From a patch of dirt on the ground to a place truly worth defending, oh how his village has grown. —Konoha-centric; chapter 619.
Sprawling in all directions, it stands; weathered and wizened, but proud all the same. Buildings he had once known intimately, that he had built eons before, stand strong against the testament of time. In the cracks on the sidewalk, in the lingering rubble of an attack long past, in the grimly determined faces of the civilians that linger still. Hard times have come, this he knows, but he believes that it can persevere through this too; war was the fire it was forged in, sorrow the force that tempered it, but perseverance has always been in its roots, and its people.
When he'd first forged the village, alongside all those who welcomed its ideals, a final break from all the warring and the quarreling, he had never imagined in his wildest dreams the strength of heart and character and life it would grow; even to the civilians, who had always been frightened and outcast from their ways. It had been a haven, a home, but its life expectancy had been uncertain, the guesses tentative.
He had never imagined it to persevere this long, through the line of five successors, three wars (and in the midst of a fouth), and even a Bijuu attack.
A Godaime, he thinks, cracking a slight grin. To think!
It had surpassed his wildest dreams.
He watches a child trip, watches the tears swell and the knee bloody. But just as soon as he's tripped, a helping hand is pulling him back up again; ruffling his hair, taking his hand and leading him off into the distance, whispers of encouragement following in their wake.
A sprout to a tree, Konoha has come into its own.
His heart clenches painfully in his chest for a moment, and he feels like a proud father, finally awakening to the achievements of the child he's raised; no longer a child, but an adult in its own right. And his village, his home, it has changed. From a patch of dirt on the ground to a place truly worth defending, oh how his village has grown.
He'd done his best for the village—fed and taught and encouraged it, with a gentle hand and a gentle heart, just as his father had taught him—and now all his blood and sweat and tears have finally come to fruition.
"Hashi?"
His brother's hand settles on his shoulder, and Hashirama blinks, a soft smile curling his lips.
He had been the architect, the creator, the mastermind. But that Konoha was not this Konoha.
This Konoha is raw and gritting and unrestrained and beautiful in more ways than he knows how to name; standing before him, strong on its own two feet, with a life all of its own. It is hope and love and endurance, even when the world seems to be going to hell around it.
He has been the water that had fed the sprouts, but the village has found its own sunshine, and its own rain.
It has grown free of his shadow.
And Hashirama has never been prouder in his life.
"It's beautiful."
And when Tobirama smiles softly back, he knows his brother feels exactly the same way.