.
.
There was no light in the cave where the Gedou Mazou was held, and the days and nights of the years had blended into one long stretch of darkness. There was the sound of water dripping, the slight scuff of the cords scraping along the rocky floor as Madara shuffled across the cave. Back bent, his wrists and knees beset by arthritis, he knew if one were to see him, he'd be the perfect visage of death. The scythe he used as a cane became a private joke to him.
He spent most of his days dreaming. Attached to the Gedou Mazou, Madara would wake and be young again, the vast whiteness of his mind's eye full of unlimited opportunity. He could conjure whole villages and people, have conversations with relatives who have long since died. In the dream world, he was never lonely, and Hashi was still alive.
His eyes opened. As always, the statue mocked him, its pulsing chakra withdrawing just enough to shove him out of the dream. Once again he'd be greeted by cold and the sound of dripping water, the reality of his frail body and his isolation weighing down on him.
During their last battle, he had shoved Hashi on the ground, one hand slamming into her throat, before she wrenched her body out of his grasp. She screamed and swung at him with a sword but he caught it in his hand. The metal pierced through his flesh, shocking them.
A punch. Her body spinning, one harsh kick to his side, another blow against him. Madara staggered but Hashi kept charging forward, whipping around violently and throwing him into a headlock. Madara yelled and bit into the meat of her arm, making her howl with pain. She let go and he threw his head back, tearing off a chunk of flesh, her blood smearing against his mouth.
That chunk of flesh grew with the strength of the Gedo Mazou, and Madara looked up, seeing the twisted white spine of tree trunks curling above him. Pods of Zetsus grew off its branches like demented fruit, sexless and scheming. They should have been perfect clones of her, but they looked like a twisted mirror version of her Sexy no Jutsu.
"Madara-sama. You are awake?" The voices were cloying and subtly mocking. Madara's one eye drifted upward.
"Leave me," Madara said, and the Zetsus laughed and slunk back, their pale skin disappearing into the shadows.
He leaned heavily on the handle of his scythe, his body wobbling a bit on unsteady legs. It hurt to move, but he willed himself forward anyway, the cords on his back dragging like chains.
"The time is near," he murmured. He stood in front of Hashi's likeness, a grotesque clone of her that was only half-formed, as if she were trapped in wax. Slowly, he lifted one withered hand to the side of her face, let his fingertips fall and trace the line of her jaw.
"Madara-sama. Your pupil is back," the Zetsus said, and Madara straightened. "He was really upset with what happened to his friend."
"How did he do?" Madara looked back at the statue, at Hashi's form rising upwards like wax. The Zetsus grinned behind him.
"It was a massacre," the Zetsus said, smiling. "Madara-sama. He slaughtered them all."
At the back of the cave, Madara could hear the despondent shuffle of a boy whose spirit he had forcibly broken. For a brief moment, Madara regretted what he'd done to him.
The stone tablets beneath the Naka Shrine held a promise: that the people who died could be resurrected, and that those he killed will awaken to a new world, so long as he succeeded. He lifted his eyes as the boy slowly came near him. He knew it was the only way.