Author's notes: I decided that Karma used to be Italian. I originally didn't much care for her nationality, but when I thought of the future plot, I realised that it will actually matter. I might have to go edit the previous chapters at some point.
Culture clash
"This is ridiculous and will come to bite us later. Mark my words, Hashirama."
Hashirama sighed with the kind of tired air that implied this discussion had been repeated several times recently, with no change in either arguments or the end result. While it was certainly no surprise that Madara disliked something (heavens knew the man could nurse a grudge), this was getting nowhere.
Normally, he would have challenged Madara to a spar since nothing could distract him better, but they were already inside the Samsara territory and Hashirama had a feeling that decimating their hosts' forests and fields would give a rather poor first impression.
"We cannot risk having enemies this close to Konoha," Hashirama explained instead, not really believing attempt number twenty would be any more successful than its predecessors. "I know it's dangerous. But we have to prevent the chance of facing what happened to the Sonzaina, and the Samsara wouldn't have invited us of all people to their own village if they wanted to lay a trap."
Madara scoffed. "Since when did they make sense? We're talking about those ogres."
Hashirama liked to think he was a patient man, having waited and worked for years and years to achieve his childhood dream of peace, but even his tolerance was starting to wear a bit thin by now.
"Is there a reason you're acting like this, Madara? You're not usually quite this petulant. I'm also fairly sure that the Samsara are in fact people and do not possess fangs or colourful skin. Or wear animal skins, for that matter."
There was a pause.
"...Haven't you Senju suffered from their attacks before?" Madara finally asked with a terse, clipped voice.
Hashirama blinked. "Not any more often than others, I should think."
Madara shifted uncomfortably. If he had been someone else, he would have looked embarrassed.
"...Uchiha abilities don't work well against them," he finally admitted. "You can't copy a bloodline and something about their chakra renders genjutsu useless. And they don't need to get close enough for taijutsu."
Ah, of course it would have been something like that. Hashirama tried to suppress his grin. As Madara wasn't set off, he thought he'd probably been fairly successful. "Well, then it's a very good thing we're going there to sign a peace treaty, isn't it?"
Madara scoffed, looking like he wanted to reply with something scathing and angry - having never liked to admit anything he perceived as weakness - but was cut off by a sudden commotion up ahead. Both men left their argument there and moved closer, remaining hidden in the vegetation.
From what Hashirama could tell through the foliage, a group of bandits had sprung a trap on two travellers wearing bright orange robes. The outlaws were well armoured and numerous. Their would be victims were distinctly slim in build and seemed wholly uninterested in what was happening around them.
Both Hashirama and Madara instantly wrote the bandits off as toast.
(There was something to be said about ninja instincts and neither was the head of their clan by the merit of their lineage alone.)
"Oh dear, you must be new around here," said the blond man. Somehow, he managed to radiate sincere concern where his companion merely seemed like he was about to keel over and fall asleep. "This is our territory, and while we generally refrain from vigilante justice, it is our responsibility to keep the peace around here. It would be best for you to leave."
The bandit leader sneered. He appeared to be in charge by the virtue of the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his moustache, but had unfortunately not been blessed with any more common sense than his men. "Ha, what are two stick men going to do, huh? Get them, boys!"
The blond man sighed and his hands moved in a rapid seal sequence.
"Foxfire."
Green balls of light burst from his body and chased each other in an almost playful line, before they flew out and struck those bandits who had been foolish enough to continue the charge. At the same time, the other man darted from behind the blond and lashed out with kusarigama covered in a green sheen of chakra. He moved fast enough that only Madara's Sharingan could really see him and his chains almost seemed to have a life of their own, striking and retreating in a storm of blades. It was hard to say who exactly hit what, as the green lights danced across the battle and each man to get hit glowed green for seconds and dropped dead.
It was all over in less than a minute.
Hashirama and Madara looked at the corpses that littered the land, at the two men (who appeared to be lamenting they had been waylaid when they were so busy and that they'd need to get rid of the corpses now, what a bother) and then at each other.
Hashirama steeled himself. He had known what kind of people they were. And while it was a bit rattling to see the manner these people treated killing (a dull chore rather than a duty), well. It was surely still better than the sort of sick ecstasy some thoroughly broken people took out of murder. Right?
Right.
Hashirama took a deep breath, straightened his back, settled his face in a friendly smile and stepped out on the road. Madara hesitated, cursed himself for it, and followed.
"Ah, excuse me. I am Senju Hashirama. May I assume that you would be...?"
The blond man started and beamed, looking as though some inner fire had been lit up. "Ah, yes! I am Satoshi, the head of Samsara. Very pleased to meet you!"
He approached with brisk steps and offered his hand to Hashirama, who froze and stared at it uneasily. Tension weaved into the air. Apparently realising he had made a mistake, Satoshi grinned sheepishly and almost managed to pull his hand back before Hashirama struck out and grabbed his palm in a vice grip.
"Likewise," Hashirama said, face determined, and prayed inwardly that this would not mess up the negotiations before they'd even begun.
He'd been surprised by the gesture, sure, but cultural clash was to be expected and if these people greeted each other by shaking hands, well. He supposed he could see the logic of the custom. For people who could absorb chakra, voluntary skin contact had to be some sort of a trust exercise.
And he needed that trust. No one had said peace would come easily; Hashirama had fully expected setbacks and unanticipated problems.
There was a heavy pause, as the two men regarded each other, hands clasped and postures stiff. Hashirama could almost feel Madara's incredulous stare bounce off the back of his head, but held on firmly. This was one of those 'make it or break it' situations.
(Though, hardly ever had so much ridden on a single handshake. While he and Madara had sealed the peace between their clans with one, that had been a formality and a ceremony by that point.)
Then, Satoshi seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, relaxed and smiled wider, a glimmer of marvel in his eyes.
"...I believe we will get along splendidly, Hashirama-san."
Madara had expected several things from this farce, however vague and shapeless they had been. Some of his clearer predictions had included cold blooded murder of people, which, admittedly, had been appropriately dealt out. Everything else, now... well.
He had not expected the head of the notoriously brutal clan to smile like the sun and talk as far as a river could run. He desperately wished Hashirama would have had the foresight not to start a discussion about the respective political systems of their clans.
Then again, Hashirama seemed to be endlessly fascinated rather than wishing his ears would fall off and die. No, after Hashirama had taken that idiotic leap of faith by grabbing the hand of the Samsara clan head, he and Satoshi had bonded instantly over talking about what the latter called 'political sociology'. To Madara's mild horror, both appeared to be hopelessly interested in the technical details of how to go about ruling people.
"Really? A separate council with their own leverage? And military functions divided from the main affairs... I've never heard of such a way to manage a clan!"
"Well, it works for our particular situation. For all we are family, we tend to hold very different opinions - such is the weight of our history. And really, it's all about the size of population. Hypothetically, if there were even more people to govern, one of the best ways to go about it would be to divide power into three parts. One making the laws, one enforcing them, and one to judge the trespassers. This way, no one is above all others. Prevents corruption."
"Oh, that's brilliant. But that kind of thing wouldn't really work for us, as a mostly military society. The cost of reducing the possibility of someone abusing their power has to be in efficiency. We also need to enforce unity, since we are only just getting to the cooperation part after such long warfare. Although I suppose we should have a council of some sort, too, if only to make sure the Hokage doesn't drop dead from paperwork."
"Oh, definitely. And while it's not my place to decide, I would still advice to give people a way to express their wishes and discontent. As you said, you are not only building a larger and more stable society than shinobi are used to, but also trying to make former enemies get along. That will be difficult, because old grudges will eventually rise up. Even the most impartial ruler might bring these attitudes to the job unconsciously and alienate those people."
"That's true, we really can't isolate any clan from having political sway. I've been thinking..."
Madara tuned Hashirama out and prayed for another nice bandit attack to end his misery.
During the rest of trip through patches of forests and meadows, Hashirama and Satoshi continued to get along marvellously and Madara swiftly ended up hating the guts of the military commander by the virtue of the man's corpse-like demeanour and grating verbal tic.
The thing was, Hashirama was generally able to befriend a rock and Madara was on fully familiar ground with unreasonable dislike. Thus, both had made the mistake of thinking they now knew where they stood.
When they reached the outermost stone sentinels of Samsara territory, it turned out that their hosts had secured their entire compound with the most complex and alien seal array Hashirama and Madara had ever seen. To gain access to the village without frying their chakra coils, both had to shake hands with and provide a chakra sample to a 'virtual projection'. The entity was in the shape of a blue, transparent woman and spoke in an odd dialect that would have been polite if not for the lack of any life in her voice.
When enquired about it, Satoshi shrugged and said that the original seal master had had an odd sense of humour (which, of course, explained precisely nothing). Hashirama and Madara shared an uneasy look, hands still tingling from the contact with ethereal blue.
Then there was the cold hard fact that both of them were wholly unable to read the name inscribed over the ornate entrance gate of the village.
What it said was: प्रेतानां ग्रामम्
Satoshi smiled at their confusion and translated without prompting, explaining that the writing meant Pretānāṃ Grāmam, or "the village of Preta" (which implied that the Samsara had a whole second language besides their own, as unbelievable as the idea seemed). 'Sanskrit', Satoshi said, confirming the thought, and left it at that.
Sadly, they were both still unaware that it would only escalate from there.
(What Satoshi failed to explain was that the word 'Preta' translated into '餓鬼', or 'Gaki' in Japanese, effectively naming the Samsara village after the realm of hungry ghosts where lost souls wander and suffer of endless hunger they cannot seem to sate. This name had, naturally, been chosen entirely on purpose once upon a time.)
As could have been expected, the whole of the village was a far cry from the stark military compounds Hashirama and Madara were familiar with.
Preta was situated in a sizable notch beyond the forest and before the mountain truly began to climb. A small river ran through it, and well maintained roads lead away from the village. There were small houses built of wood and paper, which would not have looked out of place at any reasonably wealthy civilian village. The streets were paved with stones and had carved rain gutters on each side. There were plants everywhere, neat grass and cherry trees and gardens full of flowers.
On the weird and unusual side, however, here and there were also large buildings made of stone and metal and glass. They also had peculiar decorations which often clashed magnificently with each other. One had white stone and gilded ornaments, one had been built with large stained-glass windows and high arches, one had colourful tile mosaics and bulbous shiny domes. Here and there, half embedded in the ground, ran glass tubes that glowed a bright poisonous green. For whatever reason crows were everywhere in large numbers, landing and taking off, chattering and dotting the skies as tiny flecks of black.
And yet, it was still the people that managed to be the most shocking. Madara and Hashirama stood on the edge of what seemed to be the centre of the village, a plaza paved with white rock that had veins of gold and shone like a mirror.
"Like colourful birds," Madara said quietly. Somehow, Satoshi's bright presence had not prepared him for this. (And Madara already felt his dread for this meeting worsen in anticipation, if that man and his optimism were the norm and not an anomaly. A whole clan of Hashiramas. Maybe he could still escape.)
The actual Hashirama was fascinated. The scene in front of them seemed as if from a dream. Everywhere were people in brightly coloured robes that were carelessly draped around the body and revealed quite a bit of skin. The green was that of new leaves, the yellow a shade of dandelion and the blue of the vivid summer skies. There was plum violet, blood red and orange of exotic fruits, all of them embroided in silver and gold and gems. There was also jewelry of all kinds, often large and ornate, made of silver and pearls or gold and bright stones, and glittering in the light of the lanterns that shone against the evening sky.
The music flowed like fine vine in the warmth of late summer night, a mixture of rhythmic drums, leisurely trills of some kind of string instruments that looked like large misshapen shamisen, and deep moans of a long curved tube one particularly passionate man played as if it was his lover. There was laughter and song, the words alien and lilting to his ears. People were dancing with the kind of wild abandon Hashirama had not seen outside the context of desperation and blood - moving seamlessly, drifting together and away, robes fluttering and billowing in a sea of fabric. Jewelry glittered like sunlight on water.
Hashirama couldn't help but wish, for the briefest seconds, that he could join these people as one of them. He loved his own kin and would never abandon them, but... the attraction was there. He was used to sparse joys and heavy loss.
He looked down and saw a group of kids dancing to the tune, trying to mimic the adults, giggling and tripping over their feet, clumsy and uncoordinated and clearly having the time of their lives. Hashirama smiled fondly. He had seen happy children before, of course, and mourned in advance at how their cheer and lives would be cut too short. It would be worth it, blood, sweat and tears, if he could protect the children of the world and make sure they were as safe as the children here. Hesitantly, he waved at a little girl who had noticed his gaze and was staring at him curiously.
Big mistake. Apparently, that friendly gesture meant he had been re-classified from 'scary outsider' to 'new toy'. In seconds, he was swarmed. Hashirama waved his arms frantically, trying to get the attention of either Satoshi or the military commander for backup, but both were still out of earshot and preoccupied with something or other (and Madara was no help, outright laughing at Hashirama from a safe distance, the traitor).
Hashirama swallowed and tried to gently shoo the children away instead. He was met with no success. They all chattered questions he couldn't make out (though thankfully they spoke his language at least) and squabbled to get a hold of his bare hands, apparently fascinated with his chakra. He was glad that the children weren't afraid, but surely they should show a little more apprehension towards unknown adults?
"Now, children, do leave Hashirama-san alone. I'm sure he will be willing to entertain you later," said the voice of a woman. The horde complained loudly, but detached from Hashirama and flocked away. (And briefly, Hashirama thought that there was something odd about their mannerisms, something impish and knowing and all too mature. But surely that was his imagination.)
Relieved, Hashirama looked up to his saviour.
His first impression was 'implacable'. The woman wore teal robes and an expression of neutral interest, her eyes piercing as if she was trying to drill a hole in his head. Her eyebrows are impressive, was the final errant thought that drifted by before Hashirama gave her a friendly smile and waved in a greeting. He'd seen far worse looks directed at him by people who were far scarier, everything from utter loathing to doubting his sanity (the latter increasingly popular ever since he began to approach clans with his outlandish dream).
Satoshi grinned at Hashirama from her side, looking rather embarrassed. "Sorry about that. We have never had visitors here, so they can be a bit rambunctious and curious."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm happy they seemed to like me" Hashirama said and laughed. Satoshi's presence truly set him at ease. (And maybe something like this was what others saw in himself?)
"I'm glad. Now, let me introduce you," Satoshi continued. "This is miss Karma. She will be guiding you around the festival. Unfortunately something came up, and my presence is needed elsewhere."
"Ah. Pleased to meet you," Hashirama said warmly and, after a moment of contemplation, offered Karma his hand. Inwardly, he patted himself in the back when she took it and the ice melted from her eyes.
"Likewise," she replied and smiled.
For the next half an hour, she escorted Hashirama and Madara around the festival. While she was unfailingly polite and courteous, Hashirama didn't quite know what to make of her tendency to explain some of the oddities around as someone else's odd sense of humour (how many inside jokes could one clan have?)
Then again, he was starting to feel that the Samsara were almost as if from another world altogether. When miss Karma directed them to the drink table, the table held a colourful array of different drinks, bowls of ice cubes and different fruit and berries. It was a far cry from plain sake, and Hashirama was torn between asking for something he was familiar with and trying out something new to seem polite and interested.
The latter option won, and he felt like he'd managed to pick the right step while blindfolded when miss Karma smiled at his request for a drink she'd recommend, rubbed at her jaw pensively and gave both of them glasses of something that was light yellow and called 'Piña Colada'.
Hashirama had never quite tasted anything like it - the flavours of coconut and pineapple were foreign and exotic - but thought he could grow to like it. Even Madara downed the entire thing, even as he complained about the sweetness of it.
Hashirama was slowly starting to feel good about this. Satoshi and he had a good rapport, and Karma seemed like a reasonable person, if a bit chilly.
In the end, the Samsara really were people, too.
Soon, the music changed and Madara could tell that the language of the song was a new one, yet again.
To his outsider ears, it sounded languid and rough, fluid and musical in a way their own words never quite managed; like faraway lands where the sun was harsh, the moon large and the night mild and pleasant. Beyond the taps of the drums and the bright melody, something resonated so deep he could physically feel it. While not unpleasant by itself, sharp and honed ninja instincts did not particularly like feeling anything foreign.
However, that wasn't what bothered him. Until then, Madara hadn't really noticed just how much skin was on display, distracted by the culture shock. But now, all the bright, colourful clothes suddenly seemed indecent rather than just exotic, the dance clearly meant to bring out the decadence. Where the mood of the song was just as cheery as the previous one, this one was also considerably more sultry.
The woman, Karma, smiled at them, her face mostly unreadable. (Madara didn't think much of her, really, but at least she'd proven to be the least annoying person around here.)
"Oh, I love salsa. Would you care to dance?" she asked, and offered her hand to Hashirama, who flailed in panic for a few seconds, but did take it.
"Ah, um, Karma-san, I don't know how..." he laughed nervously, looking at her as though imploring she'd let him off the hook.
"We don't expect you to," she replied, looking rather amused at Hashirama's silent plea. "Just don't let me drop. We'll have fun, I promise."
Somewhere along the line her voice had gained a heated, sultry rasp. With a confident smile she swung her hips, precisely timed with the beat of the rhythm. The chain draped around her waist tinkled, the hanging gemstones and silver droplets swinging with the motion. Hashirama gulped and Madara stiffened in unease, back rigid as a rod of metal.
The woman had the audacity to snicker at their reactions, and pulled a very nervous Hashirama on the dance floor before either man recovered properly. She took his hand and pressed it against her waist, then said something to him in a low voice. Hashirama took a look around and moved, obviously seeking cues from the people around him.
Madara almost scoffed, leaning against a stone fence with his arms crossed and eyebrow raised. This ought to be good. He could have, in theory, danced better than any of these people if he wanted to, copying the movements and perfecting them. Hashirama would just make a fool of himself.
Some instrument he didn't recognise - shaped like a widening tube - blew out a joyous, bright note and the world bled into dance. The woman pulled Hashirama along with the dance steps, her every stride bold and provocative. She was like grass in wind or a slender willow, moving perfectly in tune with the music, a stark contrast to the stiff and nervous Hashirama.
It should have been hilarious, but the longer Madara watched, the more his anger boiled. It wasn't about Hashirama being a fool, either.
He had never seen a woman move like that; the blatant promise of it, of passionate nights and breathless moans and skin salty with sweat. And yet, it was a tease - a hint of things she had no intention on following through, giving them a peek and denying the rest. He could see that in the glint of her dark eyes and subtle grin as she pressed close to Hashirama.
And something about that made her dancing all that more alluring, that hint of debauchery, the purpose of it. Ire pulsed in Madara's blood, along with the rhythm of the music.
He didn't particularly want the fruit she carelessly dangled in front him, mind. If he wanted to have a woman, he had plenty to choose from. It was merely the principle of things. This kind of thing wasn't done in public.
And Hashirama had gotten caught in it all, the eternal fool that he was. His face was still redder than a tomato and back as stiff as a board, but he kept trying his best to imitate the men around him, pulling her close and holding her waist, moving through the rainbow of fluttering cloth. Madara thought he looked ridiculous. What was he doing, trying to please that woman, these people, by dancing like that when he was married?
As if sensing Madara's gaze, the woman turned to him and smiled, dark eyes inviting and amused, half lidded and sultry.
Madara gritted his teeth and finally turned his eyes away. It accomplished exactly nothing; every woman here seemed to be as shameless as their minder. He could only see swishing skirts, swaying hips and lovely skin that glowed bronze under the lanterns. Did none of them see the need to wear clothes that would actually cover their skin? Pretty, smooth legs and toned bellies were not supposed to be on such display.
He was angry enough that his entire body seemed to be heating up, his clothes itchy and annoying on his skin and his pulse loud in his ears. He was going to outlaw skimpy skirts the moment they returned to Konoha.
A woman with auburn curls winked at him, lifting her knee high enough for her dress to slip and reveal a slim thigh. Madara choked, coughed and turned on the spot, ears boiling, all but fleeing from the dance floor. He heard her low-pitched laughter follow him, smoky and seductive and altogether indecent. A shiver went down his back.
He needed a break from these people.
Having managed to dodge around the crowd and cooled off a little, Madara retreated to the table that served food instead of fruity concoctions and spent several confused minutes trying to find a dish he could recognise. Met with failure, he hesitantly decided to try out the relatively harmless-looking serving of some sort of sea-food he thought was called 'prawn', in clear yellow liquid dotted with red and green.
He instantly regretted his decision when the broth made a credible attempt to burn a hole through his tongue. It wasn't physical heat; something in the food simply sizzled worse than a badly executed fireball technique.
He coughed, eyes watering, and reached for a can of what looked like lemon juice, swatting aside a hand that tried to stop him. That was his second mistake.
Madara's face felt like an oven, but that was nothing compared to the field of lava that was his tongue. He let out a tiny wheeze, sweat gathering on his skin. The drink had not helped, but instead made the pain infinitely worse.
A hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality, and he turned his watery eyes to the shameless woman who was the main cause of his current misery, if only indirectly. She had a vaguely concerned look on her face and was offering him bread.
He made no move to take the piece. She sighed, just a little, and he jerked away from her hand.
"Bread helps with the spice," she explained patiently, gesturing at the searing dish. "You had bad luck choosing the sour lemonade for a drink. The acid in it reacts poorly with capsaicin, which creates the burning sensation."
Madara scowled and hesitated, but managed to wrestle down his pride and took the piece of bread. Inwardly, he was glad when she looked away; accepting someone else's advice had always been hard for him.
Following her gaze, he spotted Hashirama on the other edge of the table, some twelve feet away. He was eating what looked like yellow rice with pieces of seafood in it, and appeared to have discovered nirvana.
Madara felt a very childish bout of anger, then squashed it. Why was he the only one who stumbled into metaphorical mine traps around here?
"It seems they have shifted from salsa to samba," the woman said in a pleasant sort of voice, shifting the topic, and pointed her thumb in the direction of the dance floor. "Would you like to dance?"
"No," Madara almost sneered, then belatedly realised he wasn't supposed to be rude. "I'd rather eat something that can't be qualified as an assassination attempt. It's been a long day."
The woman gave him a placid smile. "Understandable. I would recommend what Hashirama-san is having. For most people, paella isn't an acquired taste."
Madara nodded stiffly and strode towards Hashirama, not caring if she followed. For that reason, he also failed to notice the slight crease in between her eyebrows or the heavy, concerned look she shared with Satoshi, who had followed the events from the side-lines.
When the moon rose high, the celebrations were cut short and a large portion of the people went to the forest. Karma invited both of their guests along, and warned not to harm the trees, as they were considered holy.
By then, Madara had regained his composure. "Want to bet this whole thing is another inside joke?" he asked Hashirama, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm sure it isn't," Hashirama replied with what he hoped was a soothing tone. (It ought to, he'd had practise.) "There's something odd about these trees, I can feel it. It's definitely a holy forest for a reason. I think I will ask."
Hashirama ignored Madara's scoff and tapped at the shoulder of their guide. "Excuse me, Karma-san? I - We are honoured to be invited to your sacred forest, but might I ask what this is all about? The celebrations were interrupted rather suddenly..."
Karma's eyes widened slightly and she pressed a hand against her cheek in realisation. "Oh, that's right. You wouldn't know what festival this is. My apologies."
Hashirama blinked. "Isn't this Obon?"
Karma smiled that disturbingly placid, polite smile again. The expression sort of looked like there was something sharp under it all, so Hashirama was starting to suspect it meant she was pulling one on him.
"Yes," she replied. "But this is also a funeral."
What?
Hashirama floundered for a moment, thrown off balance. A funeral with lively dancing and people sneaking away to make out? "Oh, I... I see, I'm, well, terribly sorry for the loss. I hope we haven't done anything disrespectful..."
"Never you worry," said the mellow, croaking voice of the old man who'd been walking next to them the entire way, swarmed by a large batch of his grandchildren. "It is our way to celebrate in this manner. I have it on good authority that the person of the day would only be happy to see youngsters enjoying their time."
Hashirama relaxed marginally. "That's good to hear. Might I ask then, whose passing are we... celebrating?"
The old man smiled a toothless smile. "Oh, it's mine."
There was a long pause as the words sunk in. Hashirama paled, while Madara did a double-take, his long hair flying across his face. Hashirama opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again, unable to find the words.
"We consider dying in our sleep a terrible fate," Karma cut in pleasantly. "Almost all of us are escorted to the next life in these ceremonies. You are the first outsiders invited to attend."
"...I am honoured," Hashirama replied feebly.
(What was he supposed to say to the old man now? 'Congratulations on the nice funeral party'? 'Have a nice death'?)
Hashirama and Madara were standing to the edge of the group of people, watching at the proceedings with stiff postures and unreadable faces, feeling more like outsiders than ever. They were in the thick of the forest now, the only opening reserved for the ceremony, so Madara had ended up half pressed against a tree trunk in order to keep a distance from the people around him.
Some of them carried elaborate lanterns, which were the only light in the pitch black of the forest. Madara could see that several children had climbed the trees around them, sitting on the branches and all around behaving like little brats. The adults at least seemed to pay a little more respect, hands pressed together in prayer.
In the small clearing, Satoshi was holding the shoulders of the old man, who had finished his final goodbyes and was now smiling that same damn serene smile.
"How is he so happy about it?" Madara asked, frowning. Granted, the man had obviously lead a long, fulfilling life, but who smiled in face of their demise?
"There is no reason to despair death," replied the voice of the woman, serene and firm. She sounded as though this was something she believed so deeply it was as much a part of her as her bones and blood.
Feeling a spark of irritation, Madara glanced at her and caught a brief impression of black hair and pale skin in moonlight before he turned away. From the start he'd thought her dull and uninteresting, and didn't now think otherwise, but...
But he couldn't seem to shake off her words.
What did she know of death and loss? The Samsara were already free of war.
And yet, he still couldn't dismiss the faint inkling that there was experience behind her conviction.
Madara sneered, his expression hidden in the shadows of the forest and forcefully pushed all thoughts of her in the back of his mind. He turned back to the ceremony where Satoshi had begun to speak, in a foreign language, what sounded like some sort of a prayer or a sutra. He went on and on, stringing the words together seamlessly. Madara couldn't understand, but it sounded almost like a poem.
"...Assalaamu 'alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah," Satoshi eventually finished, made three hands seals (bird-snake-boar) and his palms glowed green. Madara watched with an almost sick sense of fascination as Satoshi placed his hands on the old man's forehead and neck. Their chakra glowed green and looked like a river of the underworld, flowing from the old man and into Satoshi. The whole scene seemed like something straight out of an old folk story, morbid and ghastly.
Much like a doused fire, the glow eventually vaned and Satoshi stepped back.
The corpse of the old man did not collapse on the ground, as Madara had expected. What did happen was that his gnarly wrinkled skin grew rough, coarse, and grew into true wood. Before his eyes, the corpse became a living tree, the shape of it bearing resemblance to the withered, bent frame of the old man.
There was a moment of stunned silence, as Madara and Hashirama processed what they had just witnessed.
"Then," Hashirama whispered, "Does this mean all of these trees..."
Madara did not yelp, but did leap away from the tree trunk as if it burned.
Later that night in the clan head's house, two figures spoke in hushed tones of Sanskrit, their faces lit by flickering candle light that drew sharp, dark shadows in the room.
"It seems you were correct in your assessment of both of them. However, he has not fallen beyond saving, not yet. We cannot decide that his fate is fixed, it is not our way. And I will not risk the negotiations based on this."
"Yes. I could see that, too. Standoffish and brusque do not insanity make. But I don't think we can afford to leave the issue as is, either. It is the fate of our world."
"I agree. The best option would be to find an excuse to remain in close contact and observe how things develop. Perhaps an opportunity will present itself."
The next morning, after a curious breakfast of fruits, yoghurt and baked pastries, Hashirama and Madara were once again escorted around the village by miss Karma. The meeting to hash out the details of the peace treaty was to begin around noon, and Satoshi had suggested that they might want to stretch their legs a little before that, his tone giving off the impression that the talks would not be fast or painless.
In bright sunlight, both the festivity and the creepiness of the previous night seemed to vanish and leave behind a normal, bustling village. Hashirama whistled in appreciation as they neared a particularly impressive building, the one with white stone, high pillars and gilded, ornate carvings.
"What is this used for? For the senate meetings?" Hashirama asked.
"Ah, no," Karma said, smiling far more sincerely than the night before. Hashirama was glad - it seemed they had passed the test.
(In a way, it was a relief that they had been put through all that. Their hosts really were also human, after all, and not entirely comfortable with new people.)
"This is a library," Karma continued. There was a touch of pride in her voice now.
"A library?" Hashirama asked, feeling like an excited child. Next to him, Madara also looked reluctantly impressed. Nothing was quite as important as information, but records were dangerous to keep and difficult to get. To think that this whole building was dedicated to such things was hard to wrap his mind around
"Yes. The 'Library of Alexandria'. Come, I'll take you to see the inside."
They entered through great metal doors that were twice the height of a man. The inside was paved with black mirror-like rock. Pale grey light entered the room through round windows high up near the ceiling. The available space was filled by endless rows of bookshelves, stacked with books and scrolls. The air in the room was hushed and musty, and any noise seemed disproportionately loud and forbidden. Flecks of dust danced in the wan light.
"These are the life records," miss Karma said in a silent voice that wasn't quite a whisper. "Technical scripts are back there in their own room, fiction and legends are to the left and empirical sciences to the right. That includes our research into politics and governing, but also chemistry, physics and history, things like that. There are other records elsewhere, but those are classified to the end of beyond."
She turned to look at Hashirama and Madara, looking apologetic. "Unfortunately, I can't let you read any of these. Not even the plumbing manuals."
Hashirama's face fell and he made a little wistful reach towards the shelves with his hand. "B-but..."
Karma's lips twitched in a smile, her eyes warming up. "...Well, maybe if we manage to work out a trade, we could write down edited versions for you. But you should ask Satoshi, I can't promise you that much."
Hashirama's mood went through an instant 180° turn, and he beamed with the intensity of the sun. "Really? You are a great person, Karma-san!"
"...Ah, thank you?" Karma said, lifting her hands in front of her chest in slight alarm.
They were a few blocks away from the library when they were interrupted by a voice.
"Oi, Karma. I need to talk to you."
Hashirama and Madara turned and saw a teenage boy of fifteen or so years. He had black hair, sunken yellow eyes and a distrustful look on his face, left eyebrow raised and lips twisted in a frown.
"Hello, Sousuke," said Karma, her face so mild it almost looked like she might have been paralysed. Sousuke nodded at her, the movement jerky and awkward, and glanced at Hashirama and Madara from the corner of his eye. Karma followed his gaze and nodded.
"This is my, well, adoptive brother," she introduced. "My mother took him in after we brought him back from the Sonzaina compound."
"Sonzaina? Then..." Hashirama said, his voice astonished. He turned the entirety of his attention to Sousuke, who looked a little alarmed at the development.
"The... the clan does not kill children," said Sousuke, his voice terse and clipped, arms folded defensively. "We surviving kids were taken in."
"You're living with the people who killed your family?" asked Madara incredulously.
Sousuke folded further into himself, shoulders hunched defensively and anger flashing in his eyes. "You don't know anything."
He turned back to Karma, giving a cold shoulder to their guests. "Mother said to tell you that her peach jam is ready and that you should come and pick up your share."
Karma nodded in response and he left in a jog, throwing one last distrustful look at Madara.
Hashirama stared after his retreating figure and turned back to Karma, an uneasy curiosity swirling inside of him. Frankly, he had wanted to ask about the Sonzaina earlier, but how did one bring something like that up in the middle of fragile peace negotiations? ('So yeah, about those people you murdered ten years ago...'?) This was the best opening he could have hoped for.
"Can you tell me about that incident? There was a rumour you took them out because you thought their blood limit a threat, and some say it's because they attacked you... I understand if it's classified, but... "
Karma smiled sadly, spreading her arms gently in an understanding gesture. "But there is a difference, isn't there? There are some things that aren't secret, so I'll tell you as much. We decimated the Sonzaina because they tried to kidnap one of us. It was meant to be a scare, to show the world what we can do. But one of our most important rules forbids the killing of children, so we took responsibility of them instead."
Hashirama let out a breath of relief. "Oh, I see. That, that's good. Very good. I mean, not the killing, but... Say, is that why you have such a variable culture? Do you often adopt people into the clan?"
"Yes, that is certainly one reason. We do not go eradicating clans all the time, mind," Karma said, the corner of her lip twitching in a smile. "But we do take children in, and occasionally older people. It does explain the way we do things, doesn't it?"
The peace negotiations took place in the building with bulbous roof. If they'd thought that one magnificent from the outside, it had nothing on the breath-taking colourful mosaics that adorned the floors and walls of the place.
Even as Hashirama had expected as much, the debate seemed to go on forever. At least the Samsara senate (men and women, old and young, all wearing white robes that were draped over the shoulder and around waist) had apparently decided that peace was going to happen, but they and Hashirama had conflicting goals about the exact terms and how far the agreement would go. The Samsara wanted no ties beyond a non-aggression treaty, Hashirama wanted allies.
One woman with impressive girth and faint bristles of whiskers seemed to take particular offence at the idea of helping out Konoha shinobi in need, and there was a brief, noisy debate over the issue that eventually escalated into a passionate shouting match. Hashirama wasn't sure if he was happy or not that they switched to talking in what he thought was Sanskrit, because it meant that he and Madara were left outside and feeling uncomfortable. Satoshi saved the situation by declaring lunchtime, and for whatever reason the talks resumed after the break as if nothing had happened.
(To Hashirama's considerable relief, everyone seemed to agree by default that no one in the clan wanted to move to Konoha. That one could have become a big mess if the Samsara had decided to take offence at not being included.)
Eventually, a tentative conclusion was reached and a middle road found. On top of agreeing to never threaten Konoha, the Samsara also conceded to let Konoha ninja pass through their territory without intervening and to lend aid in emergencies. However, they adamantly insisted on staying neutral when it came to conflicts between Konoha and a third party.
(Hashirama understood, even as he didn't like it. In the end, Samsara abilities really didn't suit fighting a battle where they weren't allowed to wipe everyone out.)
At least, all of that had been written on paper. A true alliance was as much unwritten agreement, and that would take time to develop. But it was a start.
Satoshi politely herded Hashirama and Madara out of the room by indicating that there were other things to decide and discuss. Behind him, people were already talking in Sanskrit and another shouting match seemed to be brewing, so both visitors left in a hurry.
Once they were back in their guest rooms, both all but deflated in fatigue.
While Hashirama went to the toilet, Madara dropped on the sofa and rubbed at his temples. There were two other seats near his, forming a loose triangle around a small table that held a bowl of fresh fruit.
Being firmly aware he could not match Hashirama in charisma, Madara hadn't talked much - merely tipped in every now and then to try ground Hashirama's firm idealism - but politics always drained him. He was much more used to dealing with problems by using copious amounts of fire.
Hashirama turned on the tap and watched in fascination as water ran across his hands and down the sink. There was another mosaic on the walls of it, swirls of blue and teal. Plumbing and running water were currently a luxury reserved for the nobility, as it would have been foolish to invest in something that required stability when the times were so violent. Maybe he'd ask Satoshi where they had gotten their own system. Karma had mentioned 'plumbing manuals' - did that mean they had built their own, or that they did their own repairs?
"It's odd," Hashirama said. "Of all the cantankerous old men and women who we generally have to deal with in these talks, these were probably the least obnoxious. I don't think a single one of them went with the annoying 'it's tradition' route. Or, at least, they only said that the time when we talked about how fast change would happen."
Madara snorted and popped a grape in his mouth. "Odd? I wouldn't think so. The Samsara in general are 'odd'. If their elders were just like ours, now, that would surprise me."
"Good point. Still, this went well. And I think we can trust them to uphold their end," Hashirama said and walked back to the main room, claiming the second sofa for himself. He might have continued from there, but the sound of a sliding door interrupted him.
"I'm glad to hear that," Satoshi said as he sat down on the last sofa.
"The senate has come to a decision. We have decided to trust you with certain classified matters, as a show of good will," he said with an uncharacteristically severe look. "You would have noticed that we did, ah, 'test' you yesterday? To see how you reacted in an unexpected situation, to see some of your true character... Please understand, we have been isolated for so long - "
"I had expected as much, even if your methods were a bit startling," Hashirama interjected with a smile. "You wouldn't believe the ringer I was put through by the Nara. And we were also able to enjoy your fine hospitality, so that's a plus."
Satoshi smiled again, looking slightly more light-hearted. "Good to hear. What you said just now is actually related to what we debated. Come with me, please."
Hashirama and Madara glanced at each other, and followed Satoshi without a word. They were lead past the central plaza to one of the roads that left the village. Soon enough, they reached a small port built on a part of the river where waters ran slow and deep, resembling a pool rather than running water. There were several buildings linked together on both sides, people leaving and entering with baskets and crates, everyone carrying an air of efficiency.
Satoshi entered the largest one, waving at his guests to follow.
Entering the room, Hashirama inhaled sharply. Madara's eyes widened. They were in a storage facility, lit by what looked like multifaceted glowing jewels. On the shelves were stacks and stacks of fine fabrics in all colours; silk, brocade and cotton; which seemed like they might fall over from the sheer height of the piles. Roughly in the middle, bottles were stacked in neat rows or stored in special shelves that looked like wooden lattice. On the space still left were spices of all kinds; black pepper, nutmeg and cinnamon amongst others; most of them in neat boxes with carefully written labels, some of them still hanging from the roof in bundles.
"We sell other things too," Satoshi said quietly, "But these and certain technologies are where most of our money comes from. Those cocktails you drank last night, we brew the alcohol. The clothes you saw; the fabrics were woven, embroided, coloured and sewn by us. Spices, too, grown in our fields or the mountains, in the greenhouses that allow us to emulate the warmth and moisture of the south."
He turned to face Hashirama and Madara.
"We are, in fact, exceedingly wealthy. It is not something we like to flaunt. If people knew of our money, well, they still wouldn't be able to threaten us, but we could no longer have peace in our little corner of the world. So, we trade in secret, under an alias," Satoshi said and pointed at the symbol painted on one of the crates. It was a complicated, angular sort of a knot without an end; the symbol of eternal karma. Underneath that were written the kanji for 'silk road'.
"...So that is the reason you kill the way you do? To create enough fear that people stay away?" Madara said abruptly, eyes sharpening in realisation.
Satoshi coughed, as if embarrassed. "...Yes. It has been that way for as long as we can remember. However, we have now agreed to refrain from threatening Konoha in any way, and to support your people when they travel through this region. This knowledge, this trust, are what we offer to you; the first time we have done such a thing in the long history of our clan."
Hashirama understood what lay between the lines. This was a heavy offer, the kind that could result in a loss of all friendly relations if handled poorly. It was also an apology, for the test they had been put through. Now, for the first time, he and Satoshi were meeting on truly equal ground.
The two men looked each other in the eyes, seeing hidden depths neither would ever know, secrets and lies that could not be breached. But there was enough trust, and enough truth; for both an alliance and a friendship.
"I believe I understand," Hashirama said, smiling gently. "And I would accept. There is also something I would ask of you. When we visited your fine library, Karma-san said that we wouldn't be able to read your records but suggested that to trade certain information might be possible. I do not mean anything truly secret, but I dearly want to study some of your research into political theory, as an example."
Satoshi inclined his head pensively.
"Your idea has merit; I don't see why we couldn't hash out something. The only problem is, that kind of thing takes time and planning. As of now, you don't know what we have, and we don't know what you want. I'm also sure you will need to return to your village, soon, and I cannot leave so easily," Satoshi said and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Then, his face brightened and he looked back at Hashirama.
"However, I might be willing to let one of my people to go with you. They could mediate the trade contracts and send us a list of what information you would like to be transcribed. Normally, this sort of thing isn't done, you understand, but you have proven to be quite reliable."
"Oh, that sounds like an idea that could work," Hashirama said, eyes brightening. "Have you someone in mind?"
"I believe I would choose miss Karma," Satoshi said with a tranquil smile, eyes squinted as if he were a cat. "She is level headed and reasonably agreeable in personality. I also trust in her ability to make decisions for the rest of us. Our future is in good hands with her."
Author's notes: I don't believe in stereotypes, but Italian culture does include heavy emphasis on body language and hand gestures, so even Karma would have picked up the bare bones of it. I'll make sure to include more of that in the future, as Hashirama and Madara are more likely to notice such a thing than her clan who all are used to having different people.
Madara is perfectly reasonable in feeling uneasy at the beginning, I think. The two of them going to the Samsara, alone, is rather heavily based on threat of mutual destruction. Think cold war. It's only Madara's repeated complaining that makes it seem petulant to Hashirama.
That hand shake was not part of any test of their character, by the way. It honestly was Satoshi's mistake.
If there is anyone reading this who can read Sanskrit, I apologise for the very likely mauling I have done when writing the village name.
For all Madara kept inwardly complaining at how shameless the women of Samsara were, well. He still looked, didn't he? I had a lot of fun with that. The reason Dakini first winked at him and then laughed was because she thought he was hilarious standing there and looking like an old lady clutching at her pearls.
When there are trees, kids will climb them. Even if it's grandma.
And yep, the Samsara are filthy rich. I wonder if people picked up on that? They don't really do missions for clients, so they have to get their money elsewhere. They would be self-sufficient if they lived modestly, but instead of that they throw money into parties and buying exotic things.
For all Satoshi is a very nice person, there's a reason he is the clan head. He's very good at the whole politics and misdirection thing when he needs to. As of now, Karma will be visiting Konoha. Doesn't mean I'm never going to bring the rest of her clan up again, I like them too much for that.