A belated marry Christmas to everyone! Thank you so much for your support so far. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well and have a good start of the new year. :)
七
For a second, everything hangs in the air. Then he loses it. The growl that comes out of his body shocks even him, but there's no time to be surprised. He gets past Touka in a heartbeat and jumps. Finally, finally his claws sink into flesh and the taste of blood spreads through his mouth. It tastes the same as the Senju's blood did, but at the same time not the same, not the same, because the Senju took care of him while this woman cursed him, and the blood he spills now has the taste of satisfaction.
Voices speak up. He doesn't pay attention to them. What matters are the hands that try to close around him and the skin he wants to destroy, so she'd know the same pain as him.
(And yet she wouldn't—no one can feel so much pain—to have lost everything, to be tortured by a voice in his head that tells him to maim and to kill, and he does, he does because the dull pain in his insides retreats at least some when he fights for his life).
A hand catches him by the scruff, and he comes face to face with Nekobaa. Squirming doesn't help him, so he tries hissing and clawing at the air. She only looks at him, though, and blinks very slowly, then does it again.
Madara feels the fight leaving his body. His mind is screaming that this is wrong, that he should be trying to cause as much harm as he can, yet his body is beginning to relax, convinced somehow, that she isn't going to hurt him, and he finds himself blinking back.
Damn. Cat instincts messing with his brain again. He doesn't want to calm down, but a part of him seems to believe that the woman present no threat.
Ridiculous, after what she's done. On the other hand, perhaps she's done all she wanted. If so, why is she here?
"Apologies," the Senju says. "He has a bit of a temper. A special cat, this one. I'm quite sure, however, there is no cat you couldn't handle."
Nekobaa inclines her head towards the Senju. One of her hands comes to rest under Madara, supporting his hind paws and some of his weight.
"Quite right," she says.
"You must excuse me." Tension shows in the angle of Senju's shoulders and the frown on his face. Madara's tail twitches one way, then the other. "I need to talk to Touka in private. It will only take a few minutes."
"Think nothing of it," Nekobaa says. But he should, he really should because it seems he intends to leave Madara with her, and that won't do at all. He meows as loud as he can. A familiar hand comes to rest on his head.
"Be good, cat. I'll come get you. Nekobaa-sama, if you could keep an eye on him for a bit?"
"Go," she says. Madara huffs. What is it with her agreeing and going along with everything the Senju says? She had no qualms about disagreeing with him, Madara, in Sora Ku. What's more, she tricked him, turned him into a cat, and the Senju should watch his back, really, before something happens to him.
Of course the idiot can't hear Madara's thoughts. Instead, he jerks his head down in lieu of a nod, turns and disappears down the corridor with Touka in tow. Madara sighs—it sounds strange, coming from this body. He waits for Nekobaa to do something, to say something, but she doesn't. She keeps holding him in silence, so he settles for watching the door.
As promised, the Senju returns. His lips are pressed together tightly enough to turn even paler than usually, and his eyes are narrowed in a way Madara has come to associate with thinking. He takes Madara again and places him in the crook of his elboew. It was about time. Madara's tail twitches as he climbs up to the Senju's shoulder to wrap his body around the man's neck. Strands of silvery white hair tickle his nose, and he sneezes. The sound is unbearably cute. He would really appreciate the earth opening and swallowing him up.
Without much talking, they reach the guest rooms near the hokage tower. The Senju stops in front of Mito's room, arches an eyebrow when she doesn't move. It gets him a firm stare in return. Stubborn, the Uzumaki woman. Hashirama's perfect match, it seems; gods know that idiot needs someone to knock some sense into him. Perhaps then he would actually lead the village properly instead of throwing smiles and dreams left and right and leaving his brother to do the paperwork and clean up messes after him, and Madara to—well. Hashirama never let him to do anything after him, always wanting them to walk side by side even when Madara couldn't. Can't. The paths Hashirama walks are those of a visionary, an idealistic dreamer who pulls crowds to him and is surprised when they cheer as if he were entirely unaware of the magnetic power of his personality. Madara is no visionary. He wants and he fears, and those two had driven him in life until his fears came true and there was nothing to want anymore.
Except, of course, there is still something, there always is, and he still can't walk by Hashirama's side. He is shadows, and intimidation, and chaos, and he needs his own role in this show called Konoha. If the Senju can have one, can be where he's needed and useful, then by the gods, there must a place Madara can fill if only Hashirama would stop pushing him into a mould that no longer fits.
Fingers scratch him behind the ear, and he feels tension he wasn't even aware of leaving his body. A different room surrounds them, clean, minimalistic, with the scent of lotus flowers enriching the air. The wood doesn't creak underfoot yet; it is too new. No doubt Hashirama grew it. The Senju gestures at the table, the only piece of furniture aside the wardrobe that nearly blends in with the wall. Somebody has painted a koi pond onto another wall; the strokes are delicate and precise.
"Please," the Senju says and kneels. He only continues after the women joined him. "Have you come to Konoha because of the presence my brother wrote about?"
Nekobaa nods. "My cats told me of a dark presence lurking in the streets, moving as if looking for something. It is troublesome. I could barely feel it, and other people sense nothing at all. Not even Lord hokage could find it. A few days ago, the presence left Sora Ku."
A breath hitches in Madara's throat. A dark presence that shinobi can't sense. Was that what he noticed in Hiroki's home? Are the Uchihas in danger?
He has to do something.
"You've come here in pursuit," the Senju says.
"In search of the thing. From what ninja cats have told me, I came to the wrong place at the wrong time."
Her gaze lands on Madara. He glares, drawing his lips backwards. Air caresses his teeth.
"Do you have reason to believe the presence will return?"
"It might."
Silence reigns for a few moments, then the Senju speaks again. "That's not the only reason for you visit, is it?"
Nekobaa narrows her eyes. Mito look from the Senju to her and back again, and the Senju lifts his chin just the slightest.
"Cats can sense it," he goes on. "Uchihas are famous for their affinity for cats. Your allegiance is with the Uchiha clan, yet you come to me. Why?"
"Basic manners dictate I see the leader of the village."
Another silence follows. Madara can feel the tension in the air, the crackling electricity of two shinobi measuring each other up.
"You're a great liar," the Senju says, "particularly because you never actually lie."
Nekobaa laughs, and with it the tension breaks. "I've heard of the disarray within the Uchiha clan. I believe it unwise to turn to their elders when they are divided. They would either ignore me or try to win my favour and so the argument. I have no need of that. They need a strong leader, not an old woman."
Madara holds back a snort lest it come out as some humiliating sound. As if the woman has any right to conclude what his clan needs. She caused this mess in the first place.
"That presence and the Uchihas … They're connected. That's why you've come." He pauses. "What of Madara? He paid you a visit, didn't he?"
"He did."
"What did he want?"
Nekobaa rests her palms on her knees, and tension builds in Madara's body. If she tells the Senju …
"Nobody knows."
He can feel a change in the Senju's energy, a slight irritation. "Madara does, for one."
"No," the old woman says. Madara leans forward. What nonsense is this now? "I think not even he knows what he truly wants. I am hoping, of course, that he might learn in time."
The Senju doesn't reply. Somewhere in the distance, a door opens and closes. Breathing echoes in Madara's ear, and it takes a while before he realises it's his own.
Abruptly, the Senju stands up, causing Madara to sink his claws into fabric and skin as he struggles to regain balance.
"Apologies. I must go now. Nekobaa-sama, Mito-hime. I'm sorry to ask this of you, but—"
"We'll take care of Sparky," Mito says, and Madara doesn't like it one bit, doesn't like the "we", though if it's because it includes Nekobaa or because he probably needs to be alone with her if he has any hopes of becoming human again, he doesn't know.
"Thank you."
Then he's lifted up and put into gentle hands, but not a smooth as they seem—a kunoichi's hands, hardened by the handling of weapons. The scent of flowers that's always clinging to her grows stronger, still it remains pleasant even to his nose.
Mito places him in the crook of her elbow. Absolutely unacceptable. He starts wriggling to break free when a poof almost makes him jump.
He turns and barely catches a whiff of smoke in the air. The Senju is gone.
Strange. The flying thunder god is usually a completely silent technique.
"A corporeal clone," Nekobaa says slowly as if she has to consider each sound. "Impressive."
"He's an inventor, Hashirama tells me."
A pause. Madara manages to wriggle free and settles on the floor a few feet away. Inventor indeed. But the Senju is also a pathetic bureaucrat who hasn't done anything but work and teach in the last weeks, and at least to Madara's knowledge has no friends. Madara was more used to different younger brothers. Izuna was always spending time with this or that friend or talking about how little time training and fighting left for other things. In the earlier years, those things were usually treehouses and games. Later, they became girls. Madara was the one with no social life, the one who'd given up falconry years ago, who strove to stop the fighting so that Izuna could have his treehouse dreams.
"Nekobaa-sama? Excuse me, but …" Mito's teeth graze her lower lip. "Is Madara-sama… unstable?"
Tension grips his body and his throat closes up. He isn't, is he? Dissatisfied with everything, yes, haunted by Izuna's death, and plagued by voices in his head. (It doesn't matter if they've been quiet for a while. They come back, always.) And yet—he's seen mad, and it's definitely not him. Those shinobi, catatonic, muttering, seeing things—he's none of them. He is none of that, and for the woman to insinuate it …
Nekobaa inclines her head, and a strange strangled noise escapes Madara's throat. Tail twitching, he scans the room for a hiding place and finds none. He has to, though, he has to; his skin is itching and he wants to claw at it to get to that something lodged in his chest that threatens to suffocate him.
"Is that why Tobirama-dono dislikes him?"
No, no, it's Izuna, everything goes back to Izuna—
"Hashirama mentioned it," the Uzumaki woman adds quickly. "Tobirama-dono never …"
"Do not worry, my dear. I don't blame you trying to understand the dynamics in the town. After all, you are to be married to the hokage." Nekobaa's eyes find Madara, who hisses back. He's had enough of her and her tricks.
"I don't know them too well, so I can't say," she continues, and Madara wants to cover his ears, but he can't—he hates this body, the smallness, the weakness. "However, it might be simpler than you think. Madara is unpredictable. It's quite common for someone who promotes rules and order to fear chaos. After all, chaos is abundant in wars."
Mito doesn't respond at first. If she does so later, Madara can't tell—he curls up in a corner with his head hidden by his tail and paws. Growls come out of his throat and he can't hold them back, but they help him tune out the world, so he stops trying in the end.
火火火
Somewhere amid the noise is a voice. "Hush now," it says, and "calm down," and "I apologise." He curls up tighter and tries not to hear when she talks.
"It's for your own good," Nekobaa says, and "I did it to protect you," and all he can think about is that he wants people to finally stop telling him what's good for him, or what he wants, or what he should do. They've tried and failed, tried and failed again; nothing good has ever come out of it.
For his own good. Truly.
People have proven ignorant. Madara doesn't believe her.
"Listen to me." Firm, but the hands that touch him are soft. Instincts make him twitch away.
"Listen," she says, "listen." He keeps his gaze directed at the floor. If he looks at her, she's going to do that calming trick again.
"This is important. I can't tell you why just yet, and I can't undo it yet either. I had to hide you, and this seemed to be the best way. You weren't meant to end up in Konoha, of course. My cats were meant to guard you until I could come for you, but there were … complications. When I can, I will reverse the spell."
He curls in on himself even more tightly, limbs sluggish and insides cold and heavy, wishing he could erase her words from his mind. He can't.
He is a shinobi, second only to Hashirama in his abilities, so what did she have to protect him from?
火火火
The Senju comes to pick him up. Madara can't say how much time has passed. The sky outside the window is dark, and his exhaustion runs bone-deep. Hungry for familiarity, he inhales the Senju's scent, presses into the warmth of his neck, buries his head into the waiting palm. Closes his eyes. Not everything smells familiar—the scent of forest, of sweat, of other people—but the core is the same, and rubbing his cheek against the Senju's skin a few times covers the foreign smells well enough.
The rhythmic up and down of the Senju's steps calms him. Too soon he is placed onto the desk, right next to a neat pile of scrolls. Fingers scratch behind his ear.
"Hey, cat. All right?"
He sounds tired. For the first time since the Senju's returned, Madara looks up at him. He seems unharmed. There is no blood; if there had been, Madara would have smelt it already. No other visible injury either. The circles under his eyes are more pronounced, and there is a tired drawl to his words, but tiredness is not a new look of the Senju. Still, some sleep would do him good.
The Senju sits down, intertwines his fingers and stretches his arms above his head. His exhale is deep and slow. His eyes narrow.
"Nekobaa-sama says you're a very special cat. Just how special, I wonder ..."
He pats Madara on the head once. Then he scoots a feet or two further away from the desk and crosses his legs. His knees come to rest on the floor, and he takes a deep breath.
Preparation, but for what?
The Senju spreads his fingers and presses the tips to the floor. Another breath, and he closes his eyes.
Nothing happens on the outside, but Madara can feel the force like a wave washing over him. Chakra pours out of the man and spreads, spreads, spreads. What is the idiot trying to do? Let it run dry?
Sweat breaks out on his brow, and Madara meows. The Senju wouldn't be stupid enough to kill himself by means of chakra exhaustion. Not that Madara would mind if he did, but, well, then he couldn't kill him as revenge for Izuna …
After a few minutes, the Senju is panting, his face covered in sweat, and when the first blood oozes out of his nose, Madara moves. He pawns at the Senju's knee first, at his trembling fingers, and finally sinks his claws into pale skin. It earns him a grimace, but nothing more. First droplets of blood fall from the Senju's chin, and he sways.
What is the idiot doing? Something in Madara wants to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him until all the stupidity has left his body, until he snaps out of it and ceases this. He meows instead and keeps at it. A cough rattles through the Senju's body, bringing blood with it. He sways again. Madara barely has time to scurry away before the Senju collapses like an empty sack.
Neither of them moves. The Senju is still breathing, but it's ragged and strained as if every breath requires tremendous effort. Blood is trickling from his nose and smeared around the corner of his lips.
Madara meows quietly, then louder. Nothing. He comes closer, reaches out to paw at the Senju's cheek. The tiniest amount of blood sticks to his paw, and he licks it off; the taste is oh so familiar, the smell even more so. Coppery. He licked the metal once, as a child, just to see if everybody was right in comparing the two. Now he doesn't want to taste either.
There is nothing else he can do, so he curls up, paws folded under his chin, and closes his eyes. The Senju won't die, that's certain.
Later, he's not so sure anymore.
He can't sleep. The energy coming from the Senju is fetid. Soon, the man moves: muscles on his face contract into a frown, his head falls to one side and then the other. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, more and more. His movements increase but stay jerky, pained. Moans fall from his lip, moans and gasps.
Madara inches closer. He can feel the warmth radiating from the Senju's body now. Fever and dreams don't mix well, that much he's learnt early on. He's still a cat, though, and there isn't really much he can do. Even as human he wouldn't be of much use: medical techniques have never been his strong suit. So he lies there, listening to broken whispers, and pleas, and mumbled words. "Mother," he hears, "mother!" and "brother," and "why?" "Please don't," and "I'm sorry, it's my fault, I'm sorry," more and more words that don't make sense to him until he realises he's shaking all over, so hard he has trouble relaxing his muscles enough to get up.
He's got to do something or he'll never get a chance to rest, so he forces himself to the bathroom. The smallest towel he can find is still big for him and awkward to drag around, but he manages. The tap is a bigger problem. It takes all of his strength and body weight and minutes of considerable effort to turn the knob. He drags the towel into the sink. Droplets end up on his fur. They'll have to wait. Letting the water flow, he grabs the towel with his teeth and begins dragging it out of the bathroom.
It's hard. The soaked fabric is heavier than he imagined it would be, and his muscles are burning by the time he's covered half the distance. A wet trail remains behind him.
Damn the Senju. He brought this on himself: why does Madara have to be the responsible one now?
Nevertheless, he manages to get the towel to the Senju and awkwardly bunch it up against his cheek. Actually dragging it onto his forehead seems too hard.
The cold seems to startle the Senju out of his delirium for a moment. His head lolls to the side like so many times before, but he makes a weak attempt at getting the towel: his hand moves halfway, then some more, but the most he manages is to loosely close his fingers around the fabric. Still those red eyes open a fraction, and if Madara could, he would arch his eyebrows. But then the Senju's lips move, first without sound, then succeeding in forming words.
"I'm sorry," the Senju says, "really," and Madara wonders who he sees in his place because surely he wouldn't apologise to a cat (and why should he in the first place?), but the Senju's gaze is clear for a moment and so sharp that he could as well be seeing to the deepest recesses of Madara's soul. Then those red eyes close, and don't open again. His cheeks are wet.
For a few seconds, Madara is completely still. Finally, he moves one paw and then the other. He doesn't understand what he's doing, not really, but the cat part of him is so certain it's the right thing, the way he can help, that he doesn't object. He curls up pressed against the Senju's side and purrs.
Sometime later, when he can no longer feel the Senju shifting every other second and when the rise and fall of the man's chest becomes more regular, his consciousness drifts.
火火火
Sunrays blind him as he opens his eyes again. There is a weight on his side, and warmth all around, and it takes him a moment to realise that the Senju is cured around him, one arm slung over Madara. Although an air of sickness still surrounds him, his breathing is slow and calm. Madara shifts and closes his eyes again.
The next time he wakes it's to insistent knocking and footsteps and children's voices.
"Tobirama-sensei!" The Sarutobi boy rushes forward. Koharu and Himura aren't far behind.
"We need a medic," the girl says as she places a hand on the Senju's forehead. Madara hisses. She should be looking for someone more knowledgeable already, not squatting and looking worried. Besides, the worst is already over. Where were they before?
"What's wrong with him?" Homura asks, and Madara wants to slap him and the Senju both. The boy must be about ten; at this age, he should know. But then … These children have never seen people pushed to their limits in battle. There is also no reason why the Senju should be found suffering the consequences of chakra exhaustion in his room, so perhaps he hasn't entirely failed as a teacher for neglecting to beat the symptoms into his pupils' heads. At least they don't waste any more time.
Madara has seen the two medic nins who come to get the Senju before though he doesn't know them by name. Senjus. Hardly a surprise, considering their versatility. An average Senju could probably heal about ten times better than an average Uchiha. When it comes to raw power, however …
He scurries away when one of them tries to touch him and watches them carry the Senju away from a safe distance. The children follow, and so Madara is left alone. Blessed peace.
A few hours later, he changes his mind. There is only so long he can spend on grooming himself. His water bowl is still have full, but he hasn't eaten in a day. With the Senju gone, he isn't likely to get any food either. Luckily the Sarutobi brat left the door ajar, or else Madara would probably have no option but to meow until somebody passed the room and heard him. Ugh.
He checks the kitchen first. As expected, all food is hidden from view (and his paws), so he makes for the exit.
The way seems longer now that he is a cat, but he could walk it blindfolded. The closer he gets to the Uchiha district, the stronger the smell of other cats becomes. Good. He needs them. If he understood cats in Sora Ku, he should be able to understand these as well. The Uchiha cats were always somewhere around, though they tended to avoid him, and he didn't care to approach them either.
Will they know who he is now? Will they be willing to talk? Or will they perceive him as a threat as the cats in Sora Ku did?
Nobody stops him as he enters the territory. He stays on a lookout, but no cat is in sight, so he tries to follow the smells. There are many, hard to tell apart, if he manages to do so correctly at all.
Finally a large grey cat crosses his way. It smells feminine, buy Madara can't be sure. He gets a glimpse of narrowed eyes, then the cat continues on its way. Not what he needs. So he opens his mouth and unlike when he meow at the Senju, he thinks of words and tries to shape them with his lips and hopes they will come out right in whatever language will be understood.
"I need some answers," he tries to say and hears himself meow. Great. But he keeps going. "Do you know about Hiroki Uchiha? Allegedly a dark presence appeared around him."
The cat stops and gives him a dead stare. "Are you stupid?" it says, its voice a tone that could be either female or male, so Madara remains none the wiser. But what matters right now is that the cat apparently understands him, and he can understand it.
The cat stares at him some more. Then it makes a step towards him and leans forward with the air of self-importance. "You ask the wrong questions, cub," it says. "The presence has always been here."