I ... am not dead. I did get ill though, so this chapter took close to forever to upload. I'm sorry I left you all waiting.
Also, this is it. At this point, I want to thank you all for your support, for the comments (even if I suck at replying to them they mean a lot), and simply just for reading. I hope you enjoy the conclusion of the story as well.

十

He spends the next two days in the privacy of his rooms with no food or bath. The room opens to the back garden, and so he sits by the door, moving only to drink out of the fountain or relieve himself. His eyes follow the clouds by day and the stars by night, and though no particular thoughts occupy his him, he can practically feel his mind struggling to process everything that happened. He's exhausted, and hollowed out, and feels as though he's caught in a limbo with no future and no past.

On the second night, tears come. After years and years, he howls into the fist he pressed over his mouth. A fire burns behind his eyes, almost as if his tears are not tears at all but poison trickling out of his system.

He'd been used and used again, and in the end, he almost turned on the one thing he had left. Everything was his fault and yet not his fault at all. His family. Izuna. It's too much.

Dawn finds him curled up in a ball by the door. A sheen of tears and sweat covers his skin, and the yukata he put on two days ago clings to his body. He's filthy and exhausted and hungry to the point of sickness, but the air fills his lungs so, so easily.

He falls asleep sitting up. There are no voices in his head.

He rises with dawn, shakes the stiffness out of his muscles, and finally leaves the room.

Impatient, he draws himself a bath, fetches a bucketful of water and a cloth to wash himself first, and strips. It's then that his gaze slides over his biceps and stays there. A dark mark is clearly visible against the background of his skin, a collection of black lines that resemble a tattoo. Where has that come from?

A memory of the Senju's hand on his paw comes to mind. The warm tingling sensation of chakra.

Madara laughs against his will. The sound is coarse and rattles through his throat. This must be the Senju's flying thunder god. That's how he got to Madara fast enough. Oh, the irony, that the same technique that had killed—defeated—Izuna saved Madara's life.

(The Senju had better be able to remove the mark. Madara really doesn't need the other man to be able to teleport to him in an instant. He really, really doesn't.)

Forcing himself to forget about this, he climbs into the bath and submerges his head. At least his hair hasn't suffered from the same indignity as his cat fur did; finding shaved patches on his scalp would have been too much.

Later, scrubbed clean and no longer hungry, he sets foot in the Uchiha district as a human again. The first gaze lands on him, then more and more. A wave of murmuring arises. People move to approach him, but he strides past them and only stops to bang on Hiroki's door. Hopefully, Hiroki is home. Gazes burn through Madara's back, full of curiosity and hatred and emotions he cannot and doesn't care to recognise. There are things he needs to do, and while he's not yet sure as to what all of them are, he can feel with deep certainty that something has shifted in him and his life must shift with it.

The door opens a crack, enough for a pale strip of skin and a dark eye to become visible.

"I'm afraid Hiroki isn't well enough to—" Myiao begins. Then her voice disappears and her one visible eye widens, and in it, he can see fear that makes her step backwards. "Madara-sama!" She stumbles as she retreats further, and he swallows as he slips through the crack and closes the door behind him. Is she afraid of him because of what happened with Hiroki or because of who he is?

"I would speak with your husband," he says, voice just a little raspier than he'd like. "It won't take long."

Her pulse must be through the roof, yet she plants her feet and meets his gaze. "I must insist."

The hallway around them is narrow and dark. Somewhere, there is a child sleeping. Yet she's not with her daughter. She's here, so much smaller and slighter than him, and for a moment, he doesn't see her at all. There is Mito, smiling at him. Hashirama, planted as firmly as a tree in face of adversity. The Senju always behind his brother's shoulder, silent, watchful. All of them ready to die to protect. The Senju—Tobirama—lying in a pool of his own blood.

"It's all right," he says, and he thinks his voice is softer, and perhaps everything else about him is slightly softer too. "Was it you that Zetsu used against him?"

Something inside her crumbles. "Our daughter," she says. Then she takes him to Hiroki, and Madara breathes a little easier when he finds the man unharmed. It would have been on him if anything happened to Hiroki. Another life on him.

No sentimental words are lost between them. Madara needs to know what has occurred within the clan since he left, and though he knows he receives a shortened version, it is enough, and he leaves in good time. He has a council to reign in. Apologies he can't bring himself to say. The Senju brothers he doesn't want to see. What would he say anyway? The Senju risked his life, yes, but for whom? For a little cat?

(Underneath it all is fear. He is not a people person, never has been. The strange connection he's managed to build within the last few weeks may very well be for naught. After all, he may have got attached to the Senju—a little, just a little, and oh it burns to admit it—while the Senju started to like and then lost a cat. Nothing binds them together anymore. And gods, he doesn't want to be left all alone in a village that hates him. Not again.)

Swallowing, he pushes the thoughts deep into the darkness they came from. Zetsu mentioned changing old writing, and there is nothing older than the tablet the Uchiha clan has been passing from generation to generation. If he'd truly changed it … It demands Madara's attention. But how is he to know what has been changed? What should he do?

He finds his answer later, in a dark room where candlelight dances over his robes. He's been staring at the tablet for what feels like hours like he'd done so many times before. It had taken him a long time to try to understand the message. Where he wasn't sure before, he is now. He and Hashirama are the key. Their blood, their chakra—the Eternal Tsukuyomi and, so he thought, peace. Except this was Zetsu's dream. His reunion with Mother, whoever that was. Or is.

Madara clenches his fists.

Two nights weren't enough to burn through all the hatred and the shame that being used like a puppet brought about. Is there enough time in this world at all?

He forces his fingers to uncurl, pushes them through the motions, slowly, slowly, every seal rough around the edges. At last, he presses his palm against the stone, and watches it crumble to dust.

火火火

He faces the elders and the other members of the Uchiha council with his head held high in a display of confidence he doesn't feel. There are questions they ask, and many more they don't, questions about trustworthiness and reliability. Familiar sensations run through his body: the throbbing in his temples, his temper trying to escape because he hates, hates, hates dealing with this. Anger shortens his breaths. Underneath it all, there is a current of dread.

Is this what the rest of his life will be like, until he either snaps or bleeds out on some battlefield? Has nothing changed? Has he not changed?

No. Something has to give. It has to.

火火火

The letter arrives the next day at noon in the hands of a currier. A request from the Senju to visit the Hokage's office.

Madara sends the boy back empty handed.

火火火

Next comes a package, filled with papers and scrolls. A detailed update on the political and administrative happenings in the village during the time of his absence, says the note. He's asked to review it and consider the proposition at the end.

When he peels the edge off the first scroll, he's greeted by the Senju's tidy handwriting, small and forming lines that are entirely too straight. A knot forms in his throat. Try as he might, he can't swallow it, and he places the scroll back into the box. The proposition will have to wait.

(It can't be that important anyway.)

火火火

This time, the message comes early in the morning. If Madara is unable, or unwilling, to fulfil his duties towards the village from the office, anything that needs his attention may be sent to his home for the time being.

At least, that's the beginning of the text. What follows is something so bureaucratic it makes his head hurt: description upon description of what is considered important enough to be forwarded directly to him.

He skips at least a half of it and signs at the bottom.

Which, in hindsight, might have been a mistake. Only a few hours later, another scroll requires his signature, and then another, and another. By the time the sun disappears behind the trees, he really, really hates the Senju's guts. How can there even be so many things that need signing? Is that bastard sending him everything he missed in the previous weeks?

Slowly, cold spreads through his insides. What if he shouldn't have signed anything? He can't stay hidden inside his house forever, of course not. He should go to the office. He needs to meet Hashirama, or else he truly will end up excluded from everything. Perhaps he already is. How else is he supposed to understand the fact that Hashirama hasn't tried to contact him yet?

火火火

A new day brings with it a new pile of paper, delivered at an ever increasing pace. Before long, a vein begins to throb in his temple, and after he gets a paper stating I hereby confirm I am still alive and nothing else, he is really, really done with this foolishness.

A knock on the door draws him to his feet. He pulls it open, words already spilling from his lips.

"If you have another message from that accursed idiot, I swear to all the gods I will—"

"Shut up," says the Senju and pushes him aside to enter the room.

For a moment, Madara stands still. Then he snaps.

"What the hell are you doing here? Get out!"

"You agreed to meet me today." His voice is flat, his words to the point, yet there is a shadow of a smirk hanging around his lips.

"I most certainly did not!"

"You most certainly did, and if need be, I'll cite you the letter and the paragraph that entailed that particular detail."

He opens his mouth, ready to yell, and forces it shut again. Fire burns in his guts. Curse the Senju and his bureaucracy. Gods know what else Madara has agreed to without knowing. He has half the mind to start raging about the validity of those papers, but he pushes the words back down instead. What comes out of his mouth is a growl.

"So that was the true purpose behind all the paper. And now? Care to enlighten me what I agreed to?"

"I have a proposition to discuss. You'll listen to it, and we'll see what can be done."

The Senju sits down and crosses his legs. His movement is just slightly off, the usually fluidity absent, which suggest his injuries have yet to heal fully, but there is no visible mark of what happened.

Perhaps it's the memory of the Senju covered in blood that has Madara sit opposite to him. Sighing, he crosses his arms. "Talk."

And the Senju does. He talks of the division of power, of control, and the solution he would propose. Hokage, with the council, is the law, the head of the village. But the law must be obeyed.

"A police," the Senju says, "to ensure all follow the law. All. I was thinking of entrusting the leadership of this institution to your clan."

Several thoughts arise, battling for dominance. Not my clan, he wants to say, but they are, still, always his. You would make others hate us, is next, because people tend to fear and to hate the iron hand that enforces the law. And to love. To trust, if they are on the right side of it. And the Senju would trust the Uchihas with the power to decide whomto punish, to imprison, to kill if need be.

"Why us?" is what Madara actually says.

The Senju cocks his head to one side just the slightest, presenting a glimmer of skin between his hair and his collar.

"You are a powerful people who helped to build this village. It's your home. I trust you will keep it safe."

He's probably staring now. Probably. Over the past weeks, he's heard the Senju speak in less hostile, even friendly, tones about the Uchiha clan (and Madara himself), but this is more than he's ever expected to hear face to face. A part of him doesn't believe it at all. The other part doesn't know what to do with the information. He's heard the Senju say he doesn't hate Madara or his clan, of course he has, but never …

"However," the man continues, and his lips form a serious line in that fraction between one word and the next, "there is a dilemma. That's you."

Madara doesn't exactly trust himself to say anything (for fear of violence, embarrassment, or something worse). He waves for the Senju to go on.

"You're head of the clan, and as such, leadership would logically fall to you. Even if it does not, you're still on the council. Since it would be up to the police to supervise the council … If you supervise yourself, the system becomes meaningless."

A part of him wants to ask what, by the gods, the problem is. Clan heads and elders have run clans for centuries. It's always worked. But the other part of him—oh, that's the problem. He can see the vision behind the Senju's words, something new, something yet untried, just like Konoha used to be back in the day when it was nothing more than a dream shared with a friend. Except this isn't a dream. He knows from experience—the Senju's dreams are nightmares, and this, this isn't some illusion either. This is business, practical and to the point, this is having both feet on the ground while Hashirsma threads the clouds only he can see. Madara is not an idealist anymore, hasn't been for a long time, but this, this he could hold on to.

"What will you do?" he asks, and if it comes out more as a rasp than words, well, there is that knot stuck in his throat.

"Now's the time when you offer suggestions."

"And Hashirama?"

"Is in favour of the suggestion so far. He is not, I'm sure, entirely aware of the position this puts you in yet."

He nods. His arms are still crossed, and he feels frozen in place.

"The council will vote on the idea," the Senju continues. A strand of hair falls over his eye, and he flicks it away with his fingers. The motion makes the collar of his hanten shift, and Madara remembers the warmth of his skin, the comforting scent that is too faint for him to catch now. Is he to pretend the past weeks never happened? That he doesn't know the Senju screams at night and scrubs his hands raw, that he can't feel the peace they live in either? That the wound he sliced through Izuna's side wasn't deep enough to kill?

How?

"Give me a day," he says at last. "And I'll let you know what I decide."

"There is room for discussion," the Senju says, but there isn't, not really, not for Madara. It's a matter of choosing a side, deciding where he belongs, or perhaps where he wants to belong.

He nods anyway.

火火火

The Senju leaves. With no distraction, Madara's thoughts turn on themselves, over and over again, until he's thinking in circles he can't escape. He is left on the floor, curled up by the door again, and if this is becoming a habit, it's not one he wants to develop. Although his chest aches, no tears come. He knows what he'll do when morning comes. Perhaps he's known it all along.

He spends the night mourning his loss. At dawn, he finds a scroll and some ink, and he writes the words that determine his future. He leaves the document in the meeting hall of the elders and doesn't linger.

The streets that lead to the Hokage tower are empty. If he has any luck on his side, the Senju will be in the office already, or perhaps still. Madara really doesn't want to visit Hashirama's residence right now. He really, really doesn't.

For once, it seems fate favours him. The Senju is at his desk, bleary-eyed and with a myriad of papers in front of him, and for the shortest moment, exhaustion shows through the cracks in his indifferent façade. Then he looks up, and his features smoothen into a mask. What Madara once thought to be the man's nature is nothing more than a wall erected between him and the world.

The thought makes him swallow. He knows so much more about the Senju now, things that probably weren't meant to be seen, ever. And here they are now, after a sleepless night, and he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders and doesn't know why.

"I've decided," he says, voice all too weak for his liking, "to stay on the council."

"You're the head of your clan," is what he gets in response, but there is a crack in the Senju's façade, and Madara wants to dig his fingers into it and pry the plaster apart.

"Not anymore," he manages. As soon as somebody finds his signed abdication, chaos will erupt. After all, he didn't name anyone as the next clan head. But the clan will be fine. They've wanted to move on without him, and now, perhaps, it's time he moves on without them. Somebody will take the lead, and they will adapt, and perhaps, perhaps the village needs him more than the clan—somehow, he is the glue that holds Hashirama's dream together, at least a little bit, and if he leaves, it might shatter, so he hopes his staying will hold it together. He hopes perhaps for once in his life he can build something instead of tearing things down, the way Hashirama built this place on his dreams, the way the Senju is trying to ensure those dreams function in reality. Perhaps this is his shot at making something a little bit better, his shot at (if only, if only) redemption. "I resigned."

Silence hangs over them for a moment, and then for another, and stretches on. Red eyes hold his gaze.

"You may have acted with too much haste. The motion needs to be accepted first. Your clan needs to agree. You could still change your mind."

He shakes his head. Despite the pain lodged behind his breastbone, he knows this is right. He and the clan—they would drag each other down. It's time to move on. No more going backwards. No more. But how should he make the Senju understand if he can barely find the words in his mind?

The Senju stands up. He walks around the desk, towards Madara. His hand, so familiar, comes to linger barely a hair's width away from Madara's upper arm for a moment before he steps a little further, just past Madara.

"I'm sorry about that," he says, "I'll find a safe way to remove it," and Madara blinks because—what is the Senju talking about? And then he blinks again—oh, oh! The mark, that seal on his arm—

Somebody must have punched the air out of his lungs. He tries and tries, and finally sucks in a breath, and—

"You knew?" he says, his words a whisper on his breath, and whips around. "You—how?"

The Senju turns too. His gaze rests on somewhere around Madara's knees. "I figured it out. You weren't exactly acting as your typical house cat. Though I wonder how much of it was you and how much the cat…"

"Mostly me," he hears himself say, and why is he even telling that to the Senju. But then, why not? "With some cat instinct added to the mix. But, this"—and now that he's started talking, he can't seem to stop the words from escaping, that one question that won't cease torturing him—"if you knew—you knew… All these years when I hated you—when I was trying to hate you… You knew Izuna's wound should not have killed him, and you never said anything. Why?" Why, why, why?

There is no reply. Then those red eyes slowly turn upwards until their gazes finally meet. And then—silence.

"Why?" he says again, his voice almost lost on his exhale.

"Would you have believed me?"

He sucks in a breath. Would he?

"I don't know," he says.

The Senju nods. "I know. And miscalculations happen."

He doesn't know what to say. He can't very well blame the Senju for Izuna's death, but the idea that the Senju was trying not to kill Izuna doesn't exactly sit right with him either. Hashirama's never aimed to kill—not once has Madara had to fear for his life. Not once but that time he lay on the floor, and the Senju held his sword above him. No, the Senju fights to kill. For him to be mindful of Izuna … Was it a miscalculation that the wound wasn't fatal? But the Senju also fights to keep Hashirama's dream alive now, and maybe, maybe Madara doesn't want to know the answer.

He nods. What do they do now?

The Senju's words cut through the building tension. "I've tried to keep Hashirama off your case, but you'll have to see him soon. He's worse than a kicked puppy. That, and I had to tell him I gave the cat to the Uchihas, so find something small and dark to show him."

Another nod. He should probably think about Hashirama, about what lie he is going to tell him about his absence, but he can't. Something tugs at his mind, a voice that refuses to be silenced. Maybe he doesn't need to know the answer, but what if he does? What if, what if?

"Miscalculation..." he says, and now he has to go through with it. " Did you mean...?"

The Senju crosses his arms. "We didn't fight like you and Hashirama. Your fight would never end in death," he says, and as much as it burns to hear somebody state it so blatantly, Madara has to admit it's true. Hashirama wouldn't kill him—he was still needed for this dream to come true—and he couldn't kill Hashirama either.

"But we weren't stupid. If one of us died, both clans would go down. The last battle may have gone to the Senju, but we buried too many of ours. Hashirama nearly killed himself. He wouldn't, I think, go after your head if I was the one who died, but the clan wouldn't take it lightly."

There is bitterness in his words, minute tension in his neck and jaw—things Madara had never seen before, now laid bare in front of him.

"Look at what happened after Izuna's death. The village stands despite it, not because of it. You nearly tore the alliance apart."

For some reason or another, the bluntness doesn't trigger a throbbing in his temples. He holds this village in his hands, and he's decided, chosen everything that's always been right in front of him.

"You didn't mean to kill him." The words are heavy on his tongue. A weight slides off his shoulders as he speaks.

"We always walked closer to the edge, but killing was not a part of the deal." The Senju inclines his head. "He was a good enemy."

Madara looks at him, the red lines on his face, the nightmares behind red eyes. The words hold no apology, offer no condolences. They give so much more.

He's not sure whether his brain really sends a signal to move to his arm, but he sees his hand rising until he's holding it out to the Senju, and he can't avert his gaze from it. It's perfectly still despite the trembling he feels under his skin. Then another hand slides into his, a shade paler, warm, and familiar.

"Truce?" the Senju asks.

"Truce."

"Good. I believe you owe me a drink."

Madara blinks. "I do not."

A single arched eyebrow is the only reply he gets.

"No. No, no, no, don't tell me that was in your papers, too?"

One corner of the Senju's lips curls upwards. "You should always read what you sign."

"That can't be valid, you bastard."

The smirk spreads to the other side of the Senju's lips. Damn him. Damn him, and his paperwork, and Madara's falling for it, and that stupid, stupid smirk that he's never expected to see.

"I can always destroy the scroll," he says.

"If you can find it first."

He sucks in a breath, even opens his mouth to snap back, but there is nothing where anger should be, nothing fuelling him to rage and fight.

"Challenge accepted," he says, but he already knows he won't look too hard. And perhaps, perhaps that's not a bad thing at all.