love, their humanity. Not deeds, not abilities, not death—these do not matter to those who love. What matters is the tenderness, the hope, the bond that thrums beneath the surface. The will.
Like them, I shall die nameless. No one will care if I've lost or won any battle. No brother, sister, no lover exists to keep my memory. They are all dead. I myself have forgotten how it is like to be human. I only wish to tell my story, no matter how meaningless, no matter how bleak, if only to the one reading this.
So whoever you are, I am grateful for you. The universe has unfolded for this to get to you. For us to meet. At least, at last!—someone will know of my story. I've kept it for so long that I'm beginning to wonder if any of it is ever real. Let this be proof that I existed. That once I, too, loved.
You will see why being forgotten by history does not mean a thing to me. For after all the sorrow and the suffering, a great man—beneath his glory—his legend—his blade—has given me something truly remarkable. Something that transcends even death.
This recollection would only like to prove that such a thing existed. I ask nothing of you but an open mind and an equally open heart, because you will find that in my story, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.
Let us begin.
·×◊×·
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(from a journal found in a ruins. Land of Water, undated)