(Thunder trembled the ground. The earth groaned and shook. Lightning touched down, down into the sea, down into the mouth of the god—)
The Uchiha didn't take Butsuma's plan very well, as expected.
Tobirama ran. His legs bent to cover the impact, again and again as he darted through the leaves, his trained footfalls barely a brush of wind against the high tree branches. Behind him shadows danced, flashes of pale skin under the fading light, soundless movements catching the corners of his eyes—Touka and Kaoru. Even without looking he could sense them, two dry stars of chakra brushing against his senses, tasting of steel and grim determination.
In the distance, he sensed them—their signatures like ants, one small and feeble, and the other not so. He let himself fall, catching himself on a thick branch, scanning ahead. He felt his shadows stop above him, waiting patiently.
How far? Said the tapping, Kaoru's fingers knocking slowly against the tree trunk.
"Four hundred meters," he said under his breath. Touka whistled in reply, the sound a perfect imitation of a bird. I'll be your eyes from above, it meant. He glanced up, his eyes catching on the twirl of the senbon between her fingers, the flash of a smirk, of hard eyes, the acidic scent of poison brushing his sensitive nose.
An airy huff whispered through the leaves, then Kaoru dropped down next to him silently, kunai sliding from his sleeves and into his hands. He cocked an eyebrow at Tobirama, smiling crookedly, but his eyes were dark, his lips a bit too flat. He saluted mockingly, the kunai held loosely between his fingers glinting in the light, ready for battle.
Tobirama inclined his head, his lips pressed tightly together, dread coiled in his chest. None of them really wanted to be here, he knew. He could barely sense them in the direction they'd skirted around—the Uchiha skirmishing with their clan; Hashirama's chakra like the faintest breeze to his senses, the roar of Butsuma muted by the distance, dozens of little sparks surrounding them, clashing against each other.
He loathed to be away while his family was fighting. It was likely Hashirama would return unharmed, however—the battle was a mere pretence by the Uchiha, after all; a diversion to hide their efforts of gaining new food suppliers. Their goal was not to slaughter, but to distract. They'd retreat when they were sure they'd provided enough cover for their clansmen to leave for the capital unnoticed.
But it was useless, Tobirama knew. Butsuma had planned this weeks in advance—had thought of all the ways they'd retaliate with manic obsession. The Uraka Clan's extermination was a mere catalyst for their actions. Without food, the Uchiha have been driven into a corner—and now they've become predictable.
("Strip them of a basic need and then what, Tobirama? They cannot survive for long without it, and so it becomes their focus. Their movements become easy to foretell." Butsuma's eyes glinted menacingly. "And if not… well — ")
Touka breathed another bird-like whistle, sharp and quick.
There was a shiver of chakra, then Tobirama and Kaoru burst through the trees, the enemy's shouting alerting their presence. His tanto blurred silver in the moonlight, cutting without hesitation. Something squelched, blood splattering on the ground. The Uchiha—young, male, mid chakra grade—went down with a stuttered cry.
He glanced right, where Kaoru danced around a hail of kunai. The air blasted with heat, a fireball roaring towards him, hot enough to melt the flesh off bone, the chakra tasting of ash and rolling anger. Kaoru recoiled, his chakra spiking with panic, and Tobirama's hands blurred, seals searing through his mind. Power shivered through the air, goosebumps rising on his skin. He heaved and water streamed out of his mouth, clashing with the fireball, evaporating in a hiss of burning steam.
Senbon whizzed overhead. A wet gurgle sounded, high and choked and wretched.
The enemy was dead before they hit the ground.
Tobirama stared down at the bodies—too small, too young—his chest heaving, his heartbeat shaking the air. There'd only been two of them—children, easy to go unnoticed from the skirmish, the Uchiha must've thought—but easy to outnumber.
It was too easy, he thought, detached, Butsuma's voice ringing through his head, bile on his tongue.
("And if not… well — I suppose you'll have to be swift enough to counter it, won't you?")
Too easy, his thoughts echoed.
("There he goes again… everyone looks so angry. Why doesn't he give up? Hashi-nii must know the elders won't ever want peace with those — "
"Hush, Itama. Hashirama is in a position where he can fight for his future without much backlash, unlike us. Don't fault him for taking advantage."
"But what's the point, if no-one will listen?"
"Because he wouldn't forgive himself if he gave up. Peace with the Uchiha... Hashirama has a good dream, if not unrealistic. But that's what dreams are, sometimes. Dreams aren't perfect; they're just developed desires."
" But… nii-san, don't you hate the Uchiha?"
"No, not really."
"Why not?" he asked. "They kill our family."
"As we do theirs. It's true that I will do what is necessary to protect our family, but I also understand that they too, are human. We are mere reflections of each other."
"But father calls them demons. He says they have no emotion, that they worship evil beings, that they're evil and merciless and…"
"Father has never properly looked an Uchiha in the eyes," said Tobirama.
"What's wrong with that? We aren't supposed to, anyway. Their eyes are cursed."
"They may have the Sharingan," he said, "but their emotion is all in their eyes, Itama. Not their face."
"Really?"
He nodded. "Everyone who calls them blank, expressionless, evil… they have never looked at them."
"So I should look at their eyes?"
"No," he said. "Just understand that they are as human as you and I, and that it does not make them any less dangerous despite it.")
(The first time Tobirama Senju had met eyes with an Uchiha, he had seen agony.)
Six years old, at battle for the first time. His hands, shaky and small, clutching his kunai. Blood scenting the air. Bodies drenching the snow a bright, crimson red. Tobirama remembers.
He's been facing an unbeatable Uchiha with the tragic eyes, the one who had just—given up, accepted death, who looked so tired, who—for a moment—simply stood and watched as Tobirama went to slice his throat.
The one Tobirama had spared—a hairs-width away, his heart choking his breath, eyes caught in the Uchiha's dead stare. The man who had spared Tobirama in return, that hollow look searing his back as he retreated.
Uchiha Yoshirou, the brother of the clan head.
(Eyes like a blood moon, like exhaustion, eyes that had seen too much, eyes that looked so defeated despite his overwhelming power. Tobirama remembers.)
The Uchiha clan's blessed.
Tobirama gazed up at the stars, the stones surrounding the pond hard and cold beneath him. Out of the corner of his eyes, light danced, the lanterns glowing through the dim forest. He hears the charms swaying in the quiet breeze, clinking together with bell-like chimes.
He hears a quiet sigh. Tobirama cranes his neck to look to his brother, standing beneath the charm tree, gazing at the wishes on the lowest branch. "It's sad," he says quietly. "These have been here for years, and nobody gets what they asked for."
"Gods are fickle beings," said Tobirama with the same quietness.
Itama's hand brushed the charm, fingers glancing the script. "Mother never asked for anything," he said. Tobirama's eyes swept over the familiar charm, nearly hidden by the vast amount of charms hanging around it. The design was simple, delicate. Feminine.
I am grateful for the seasons, it read.
"I'm always wondering why," Itama continued.
"Mother liked finding things to feel grateful about," Tobirama murmured. "It made her feel happier, she said—because she focused on the positives, rather than the negatives. I suppose it gave her hope, too. Asking for things from the gods, like our clan does… it wasn't her way. She did pray in silence, sometimes. I never asked what she was praying for."
Itama's fingers catch on another charm. His hair flutters in the wind, two-toned, dark and light.
I am grateful for our abundance of food.
"Is that why Hashi-nii never writes charms?" he asks, tilting his head. "Is that why you don't?"
I am grateful for the sun.
"We did when we were younger," he said. "Some of those she wrote for us, because we weren't very neat with our writing yet. See this one?" Tobirama stands, reaches high, grasping a hanging charm at the base of the branch, tucked into a crevice of bark in the trunk, slightly hidden.
"Oh," said Itama. "So—you all did it? Not just her?"
"Yes. Though, we were toddlers. We didn't understand it until later." He tilts the charm down slightly so Itama can see it.
I am grateful for my family.
He gasps. "It's so pretty!"
"We worked on it together," Tobirama remembers wistfully. "Mother knew how to sew, so she always made her own charms. For this one, Hashirama and I fought over the colors, and when we finally agreed, she couldn't find the color we wanted in her threads. Instead of asking us to pick something else, she tore a part of one of her dresses and used the fabric."
He gazes at the back of the charm. Silver silk. Around it, the thin, delicate frame felt cold to the touch, steely and metallic. It stood out from the others, light and lavish.
"One of her expensive dresses ruined, just because we wanted silver. She just smiled. Our mother was—beautiful," he said, and he was smiling. "Inside and out." A lot like you, he thought.
"Then I'm grateful she's our mother," said Itama. "Even if I don't remember her—everything I hear about her makes me love her even more."
He runs his fingers through Itama's hair. "I'm glad, Itama."
His brother leaned into his hand, his chakra all gorgeous warm light, like a lantern. "What about you, Tobi-nii?" Itama peered up at him with smiling eyes. "What are you grateful about, right now?"
"Well," said Tobirama. "I have you, don't I?"
Tobirama breathed heavily, sweat pouring down his throat, his heart drumming in his ears. He leaned back in his chair, shivering. The air was charged with residual chakra, rolling fluidly against his tingling skin.
Three red slashes curved his face, his chin. Seals.
"I did it," he breathed, something rising in his throat, something like a sob, but relieved. "It worked."
His head lolled against his shoulder, satisfaction high despite his chakra reserves being near-empty, breathing through a smile.
Fūinjutsu, to Tobirama, had always been something of a comfort. It was something removed from anger, from fear, from the hard cruelty of war. Sealing was stark lines—maths—imagination—chakra. It had more uses than just being a weapon. It could be used in battle, that's true, but it relied on in-depth understanding, creativity, and countless hours. Many shinobi didn't have the patience for it, didn't find worth in the endless time passing when there were weapons or jutsu that could get the job done just as well, and faster. Hashirama never had the patience for it, either. Itama, while a determined student, lacked the determination to create his own; instead copying down Tobirama's privacy seals—learning how to make sealing scrolls—explosion tags—the basics. Nobody immersed themselves in them like Tobirama.
Sealing was his, something he excelled at, something he felt he could openly be proud of. Something that he didn't have to hide. Something he didn't have to fear.
Butsuma allowed his study because he assumed Tobirama was just adding another weapon to his arsenal. He wasn't wrong, really. Tobirama did use seals in battle—had many ideas for techniques, but it wasn't where his heart is.
(Help, rather than harm. Protect, rather than destroy. Creating inventions to make lives better. Tobirama has always wanted to do just that—has always wanted to grow into a man his mother would be proud of. Someone who could reach for their future. Someone who had hope.)
His hand rose, tracing the fresh seals on his face. Permanent red ink, like tattoos. In the tiny mirror on his desk, his face looked sharper. The seals made him look intense, more intimidating, but that hadn't been their purpose. He could feel the effects of them already, the extended reach of his senses, the overwhelming capacity of it.
Even still they grew, stretching further, all the way to the end of fire country, past it. He felt a little dizzy. His head drooped, his chin brushing his collarbone.
He stared down at the desk for a moment through blurred eyes, just thinking, his sapped brain running circles, looping through his fears. Would it get worse now, feeling so much more deaths because of his enhanced senses? Would Hashirama think he did it for all the wrong reasons? Would mother be proud of him now, as he is? He wondered if she'd understand his actions. If she would have done differently had it been her. Wondered how she'd once found the courage to just—stand up to Butsuma, to protect them. Wondered forlornly if he'd ever be anything like his mother, or anything like someone she would've smiled upon.
His hand grazed over the cover of the sealing journal, his fingertips tracing the familiar red spiral embroidered into the leather. Mindlessly, he flipped it open to the front page, his squinted eyes straining as he traced the old handwritten message etched beneath the title.
Tobirama, it said neatly, We don't know each other well, but I'm a friend of your mother's. She mentioned that you were interested in sealing, and I had this lying around gathering dust. My own grandmother was an Uzumaki, married into our clan to the then-head's brother, and this was her Fūinjutsu journal. Hopefully you find it as helpful as I once did. Best wishes. Senju Masashige.
It was a generous, thoughtful gift, and all those years ago Tobirama had been speechless upon receiving it. Back then, all he'd known of Senju Masashige was that he had been his mother's guard. Before he'd died when Tobirama was six, he was a distant figure to be sensed in the surroundings, his chakra a steady thrum of power and confidence.
Tobirama had once looked up to him. He hadn't spoken to him often—the man had been ordered to stick to his mother's shadow, to remain unseen for the most part—but Masashige would always leave him little gifts, tips on sealing, neat notes on a rare array that he'd once completed, quietly supportive. It had endeared him even more to the art.
He hadn't truly known Masashige outside of being an acquaintance; not until after his mother's death, where his memory was held in her pages, a mere ghost, unknown beyond words written fondly in dark ink. To everyone else, Masashige was remembered a traitor, remembered by the skin of his neck slicing red beneath Butsuma's blade, his eyes wrought with defeat as they dulled, his crimson hair limp against the grass. He was remembered as a warning to the clan, to never stray, to never put your faith in other gods. Tobirama had mourned him, but nobody else had—except Hashirama, and mother.
Red hair, he lamented, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Red blood. Mother's red eyes.
(Red, echoed Butsuma's voice, searing through his head, the haunted sound of his brother's wet gurgle, a beautiful chakra essence gone from the world in an instant.)
Masashige's child had been born into the world bathed in every kind of red, like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
(Tobirama's half-brother had been born a death sentence.)
Never again, he thought, the seals pulsing on his face, determination settling in his skin. He thought of Itama. Hashirama. His only brothers left. The seals he inked on himself to protect them. To sense them, even from far, far away, on his missions.
(Never again.)
(Itama leans back against his chest, watching the stars. "Hey, Tobi-nii," he whispers quietly. "Why do we fight? Against the Uchiha clan? What started it all? Everyone who I ask, they just say they're demons, that Sarutahiko-sama wanted us to kill them."
"The reason for our war has been long lost," Tobirama sighs, his eyes slipping half-shut, wondering how to simplify such a blood-drenched, shadowed history. "As for why we still fight? For survival—in the barest, simplest explanation," he murmurs. " Neither will relent in battle, not with the way things are. Father tells us much about the Uchiha—that they have no souls, that they're cursed. That they follow a fake god, a cruel god. It will seem like it is true when you see them in battle. But both of our clans are just trying to survive while being equally as greedy—to fight for history, power, vengeance and fear. It's true, it's not black and white, but knowing that and living through it are different things. The lies told of them doesn't mean they wouldn't turn around and kill you if you reach out with kindness."
"Do you think he could do it, one day? Hashirama-nii?" Itama wonders. "Do you think he could stop the fighting?"
"I can only hope so.")
Poison is a cold, unforgiving friend.
He kills with it for the first time under Butsuma's hard, daring stare, their clan member's eyes like daggers against his back. It's worse this time, because it's not a instant death—it's not kunai—and his victim is screaming from the poison, and it's slow, and it's cruel, and he wants to tear his skin from his body—wants to go to sleep and dream of kinder things and never wake again—
("I do not like it either," Butsuma had said the first time, not even trying to hide the lie behind his voice. "But it must be done. Poison is a fine tool, and you need to see it's effects to learn it properly. You understand, don't you, Tobirama?")
Blood drenched his hair. He could smell it, could almost taste it by how thick the scent of it was. Metallic, irony, pungent. Then a whiff of something biting and acidic—poison. It was heart-wretchedly familiar, though this one was more powerful, fast-acting.
( "—watch me like vultures, like they smell the approach of rot, like they see a senseless body half in the grave already. One of them has done it—" )
He turned, retched, tried to keep moving. Twigs splinter under his feet, cackling thinly. The trees almost seem to part under his tunneled gaze, opening into the clearing by the river.
He staggers and stops by a mound of wildflowers, gazing unseeingly—numb, bitter tears weeping from his eyes. He hadn't been here since he buried an infant. There's no marker, no gravestone, but Tobirama could never forget.
(He doesn't know how long he stands there, just staring.)
When he arrives back home, night has fallen, and Hashirama is there. And Tobirama—
"You always say that! 'I had no choice'!? There's always a choice!"
Mouth shut. Eyes down. Tobirama just takes it.
"Tobirama-nii," Itama says one day, a wondering lilt to his voice, "Why won't you build a shrine for the water god?"
Tobirama, from where he sat at his desk, stiffened. The hand he'd been using to draw seals with was frozen, half-way through brushing a line, curling into something white-knuckled and tense.
"A… shrine?" he echoed, staring down at his hands. "Do you… do you even know what you're suggesting?"
"Yeah," said Itama. "I know."
He took a silent breath and felt it shiver down his airway. What Itama was suggesting was… blasphemy at best, traitorous at worst. The Senju have devoted themselves to only one god, and have vowed to never stray from their faith.
Tobirama had been only five when he made his first offering to the god of the earth. Only six when their god blessed his elder brother, gifting him with the Mokuton for the first time in decades.
(Only six when he'd grasped Hashirama's sleeve tight, shaking as he watched his father executing one of their clansmen for daring to stray from their god.)
"Then you know I cannot…" he said carefully.
"And if you did anyway?" Itama replied, tilting his head. He looked unlike himself—sharp, observant.
"Father," Tobirama reminded simply, which was enough of an answer in his opinion. He expected understanding to cross his face, the matter dropped.
But Itama's lips only thinned in response, his eyes flaring. "Not even in secret?" he pressed. "Don't you want to hear Susanoo-sama's voice? To understand why he blessed you? Don't you want answers? You can get them, if we build a shrine, Tobi-nii. We could."
Tobirama had known, distantly, that Itama didn't know much about the consequences of worshipping another god. Itama had only been seven months old when Tobirama had watched his father tear through Senju Masashige's neck like a wrathful beast for daring to betray their beliefs. Itama's worldview on gods was Tobirama by the river, commanding the water with a pulse of chakra and a smile, and stories at night under the stars, tinged with longing about their mother. Itama's worldview on gods was vague, scornful whispers of weaker deities, obsessive worship at the shrine, desperate false hopes on their charm tree, a distant knowing that he'd be punished if he didn't stay in line. He doesn't understand what horrible lengths father will go to if they 'renounce' the earth god.
(Tobirama is unsure himself. Being blessed is one thing, unforgivable in his father's eyes, but… would they spare them if it was just a hidden shrine? Would they take it as seriously as they would if it were another clan member? Would they be spared for being from the main family? Was it worth it? Because he thinks it couldn't be worth their lives; hiding it like a dirty secret when they didn't even need a shrine in the first place. A shrine could hint at more, could hint at Tobirama's potential for being a blessed that he'd kept so carefully hidden. And… they're shinobi in a warring clan. Some secrets don't stay hidden. He's on thin ice as is.)
Tobirama shakes his head. "It's evidence, otouto—if they found it—"
"But they won't!" he cried, his voice carrying a slight whine. "They couldn't! You're a seal master—nobody could get past your seals—!"
"They can and they will," he interrupted, his face flat, his lips turned down. He jerked his head sharply and they locked eyes. "That kind of arrogance would be my downfall. There are always those that may be better, and there is always those with the potential for it—"
"But if you'd just listen—"
His shoulders were stiff. He tasted the echoes of ash in his mouth. Screams played on in his head. Danger. He turned away, his shoulders rising in defense. "No, Itama."
"But—"
"No!" He shook his head firmly. "Father will not—!"
"Just listen!" Itama yelled, his chakra whipping out like a slap.
Tobirama froze, his words dying on his tongue.
His younger brother had never shouted at him before. Itama's curiosity would usually show itself through suggestions, dangerous little comments here and there, of things he didn't agree with, things about their clan, their situation. Tobirama was the one who always convinced him back from risky behaviour, drew him away from explosive outbursts, curbed those moments with logic, with care and understanding. Itama had always saw the sense in what he'd say, and would let it go. They both understood, to a point, that they couldn't speak their truth so blatantly like Hashirama. But… even so, they've never fought over it like this.
"Just listen," Itama repeated, quieter, his voice hitching. "Please."
Tobirama looked up so slowly his neck seemed to creak, his eyes catching on the tears rushing down his brother's cheeks. His heart stuttered. There was a sickening twist in his gut.
(He'd never made Itama cry before, either.)
He nodded sluggishly—haltingly.
Itama let out a long breath. "You know what you told me once?" he asked, his voice low. "You said… that maybe things happen for a reason. That the change in a pattern can be for the better. That people can't grow without change," he clenched his fists like he was trying to hold onto his last string of bravery. A shaky hand came up to scrub at his eye. "I believed you, you know? And I want you to believe in yourself, too. I want you to be able to use your power to grow, just like Hashi-nii does with his...because…you deserve it, Tobirama-niisan."
There was such depth to Itama's eyes that Tobirama found himself nearly overwhelmed by them. When had his brother grown up? He thought, his throat tightening. Had it been when he wasn't looking? Away on missions? Why did his eyes look so old? So tired?
"I just want what's best for you," said Itama, voice quieter, a little wobbly.
Tobirama felt his lips turn down. "Is that not supposed to be my line?" he asked, his tone deceptively balanced, avoiding his opinion. He already knew his answer, dreaded it.
Itama just looked at him.
He glanced away in shame. The words wrenched out of his chest, tearing through the choking fog that seemed to hold his lungs captive. "…You know I cannot," he said into the silence, wishing with all his heart for Itama to understand.
Tobirama wasn't an idiot. He'd known for years that his power over water was not some innate ability he'd had from the Senju line. A god has blessed him as well, and it has grown strong despite his reluctance to use it fully.
He knows his father would kill him if he were to find out—his god-given gift was powerful enough to decimate his enemies even as he used it at quarter strength, playing it off as a personal jutsu of his creation; it is not the Mokuton. And anything else is a threat, a rival of their god, a danger to the succession.
(An enemy to be struck down.)
Itama stared at him, his eyes damp with a simmering fire that he'd not seen in him before. Determined. Supportive. I'll stand with you, his chakra says, curling around his own, warm and lovely and honey-like.
"Please, Tobirama," he said softly, using his full name with a meaningful, slightly urgent tone. "Please think about it."
He turned away. His chest seized with tension, his eyes burning. Itama is like Hashirama, he thinks. Hopeful, determined to bring change. Optimistic. Eyes laden with vision.
But Tobirama knows the Senju. Knows their gritty underside. Knows the truth of the matter.
This clan would not stand aside to welcome change.
This clan is the taste of blood and spit and children dying trying to make their fathers proud. It's cut-throat, much like all others are, sitting on the perimeter of danger with attachment to their earth and their roots and their dead, dead bodies buried for the sake of long forgotten reasons. It's the tip of their god's tongue as he breathes life into their soil.
It's a civilian who drops their eyes to the ground in fear in the presence of a Senju.
This clan is narrow views, old secrets locked, forgotten; blood and dirt thick under fingernails. It's his elder brother wielding the power of the earth freely, unbidden and powerful because the one who blessed him is a god loved by their ancestors. It's silent whispers that any power that tastes foreign is traitorous.
Tobirama knows that this clan will kill him if they ever find out the truth behind his water jutsu. Knows they will slay him regardless that he's the clan head's second son. Knows that he will not draw any sympathy from his efforts to spare himself. Knows that if people were so forgiving then they wouldn't be at war in the first place.
He knows that if he's not killed for having the shrine, he'll be questioned about it, and he can't have them searching for answers—not with so much to hide; his mother's journal, the truth of her miscarriage and her murder, the godly power laying dormant within him. The latter being discovered will surely be his death; and Tobirama doesn't want to die, if only so his brothers won't be left alone with their father.
"I'm sorry, Itama," he says, and struggles to keep his tone even. "But I cannot contemplate it. It's safer this way—not just for me."
The disappointment is hard to bare, because it's something Itama rarely looks at him with. It's even worse feeling it wafting off his chakra, thick and foggy, tasting of bitter berries. He disguised his flinch by turning away quickly, and it struck Tobirama that Itama was no little boy anymore, chasing after his brothers.
He could lose him to his secrets, just as he had Hashirama.
I'm sorry, he thinks, over and over, despair chilling his body, I'm so sorry. I'm just trying to protect you, can't you see that?
(For a moment, Tobirama wanted nothing more but to share it all, everything, just to get that understanding back, just so he wouldn't feel so alone.)
Itama is silent, after that—so still that Tobirama would've forgotten he was there if not for his chakra churning around him. He looks away, resumes his seals, trying to focus, but there's a familiar ache quickening his heartbeat, a insistent tugging on his mind, drawing his attention back, back to the secrets, to his power, to mother, to the night that changed everything.
(It's one of the hardest things he's ever done, keeping these dark secrets locked silent.)
"I am best when listening. My mother made sure of it—a lady must listen, and only speak when spoken to, and for all of her tight-lipped decorum there were times where I watched her struggle to bite her tongue and submit under my father's iron will. My mother's power had been best in the drawing room under tittering and falsehood, and my lack in that element had always made her forlorn. I have learned to watch and to learn through sight, through ears, for speaking only came easy to me when I wished to express genuine feelings to my sisters by well-lit oil lamp and light, childish laughter. They told me that in those quiet, warmly shrouded moments, I'd sounded a lot like grandmother; wise and melancholy, with enough depth to challenge the sea. Public speaking was much more harrowing. But I find that watching is the most calming of all. It is an art—observation—one that is valued even in ninja, more so within a clan like mine who rely on spymasters, on whispers and rumors of battle and plots; the Senju are no different in that regard, I could guess, however my outsider status made them wary to speak around me. I couldn't find it in myself to trust these walls either, for even they have ears. So I listen and I hear what even eyes and actions do not tell me.
But to raise a lady to listen—to be quiet, to listen to what others have to say and absorb it—is to have her know the myths and legends and take on your beliefs. My clan has favored each and every god under the moon and stars, and has valued all for their domains and blessings. In truth, I had not given any thought to Senju's beliefs. It was rare for a woman in my clan's sphere to widen beyond the domestic, and this change proved that; my mind had been more wary of marriage, of travelling with Senju Shinobi and meeting Butsuma Senju. The mention of Sarutohiko-okami-sama warmed me with familiarity, with knowing that this clan had something mutual with me after all — our gods. I am only a day short of my wedding , speaking of topics I thought safe. Foolish of me to forget that no men nor man like having such beliefs challenged — foolish of me to think they followed the same beliefs of my own clan . Yet, I did not think that such a mention of Tsukiyomi-kamisama would be a debacle of such a scandal. And so the iron-thick, arrogant beliefs of this clan were rather… sprung on my person in a way that lacked grace and any sort of consideration. The crux of the matter being that Sarutahiko-sama was the only god worthy in their eyes, and that to follow any other meant death, or banishment — which was as good as, if not worse.
The elders had spelled out their warnings with pretty, delicate words — they danced around their threats with ill-hidden ire behind pleasantries. 'A matter of being agreeable,' the y had said strongly. What matter? I'd wondered in shock, for what I held belief in ultimately had little consequence to them... surely they knew I wouldn't just force my religion on others? The elders— men in their mid forties, the eldest of the clan , hence their titles —had only looked at me, and their distrustful, cool eyes whispered what their mouths would not, that I would never be seen as one of their family, not now nor ever. What they'd said next had been telling , not to mention — blunt and unforgiving .
As the Clan Head's bride, you hold certain responsibility—to honor a false god is blasphemy—insubordination of the highest degree—a dishonor only forgiven in death.
It was no warning— it was a promise. The truth of the matter being that the deal of my marriage, their Hatake Clan 'truce' and goodwill was a delicate thing, far beneath the worth of their godful worship. The implication was there, that should I continue I would find myself caught in an ugly situation, be it a rumor or threats against my well-being . They wouldn't kill me, not when my clan would want revenge, not when I have not yet bore the heirs for Butsuma—but they could hurt me, emotionally and physically if they wished it.
It had caught me so off guard that I'd only stared at them like a witless fool. For a moment I'd wished for my mother. For all of how the thread of our relationship has frayed, it was her that my eyes had followed in awe, for she had handled situations far worse than this with just a blank smile and distant eyes, resolved it only with a few cutting words and the twist of her heel. But even she listened to her betters, as she'd been taught, as I had. Those cutting words, those simmering stares, those had always been reserved for outsiders. The Senju weren't supposed to be outsiders, not to me. What would she have done in this situation?
A lady must listen. In the Hatake that had been drilled into me. And so I listened, and there I came to love the gods as we all do. But I am here now, with the Senju. Must I listen to their beliefs, now? Must I discard my own? I find I cannot fathom it. Forget the gods? How could I do such a thing, when their very essence lives within us all, when it surrounds us? The sky, the earth, the sea, the plants and crops and air; all of these things are the lifeblood of the gods, the very source of their being. How could I deny that? How could I stop my way of life on the whims of elderly men who refuse to expand the worship of one in their narrow-minded walls? How could I disrespect the world around me like that? It is to deny the earth, the sun, the moon, the stars, the sea itself!
But what could I do? A woman's voice is not worth much , not in weight nor value . In my clan that fact wasn't always at the forefront of my mind, because as much as my mother preached my etiquette, they were family; my father was a stern, distant figure in my life, my mother stiff-necked and overbearing, and my sisters were wild things—little fairies, spirited and carefree, barefoot over soft grass, hair-swaying in the winds, laughing and running as our minder yelled from the foyer. As the Hatake heiress my life was strict but not unkind, I wasn't listened to, that is truth , but I had enough solid, frozen ground to fight for what I wanted—the right to learn to read and write, to learn to ride on horseback, the chance to learn to swim. Here out in this big world, soft summer soil beneath my feet, a mere tadpole in this shark-ridden sea, my voice is—meaningless."
Tobirama knows the significance of the entry. They'd only had the conversation the other day, after all, and while he didn't intend to read it to chase away Itama's hopes for the future, he also didn't want to skip it. That would cheapen it, cheapen mother's experience, and Itama deserved to know this, at least. He deserved to understand.
Especially since he's still hiding so much of her truth from him. From Hashirama, too.
They don't speak this time after he finishes reading, not right away. Outside it's storming, lightning flashing across the sky, the wind howling wrathfully, rattling the windows. Itama stares up at the ceiling blankly, not a hint of sleepiness present. The air is strange and thick.
"Please understand," Tobirama murmured quietly. "You know I like listening to stories of the gods too, but this is dangerous. That's our reality in this clan. I just want you to be safe—I want us to be safe. The stories—father would blame mother first, Hashirama second. But a secret shrine? Itama…"
Itama turned his face away slightly, towards the wall. His eyes glinted in the light, betraying his tears.
"It's not fair," he croaked.
"I know," said Tobirama. He reaches out hesitantly, runs his thumb along Itama's forehead. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, nii-san," he whispers, leaning into his touch.
"I know. It's just the way it is."
"It shouldn't be," Itama said, and for a moment he seemed older, more mature, his gaze a thousand-yard stare. "It shouldn't be the way it is."
Tobirama's words were stuck in his throat, his vision blurred around the edges. He nods.
As he watched Tobirama, something in his brother's face seemed to change then—something that twitched his eyes, his mouth, his whole expression, like lightning branching across his cells. His eyes darkened. His lips turned down. "What was it?" he asked then, barely a whisper, and Tobirama's heart sank, finally recognizing Itama's expression. "What was it that made you so scared, nii-san?"
(The words startle him more than he'd like to admit. Just what had he seen on his face? In his eyes?)
Tobirama says nothing—because he wants Itama safe—because the answer has been there in plain sight all along, and it's just a matter of time before something clicks.
The silence stretches on. Itama's expression seemed to grow distant, unreadable. Looking into his eyes, he couldn't help but see something different there. Was it determination? Defiance? Anger? How odd. Itama used to be so easy for him to read.
(It's strange, but he couldn't help but feel as if Itama was slipping between his fingers, slowly, inevitably, tragically.)
Tiredness weighed down his bones, a sinking helplessness in his stomach.
Tobirama says, "Good night, Itama."
His brother doesn't reply. He closed the journal, tucked it under his shirt as always, and leaves for his room, old grief crawling up his back like a stubborn ghost.
The have a skirmish with the Uchiha on Tobirama's birthday. Then they have one three days after. Then again, and again, and again, days blending into weeks, weeks sinking into months. Teams of Uchiha die trying to supply food to their clan.
The Uchiha grow desperate, grow angrier. Their faces begin to look slightly gaunt, their bodies thin without enough sustenance. Butsuma laughs and laughs after every battle, his plan sinking into reality, locking in place.
(Both sides so desperate to destroy each other, hate mirrored in every look and every breath and it's all burned into their brain—desperate, desperate—desperate—)
He dreams of the man again, the one that had jumped into the whirlpool—the one that Tobirama had jumped in after.
"What are you scared of?" the man asks, and this time they're swimming in the dark over calm water. It feels strange, though—the water feels too silky, the smell too rancid. Tobirama looks left, over the black sea, and sees something dark with glinting scales break the surface, big and slimy and creature-like, disappearing again in the next moment. He feels himself pale, the air feeling overwhelmingly ominous. His legs thrash in the slow current.
And the man is just floating on his back, smiling up at the stars, kicking his legs lazily to keep up, utterly relaxed. He looks so small in the water, yet his presence is all-encompassing, inescapable.
"Much," says Tobirama, with feeling.
"Humor me," he smiles, that peaceful, carefree look fixed on his face.
The air reeks with something half-dead, rot clogging the air. He could taste foulness on his tongue, could feel the stench seeping into his pores.
"I don't know," Tobirama said, as something slimy touches his ankle and moves along in the water. His stomach shudders. His lungs feel as if they could collapse under the weight in his chest. His legs kick frantically, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere. "Losing my brothers. Feeling powerless. Father."
He hums, considering. "Not death?"
"There are many things worse than death," says Tobirama.
"I suppose I wouldn't know," the man says, almost mournfully, then hums again, "Hm—hmm. I remember. You didn't laugh, but you did jump, even though you were scared."
He stays silent, wondering where the man is going with this. But, he doesn't end up saying anything, and they swim there in a moment of forever, and he doesn't know how long they've been floating there. It could've been fifteen minutes or seven years.
"What would you do, then, if one of those things did happen?" the man says after what feels like eternity.
"Which one?" asks Tobirama.
"Any one," he says. "None of them. All of them. You tell me."
"That's not an answer," Tobirama says, but he continues anyway. "I suppose I could live with feeling powerless, but I wouldn't like it, and... I'd run if my father found out about me, or even before then..." he paused. "But if I lost my brothers, I'd die."
"Why would you die?" he asks with interest.
"Because I would feel them go, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself, alone," he said. "It's not very nice out there."
"No," the man agreed, with a deep frown. It's the first time Tobirama hadn't seen him smiling all carefree. The water bubbled beneath them. "It's not."
"Why did you want to know?" he wonders.
"Well, we're all creatures of curiosity, aren't we?" he answers, and the sea begins to shudder. "I'm just trying to understand."
Tobirama blinked, then he felt a strange pulling sensation—below his feet. He looked down, his body tensing—
"You should use it, you know," his voice echoes. "Practice, or else you will lack control, lack the skill to use it," the tone lowers, saddens, "Or else it will be too slow to come to your call when you need it most."
His breath lurches from his throat, his lungs lost to the tide. Something screamed through the water, through the hair on his arms, shaking his eardrums.
"Goodbye for now, Tobirama Senju."
The air shuddered and the currents folded in the depths beneath their feet. Sharp, door-sized teeth tore the surface, surrounded them, and with a choked gurgle they were swallowed with the murky sea, down into the stomach of something great, down into the depths of the abyss.
Sorry that this chapter took so long getting to you, and the fact that it's a few thousand words shorter than the last one, and that the tone is a little different. Even though I'd already written most of it when I published the last chapter, I got writers block and it took me ages to get back into the swing of things. One time I was literally staring at my keyboard, lost in thought for three hours straight. Not to mention, my job killing me at the moment. Thank you for the comments, they inspired me quite a lot. There's not much happening in this chapter, but the next two are pretty busy and painful, I assure you.