This is a work in progress. Be warned that while I've planned this story, I may take long periods of time between updating. Soon I'll also be going away to work deep in a national park, and they don't have wifi. I'll have power to charge my phone so I can write in my notes, but I'll be frustrated by my lack of keyboard no doubt lol.
Originally this chapter was like 18,600 words, but that was just too much in one go to post, so I kinda cut this chapter in half so it's 10,647 now. I've decided to revise some stuff on the next chapter too, so it's coming, just not yet.
I haven't written Tobirama before, so I just want to warn everyone that I might not get his character right, but also this is AU and that will impact his history and experiences, so he'll be a bit different anyway. Thanks for reading.
(He dreams of being enveloped in a great, churning sea. He dreams of thunder overhead, lightning on his tongue, ozone on his breath, the waves reaching out with great sea-foam hands. He hears the call of a whale, the pull of a cyclone, the whoosh of a great tsunami, feels the embrace of a god.
As he wakes, the ocean calls out to him.)
Bubbles surfaced around Itama's mouth as he blew air into the water, his eyes alight in joy, his bright face glowing with the soft, chubby-cheeked cheerfulness of youth. His head raised above the soft pull of the river, giggles joining the peaceful sounds of the forest, his face dripping. Tobirama watched him calmly, smiling from his place on the rocks, the cool water flowing around his ankles.
Sunlight drifted through the trees, splashes of warmth grazing along the forest through seamless silhouettes of leaves. He let out a breath, tilting his head back, embracing the sun on his face. Such weather was rare these days, the water barely warm enough for swimming, the nights growing ever colder, yet Itama and Tobirama always found their way back. Being here, enjoying the tranquility of nature, the silence of the woods, a short distance away from their clan—they'd always felt freest. Mother would always bring them here, and though Itama and Kawarama hadn't remembered their time with her at the river, Tobirama had—and he made sure to bring his brothers with him when he could, even if that meant he was juggling his time between missions, or switching his patrol shifts with other clan members and repaying them with small favors. It was always something he tried to make time for.
Sometimes there would be Senju patrols that passed by when they were there, but he'd always sense them coming, and what they'd see is Tobirama practicing his water release, and Itama running and jumping on the surface of the river, practicing his chakra control. They wouldn't see Itama smiling and splashing in the sun, nor Tobirama, weaving water in the air with no hand seals. Father wouldn't approve of them slacking off, they knew.
(It's their little secret, just the two of them.)
He leaned over, dropping a hand to the water. His fingertips grazed the surface, and then he pulled back, his arm pulsing with the heat of his chakra. Droplets of water followed his hand into the air, hovering smoothly; he wiggled his fingers and watched as the droplets moved around, forming different shapes with each movement. A strong wind shivers the branch above, and for a moment the sun pierces through, the water orbs glowing in an ethereal manner.
"It's pretty!" Itama said in awe, floating on his back in a relaxed manner, his head tilted sideways to watch him. "Will you do the other trick again, nii-san?"
"Which one would you like to see?" he murmurs, halting his chakra and watching the orbs lose shape, falling back into the river with a dozen tiny splashes. "The mist?"
"Yeah!"
Tobirama's eyes roamed the river, searching for the biggest break in the trees; downstream there was a large sunny area in the shallows. He moved closer towards it, and Itama floated along after him eagerly. A hand drifted along the surface, a hum escaping his mouth—he could feel the river, the pull and release of the low, smooth nature chakra, the fluid movement of the current dragging along his senses. He closed his eyes and reached out with his chakra, and the river rose to meet his call like an old friend; strength singing in his blood, the hum of power vibrating along his skin, the thrum of something otherworldly settling in his bones. A familiar weight drifted into the back of his mind, like eyes on his back, and he breathed deep through his nose and opened his eyes.
The river rose, the sounds of water sliding over rocks dissipating slightly, a halt to the atmosphere settling in around them. Droplets slowly rose, hanging in the air everywhere, thousands of them, slowly evaporating into mist—a spray of water clouding the sky, the sun piercing through in a shimmering glow—a kaleidoscope of color hanging in the air, reflections of light dotting the area. Tobirama stared up at it, tension draining from his face, something peaceful settling in his chest at the sight of a rainbow hovering in the frozen spray of river water.
Itama is utterly enraptured, despite having seen it dozens of times as he'd practiced his powers. "You're getting better every day!" he breathes, his eyes shimmering with awe. Tobirama smiled faintly, letting go of the water, sighing in pleasure as the cool spray rained down on their heads.
He glances at his brother again and holds back a laugh. His hair is a mess of black and white, opposing strands all clumped together wetly and flicked in all kinds of directions. A little bit of dirt still clung to his hair in a thin layer.
"Come, I'll wash your hair," he said. Itama smiled big and swam inelegantly towards him, all splashes and spluttering and cheerful chaos. He turned his back on Tobirama, submerging in the river, his head tilted back, face to the sky, his eyes closed.
Tobirama gently tugged at Itama's hair and began to scrub at his scalp with light pressure, the movements coming easily. They'd done this too many times to count, Tobirama and Itama, though usually it was Hashirama who would force his fingers into Tobirama's hair, and Tobirama would fight to get him off, annoyed by how his scalp would end up aching from Hashirama's exuberant hands...
(But that was before his brother's Mokuton manifested, before he proved himself worthy of a god, anyway...)
Itama peeked an eye open. "Is Hashirama back yet?" he asked, like he knew what he'd been thinking. Perhaps he'd been tugging too hard.
"No, I can't sense him in the compound yet. He's still on his mission."
"Oh," said Itama with disappointment. "Maybe we'll see him after training…"
"If he gets back in time, perhaps," Tobirama agreed quietly, and didn't speak more of it.
Hashirama hasn't been the same—not since Kawarama's death. After the funeral, they'd barely seen a hair of him, and not for lack of effort. Tobirama, though a little hurt, had decided to let him have his own time to grieve while he and Itama occasionally dragged him away and reminded him that they are there for him, but… it's been months, now, and… Hashirama is still gone. Taking more missions like Tobirama does, going off somewhere when he was home, somewhere other than the shrine he loved so much…
Avoiding them. Though he couldn't fathom why.
When was the last time they'd seen him somewhere other than dinner? Dinner where their father liked the silence most days, and dominated any conversation at the table on other days. Talking to Hashirama used to be so easy. Now he's been getting into fights with father left and right; whenever Tobirama saw him he'd have some kind of bruise, and he's unsure if it's from training or being struck by Butsuma, but when he'd try to ask his brother would make some kind of excuse to leave and he'd quickly be on his way.
The distance hurt. Even more so since it was so deliberate. Tobirama had always looked up to Hashirama as his younger brother, and their closeness was something they'd had their whole lives. Being without it made him feel like he was being punished somehow.
How did they let it get this bad? He wondered.
He was shaken from his thoughts by a gasp. Itama was staring up in the direction of the sun. "I'm late for training," he said with a groan. "Kaiza will be mad."
Right. Training always began two hours after sunrise, when it was still slightly low in the sky. Tobirama glanced up at the sun too, and cursed. "I need to prepare for my mission," he said.
They frowned at each other.
"Come say goodbye before you go?" Itama asked, hopping out of the river and stretching.
"Always."
(He returns drenched in blood, his heart in his throat, his leg aching something fierce, exhaustion burned into his bones.)
Later, there will be rumors like usual, of Shinobi slaughtering each other by the edge of the civilian villages, of a white-haired child who fought hard with no mercy, of another few dead men from that clan, you know—
—the one with the red eyes.
Days later, Tobirama finds Itama at the charm tree.
The tree sat outside the shrine, in the middle of a koi pond, grown by a blessed one of the clan eighty-seven years ago. It was tall and leafy with many branches. This tree looked very different from other trees—the roots were strong and thick, and they grew from beneath the water, arching up above the surface, little gaps in the roots full of large crystals that reflected on the pond. Moss and ivy climbed up the roots, clinging to the bark, a pretty green against the vivid burnt umber of the trunk. It stretched tall and wide towards the sky, thousands of charms hanging on the branches, glittering in the setting sun, tinkling against each other in the wind.
Some left simple little charms as offerings. Most came by to meditate or pray, but at this time of night, their surroundings were quiet—most clan members came here to pray during the mornings, or after lunch time. Others came at night if they'd missed their usual times because they'd been on a mission. Hashirama would often sit here and meditate if nobody was around, but that lessened a little while after Kawarama's death...
Tobirama used to pray here too, before mother died.
It was peaceful. Itama stood on the surface of the water with his chakra, inspecting the branches for new charms, while Tobirama sat with his shoulders relaxed, watching the brightly colored koi float along the water, darting around the sunken roots.
"Hmm, there's some prayers for land, food, vengeance… Here's a new one…it's long." Itama tilted his head back, narrowing his eyes to peer further. Then he jerked back, eyes wide, nose crinkled in disgust. "Eww! A busty blonde? Gross pervert!"
Tobirama pressed his lips together in thinly veiled amusement. "Two guesses to who that one is," he muttered.
"Tomoe-ojisan," Itama said flatly, and Tobirama smirked. "That shameless letch…"
He turned his nose up at the charm and moved to stare up at another branch with renewed focus. Tobirama looked at the direction his brother was studying. A few general charms hung there, praying for safety, abundance, death to their enemies, revenge against the Uchiha. Common prayers by their clan members, all pretty gold colors and delicately brushed ink. And right on the lowest twist of the branch, larger than all the others, there was a monstrosity of a charm. They peered at it in stupefied silence, then Itama laughed.
"Wow! It's ugly," he said cheerfully. "Who made that charm?"
It was a mockery of a thing, practically an insult to Sarutahiko-okami-sama. Tobirama eyed the sloppy writing, the half-hearted stitch of the edges, the eyesore of color chosen as the background. There was even a disfigured little doodle of Sarutahiko-sama waving impishly—missing an arm, a leg and half his face.
"Touka," he decided. He couldn't imagine anyone else openly disrespecting their clan's god so boldly—so foolishly. If their elder brother saw it he would lose his head at the disrespect to the god who blessed him, hunting her down for a showdown full of tears, obnoxious screaming and wilting flora.
Itama studied it with narrowed eyes then smiled, slow and mischievous. "Wanna stick it to Hashi-nii's forehead with a seal while he's sleeping?" he asked, sounding eager.
"Hashirama would have our hide," said Tobirama, eyeing the charm with disgust. "Father, too."
"I won't tell if you don't," Itama offered hopefully. It was, honestly, tempting.
Tobirama could've accepted, could've reached out and taken the offering. He could imagine it, Hashirama chasing after Touka, nature wilting around him, the tree branches darting out to grab her while he screamed for justice—more shocked outrage than actual anger. He'd be so distracted by the disrespect to Sarutahiko-sama that Tobirama doubted he'd even come after them for sticking it on his forehead in the first place. The commotion of it all would draw people out, and then…
Father.
Goosebumps unraveled down his spine. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably.
"No," he said, adopting a chiding tone. "Best not have father getting involved. You know how he is."
"Yeah… I do." said Itama, dejected. He let go of the charm, watching it dangle on the branch of the tree. His shoulders were slumped. Tobirama forced himself to look away.
(No, he thought quietly to himself. Itama didn't know how their father was. Hasn't seen what he was capable of. And he hoped it would stay that way.)
He dreamed of— sitting against the wall in the hallway, knees drawn up his chest, his heart pounding with anticipation.
He'd sensed the mid-wives rushing to Father's room two minutes ago. Tobirama, who'd felt the flicker of a new chakra burst into existence—warm, masculine, beautiful, utterly pure—had waited a few moments before he followed, slipping out of his own room, tiptoeing in the shadows. His brother had just been born, he thought with happiness. The youngest, after Itama. What would they call him? He wondered. Would it be similar to their names? Would it end with 'ama'?
Butsuma had just stepped into the room, but hadn't said anything. Tobirama thought it was strange. It was a long silence, where he heard nothing but the sound of the his newborn brother's cries, his feeble lungs shouting his existence to the world.
But then he feels it. The rumble, the ominous shake that took over his father's chakra. Rage, white-hot, tearing through the shock. A kunai pushing through the mist. It was something horrible, his chakra—blank and numb and crushingly terrifying. A volcano nearing it's eruption.
"Red," Father says, very, very softly. Nearly a whisper, but so vast that Tobirama heard it through the walls as if it'd been uttered right at his side. He held his breath, confusion rushing through him. He stood up quietly, uncertainty tensing his shoulders.
"Don't," said Mother, her voice shaking. He could sense fear from her, rocking her chakra, swallowing it. It make him feel sick, something uncomfortable tightening his stomach. "Don't. Please."
"Is that what you want? Mercy?" he asked coldly, a threat bleeding through his cutting voice. "Fine. Mercy is yours, wife."
He sensed movement, too fast for Tobirama to comprehend. A choked yell pierced the air. His brother wailed. Gurgled. Pain, confusion, fear, agony— it all clouded his senses, sending him tumbling to his knees hard, then in a terrifying, timeless instant, it was all gone.
His mother—screamed.
Butsuma's hands were entwined near his mouth, his elbows on the wooden desk. Half-lidded dark eyes peer at him, watchful, hard as steel and twice as cutting.
"A merchant clan is passing through the nearest village. I'm sure you're familiar with the Uraka Clan," he said severely.
Tobirama was familiar with them. It was a civilian clan, relatively well known by their trade. On a few missions he'd come across them on the road or at some of the feudal lord's festivals and had bought supplies from them in their large public stalls. There were many of them; he remembers they had a whole alley to themselves to sell their goods, and that they tended to split up when travelling with caravans because of rogues or bandits. It wasn't uncommon.
"They spurned our offers, giving us no reason as to why. When investigated, it was found that their primary buyers are the Uchiha," said Butsuma. "Their death would be a blow to our enemy—they'd be left scrambling for food suppliers, their resources would be more limited, and they'd leave their forces weaker as they send out more shinobi to clear it up. The enemy's backup supply has already been narrowed down and taken care of. After this, it'd be the perfect opportunity to gain ground."
Tobirama stayed silent. He knew his Butsuma enough to know that he was leading up to either good news, or grim news.
"I asked Hashirama to eliminate the Uraka," he paused, then he cut his eyes towards Tobirama. "He refused."
A mixture of relief and despair pulled at his chest. He could see why his brother turned it down. He stared at the bridge of Butsuma's nose, already understanding where he was going with this. It's not the first time he's stood here and heard similar words, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.
Butsuma scowled. "He didn't understand what a great opening this has given us. We can finally put a dent in their forces. If all goes well we might even end that insufferable brother of the clan head, the one who claims to be a blessed," he scoffed, shook his head, breathed a long sigh. "I haven't been hard enough on Hashirama. Even so, I expected better. Your brother has disappointed me, Tobirama—" he said, and then his expression twisted into something of a smile. It looked wrong on his face, pulling on his scars, turning it into something darker, crueler.
"—but you won't."
He forced down the sick feeling in his stomach from his father's faith in his ruthlessness. He kept his face blank, only nodding firmly. His throat was tight, so he didn't speak, but Butsuma was satisfied in his silence. He tossed a scroll to Tobirama, who caught it easily, without flinching—a sign of weakness is something his father would not allow.
Tobirama opened the scroll mechanically, his eyes roving over the information, swallowing quietly. It wasn't anything he hadn't expected, he reminded himself. He's done similar missions before, has come out largely unscathed from most of them. It didn't quite quell the tight feeling in his chest.
It's true that he'd been forced to grow up faster than his siblings, and it showed. While Hashirama held the favor of their god as the blessed, and the most powerful, he was still just a child forced to be a Shinobi. He lacked that grown-up maturity still. Tobirama was a prodigy, a tool; even younger than Hashirama, and the perfect Shinobi that their father hoped for. He was better than strong for his age, his chakra control was great, and he was unbeatable in water release. He was quiet, calm, and he followed orders without question.
It is something Hashirama resents about him, he knows.
Hashirama hesitates. Hashirama always hopes. Hashirama always asks, always argues with Butsuma, always gets away with it either by Tobirama stepping in to diffuse the issue or because of his status—both as heir and blessed one.
There's no status that protects Tobirama. He's the spare child, the spare heir. He can't hesitate or fight like his brother, and he has little choice in that fact. He knows what weakness means for him under his father's command. He's read his mother's journals. He's seen the horrific outcome first hand with his own eyes, even. But Butsuma fixates upon disobedience—not blind, unshakable deference, and he knows that as long as he is the ruthless, distant Shinobi that his father wants, then he'll be satisfied enough not to dig deeper.
And Tobirama has a lot to hide. A lot to be unearthed.
(If father had known that Tobirama's water release did not need any hand seals—well.
He'd be long dead, that's for sure.)
"When should I leave?" he asked simply, trying not to show how much Butsuma unnerved him.
"An hour. Don't disappoint me." It's a dismissal, and Tobirama is eager to comply.
He packs what he needs and then spends the next forty minutes with Itama. He doesn't eat, because he thinks he might throw up later, though Itama looks disapprovingly at him for it. He drags his feet when it's time to leave, and Itama hugs him extra tight the way he does when nobody's looking.
"Good luck on your mission, Tobirama-niisan!" he says. "Come home safe!"
He smiles hollowly, nods, lets the emptiness settle in his heart, and then he's gone.
Murder is easy, as usual. Too easy.
(Or should he call it a slaughter? That's what it felt like, surrounded by civilian corpses, the reek of death burning his nose. Their chakras had all been so small, like little fireflies blinking out of existence, forced into a hibernation they'd never wake from.)
Duty, that's what their father called it. Protecting their family, their clan. It's us or them, he'll say.
He washed his hands in the stream on the way back. Rinsed his mouth from the taste of vomit. There wasn't a speck of blood on his armor.
Hashirama knew anyway. He always does.
"Tobirama, how could you?!" he explodes, speaking to him for the first time in—what? Days? Weeks? His eyes were dark, and for a moment they were just like father's, full of rage and disappointment. "How could you kill them?! They were innocent! There were families—kids!"
He was right. They had been innocent. Supplying the Uchiha was not a crime. He could still see their bodies in his mind's eye, blood-streaked and stiff in death, the scent of urine and iron still haunting his nose. He tries not to look at the faces of the civilians he murders, but sometimes it's unavoidable, and if it's not—well, his imagination wasn't lacking. Bile crawls up his throat, self-loathing thickening his tongue.
He sets down his warm cup of tea, the comfort of it no longer encompassing, and he hides the return of the shakiness in his hands by placing them under the table. Pain bleeds through the numbness that had taken over. How many children had there been? Five? Ten? It didn't matter. They were dead.
His lips pressed flat. "I had no choice," he said stiffly.
"No choice?!" Hashirama slams his hands down on the kitchen table, rattling the half-full mug. He leans closer, nearing Tobirama's face. "There's always a choice between what's easy and what's right! Those people did nothing to earn death! And father's plan— do you really think the children deserve to starve, even if they're Uchiha? You know this isn't right! That's why I turned down the mission!"
He felt as if every single cell in his body stiffened, his throat going tight. He stares at Hashirama, speechless. He wants to argue with him—wants to tell him that it's not how it works, that they're not the same—but Hashirama will never understand. Hashirama wasn't there, after all, he didn't know the truth of Butsuma, didn't know what could be awaiting Tobirama should he fail to be as he's expected.
(It's not the first time they've argued about this, because it's not the first time that Tobirama's been handed his missions. But it's the first time they've fought since Hashirama's distanced himself. The chasm between them is jagged—and it cuts.)
"I'm not you, Hashirama," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I'm not able to just—turn down missions, like you can."
Hashirama recoils, reeling back like he's been slapped. "Are you—?" His face is stunned. He shakes his head in disbelief. "Are you seriously blaming me for this?" What? That's not what he said—! "I'm not the one who slaughtered innocent civilians here! Families!"
Frustration eats at his chest. What could he say? What could he tell him? Hashirama already knew his privilege as the clan heir and blessed one. He and Itama didn't have that advantage. Tobirama spent so much time taking missions to make his father satisfied enough that he'd lay off his brothers, hopefully give them enough time to train and grow strong enough to protect themselves. He'll only be satisfied for so long, especially now that Kawarama has died. Every Shinobi lost is another on the battlefield, taking their place. Itama will be next, no matter how young he is.
Itama's only six, but even a toddler with a weapon is still considered an enemy. Butsuma would say that all that pudgy baby-fat, that delicate soft paper skin, all of that is just a deception. A Shinobi is a Shinobi, no matter how small they are, no matter the height they stand, or the way they cry when you cut them down. Kids were weapons—weapons that grow older, sharper, more deadly. Child-hunters weren't uncommon, not in clans that were deep in war. It was unkind, but it was their way of life.
And Tobirama, Itama—they weren't exceptions to that.
(Kawarama died because he wasn't. He was only seven years old.)
Tobirama is the Senju Clan's prodigy, their asset, their perfect tool. He's admired just as much as he is feared. He hates it, hates the way he staggers when he finally gets through the doorway of his room after missions, how his hands will always be bloody no matter how much he wishes otherwise, but he needs the strength to be able to protect his brothers, needs strength to be respected, needs strength to be able to stand up to his father one day. Can't Hashirama see that? Tobirama's just doing what needs to be done. They all are.
Hashirama's dream of peace, it just wasn't in their reality, not yet. They had to survive first. So why was he being punished for that?
What did he want? Tears? Regret? He's sick with guilt, he's already drowning in it—why couldn't he see that?
Hashirama's his older brother. Isn't he supposed to know him better than everyone else? Does he want a show of weakness? Proof that he isn't what he says he is? He can't—father will kill him.
(Father will kill him—he will. They've never talked about that night, never acknowledged Tobirama's presence in the room, but he'd rushed in at his mother's scream and Butsuma had passed him when he stormed out the door. He'd already killed one child, and it may not have been his—but the look in his eyes—if he had to kill one of his own children, he would. Undoubtedly, he'd do it. And it's not just the secret of his brother's death Tobirama's keeping silent on.)
Tobirama closed his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Hashirama's chakra churns in agitation when he doesn't immediately open them.
(Disappointing Hashirama—or disappointing Butsuma. He wasn't sure which one he feared more. Both seemed inevitable.)
"I had no choice, Anija," he repeats hollowly, and leans back into the chair. He keeps his eyes closed, part in denial perhaps—or maybe he just can't bear to see the expression that will be crossing his brother's face. It doesn't help any. He can still sense it all.
(Wilted petunias, poison sap, acidic berries—he can taste it all in his brother's chakra, entwined in his godly energy, bearing down on him. His negativity is always harsher, always more horrible against his senses, because it's so unlike anyone else's. A blessed one's ire is so much more powerful—so much more agonizing to withstand.)
"You know…" Hashirama says at length, his voice thin, and quieter, and the disappointment and disgust is much, much worse than the rage. "Before this, I thought you understood. But... you're just like father—just like the rest of the clan. And you don't even look sorry for it."
He doesn't flinch. It's hard, but he doesn't. His fingers are digging into his knees, his skin wet with blood and aching fiercely under his nails. There's stinging behind his lids.
He hears Hashirama shift. Footsteps drag along the floor, purposefully loud. Then they stop, exactly where he knows the door-frame to be.
"And if she were here, I think mother would be disappointed, too."
This time, he does flinch. His eyes jerk open, blinded by the sudden rush of tears. A sob catches on his tongue, and he's choking on it, heaving with it, trembling with the force of it. Distantly, there's a flicker of fear at Hashirama seeing him like this, but his senses tell him that his weakness stays unseen. His brother had been walking away before he even finished his sentence.
Hashirama's— already gone.
Growing up, there hadn't been much room for fantasies in war. Father doesn't believe in fairy tales, doesn't like the happy, warm weakness they bring. The only stories allowed in their compound surround Sarutahiko-sama, old myths and tales where he gifts mortals with land and abundance, others where he wars with other beings—gods who are usually painted in a bad light, and Sarutahiko-sama always as the victor. It wasn't something that appealed to him, not after learning so many legends from their mother when she was alive.
Instead, Tobirama had usually read his mother's journal under the covers in the form of a lullaby, until he's dozing, tracing the words with his eyes, exhaustion weighing down his lids.
The journal's years old, and well-used. Once upon a time the pages had been pristine, made from the bark of the gampi tree—washi paper, mother had called it. Though he'd taken great care of her journal, it was obvious it was old. The paper was worn, the outside leather marked and scuffled, and it hung slightly open on specific areas, like a few pages had been ripped out. Itama had accepted it into his hands gently, reverently, his watery eyes running over the handwriting with a slow, meaningful gaze. Tobirama had blinked back tears at the sight, a knot forming in his throat, shame weighing heavy in his stomach.
After he'd given it to Hashirama to read a few years ago, his brother had let it slip that it was mother's, and father had gone white with rage. Mother had written many things he didn't agree with, after all, and Hashirama had taken her values on, clashed with father again and again like he channeled all of her hopes and dreams in spirit. Tobirama had taken it—hidden it—before father could destroy it, but the damage was already done. He couldn't be seen reading it. He couldn't hint that he followed the same beliefs without Butsuma knowing it was he who hid it. Hashirama got punished for trying to protect it and not sharing it's location, but Tobirama still kept his mouth shut, and his brother didn't blame him for it.
Only Hashirama knew it was Tobirama who first had it, that it was Tobirama who had given it to him to read—and Hashirama wasn't telling.
(If there was one thing they could always agree on, it was to protect the only thing left of mother from their father's rotten hands.)
But it had meant Kawarama and Itama weren't included, that they didn't know anything about their mother except from word of mouth from their elder brothers, cousins, clan members. It was painful, watching their eyes light up at the smallest speck of information about her. Tobirama hid that joy from them. They hadn't been old enough to keep a secret back then, and next thing they knew Kawarama had died without knowing, without understanding who their mother was—and Tobirama promised himself Itama wouldn't die the same way, ignorant of her and the quiet strength she held. Not completely.
He and Itama sat on the bed, a paper seal for privacy stuck to one of Itama's walls, Tobirama using half of his attention to sense their father's chakra signature to make sure he wouldn't walk in and see it. He rests the journal in his lap, leans back against the headboard, and he reads the words out loud to Itama for the first time.
(They start from the beginning, together.)
"My mother sent this empty book with me on my journey, in vain—she had thought. I am not one to journal, not when my daily routine remains quite boring, but an allowance must be made in this instance. I am to be married to a war-heavy clan—to the clan head, by no surprise of my elders, and together from the rational fear clouding my head, with it came my decision to write. It's unusual for me to accept any kind of gift from my mother, but I fear that my spoken reflections, by some, will be thought too grave; my tongue can only be bitten many times and it occurred to me that I'm unsure if I will survive even speaking freely, however much I pray to divinity."
The Senju are fierce warriors, I had heard from sisters and cousins and the whispers of the help from the crack beneath the kitchen doors—mighty, powerful, they'd said. I wasn't sure if I'd believed them until this moment, as they sat around me guarding me from both outside the carriage and in; I can hear the shifting of their armor plates, but there are no footsteps, just primal, male intimidation, the knowing of their presence itching my skin. I'd expected burly, large men with permanent scowls, locked jaws, and angry eyes. Instead there were men of all sizes, burly, stick-thin, even boys, I was horrified to find, barely reaching the stomach, practically a babe. I'd seen a woman in armor—I could hardly believe my eyes. She had not garnered the same respect, she was not as equal as they made the woman seem at first glance, but she was there with hard, locked-door eyes, scars running up her hands, a willingness to fight in the slide of her shoulders. I was in awe. I was in fear. The reality of my situation had crept through the numbness, and even through the tension my mother and I hold, I find myself thankful that she has given me this gift—at the very least so I do not have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs like a fearful girl on the cusp of a fainting spell."
My hands have begun to shake as I write—I fear for all my knowledge, this has crept upon me. I forcefully have not put much thought into my future in the Senju, not until this moment, though not with the help of my clan—who, at every waking moment had asked questions even I couldn't answer. I had put it out of mind, perhaps in denial; the strife of the wars have reached ever as far as we, after all, and I knew that fearing for my life in my clan, the Hatake, was much different from fearing for my life in the Senju, who are all but in the eye of the hurricane, in the very center of the bloodshed, standing tall on bones and blood money that my father was all too eager to trade me for. Butsuma Senju, my husband-to-be has replied to my inquiring letters with short, stiff answers, like he is being held at knife-point, and I fear that such a well-fought man might not find it in himself to open his heart to me, and just that thought brings forth streams of new terrors; that perhaps he is already in love, or that he may find himself better off with willy shrews and seductive concubines warming his bed, or that he may even treat me like you would a cold sack of flour, expressionless and feeble and undoubtedly an object. I fear to have a daughter, just so she could escape this terrifying uncertainty that hangs over me at being at the mercy of man in a man's world. I only hope that any son I bear will grow loving and nurturing the woman of their choosing, that this violent, war-ridden world will not find it's place rooted even within their hearts, that they choose kindness. There is already too much grief in the air—we need not more." Tobirama's voice tapered out into a slow, quiet whisper, his eyes running over the shaky handwriting with tender care, warmth curling in his chest even as his thawed-out heart ached with loss.
"She must've been really scared," said Itama. He'd laid down against the pillows halfway through, simply listening to Tobirama's calm voice as he read. The warm, golden light of the oil lamp danced across his soft, young face, so free of shadow, the light of his eyes making him look ever gentle and snug in the fur of his blankets.
Tobirama nodded. "But she was very strong, even if she didn't know it yet."
"She sounded smart, too," his brother whispered. "She wrote so formal..." His eyes were half-lidded with sleep.
"Yes," he murmured. He leaned down and placed a quiet kiss on his little brother's forehead, smiling as Itama sighed contently. "She was the smartest woman I've ever known."
Itama's eyes crinkled in a sad smile. "Yeah," he yawned, watery eyes sliding shut, a stubborn tear escaping down his cheek. "I wish…I'd known her…" A whisper of a giggle escaped him. "...I hope…I make her…proud..."
His breath evened out, light snores breezing the air. Tobirama pressed his lips together tightly and stared down at the worn journal in his lap, his heart clenching.
He wished that his brothers had known her quiet strength like he and Hashirama had, too.
"I'm certain that she already is," he whispered. How could she not be proud? Itama was everything she had wished for—kind and hopeful just like Hashirama. He brushed a stray hair from his brother's forehead, reaching over to the bedside table. Cold shadows drenched the room as the warm light flickered and died, and Tobirama left for his own room silently, clutching the journal under his shirt, gazing at the moonlight creeping in through the windows of the hallway, thinking of mother; her smiling visage, kind red eyes, her blood splattered nightgown—
—and the pages torn from her journal, buried beneath the floorboards of his room, hidden and forgotten.
"What do you think of the gods, Tobirama-niisan?" Itama suddenly asks one day.
Tobirama shifts. "I have some opinions that perhaps shouldn't… be said aloud—or repeated." His narrowed eyes locked on Itama. "What prompted this?"
Itama bit his lip, glancing at the privacy seals on the wall. "All father and the clan talks about is Sarutahiko-sama," he said hesitantly, his brows furrowed. "All the other gods… they only tell us they're bad, that they're weak, that they don't deserve to be worshipped. I thought it didn't make sense. They're always defeated by Sarutahiko-sama in stories… but your power is strong, so how would the water god be weak? I don't understand…"
Tobirama was silent for a moment. He searched Itama's face, and what he saw there made him relax. "Mother used to tell us stories," he said lowly. "Her clan—the Hatake—they held a very different perspective on the gods than our clan does, Itama."
His brother's face brightened. "Mother's clan? Really?"
He nodded. "She talks a little about it in her journal, in the next few entries. It was hard for her to adjust to our clan when she married father."
Itama's face twisted with confusion. "Why?" he asked. "Because we follow Sarutahiko-sama?"
"No," said Tobirama. "Because they wouldn't allow her to follow any god but Sarutahiko-sama."
His face fell. "Oh," he said quietly. "That's so unfair."
"It is. But you know how they are. It's treason to follow another god."
"That's why you're so scared?" Itama says. "Of father?"
"It's one of the reasons," Tobirama said softly.
Itama's face hardened. "He's stupid then," he said angrily, clenching his fists. "They all are. Because your power is really strong, and if they weren't so stupid then you'd be able to use it, and maybe then Kawarama wouldn't have died!"
Tobirama flinched, his face stricken.
Itama's eyes widened, then welled up. "Sorry, Tobi-nii," he whispered regretfully, shoulders slumping. "I didn't mean it like that."
"I know you didn't," Tobirama murmured with a sigh. He reached over and smoothed his hair down gently. "It's okay. I miss him too." Two thumbs brushed away Itama's tears, tender and kind.
"Will you tell me the stories?" Itama asked, craning his neck to stare up at him hopefully. "The ones mother told you?"
Tobirama smiled down at him. "Of course. Tonight, I'll tell you one."
("Can you see it? It's there." he whispered, pointing up towards the string of stars. "In the old tales, Sarutahiko, our god, and Susanoo, the sea god, were rivals for a time. They fell for the same mortal woman, but she was unsure who to choose. They decided to have a show of strength to decide who she would marry. Susanoo made the ocean float to the sky, and took her for a stroll to explore the extreme depths of the sea floor whilst the water and sea animals clung to the heavens for all to see."
"Cool…" Itama whispered with awe.
Tobirama nodded, smiling. "Sarutahiko, though, decided that something permanent would endear her, so he pulled an island from the sea and gifted it to her. He'd grown a great deal of exotic fruits, plants, and drawn up the finest gems and metals from deep in the earth to litter the grounds."
"Wow!" Itama turned his head to peer at him, "If you were a god, would you pull up an island for me?"
"I suppose," he said, smiling. "Just don't tell Hashirama—otherwise he would want one too."
"Cool!" Itama beamed. "And would you pick up the ocean for me too?"
"That sounds like a bit more work," Tobirama says thoughtfully. "The whole ocean is too big. Perhaps just a lake."
"A big lake," Itama demanded. "A pretty one—one that mirrors all beauty on it's surface."
Tobirama arched an amused brow. "Yes," he chuckled. "The prettiest lake—for my strong and manly little brother."
"Hey!" he cried out, reaching over to poke at his face with persistent, stubby fingers. "Are you mocking me, Tobirama-niisan!?"
"Why would I do that, Itama-hime?" he asked. "I would never be so rude."
"Arrrgggh!" His brother cried, swinging playful hits at his shoulder. "I'm no princess! I'm a boy! A man!"
"Hmm," Tobirama says noncommittally, biting back a smile. His brother let out an fake battle cry.
Tobirama chuckled and dodged his elbow. "Shall I continue?"
"Fine," Itama pouted. "What happened next?"
"They argued for a long time about which was better, and in their rage, they lost themselves. She died from throwing herself between their blows, trying to stop the fighting. Amaterasu, taking pity, laid her to rest in the stars. That's her constellation up there—the lady Himwe."
"That's really sad," he said. "But I don't get it. If they wanted to know who's was better so badly, why didn't they just ask her?"
"I suppose they must've treated women even worse back then," said Tobirama. "In mother's journal it was like that too, and that was not long ago in comparison."
"Not long? But how is Touka a shinobi then…"
"Touka is Touka," Tobirama said dryly.
Itama laughed. "Yeah, you're right! It's confusing…"
"There are some more progressive clans than others," he explained finally. "The Uzumaki Clan's Head are usually women. They are also trained to fight. Mother's clan never allowed anything like that. In our clan it's rare for women to fight. Touka just refused to be overlooked, and her mother supported her."
Itama hummed. They laid there for a moment in silence.
"What are you thinking about?" Tobirama wondered.
"That it would be cool to be a star," Itama said. "Like in the story. When you die, you could look down at everyone you left behind, and watch over them—and they'd always know you're there, so they won't feel alone. Amaterasu's nice for doing that."
Tobirama gazed up thoughtfully, his eyes tracing along the night sky. "I suppose you're right."
"Maybe if we pray, the gods will put mother and K-Kawarama up there," he said with a small sniffle.
"Maybe they will," said Tobirama. He reached out and grasped Itama's hand in his own, squeezing comfortingly. "Let us pray, then.")
Time passes like a blur.
Butsuma sends him on more missions. Some of them are supposed to be Hashirama's. After every single one of them he comes back to find his brother there, waiting expectantly, his eyes tight with stubborn anger.
Hashirama's never there to make sure he's okay. He never asks if he's injured, never checks him over like he used to. When he sees Tobirama come home wearing blood on his armor he looks to him and thinks of the people that are dead, of the innocents that didn't deserve to die—he looks at his younger brother and he sees a sword that cuts too quickly and without question.
He yells and screams and wants Tobirama to be different. He tries to reason with him sometimes, on good days, begs him to stop. On others he just argues with him and talks over him and tells him that he's just like father, and slowly Tobirama—starts to believe him. Starts to wonder if he lost himself trying to keep his family safe. Starts to toss and turn at night over the idea that he's slowly slipping through his father's fingers and into his skin instead.
("I just don't understand," his older brother says, quiet and defeated. "Don't you see what he's doing to you? Mother wouldn't have wanted this. I thought you… I thought you loved her.")
The judgement hurts, but Tobirama knows he's not wrong. He's a killer, and he kills without question. The clan looks upon him with hope and fear. They look at him and they see a force against the Uchiha. They look at him and they see hatred against their enemies, and they're proud of it.
They look at him and whisper, why can't Hashirama be more like him? They whisper, why didn't Sarutahiko-sama bless Tobirama, too? They whisper, how lucky we are that he's so unlike his mother…
No, he thinks. Hashirama is right. Mother wouldn't have wanted this.
He starts returning slower, washing the blood away in the river before he can get home after every mission. Bows his head in silence as Hashirama looks at him in disappointment, in disgust. He stops trying to defend himself, and just lets the words roll over him, into him, burrowing deep in his chest and making a place there. He accepts them.
His brother sees the bowing, the blank apologies, never hears him argue back. Tobirama keeps going on missions, and keeps silent.
Hashirama starts expecting it, the deference, the cold quiet. He doesn't yell at him as much—he just appears resigned. Like he's finally accepted it. Like he just expects the worst out of him.
(He just accepts that his younger brother is a miniature father with their mother's face, hair, eyes, and he looks no further.)
It wears him down—the crushing weight of his secrets. The consequence of his actions.
The nightmares get worse.
Some days he wakes up with hot tears on his cheeks and the taste of salt in his mouth, screams ringing through his ears, blood gushing in his mind's vision, the echoes of chakra signatures vanishing from the earth, their essence thick with terror. Those days are the worst ones, because he feels like a walking wraith, feels like the white ghost the Uchiha think him to be, feels like he's not quite in his body.
It's not easy, not when Butsuma calls him in when he's feeling that way, not when he gets berated for not paying attention, not when he's putting all his focus into not throwing up at the sight of him. The child-killer. The man who murdered his brother. His father.
It's not easy, not when he comes home, exhaustion straining his bones, and Hashirama just shakes his head at him, his chakra recoiling at his presence.
All his spare time is spent trying to distract himself. He ignores the nausea, draws up experimental seals, practices jutsu. He leaves charms at the shrine. He spars with Itama, tells him tales of the gods under the stars, reads mother's journal in the safety of a dozen privacy seals.
They grow closer. In between training, Itama spends every moment that he can by Tobirama's side, and the presence of him—him and his chakra—it's like a warm hug.
(The grief never really goes away, but it helps that he's not so alone.)
The door jerked open, but having sensed him coming, Tobirama didn't jump. Itama stumbled in, and the breeze that swept in made a whoosh of papers flutter to the ground in a scattered heap, adding to the growing pile. "Your room is a mess!" he complained, picking one up, peering at it with interest. "What's this? Are these new seals?"
Quick as a flash, Tobirama stood from the desk and snatched it from Itama's hands, his heart thumping fast. "It's an exploding seal!" he said sternly. "Don't just wave it around like that!"
"Cool!" Itama exclaimed, wholly unconcerned. "An exploding seal! That sounds dangerous!" He reached out, making grabby hands. Tobirama dodged him and backed away, groaning with annoyance.
"It is," he said, clutching it to his chest protectively. "It's very dangerous— You can't just wave it around, Itama—"
Itama bent at the waist and dug his hands into the papers scattered on the floor. "What's this one? Oh wow, this one is big—"
"Don't just grab them!" he cried.
"But you just let them sit on the floor—"
"Because I trust myself not to accidentally implode them!"
Itama laughed at him, waving his hand absentmindedly.
"Insolent," said Tobirama, not without affection. He shook his head. "Who gave you sugar? You're unusually excitable."
"Tomoe-ojisan," Itama said, without a hint of shame.
"The old letch?"
"Mmhm!" His brother stuck his tongue out and dove on Tobirama's bed. "Tobirama-niisan, teach me!"
"Teach you?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Sealing!"
"I don't think so," he said flatly.
"What?" he whined. "Why not?"
"There is no way I'd be able to get you to sit still for more than five minutes after you've ingested sugar," Tobirama said. "Not without paralyzing seals and a lot of rope."
"I'm not that bad," Itama complained, like he didn't turn into the clan's most successful escape artist with the right amount of sweetness and boredom. "C'mon, please? Tobi-nii?"
He paused and considered it. Itama used to always beg Hashirama to teach him. Tobirama was usually busy reading, training or studying if he weren't on missions, and had little time to teach, so he was never asked. But he found it was nice… he felt wanted, like his little brother liked his company, which, logically he knew he did… but it was nice to hear it.
He eyed his little brother suspiciously, then heaved a half-hearted sigh. "Alright," he says, turning his face slightly away to hide the small smile at Itama's cry of joy. "But you have to do as I say! No more grabbing at dangerous seals!"
"I swear! I won't let you down!"
He could feel he was going to regret this.
("Tobirama-niisan… I'm… really sorry for blowing up all of your seals…"
"It's…fine.")
"He is a harsh shade of handsome, was my first thought upon meeting my future husband—and yet, to my utmost dread, my next inspections had not been so kind; the way he had stood stiffly with the company upon our arrival, the steely sweep of his eyes over me when I'd tiredly lumbered from the carriage, the look of cool appraisal on his face not unlike a man searching the worth of a promising object... I feel the chill of his gaze even now, as I write this in my generous chambers in my lonesome, for how I cannot forget the disregard that had been hinted in his expression on the arrival of I, his future wife. We are to be wed in two short days on the stair of the shrine that I'd seen hinted through the gaps of trees through soft, golden lantern light, a shot of warm against the icy night that I'd savored when my guard had escorted me to my rooms. I'd thought it had looked pretty, then—peaceful in a way which I found unfamiliar. Even for Butsuma's ugly impression I find myself looking forward to it, imagining how the moss-covered stone path may look in the sunlight and how the abundant flowers would shiver in the breeze as my husband bent down to kiss me to seal our marriage. Would his lips feel as rough as the rest of him looks, or shall they be soft and warm—contradictory to his closed-off, tempered demeanor? If I wished it so, could my ice temper his stubborn, iron blaze? My mother would scold me for my high expectations, I remind myself; but I can only hope, for otherwise my future from where I sit looks very grim...
There is much tension in this household. The help had flinched away from me as if my gaze caused them a great deal of pain, and the greetings of the Senju clan-members and entourage of elders had been rigid and frosty enough to linger in the air, even after they had all drifted inside at their quick dismissal. They distrust me and it shows. Already I ache with longing for the grey-bleach summits of the Hatake land, my thoughts lingering on my sisters and their well being in particular, the bittersweet feelings towards my parents rising beneath it. I would miss being surrounded by those that share my look and breathe the same chilling air—the light eyes of my fellow clan members, the snow-touched hair that swayed in the wind as my younger sisters pulled me along towards the beauty of the lake, every moment grander and unutterably lovely, the nin-wolves nipping at our heels as we laughed. The yearning in my heart led to fearful thoughts, unbidden; Would I ever see them again? My father had traded me at the first chance of higher influence and blood money—I feared for my sisters who sit on the cusp of womanhood, innocent and carefree as they toe the mirrored lake and run from mother's lessons, following every whim that floats to mind. Would they follow my own fate, traded away like rusted coins from the purse, doomed to the wiles of a man's gambit? Would they fall into the hands of someone who would wish far worse on them in comparison to my husband's cold, distant poise? I find that hope is all I have left—the only thing steadying the shake of my hands as my body belays my true terror, my reality finally setting in. This journal is of great comfort, but perhaps sleep will do me more good…" he finishes reading, closing the journal.
"It's unfair," Itama said, "how mother and her sisters weren't allowed to marry who they choose…"
"It is," Tobirama agreed. "Though, we wouldn't be here otherwise, would we? Mother might regret not being in a loving relationship, that is true. But I can't imagine she'd regret you, Kawarama, or Hashirama."
Itama smiled warmly. Cutely. "Yeah," he said. "Tobirama-niisan is so cool, so I know she'd never regret you either."
Wouldn't she? He wondered, thinking of Hashirama's cutting words after his mission. But no, he knew. His mother didn't truly have the heart to regret any of her children. Not even... His breath stuttered, then he sucked in a deep sigh, and smiled. "Right."
He watched, content, as Itama raised his eyes to the ceiling with a thoughtful expression. "Hey Tobi-nii?" he asks, "What happened to our mother's sisters?"
"I'm unsure," he says after a moment. "Father never let me contact them. He never let mother contact them, either."
"That's really mean," his brother muttered. "I'd be really mad if I couldn't talk to you."
"Me too," he said. "Perhaps one day we can meet them—when we're grown up, and father can't stop us."
"That sounds nice," said Itama. "Hashirama would like that too! And Kawa—" he stopped abruptly, blinking back sudden tears. For a moment, it'd seemed like he'd forgotten.
He rests a gentle hand on Itama's head, combing his fingers through his hair soothingly. "I think Kawarama would've loved the idea," he reassures softly.
Itama hiccupped. "I really... miss Kawarama," he whimpers, burrowing deeper into Tobirama's chest. His chakra is like a wounded, trusting animal, reaching out with noiseless cries, curling around him.
Tobirama closed his eyes, sighing deeply. "As do I," he murmurs, dropping his chin onto Itama's head, eyes stinging, choking down the grief. Images flash through his mind—Kawarama as a toddler, giggling, reaching up towards him with small, demanding hands—mixed laughter by the river—tiny fingers poking at his cheek annoyingly—grit, bone, blood and tissue, deep, haunting terror—
His throat clenches, a cold shiver slipping down his back. Tobirama squeezed his arms around him tighter.
"I wish Hashi-nii would hang out with us again," Itama adds in a small voice.
He runs a hand soothingly through his hair, eyes prickling. "I know. He will, someday soon. I'm sure of it."
They sit there in silence for a moment, breathing in the comfort.
"Tobi-nii?" Itama whispers, and Tobirama feels tears dampening his shirt. "I hope you know that I love you lots."
The deep breath he takes in is thick with sorrow, dry and rattling in his lungs. For a moment he doesn't understand how someone so pure has been born into such a bloody clan. He feels his face crumple, his eyebrows furrowed as he's overcome with a flood of emotion. "Oh, Itama," he says, "I love you more than you could imagine."
"Even though I blew up all your seals?" Itama asks.
"Yes," Tobirama whispers, smiling, a few stray tears escaping from his half-shut eyes, savoring the adoration pouring from Itama's chakra—open and warm, comforting like incense and warm tea on a cold winter's night, a body next to his as the moon looks down at them through the open window. "—though if you do it again, I won't be so forgiving..."
A choked laugh wheezed from Itama's throat. "I'll keep that in mind, Tobi-nii."
He dreams of a storm, mighty and harrowing, rocking the ship that churned and shook under Tobirama's feet, the thunder shaking the sky. He's clinging to the sodden railing, yelling at the top of his lungs as his body is thrown around, the whoosh of the waves spraying against his face.
There's a man beside him, sitting on the railing, his body swaying with the ship as if he's one with the colossal waves. "What are you so afraid of?" he asks, smiling. His deep-set, inquisitive eyes are set on Tobirama, searching.
Tobirama just looks at him, hoping that he can read the 'are you an idiot' in his expression, then stares down at the edge of the whirlpool the boat is wandering towards. The air fizzed and shook, then the branched lightning hissed and struck down, down into the whirlpool, a blinding flash lighting it up for a brief moment. The moment was long enough for Tobirama to glimpse through the dark, enough to see how monstrous the whirling sinkhole really was—and it was. Bigger than the ship, bigger than a million ships, it was the grotesque mouth of a god ready to devour all life. He feels tiny and small and hopeless, his heart trying to wrench itself through the cell of his ribcage. Thunder boomed and the ship trembled beneath his fingers, hard rain drenching his hair, and the man beside him laughed.
"There's no reason to fear it," the man said, simple and amused, still sitting there with his legs over the edge of the railing, swinging over open air, his smiling eyes gazing into the deep abyss. "It's inevitable. It's nature. Just laugh."
"Just laugh?" Tobirama repeated dumbly, body shaking, nails digging into the hardwood, the break of a killer wave drenching him against the deck.
"How else can you live?" says the man. Then he stands up, and he's so tall it's like he's higher than the mast, which is strange because he didn't seem so tall sitting down.
"Well?" he says—then he jumps, laughing the entire way, and because his voice is so booming, like the thunder, Tobirama can hear him even once he reaches the bottom, swallowed by the sea.
Tobirama gasps. Then, for reasons unknown, he throws himself up onto the railing, standing with newfound balance even when the mist from a wave slaps, splatters against his back, and he gazes into the abyss—
And then he jumps too.
"You didn't laugh," he hears someone say, but he's already waking up.
End
Tobirama's mother will have a really heavy impact in this story. I've wrote 1/4 of her entire journal at 6,483 words, but it's definitely gonna be 18,000-25,000 words about her finding her voice, her hopes and dreams, that kinda stuff. Once I finish the entire thing I'll post it separately in it's entirety so you guys can read the full thing if you'd like, but it'll all be in this story through little snippets too.