A/N:

QUICK REMINDER: Find me on Archive of Our Own, pen name "BlackMajjicDuchess." I have 50 other works posted there, and ONLY this one here.

MATURE CONTENT: Translation-only a matter of time before ffn deletes my fucking story again, as they are wont to do. Suggestion: Find me on Archive of Our Own, pen name "BlackMajjicDuchess."

EXTRA CHAPTERS: Cross posting here and on the Archive. There, it's at least 6 chapters ahead. Suggestion: Find me on Archive of Our Own, pen name "BlackMajjicDuchess."

Get it, yet? ^_^ I'll keep waiting for you to wise up. Eventually you'll have to.

Chapter Eleven: Proximity

Madara glared at the sea with distaste. The chopping, tumultuous waves annoyed him. How could anyone actually like the ocean, he wondered? It stank of fish and stale salt, burned his sensitive, precious eyes, and threatened to break their ship apart. If he never had to ride in a ship ever again in his lifetime, it would be too soon. Half a dozen times, he seriously considered turning the boat around and forgetting all about Uzushiogakure-the Village Hidden in the Whirlpools-and the Shinobi settlement it contained. It was only that the alternative bothered him more that kept him going.

Pulling off this expedition without revealing the purpose for it had been a different kind of challenge. He had had to convince his 'advisors' (sometimes they felt more like fools sent just to torment him) that the island in the east was a priceless resource for supplies, and even then they were hesitant to allow him to go, for the nation's largest clan, the Uzumaki, had genial relations with their enemies, the Senju. He had had to pull rank and stare down Hiro with the newly discovered Mangekyou before they had let him be, not wishing to provoke him any further. His control on the techniques he had acquired was tightening, his power focusing and strengthening, and he feared nothing and no one now. He lived for the day that he faced Hashirama again, for he was positive that he would never lose again.

When he was done with this journey, he was going to set the ocean on fire, and rejoice as the damned thing fizzled up into nothing. He felt a surety that he could do it, too. He felt nauseous and angry. Like a tiger prowling its cage, all he wanted was to be free of the confinement, able to stretch and walk with the grass beneath his toes.

But she was worth it. So, he endured.

Truth be told, he found it doubtful that Miyu had come from this land anyway. She seemed like the kind of person who preferred the forest, rather than the sea. But there were only two places left on his entire map that he had not yet checked: Uzushiogakure and the tightly guarded lines of the Senju. If it turned out that she wasn't among the people of Uzushio, he'd have to come up with a way to infiltrate the Senju, and he wasn't looking forward to that at all. It meant, in some way, that he and Hashirama would have to meet in a gridlock until one of them emerged victorious. Madara would own the Senju (and thus, he'd finally find Miyu among them) or the Senju would absorb the Uchiha (in which case he'd find her anyway).

But then, the chance to fight Hashirama again made his blood hot, burning with the desire to fight. For years, they had been near in power. Lately, though, Hashirama was showing more aggression than he had before, and Madara had a fresh set of Mangekyou Sharingan, and he wanted so badly to test his mettle. His new eyes were begging to be unleashed fully in a proper battle. The thought made him so bloodthirsty that sometimes he couldn't sleep because of it, fantasizing about how much damage he could feasibly deal. He had to balance his frantic search for his lost love with his need to engage the Senju, however, and give no hint to either of his tasks that he was preoccupied with the other. If the Senju thought he was weakening, they would overwhelm his army. And, too, there was the promise that he had made to Miyu. It was one he meant to keep, no matter the cost.

Are you still waiting, my love?

He had vowed to tear the world apart until he found her, and he was such a vast conduit of power now that he knew that he could. Down to the marrow of his bones, he ached with the force of it. All he would need to do was open one of his eyes, and the earth would peel itself open at his command. Open the other, and it would burn, too. His soul screamed with desperation, so that he wanted to tear his hair out and bellow his displeasure and set everything on fire until he smoked her out, all at once. He felt like a beast prowling the tiny confines of a cage, for as much as he roared and struck out in violence, she still did not appear. If he cracked the earth, split it upon its axis and shook it with the force of an age-ending earthquake, would she fall out of it then, he wondered?

...Had he dreamed her, after all? Was she just a phantom of a fever dream of a dying man?

His promise to preserve the clan was hanging in the precarious balance, as well; he had yet to decide which was more important to him: the love of his beautiful-and perhaps imaginary-medic, or the preservation of an entire people that, whether they liked it or not, were completely his? With the power of the Mangekyou, he had his entire clan cowed, for they dare not even speak out of turn. With that kind of power, he could conquer this entire godsforsaken country and there was no one strong enough to oppose him, not even Hashirama. The Senju would be his at last.

Sometimes, being a leader was extraordinarily difficult.

When the ship docked in the harbor—miraculously untouched by whirlpools, for which the island was famous—he sprang off the deck boards with way too much enthusiasm. If only I could fly back, he thought wryly. Boarding the ship again made him want to be sick. Spending a few days here was going to be a necessity. His stomach couldn't handle it.

Only a few hours upon the island, though, and Madara felt infinitely better. For the first time, the number of people with red hair far outnumbered the people without. It seemed an odd trait to be dominant, and it had seemed much rarer on Miyu when he had seen her the first time. He recalled that with perfect clarity, how she sat straight and composed, sipping her tea. After dismissing his men to spend his coins on certain items that could only be found in sea faring villages, Madara made his way up to the largest house he could see. Tired and seasick, he hobbled toward the door of the Uzumaki estate. And, despite being exhausted from the emotional strain of trying to track down one woman among millions, he felt strangely optimistic this time.

The man that answered the door had sandy colored hair and dark grey eyes. It was there that his first disappointment struck. This couldn't be his Miyu's father. "I'm looking for a young woman. She's about twenty, red hair, a high degree of medical skill. Have you seen her?"

The look that the man gave him was bizarre, and strangely… angry? The reaction actually confused Madara. He had endured a variety of reactions to his questions, ranging from sympathy to confusion to mockery, but never had anyone seemed hostile toward him before. "No," the man answered curtly.

"Do you know where I might find someone matching the description?" He strained to keep his voice polite, but something about this guy… rankled.

The man's cloudy grey eyes flashed with temper. "Look around you, boy," he grumbled. "Everywhere you look is a young woman with red hair. If you've got an itch in need of scratching, any of them will do."

That did it. His comment was so appallingly rude, as if the stranger was suggesting that he already knew Madara's character well enough and that it was one of ill repute, that he had had enough. He took a grandiose step forward, putting his body within the personal space of the other man, pouring menace into his stature and allowing the Sharingan to bleed red so threateningly that blood poured down to his chin, masking his face in gore and defiling the man's doorstep. The man's eyes widened in alarm, and he took a step further back into his home. "I'm not sure what I've done to offend you, sir," Madara relayed with deadly calm, patience exhausted at last, "but I advise you very strongly not to play games of dominance with me. I'm near the end of a very long journey and my patience has about run out. And I'm sure, so very sure, that I can reduce you to a dust of ash on your doorstep and sleep like a babe tonight. Think. Very. Carefully... about what you say to me next, and pray to your gods that whatever it is you say puts me in a pleasant mood. And just so we're clear-" his eyes narrowed dangerously, "-your odds aren't that good."

The man's lips flapped involuntarily, but no sound came out. All talk, nothing to back it up, he surmised. A shame. A good, challenging fight might do wonders for his nerves. "Dead," the man croaked at last.

Madara blinked, disbelieving. The air went out of his lungs, his eyes widening with shock. "What?"

"D-d-dead," he repeated. "She ran off to the wars, got herself k-k-killed."

That certainly hadn't been the answer Madara was expecting. He went so numb that he completely deflated, all of the fight leeched right out of his muscles. His eyes cooled to their normal blackness, his shoulders sagging with defeat. The other man took advantage of his distraction and slammed the door in his face. There was the sound of a lock being shoved violently into place, though if Madara had wanted to get through the door, no door nor lock would have kept him out.

The moment it was closed, all of the built up hope from the journey evaporated, and he just felt tired.

When the exhaustion faded, in its place would be a fathomless well of emptiness, a starving beast within him that craved nothing but destruction, so that the world might know his pain. The next several years would be bloody battle after bloody battle, and the death toll would feed the crows fat to bursting. Madara had burned with far too much passion for far too long, and given the power to sear the land into nothing but a wasteland of ashes, he felt the desperate desire to do exactly that.

"A girl," the doctor announced, wiping his hands on a hot, damp rag and smiling.

"She's so beautiful," Mito marveled, holding her daughter, delighted by her first indignant squalls of displeasure in a world that was sure to disappoint. Everything else might be going to hell around her, but Mito was absolutely certain now that she had all that mattered right there in her arms. "Thank you," she said to the doctor. Surrounded by people who were generally unkind to her, Mito was glad that the doctor, at least, was more interested in the miracle of life than the circumstances of how it had come to grow within in her, sublimely ignorant of Mito's social standing.

"Always a pleasure," the doctor told her with a graceful bow. "It's my honor to usher in the new generation. Have you decided on a name?"

"Momoka," she told him gladly, unable to contain her tired yet joyful smile. It was a silent nod to Touka and Tobirama and the Senju, her way of expressing thanks, even if she never saw them again. It was because of them that Momoka was alive and well, and that Mito had the courage to do what was necessary to make sure of that. Someday, she hoped that their namesake might get to meet the people who had been such an important part of her life.

"It suits her," the doctor said with a nod. "And I'll tell you what I tell all of the other new mothers I am privileged to work with: that child, there, in your arms…" he pointed with his towel, "...is your life's masterpiece, and you will never be done painting." Mito turned serious eyes on the man who had helped her bring Momoka into the world safely, understanding his meaning. There was a long road ahead of them, likely not easy. Mito would need to teach her daughter that there was goodness, too, and probably all of her life's worth of lessons would come from solely herself. Momoka's grandparents wanted nothing to do with her; she was a bastard daughter without a social leg to stand on, of less worth than Mito herself. "You've done well, Uzumaki Mito," he finished with a grin. "And you'll be just fine."

Alone with her daughter, Mito couldn't be happier. There were always pieces and parts of her life that she wished had gone better. She still held onto her hopes that Masaru would find her. Still wanted to return to the Senju if she could. Still wanted to leave home forever and never return. But there… in that moment… none of it mattered. Momoka's tiny fingers and toes brought her so much joy that she thought she would literally burst. "Such mighty lungs," she cooed at her little girl.

Almost immediately, the girl's crying stopped. She opened wide, dark eyes, blinking and staring into the face of her mother. "There's a good girl," she said, smoothing over the tiny patch of red fuzz on her scalp. It was gorgeously soft, another thing about her Momoka-chan that was utterly perfect; Mito couldn't stop smiling for the wonder she held. "We're all we have now, so we've got to make the most of it. I hope that you will like me because there is no one in this world that I love more than you."

With a skip of her heart, Mito realized how true that that was. Here in her arms was a tiny, vulnerable life that depended on her; part Masaru, part herself, with the potential to live without the shadows that had darkened both of their lives. It was all up to Mito to make sure she never suffered or felt unloved. Though they had only just met, Mito felt the solid certainty that she would gladly kill for Momoka. Whatever it took to keep her safe, no matter the price.

"I knew you'd be cursed with a daughter," her father declared as she cleaned up after dinner one evening. "It's only right, after what you've done to me. I hope she's just as disobedient and willful, too," he added with a sniff. He said nothing more, and so she ignored it. Nothing could touch her now, for in the eyes of society she had hit the very bottom, and there was nothing she feared to lose now, save for her daughter. So, she had adopted a new set of rules since Momoka's birth. If something didn't endanger them, ignore it. If something would make their lives easier, seize upon it. She would no longer live with regrets. Momoka depended on her to make all of the right decisions for them both.

As the years wore on, Mito's hope began to die. If Masaru was going to find her, by now he would surely have done so. Too much time had passed. There were only a few reasons that she could think of for him to have broken his promise: either he was dead, or he had given up. Either way, the chance that he was coming was diminishing rapidly. Slowly, grudgingly, Mito began to try to let him go. He would always remain a sweet memory, and she would always long to see him again, but practicality was a tenet of Mito's life, and practically speaking, Masaru had abandoned her.

Meanwhile, Momoka was a joy. She had received the perfect blend of her parent's features: deep, rich red hair that gathered in front of her bright, curious black eyes. When she was not deeply, intensely fascinated by the wonders around her, she laughed, loud and often, played in the fountains in the garden, and scribbled on every scrap of paper she could find. The walls of their garden were the barriers to another world, for within the confines of the garden walls, Mito and Momoka were happy and free. If she could forget, only for a moment, that she was more or less a prisoner here, she could believe that they were somewhere else, enjoying an afternoon surrounded by friends.

Living in Uzushio was a constant reminder of the stigma she bore, though, and the judging eyes and rumors were constant. It angered her that anyone could consider her daughter a mistake. At times, she was even irritated with herself for having ever thought that in the first place. Yes, she might be unhappy living in Uzushiogakure. Yes, she wished more than anything to return to the Senju. Yet, she was glad for Momoka, and she wouldn't trade the little girl for anything, not even her own freedom. Because of her daughter, there was still goodness in the world. Momoka was her singular solace, reaffirming with each passing day that she would do anything-anything at all-to protect Momoka's future and her innocent, carefree happiness.

And so, when Momoka was three years old and life had found its way into a routine, she was completely blindsided when Yuuto interrupted mother-daughter time with an exciting bit of news. "Uzumaki-sama!" he shouted excitedly, throwing open the gate and scurrying inside. He hastened a perfect, but swift bow, bobbing so fast that his ponytail whipped forward and backward like a whip. "Wonderful news! A ship arrived this morning. There's a man that came to find you. He's asking for you specifically. He looks like a clan chief, and… and I think he means to make you his wife!" His grin was infectious and excited. For her.

She wished she had been more appreciative of Yuuto in that moment, but she was too shocked by the news. Her only thought was that Masaru had finally found her and come to claim her. Just when she had completely abandoned hope, he had delivered on his promise after all, and she was ashamed of herself for ever doubting. "Momoka," she said gently, her voice trembling with nerves. "Yuuto-san will take you to your room. I'll come get you soon, okay?"

She giggled and took Yuuto's hand, and Mito watched her little girl leave the garden. As the gate banged shut, Mito fussed with her hair, feeling her heart skip a dozen beats, playing a wild cadence in her chest. He's here! she inwardly shrieked with girlish glee. Just knowing that he was close made her feel special again, and all of her lost power came flooding back. Spine straight, head held high, and with laughter in her heart, she went to meet her husband-to-be.