Chapter Three

Kanae's death hit her sons the hardest.

None of them had been present the day she passed—only made it back from field training just in time for her funeral.

Out of the four of them, though, Mitsuba suspected Tobirama suffered the most. Not outwardly, no, never. He was far too proud for that. But he was moodier than usual, quiet and mean. Even when he relied fully on her to get a painkiller fix for his cavities.

He watched her from the center of the room with narrowed eyes and a hand pressed against his aching jaw as she dug through her lacquered medicine chest (graduated from a lidded basket, now, since she'd inherited a handful of Kanae's furniture, as Butsuma allowed) for a clove to chew on. She'd wrapped some up in a cloth bag, before…she just couldn't remember which. A bigger storage case should have, by all means, meant more opportunities for organization. But somehow it remained as messy as ever.

Tobirama huffed out an obvious and impatient sigh—so prissy. Such a damn drama queen.

"I can pull that tooth for you," Mitsuba said under her breath, pursing her lips as she continued rifling through her inventory, finally locating the small, swirl-patterned bag crumpled against the far corner.

"What?" he asked, further narrowing his eyes as she turned to face him and opened her palm to reveal a couple of dry, shriveled cloves. Hesitantly, he reached out, then decidedly snatched them from her hand and popped them into his mouth, cheek puffing out slightly as he chomped one between his molars—and winced.

"Be careful." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I said I can pull that tooth for you. It'll fall out sooner or later, anyway. Rotten or not."

"It's not rotten," he snapped, still rubbing his cheek, fingers pressing against the sore spot brought on by the cavity. His eyes narrowed again, but not at her.

"What do you think a cavity is?"

"What do you know, Mitsuba?"

More than you, brat, she barely held on the tip of her tongue, only huffing in response as she balled up the clove bag in her hands and returned it to the medicine chest.

"You're not a doctor. Don't touch my teeth," he grumbled out, wincing against the pain as he prodded his cheek too hard trying to soothe the ache away. Served him right for not listening.

She hoped he'd just throw a silent tantrum and storm from the room to leave her in peace, but all of her brothers seemed to share the annoying habit of lingering. Well, it wasn't that strange. They were family. Siblings. People who should spend time together and find comfort in each other's presence no matter how often they bickered.

Her hands lingered on the smooth brass latches of the medicine chest as she snapped them shut, fingers tapping against them silently as she tried to figure out the best way to boot him out.

…And whether or not she should. Maybe his tooth was still hurting and he needed something stronger.

Maybe she really should pull it. It would certainly satisfy her long-suffering endeavor of putting up with his attitude.

When she finally turned to face him again, he was no longer sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, but kneeling on his knees a short distance away with his back to her, idly flipping the pages of one of her bound writing books.

"Nosy," she jeered, but he didn't react. Whatever he'd found written there was apparently terribly interesting. Curious, she approached him and glanced over his shoulder.

Ah. It was Kanae's.

At some point in the past, she'd gathered together a ream of her best calligraphy pages and had them bound—Mitsuba had often referenced it when learning how to properly ink her strokes and please Mariko's insufferable standards. Tobirama must have recognized it, too, because he wouldn't take his eyes away even as she stretched her hand out to take it from him.

But couldn't—not quite. Not when she saw the glistening tears shining in his eyes.

She had to reach out and yank it from his hands when the tears started to fall and dampened paper and ink.

Her eyes darted between the book she held out wide open, fanning the pages to keep them from sticking together, and Tobirama, sniffling and covering his face with the sleeve of his blue haori.

A grimace pulled at her lips.

Dammit! Dammit…

Dealing with crying children was not her forte. Even so—they were more important than some old book.

Quietly, she set it down with its binding flat across the tatami mats and reached a hesitant hand out to touch his tensed shoulder.

He jerked away and continued sniffling into his sleeve, getting it dirty with tears and snot that she'd just have to wash off later during laundry duty.

What do I do… What do I do with a crying kid? She didn't know. Before, in a time long past, she'd been the baby of the family. No younger siblings to comfort—only older ones that were barely present. Sometimes Itama cried, sure, but never for long. He tried to keep up a brave face around her and hated being coddled.

Her eyes darted around the room. She bit her lip, looking for a sign; a stroke of inspiration. But there was nothing. Only the medicine chest and tatami mats and closed screen doors.

What would—what would Kanae do?

It wasn't that she wanted to be the stand-in mother for these kids, but, god. They were kids. Where else would they get affection, now that their loving mother had passed? How much longer could they freely cry those tears before their father beat them into stoic, shinobi silence?

She didn't need to do anything after all. After Tobirama got tired of blowing snot into his sleeve, he looked her way with a trembling pout and reddened eyes, as if—no, definitely—asking for a hug. So, she sank down to her knees and held her arms out and he all but bowled her over as he threw his arms around her and bawled into the shoulder of her teal kimono instead.

It's okay, she almost said, but really it wasn't. Nothing was in this fucked up place. Not really.

"I know. Just…cry it out," she said softly as she patted his back, wondering if this small child's body was as comforting as a mother's warm, safe embrace. Either way, it was all they had now. And he clung to it. And cried. And cried. And cried. Shed every single tear his little body held, probably, and maybe some borrowed from the future, because one day they'd all dry up and he'd become just as cruel and unfeeling as Butsuma. Maybe just to protect himself. Maybe because he'd just forget how to cry.

But now…he was just a child. A hurting child.

He cried himself unconscious. At some point, his sniffles had evened out and turned to sleeping breaths, and she squirmed out from beneath his arms to try and move away and leave him to sleep on the floor, more comfortable, but when his head dropped to her lap, his fingers balled into the sides of her kimono and clung tight like she was a beloved bedtime teddy bear. She couldn't get him to let go.

Fine.

"Brat." She uttered the last word on a whisper as she gave up the fight. Her shoulders drooped as she set a hand atop his head, mussing the feather-soft spikes of fair, silver-white hair. Just like she'd seen Kanae do.

If I were a better person, I'd keep you all children for as long as you deserved. But I'm not. I'm not your mother. Or your sister. You aren't my responsibility.

But for now…

She closed her eyes.

For now, there was no harm in pretending.

"Oh! Hey! No fair, Tobirama, quit hogging Mitsuba to yourself! I wanna sleep on her lap, too!" Kawarama's boisterous shout echoed through the room and jerked Tobirama from his slumber as he threw the door open wide and thundered past the threshold.

Tobirama's head shot up solely to aim a glare over his shoulder. "What do you want, Kawarama?" he asked in a bitter, cranky tone that she, and their brother, no doubt heard as go away.

Of course, he didn't go away. He grinned a lopsided grin and dropped to the floor at their side, throwing his arms around both of them as Hashirama and Itama appeared in the doorway after him.

"What? Hey! I came here to hug Mitsuba," Itama protested, sporting a near-identical grin as he hurried toward them and tugged at the back of Kawarama's kimono until he pulled him out of the way and snuggled in under his arms, flush against Mitsuba's side as she tried, and failed, to shove them all away.

"Stop—jeez, you're too heavy! All of you, get off!" Her demand went unheard, drowned out by Itama's, Tobirama's, and Kawarama's voices in turn, overlapping.

"Nooo, you're so warm, Mitsu!"

"Ow—idiot, you elbowed me in the face!"

"I never get to hug Mitsuba. I'm never letting go!"

She turned a pleading stare to her more sensible brother.

"Come on, you guys…" Hashirama watched them bicker from the doorway with a small, fond smile playing at his lips. And, for a moment, she thought he'd finally taken on the responsibility of being the mature older brother who broke up sibling squabbles and saved his poor little sister from getting squashed.

Then he jumped in to the pile, too, and knocked them all flat.

There was no easy way to avoid her brothers—Mitsuba had long since realized that. As long as she was there, as long as they were there, their bond only grew, and pretending became reality, and...

And leaving them behind became that much harder.

As time passed, turned into months, into a year, then more, she did become the stand-in mother in the sense that she provided them with emotional support in confusing and painful times. Not because Butsuma, or Mariko, pushed her into it, not because there was little choice, but because…she just wanted to.

Her body may have been young, but she remained an adult at heart. It didn't sit right with her to ignore them.

When they got mud, or dirt or blood on their clothes, she washed the stains clean. When they got sick, she stayed by their side and let them rest their heads on her lap until the fever and aches passed. When they cried, she held them close.

But, as siblings…

When they were well, they bickered. They yelled. They picked sides and held grudges and pouted at each other for days until one side or the other gave in and apologized. They swapped ghost stories in the dead of night when Butsuma had passed out drunk, and whimpered when the wind rattled the doors. They laughed, and smiled, and played, like children should. At least, mostly. Tobirama insisted on trying to be the mature one who spoiled their fun more than once.

He never did come crying to her again.

And when the boys were out, she trained with Touka. Mariko didn't care what she did anymore—because she played into her designated role and did it well, until there was no more room for complaint from even that hardass of a crone. Of course, she'd have much more to teach her after her childhood passed, but that was still some time away. For now, as long as she completed her lessons and her chores, she let her be and had nothing but decent progress to report to Butsuma.

Mitsuba never spoke to, and rarely saw, him.

In the summer of her sixth year, she held a kunai in her hand for the first time.

"Hold it firm, in a way that you will never let it go. Because if it falls from your grasp in battle, you will lose," Touka said, arranging Mitsuba's small fingers on its narrow grip until she was satisfied.

Despite all of the time she'd spent helping her, teaching her, she'd never quite done away with the grave sadness that sat like a permanent shadow in her eyes. When she spoke again, Mitsuba had a feeling she knew why.

"And know that by holding this, by coming to know this weapon, or any weapon, that you must be ready to forfeit your life."

Propaganda spread to children. To little boys and girls that were forced to grow up too fast and thrown into the messes the adults created.

Even so, Mitsuba accepted it. Because to her, it was more than duty. It was her freedom.

"It's heavy," she admitted as she hefted the cool iron in her hand and tested its weight. Full-sized, and far too big for her, or any other children's hands to wield. Far too dangerous for a child to hold.

She held it in front of her face—let her eyes rove the sharp, inverted v-shape of the smooth blade, to where it tapered down like a diamond toward the narrow, wrapped hilt. Forged in a way that it would stab deep and pull out with no snags, so it could stab again. And again.

Touka nodded as she took a step back and let her practice her hold, letting it slice through the air. "When I had hands as small as yours, I directed chakra into them to keep it from slipping."

Chakra—they hadn't touched upon that topic much since the leaf exercise. Touka had tutored her from the ground up, focusing on the basics, just like an academy teacher, and teaching her as much as a competent child could. Built up her strength bit by bit before moving on to the juicy stuff. She did, at one point, try to teach her how to tree walk, but when she fell and got a bloody nose, Touka decided against it. Strange injuries would only tip Butsuma off regarding their intentions.

She still tried it when Touka wasn't looking.

Mitsuba watched little blips of sunlight gleam off the blade's surface as it shone through the swaying leaves above. They hadn't gone too far out from the compound, but just far enough away from prying eyes, under the pretense that they were foraging. If any guard had seen the clan head's daughter holding a kunai, nothing good would come of it. And, really, no one paid her much attention anyway, so long as another (shinobi) child was at her side.

Just like Touka said, she channeled chakra to her palm, to her fingers, and strengthened her grip—not much, but enough to make a difference. Enough to give her a foolish swell of confidence.

She tested her dexterity—tried to spin it, and it did spin, but only halfway, before a hard stop.

She couldn't for the life of her realize what had gone wrong until she saw the blade piercing into her skin, into the meat of her palm, where blood slowly beaded up and trickled along it and down her arm.

"Mitsuba!"

Immediately, Touka grasped her by the wrist and carefully wedged the blade out from her palm—it was only a shallow wound, but the bright blood surely alarmed her the most. She tossed the blade aside, where it stuck into the dirt at an angle, blade-first, and pressed the fingers of one hand firmly over the split skin as she rummaged through a small pouch she wore at her obi with the other.

It didn't hurt.

But for the first time, Touka's carefully-carved, passive expression had broken into worry, with bitten lips and a puckered brow. That did sting, just a bit—causing worry where it was undue.

"Gods, Mitsuba, I realize you are eager, but foolish, impulsive actions only lead to death!" She'd pulled a small roll of bandages from the pouch, and released her wound long enough to wrap the thin, white strip firmly across it with bloodied fingers.

"It was just—"

"And, just look at you, not even a tear shed. What am I supposed to make of that?"

Mitsuba watched, disengaged, barely feeling a part of it, as Touka tore the end of the strip and tied it securely around her hand, fingers still lingering against it, applying pressure until she was absolutely sure it wouldn't bleed through and keep bleeding and, god forbid, need stitches.

The sting of a cut palm was nothing to her—she'd been through worse. Burns, dog bites, a jammed finger, twisted ankle, chronic back problems, menstrual cramps—getting stabbed in the stomach. Not to mention almost getting crushed to death. The memories of past pain had a way of lingering.

Even so... Touka didn't know that.

She gingerly pulled her hand away and kept her eyes fixed to it with a faint, apologetic grin. "Sorry, Touka…"

Touka sighed, quiet. "Well—that's enough of that, then. We'll save weapons for another time."

Her head snapped up. "No way! Didn't you say you brought shuriken, too?"

"Oh, yes, I can imagine you'd do so well with four sharpened points. No. Not after this."

"But what about throwing—!"

She held up a hand to silence her. "I will teach you to throw them. That sort of practice starts small and simple. Have you ever skipped stones with your brothers?" Her eyes caught the bloodied splotches on her fingertips and she lowered her hand, once again shuffling through her pouch for a scrap of white fabric that served as a handkerchief. Pretty—handmade. The same delicate construction of Kiku's gentle craftsmanship, just as mild as her presence.

Touka hesitated just a moment, with a softened gaze observing the finely embroidered detail, before wrapping her fingers in it and scrubbing away the stains.

"Kind of. The koi pond in the compound is too small for it to be any fun. And last time we tried, Itama fell in." She fell in, too, when she tried to help him out—but she wasn't about to mention that detail.

By the knowing smirk that rose to Touka's lips, she probably already knew. "Then it's just like that. Learn to fling a pebble, a rock, control its path, and you'll learn the proper form for shuriken throwing." She'd opened her mouth to say more, then, but stopped suddenly, lips pressing into a thin line as her eyebrows drew together and her eyes darted to the side.

Quiet—so quiet. She hadn't even heard. Touka barely had.

Tobirama had appeared out of thin air—no. Not thin air. He'd jumped down from the tree branches and landed behind them only a moment ago, but he could have been lurking in the trees for quite some time. Home early. Still scuffed-up and covered in dirt from the trip back, wearing those gray-blue hakama and a sleeveless black shirt that they tended to wear out on training retreats, or missions, or battles, or whatever they did that they never shared with her.

"So this is what you get up to when we're away," he began, and what was worse, his expression revealed nothing. No irritation. No disappointment—no anger. He didn't even bother looking at Touka, who'd gone starkly silent and several shades paler. Only Mitsuba. "Father asked me to fetch you, so I've been looking... Your chakra was strange."

Of all the people to find out, it just had to be him.

"But now I know why." He took swift, but calm, steps toward her and grabbed her arm, still streaked with blood and wrapped in bloodied bandages. A flicker of concern passed through his eyes, but the care was lost when he caught her in a narrow-eyed glare. "What are you thinking, Mitsuba?"

If only it had been Itama—the easiest to sway. A hug and a little pleading would move him to her side and keep this secret. Kawarama? All he'd ask for was a handful of sweets to snack on and he wouldn't breathe a word. Hashirama would have taken a bit more convincing, as the oldest, the most protective, but the weakest to heartfelt pleading who would cry along in sympathy if she shed a few crocodile tears and ultimately come to understand her reasons.

But it had to be Tobirama. Because he was a chakra sensor. Because Butsuma always used him as a little tattletale. Because he'd never understand what she wanted to do. Never.

And she couldn't blame him, either, because he was just a child who obeyed his father and did what he believed was best, no matter what.

He could have asked 'what are you doing, Mitsuba?' as he held her injury up to make an unspoken point, and she could have sassed him as her sleeve pooled around her elbow, bloodied at the hem from the winding streaks of red that ran down her forearm and dried in the wind. But he knew she would have, and so he chose his words carefully. To make her take responsibility.

She didn't respond. Only pressed her lips together tight and refused to meet his cold-burning gaze.

Touka took a single, shuffling step forward to help—then froze, as Tobirama cast her a quick, seething, sidelong glance of warning. It wasn't her business. And she'd face Butsuma, later, for ever getting involved.

"Go back to the compound," he said, and she did, with only a passing glance to Mitsuba before she turned her eyes away and disappeared, blending in with the trees.

No one else could help her get out of this predicament.

"I…don't have to tell you," Mitsuba finally spoke up, both hands curled tightly into fists, both trembling from the strength put behind the action.

"Father told you—" He stopped. His rage flickered like a flame in cold wind while he struggled to control his emotions and balance his temper. It took practice—a lot of it, especially for someone so irritable. But he succeeded. He suppressed his irritation and let go of her arm, watching her with an unreadable stare. "We're going back. Now."

The urge to snap back at him was strong. Mitsuba let her hand fall slowly back to her side, still clenched tight, blood soaking into the bandages, as she kept her feet planted firmly against the ground. Focused her chakra—challenging him. Only making it worse for herself, but, shit, the moment they returned, the moment Butsuma saw her, it was all over anyway.

His eyes narrowed. He was still using his sensory ability—recognized the challenge.

"Mitsuba…" A warning.

One she should have heeded, but was too damn proud to.

She gathered her chakra in her hands, like Touka had taught her, to strengthen the blow. He saw it coming. And she knew he did, but she rushed forward and struck out anyway, even as her fist sailed straight through the air when he tilted away from it. On reflex. All on reflex.

He also retaliated on reflex. Snatched her arm out of the air as it passed him by and twisted, shoving his knee against her back as she bit out a yelp and dropped to the ground with a heavy whump that echoed in her ears.

But as soon as he realized what he'd done, he yanked his hands away from her and fell back, eyes wide. "I—"

His hand hovered at her shoulder as she felt the sharp, aching burn of a split lip bitten through by a tooth and rubbed in the gritty dirt and slowly raised her head. It wasn't just her lip—when she spit out the blood pooling between her lower lip and teeth, one of her incisors fell out with it.

Just a baby tooth. It was fine. Loose and due to fall out sooner or later, anyway.

"Mitsuba—"

She jerked her shoulder away from his touch as she lifted herself up on her hands and knees and pressed her bandaged hand to her mouth to wipe the mud away. And the tears. And the snot.

You are far too emotional to become a shinobi.

Foolish, impulsive actions only lead to death!

Lesson learned.

But getting kicked down—no matter how accidental—only made her want to get back up and try again. No matter what Butsuma would tell her. No matter that Kanae was rolling in her grave.

No matter that her brother was stronger; so much farther ahead. So conditioned.

Without a word, she pushed herself to her feet and picked up the fallen and forgotten kunai, tucking it away into her obi. Never once looking Tobirama's way.

Neither spoke again until they returned to the compound.

"Sorry," he muttered at length, so quiet she almost missed it, but she couldn't ask him to repeat it because their father met them with a harsh, tired frown and crossed arms at the front gate, still clad in a leader's scarlet armor and the Senju crest headband. One she'd personally embroidered.

He didn't comment on their messy appearances—because Tobirama hadn't had a chance to take a bath and change his dirty clothes, and because Mitsuba had a sneaking suspicion he knew of her sneaky training without needing to be told.

She and Touka hadn't been as careful as they should've.

"Tobirama," he began, voice low and commanding, never to be crossed, "come with me. Mitsuba…" Words failed him. He withheld the sigh that was so clearly in his weary expression and turned his back on her. "Return to the main house."

Mitsuba watched their retreating backs, feet rooted to the ground in deliberate defiance as her father's dismissal hit her like a wave of chilled water. He didn't want to hear a thing from her. He just needed Tobirama's testimony to end her ambitions for good.

She shook her head. Curled her hands into tight fists, blood seeping out from the broken skin of her palm once more. Slowly, slowly, she lifted her feet and trudged toward her home.

On the way, under the shadowed eaves of the adjacent building, she caught sight of Mariko gesticulating wildly while berating Touka, who stood with her back straight and head bowed, eyes closed. She didn't know what she'd done—not yet. It was just that Mariko had requested a few specific flowers while they were out, and they hadn't had the chance to forage a thing.

Itama, Kawarama, and Hashirama poked their heads out of the main house as she approached. All wide-eyed, curious, and looking to get answers as to why she had blood smeared on her face and sleeve, because that wasn't how they'd left her, and a far cry from how they wanted to see her when they returned.

Hashirama approached her first, expression pinched in worry even as, or especially because, she ignored him and plopped down in the entryway to yank off her sandals and toss them aside. Itama ran off somewhere into the house, and Kawarama lingered awkwardly in the hall with his mouth half-open.

"Mitsu?" Hashirama asked, reaching down to help her up but drawing back when he noticed the dirty bandages on her hand.

"It's nothing. Don't worry." Even if he had tried to help her, she would've brushed him off and pushed herself to her feet like she did now. And, really, the confused concern was sweet, but she didn't have time to think up a lie just to get them to give her some space. Because just seeing them—seeing the dried bloodstains half-washed from their collars and the scrapes and bruises they'd earned willingly and never had to hide—grated on her nerves.

Itama blocked her way, holding a damp cloth in his hands, eyebrows furrowed and lips sticking out in a pout as his eyes searched her face. He didn't speak. Only reached out and took her uninjured hand and led her to the center sitting room. She let him, if only because she'd been heading there anyway.

But she drew back sharply and swatted at his hand the moment he tried to wash the dirt off her face.

"Itama, cut it out!"

"B-but you're all dirty—what happened, Mitsu?"

"It's just dirt. It's not a big deal."

His pout persisted as he clutched the cloth between his fingers, at least listening and keeping it well away from her face. "It is. Did someone… It wasn't…"

Hashirama and Kawarama were quick to follow, and sat down on the floor beside them. "Did you and Tobirama get into a fight?" Again, he displayed that inexplicable perception he hid behind a carefree attitude. Now, his expression was unreadable.

Kawarama snapped out of his silent daze and looked between them, eyes wide. "What? No way Hashi-bro. Tobirama wouldn't… I mean, they do argue a lot, and he's always mad when she beats him at rock-paper-scissors, but—Mitsuba?"

Mitsuba shook her head. "No! It wasn't Tobirama. Jeez. I just—" She bit her lip—winced, when her tooth hit the split skin. "I fell. I also cut my hand."

God. It wasn't a complete lie, but it sounded like a shitty excuse in her ears. Even so, there was no way she could blame it on the muscle memory of a child soldier. She knew, and she threw that punch anyway, like some shounen manga miracle would strengthen her in her desperation to prove herself and prove that she could handle herself.

But there was no shounen manga logic here. Only harsh and unfair reality.

"On a kunai," she clarified. "I was…training."

No use keeping it from them when Butsuma probably knew now, too. She tossed out the bloody kunai and it fell to the floor with a heavy thump.

In nothing less than perfect synch, all of their eyes shot open wide.

"Mitsu! Didn't Dad forbid you?" Itama gasped, then quickly covered his mouth with both hands, letting the damp cloth topple to the floor.

"What? How do you know that?" She grabbed for his hand and pulled it away from his mouth to get him to speak, even as he shrunk back and shook his head. Tobirama knowing about it wasn't a surprise, but everyone else, too...?

"Uhh…" Her brothers all exchanged a long glance before shrugging, guilty.

"Sorry, Mitsu. I sort of overheard you and Dad a while back." Hashirama's shoulders tensed as he met her eyes with a shaky grin, hands set on the ankles of his crossed legs.

Kawarama scratched at the back of his head as his eyes drifted toward the ceiling. "Yeah…we didn't want you to feel left out or anything, so that's why we spend so much time with you." A sheepish grin spread across his face, showing off his dimples.

"Kawarama! Don't make it sound like we're just doing it out of pity!"

"What? I didn't mean it like that, 'Tama! Mitsuba's fun to be with. Her hugs are the best."

"Well—anyway, it—it got you hurt! Now you know why Dad didn't…" Itama's voice faltered as he aimed his gaze back at Mitsuba and caught her vicious stare. He shied away, wringing his hands together. "It's just—you're supposed to let us protect you. You don't need to…don't need to be a shinobi or anything, Mitsu…"

"What—whatever," Mitsuba sighed out in disgust, raising a hand to prod at the dull ache at the edge of her mouth. "It doesn't matter now. Someone told—one of the lookouts, maybe. They look gossipy. I don't know. But Tobirama's telling Dad all about it and none of you will have to worry about me getting hurt again. You can all protect me as much as you want when he forbids me from ever leaving the house again." She didn't hide the bitterness seeping out in her voice.

Hashirama sighed. "Itama didn't mean it like that, Mitsu… But you're our little sister. Even Tobirama… You know he has trouble expressing himself. But he cares in his own way. Like you care for us. If he's telling Dad, it's for your sake. And Dad…"

Even he didn't know what to say about Butsuma.

Itama shook his head furiously, brow furrowed. "But I did mean it like that, Hashirama. Mitsu doesn't need to fight. Not like kunoichi like Touka, or like us. So why…why would you even want to try?"

"Itama!" Hashirama shot him a mild glare.

"I'm not gonna take it back! I'm—I'm serious, here!"

She was silent during the exchange, idly watching Kawarama as his vacant stare switched between his brothers. Perhaps not fully grasping the situation, or just too tired from the trip home to throw in his two cents. But then he caught her gaze and shut his mouth, frowning blankly and blinking owlishly. "Uh, Mitsuba. Why do you want to know how to fight?"

Damn him—it was a good question.

The question caught them all off-guard. Hashirama and Itama's argument drifted into silence as all eyes focused on her.

Frowning deep just to keep her lips from trembling, she snatched the damp cloth up from where it fell, before it seeped through the tatami mats and rotted them and left her with future work, and pressed it up against her mouth to scrub away the dried blood. "Because I hate it here. I don't hate you guys, but—I hate my lessons. I hate being—being treated like something—"

Useless.

"—fragile. I want to use my chakra. I want to be strong. I want to—"

I want to leave.

She could never say the truth.

I want to leave and I don't want to die defenseless out in this shitty, shitty world. And I don't want to stay here and watch you die.

She didn't know if she'd cleaned away all of the blood, but the lukewarm cloth did nothing to soothe her busted lip so she tossed it away and stared down at her bloodied hand instead. Made half of an effort to wipe away the snaking tracks of red on her forearm but gave up when she realized she'd just have to take a bath later anyway. And also wash the blood out of her sleeve.

Her appearance must have looked…frightening, for them to be gathered around her with such serious expressions. And Itama, trying to baby her so much despite being barely a minute older. Always trying to be so strong, reliable…

"Big words, for such a small girl." Quiet as a prowling cat, Tobirama appeared in the open doorway, arms crossed, narrowed red gaze focused on a distant corner of the room. Unable to meet her eyes, or his brothers'. "Give up, Mitsuba. It's better that way. Even Mother thought so."

Of course he knew what Kanae had told her. It didn't even faze her. She only shut her eyes and grit her teeth before opening them again and looking to Hashirama. He could deal with this. Only he could ever sway Tobirama.

"Tobirama…" Hashirama began to speak, but shut his mouth. Couldn't find it in him to argue the point. Or he thought the same, too. He met her eyes and shook his head, as if trying to dissuade an outburst she just didn't have the energy to rile.

None of them would side with her on this. Not this time.

Butsuma passed down his punishment through Mariko, who rode her ass harder than ever and demanded pure perfection even from her best work. Nagged like an absolute harpy over the tiniest and most pointless mistakes. Doubled the lessons—doubled the time spent obeying her father's order and not running amok trying to play shinobi. And was damn bitter about having to give up her time on a disobedient little brat.

Touka… Touka had been relieved of her post. Still a shinobi, but with different orders, now. Mitsuba didn't see her around for a long while after that day.

Her brothers spent less time in her company, again a result of their father's interference.

When they were away, and when Mariko's lessons had ended, an older Senju shinobi kept close watch on her every move, only giving her privacy in the outhouse and the baths and her bedroom.

Butsuma was thorough, and made damn sure she had next to no spare time to pursue her training.

And he'd almost succeeded. But stolen moments were her forte.

Practicing her projectile-throwing through skipping stones could easily be overlooked as a child having innocent, harmless fun.

Carrying as much weight in laundry and foraged vegetables to keep her strength up was nothing to bat an eye at.

Learning how to water-walk and keep her balance on the filled surface of a small wooden tub wasn't ideal, but she took whatever she could get. Even if it was more like a defunct game of the hokey pokey than aspiring (and long-suffering) self-teaching.

It wasn't the best approach, bullshitting her way through training, but it was a small step forward. Small steps added up, little by little, as time passed on.

For that reason, she could handle whatever Butsuma threw her way—and things weren't so bad, they really weren't.

A slow year passed.

Then Kawarama died.