The life of a shinobi is one of taking. They take the lives of others, while others take the lives of their loved ones, their own… they take money for missions, take missions for money so they can take lives. And then, there was Konoha. It started as a dream that gave two broken men a reason to live. And then it gave people a place to call home, gave children a chance at life, gave small clans a chance to survive. It was then that the shinobi world started giving.

-Sacrifice-

"I know you are out there, Madara-dono. I can sense your chakra."

Madara stepped inside her tent, taking in the numerous scrolls spread all over the floor. "I wanted to thank you personally."

She turned to look at him, her beautiful face shadowed with fatigue. Did she work the entire night?

"Hashirama-dono has already expressed his gratitude," she said waspishly.

He should have left it at that. Turn around, and leave her alone to work, or sleep. She needed to sleep. She was tired and snappy, like a crackling flame.

Uchiha had never been afraid of fire.

"I am aware of that, and—"

"Madara-dono, say what you have to say. Let us not dance around our words. I think we are past that."

Definitely snappy.

"I am not ignorant, Lady Mito. I know what you are offering for this to work and I am deeply grateful. You are the key to win the Hyuuga and dare I say, this war. I appreciate your sacrifice."

He could see the anger cracking like a brittle armor, falling off in bits and pieces. Beneath it she looked weary, sad, resigned.

"What know you of sacrifice?" she asked with bottomless eyes of storm.

"More than you'd think," he confessed, images of a long gone family and smiling siblings flooding his mind. "I gave everything to this war. My family, my pride, my sanity…"

She gazed at him mournfully. "I must sound like a spoiled child to you. In some ways, I am. Tell me, Madara-dono, do you hate me?"

He almost laughed at the irony of her question, how similar her gaze and tone were to the pensive words Hashirama uttered mere days ago. Curse them both, how similar they were, pulling at him in opposite directions. Or maybe it was he who grabbed onto them.

"Would I be here if I did?" he asked, mirroring his question to Hashirama.

Mito gazed thoughtfully at him, her stormy ocean eyes pulling at him like a treacherous current. "I am sorry for your loss," she finally whispered, the air between them heavy.

He shifted in place, surprised by the sincerity of her voice. People died in their world, children took up arms and died before they even knew the taste of sake or the softness of another's kiss. He had been four when he first killed another. A nameless Senju that likely had children at home, or on the battlefield. No one had time to apologize, to cry for the deaths of too many brothers, fathers, uncles, mothers. No one felt sorry for another person, for they had their own dead to bury and mourn. Izuna's easy smile and twinkling eyes came unbidden to him, the gut-wrenching pain accompanying the memory seizing him in a vice-like grip.

"I will end this war," she said, hurling him out of his pit of despair. "Your sacrifice will not be in vain, and neither will mine, as small as it is."

She shone with determination, bright as a forest fire, sure as the coming tide. It washed over him, wild, warm and sobering. This slip of a noble girl promised what two joined clans failed to achieve, and beyond all rational thought, Madara believed her.

Darling Mito, you are more like Hashirama than you think.