Chapter Five

Mitsuba wasn't dead. No—she knew what death, what dying was like. For her, it was a sharp and sudden pain that opened her body like a broken dam and let her soul flood out, or the brink of suffocation—then nothing. But she could still think, still was, so she wasn't dead yet.

Certainly, she'd passed out at some point, but gradually she became aware of her body. Soaked and weighed down by a heavy, damp kimono. Aching, like she'd been running too far, too fast, hurtling forward and unable to stop. Eyelids heavy, weighed down by anchors—and one hurting, pulsing, with something pressing down on it physically as well as metaphorically.

Solid mud supported her—damp and squishy and tepid beneath her fingertips and in the beds of her fingernails, but no longer a swamp.

The rain had passed. But the sound of the river still roared in her ears, so, so close.

Someone was with her, at her side. Speaking, urgently, sometimes patting at her face or jostling her shoulders. On some level, she knew who he was. But it didn't matter, because he wasn't Itama. Because Itama was—

Itama was—

…Never before had she cared to hate the Uchiha. But, no, it wasn't even that clan as a whole. Only two.

Only two.

Two, with leering red pinwheel eyes and blurry demon faces but oh-so-distinct voices, one deep and rough as sandpaper grit, one like a tangle of skittering spider legs; cruel, ruthless, and…delighted.

Both far too eager to hunt shinobi children as blood sport. And it was a blood sport.

It was, because the only thing that made sense was that this era was full of twisted psychopaths who enjoyed slaying children.

Put a weapon in a child's hand and call them a shinobi? Bullfuckingshit. If only they'd put aside their pride before drawing their young into the warzone and let it raise them with the same ideals, if they survived at all.

But she wasn't any better. She wasn't, because she hadn't done a thing about it. Couldn't. Because it led to death no matter what.

Just what separated a father that shoved his children into bloody battle and a sister that dragged her brother down and allowed him to stand between life and death?

Oh, god. I'm the same. I'm just the same as him and no better. Maybe worse. I let this happen. I'm no mother. No sister.

I did this.

I did this.

I did this—

"Mitsuba!" A hand struck her face a bit harder than before, enough to just sting—and like a trigger, it shot her from her mind. She coughed, retched, water spilling from her lips and into her hair and onto the ground, and turned her head, wheezing. River swill trickled out of her lungs until her breaths came clear.

Only one eye opened. The other remained closed, with something pressed tight against it, including a hand. Another hand grabbed at her shoulder and helped her sit up. She didn't resist—moved like a doll, not quite feeling herself, as the world dipped in and out of bleary focus and a pair of red eyes blinked at her side.

Uchiha—

She jerked away, reaching behind her to grab at the ground and push up and run, but when her palm hit the mud her entire arm buckled beneath her with a numbing, white-hot flare of pain that stole away her consciousness like a swiping hand.

It wasn't a silent peace, though.

Voices drifted closer, then away, sometimes muffled and other times loud, like floating bubbles popping too close to her ears. Everything hurt. Everything felt…separated, like nothing was holding her together and she was a bundle of yarn that had snagged somewhere in the river and unwound and unwound and unwound the farther she traveled.

When she felt like herself again, she didn't feel much different. Drier, certainly, but no less heavy. No less broken. Something still pressed tight against her left eye and prevented it from opening, held fast with something wrapped around her head. Bandages—but they felt like a vice.

"Are you awake?"

A warm presence shifted at her side.

When she opened her eye, Hashirama's face filled her vision, pinched in a grim frown that smoothed into a grateful smile when she blinked and let her gaze dart around the wooden walls of the bare room, fully lucid.

Not her futon. Not her room. Not the main house.

She sat up until a hand on her shoulder stopped her—and a good thing it did, too, because her body all but crumpled in on itself the minute she moved.

"It's only been a day! Don't try to do so much yet, Mitsu." He breathed out a sigh as he sat back and set his hands on his crossed legs, watching her with his lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows wrinkled together. Too serious. Much too serious for a child his age. "I—what happened?"

By the way he asked, hesitating just a second, he wasn't only asking for himself.

"You tell me," Mitsuba replied, gnashing her teeth against the way the words scraped their way up her throat and past trembling lips and into something ragged.

She rubbed at her throat with her good hand, looking down at the slow-pulsing arm that was wrapped fast in bandages and what looked like a makeshift splint. It didn't really hurt that much anymore and young bones could take a beating, but it must have been a full break with that kind of care.

Bruises—those hurt the most, now. All angry deep red and purple at the edges, speckled across her skin.

"Tell you what I think happened or what our father thinks happened?" He had no time for her evasive attitude—not today. Not right now. Still, he wasn't cruel about it. Just urgent. From the sleepless shadows under his eyes and the pinch of irritation in his expression, he'd stayed by her side through the night. Maybe not entirely on Butsuma's orders, either.

On one side of his face, just under the cheek, was a blossoming fist-shaped bruise that looked as bad as hers.

She almost reached out to touch it. Almost.

"…I don't know. Is there a difference?" she asked instead, letting her hand fall to her chest, where she straightened the collar of her yukata. A spare—not hers, specifically. Maybe one of Kiku's, for the way it fit. Either she or Mariko had been tasked with changing her into dry clothes.

"I… Honestly, I don't know. It's just—so much happened between now and then. When I came back home yesterday, everyone was in a panic. You were gone, Itama was gone, Father and Tobirama were gone... I went after them and still don't really know. Part of the forest was really messed up, worse than by a storm alone—then Tobirama found you down the river—way down the river. I thought—thought you were dead.

"We evacuated the compound—we're staying at a camp for now, until we can make it to the new one. It's not too far, but when we have to change locations like this…" He trailed off, unwilling to linger on the subject of why.

Why? She wanted to know. Couldn't muster the energy to ask, though.

"Father and Tobirama are out looking for Itama, still." One of his hands scrubbed at his eyes, pushing his bangs out of the way before they settled across his forehead, askew. "What did you do, Mitsu? I mean, did you and Itama wander off to play, or—you didn't…you didn't run away, did you? Did Itama follow you? No one, none of the guards, have anything to say on the matter. No one even knew you'd gone. Was Itama with you?"

Each time he spoke their brother's name, it was a solid blow to her heart. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her yukata, but he didn't see her reaction. He'd squeezed his eyes shut as his voice shook and tears shone in his eyes again.

"I think he had to be, because Father says the forest damage looked like…like…" He knew exactly what, but he wouldn't tell her. He took a breath. "It was ruined. Trees upturned, weird growths—what happened? Did he protect you? Then how did you fall in the river? And where is Itama?"

"Uchiha…" It slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. Almost flinched as Hashirama reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, eyes wide.

"Uchiha?! You ran into Uchiha?" Grim despair, now—watching his emotions change was like speed-flipping through a picture book.

"No—yes—stop!" Mitsuba snapped, smacking his hands away as tears burned in her eyes. Red eyes and pointed smiles and swords and—

For the way he recoiled it was as if she'd slapped him straight across the face. He gave her a moment and let his gaze wander meekly away as his shoulders slumped and his panic deflated. "Sorry. I'm sorry, Mitsu. But I need to know. The Uchiha—they're dangerous. Not only them. But…" He met her eyes again, pleading. "I need to know. Tell me what happened. Please."

"We both went out…"

She didn't intend to lie. Really, she didn't, but the story formed itself in her fear and guilt and regret and denial.

"We left the compound and went looking for something in the forest—a fox. Itama thought it was a dog. There's—there's a hole in the back wall, behind the meeting hall. Hidden behind bushes. That's how we got out unseen—no one knows about it but us." She bit her lip as it began to tremble. "We went too far out…Itama wanted to go back, but we got lost. Then it started raining. Really bad. We went as far as we could—"

Then the Uchiha—

"—then we got stuck. The river was too high—the current was too strong. Some men—shinobi—cornered us. I-I don't know what else happened. I fell into the river."

"Were those men Uchiha? Do you know?"

"No—I don't know. I didn't really see…"

"And Itama?"

He's dead.

"I don't know."

He's dead.

"Mitsuba—"

"I don't know!"

He held up his hands to placate her. "Okay. Sorry. Sorry, Mitsu. It's okay."

No, it's really not. It never will be.

"Uchiha…Itama told me about them. He said to watch out for them. Maybe they weren't…" She shook her head and sniffled back snot as tears burned at her eyes—eye. She pressed her good hand over the bandages, feeling small—smaller than she'd ever been. A child, for the first time in forever. Helpless and afraid and alone for the lie. For the mistake. For everything.

One of Hashirama's hands rested gently against her back, warm. "It's…it'll be okay, Mitsu. Sorry for asking so much."

"Itama—"

The sound of voices, floating muffled through the walls, halted her sentence.

Butsuma opened the door to the small cabin, with Tobirama at his side. In his hands was a muddied bundle of gray fabric she knew well and once she saw it she couldn't look away.

"…Itama let me wear that. I lost it in the storm." She held out her hand, as if fully expecting the man would hand it over. He didn't. He wouldn't even look her in the eye. "He… Where is he?"

No one spoke a word.

And with one look from Butsuma, Hashirama rose to his feet and followed his father and his brother out of the room.

A day later, they arrived at the new compound.

It was smaller, shabbier, and not nearly as spacious as the previous location—but the walls surrounding it were high and strong with no hidden holes for foolish children to slip through.

Mitsuba's belongings had been packed together in a rush—two of her kimonos, Kanae's hair brush and a few hairpins she'd been fond of had been left behind. Her medicine chest, tucked so safely away in its closet corner, had gone overlooked. Hidden a bit too well.

The field guide she'd so studiously kept at her side had been lost to the river.

Ultimately…she had nothing. A penalty for her lie, perhaps.

But it was one they'd bought. No body, no signs of any remnants, meant Itama would remain forever missing—not dead. They would forever hold on to the hope that, one day, he would return to them, alive and well. Smiling, as he always did. Crying, too, so relieved to be reunited with his family.

Was it really so cruel…?

Butsuma never spoke to her on the matter. Not after a day, not after a week.

Mariko, waspish when far away from his presence, criticized him because he hadn't dealt her a harsh punishment, but once the bandages came off, she clicked her tongue and claimed the scar that remained was punishment enough.

The injury didn't steal her sight. Her left eyelid never opened fully again, but her eyesight remained, if not a bit blurred in the distance. Really, the only part she regretted on that front was that she didn't get to wear a cool eyepatch.

Touka said so, too.

This was the compound she'd been sent away too after their training incident—the one silver lining to everything that happened.

"You must be thankful for your life," she consoled as she sat behind Mitsuba in their shared room and combed out her long, tangled hair, freshly washed of grime and dirt. A week's worth of tangles and knots did not come undone with one smooth stroke. For the better part of an hour, she'd been steadily picking and brushing them through from the end and working her way up. "From what I understand, you had quite the brush with death."

"It isn't the first time." Never mind the unintentional pun—Touka probably didn't even realize she'd made it.

"Ah, yes. When you were younger…" Her voice trailed off. No one liked to recall the past. Not in these times.

Mitsuba winced as the comb's teeth yanked through a particularly tough knot. "Did you know the woman who saved me, back then?"

"I did. She was Mariko-san's daughter."

"No wonder she hates me."

"She was also my aunt."

"Oh…I'm—" Sorry didn't seem sincere, or appropriate. In the end, she kept silent and dropped her good hand into her lap, picking at the bandage brace that held her splinted arm still. It wasn't a full break. Only a fracture—somewhere on the ulna. It didn't hurt, not anymore, not when she accidentally moved it, but the doctor, a new visiting doctor, told her to take care regardless because young girls should treat their bodies better.

(And what of the young boys? She'd asked, but received no answer.)

"No need for condolences. It was a noble sacrifice, but…we weren't close. My mother's side of the family never approved of her, or my, interest in combat. They believe women should be more…distant…in relation to battle." She breathed a short huff through her nose. "There is a reason I call my grandmother Mariko-san."

"I see. No love lost…" Just like her family, it seemed. At least, with her father, and probably Tobirama. Hashirama cared enough, but, still…they were distant. Ever since Kawarama died. And now, with Itama… Well, it didn't bring them any closer.

She might have already lost them to that growing rift.

But she was the one who split it right open.

"Mitsuba…are you alright?"

The question caught her off guard, even with the added tug of tangled hair. It pulled free soon enough, and Touka moved on to the next section, awaiting an answer. Skillfully maintaining focus on her task as she did so.

"…No. I don't know."

I keep dreaming of evil voices and red, red eyes and a child, a baby, being stabbed, over and over, and sometimes he's smiling and dripping blood through his teeth. I keep dreaming of his body, flushed away by a raging river and washing out to sea, lost to the depths. When I look into the well outside sometimes I think he's staring back at me. Sometimes I think he'll reach up and pull me right in so he won't be so alone. I can't even watch you peel a damn apple when we eat lunch together.

I don't have any right to feel sorry for myself. I lied to my brothers. I did this.

…And I'm right back where I started. I hate it here, I hate it more every day. I hate…

The comb stilled. "Your anger is almost palpable. Chakra has a tendency to react with emotions, you see…and yours is flaring. Wild, like the leaves of a tree battered by storm winds. My sensory abilities are not strong, but even I can feel it."

Mitsuba stared down at her hand—how it curled into a tight fist when she wasn't paying attention or doing something with it. How her fingernails bit into the skin of her palm. Of course, she'd noticed it, but didn't question the way her body's equilibrium bounced painfully between hot flashes of rage and the cold, steel grip of mortal fear—two states a child's body or mind should never know.

A quiet sigh brushed past Touka's lips—it tickled against Mitsuba's scalp as she moved her hair and started on another section. "Your father and brothers are going to battle in a day's time. Would you like to train again then? It will help."

She almost laughed. "And risk being caught again? Where will Butsuma send you away to next?"

The comb stopped. "Mitsuba…"

"No…No, alright. Let's train. Thank you, Touka."

By "train" she meant nothing more than harmless meditation—but Mitsuba shouldn't have expected more when her arm was still mending and crooked at her side. That, and they weren't allowed to leave the compound. Well, she wasn't allowed. Aside from Touka, a guard had been assigned to keep watch over her each time she left the lodging house.

Unlike the previous compound that was made up of three large buildings, this one contained three smaller, one-room houses and a longer lodging area where her family, and Touka, stayed. All about half the size of the one she'd come to know as home, and more functional than aesthetically pleasing, with no ponds, no gardens, no trees within its walls. Only sandy, dirt ground and a well in the corner. The craggy peaks of mountains poked over the tops of the walls on one side, with trees and foliage on the others.

Outside, from the few rare glances she'd stolen out when the gates were open, was a shinobi encampment. Empty, now—all absent, following Butsuma's lead.

"Souma," Touka called out, waving a hand slightly to catch the attention of the nearby shinobi standing with his back to them, but by the way he barely turned his head to look her way, he didn't need to be called at all.

He was young, but older than them. A teenager with short, mousy hair, a severe, narrow face like Touka's and eyes like a hawk. Silent, cold. A little blank. Clad in the standard Senju shinobi's black battle uniform and olive-green armor. Faded, and cracked at some edges. He wasn't a stranger to the battlefield—and by the way he looked at them, he wasn't pleased he'd been one of the men tasked with staying behind.

"Leave Mitsuba to me, today. You don't mind, do you? We'll be near."

He watched her with an unblinking stare. For a moment, Mitsuba wasn't sure he'd heard her at all, or if he was simply ignoring her even as she watched him and awaited a response. After an awkward moment, he nodded, squinting against the sunlight hanging overhead. "Alright. I'll go guard the gate. Stay within eyesight."

"He's…agreeable," Mitsuba commented as he turned his back on them again and headed toward the front gate, a straight walk down the path to their right—the only path, really. Between the three smaller buildings and the lodging house was a long stretch of sandy courtyard and not much else.

"He's my brother. He may look strict, but he is surprisingly lenient." Touka watched him go, eyelids dipping down over her eyes. "I worry, when he embarks on a campaign. I've only ever been out twice, yet he's been out almost triple that. Still, he comes back every time." A small, sad smile rose to her lips. "Sometimes I think I only ever started training just to have more time with him."

The way she spoke, he was the only family she truly had left.

The way he yielded to her, trusted her, proved he respected her—a bond between shinobi siblings, perhaps. Between those who'd both been through battle and witnessed loss.

Between those who would die, and kill, for each other.

It should have been touching, but all it did was piss her off.

Touka set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Forgive me—I spoke without thinking. It must be difficult for you."

"No—it's not that." She ignored the stare burning into the side of her face in favor of turning her eyes away from the sun and staring out across the courtyard. "Let's go already."

Meditation didn't help.

Not the first time, not the second.

By the third day, she'd had enough.

"This isn't working!" She jumped to her feet just to kick at the sand beneath her, the inner child beating within her heart.

Touka followed, and stood aside as a dirt cloud puffed up around them. She grabbed at her good arm and did her best to calm her before she twisted something and hurt herself.

"I try… Is it so wrong to want to be strong like my brothers? Like you? Even you said so, Touka. You started training to be with your brother. To protect him. To protect your family. If I was strong, I wouldn't have to be here. If I was strong, I could have—"

Whirling red eyes. A blade, piercing straight through. A smile dripping with tears.

It wasn't the thought that halted her tirade. A pair of arms drew her swiftly into an embrace and held her tight. Tears burned in her eyes—flowed free, soaking into the front of Touka's navy kimono.

"It isn't wrong, Mitsuba," she said, voice low and soothing above her ear. "And you are strong—you still feel. The fact that you care means you have something to fight for. Something to protect. If you lose that will, you become weak. Without purpose. Your anger…everything you feel gives you purpose. You cannot let it overwhelm you. But you must learn to control it. Let it become your drive. And never let others use it against you."

Despite the calm, Touka's fingers clenched tight at her sleeves.

"I did say I began training to be with my brother. That was true for some time. But there is also another reason. Someone dear to me was hurt, beaten, violated, by a wicked group. I will not rest—I will not die—until those men responsible for her suffering see the point of my sword." She stopped speaking for a moment, trembling. But only for a moment. "I cannot erase the damage they brought. But I can stop them from inflicting more pain and bring peace of mind."

…We all fight so people like you don't have to. We fight to protect our clan, our families, to assure them a future peace and make sure no one who's been struck down dies in vain. Kawarama…I can't just let him die without reason.

Don't worry, Mitsu. I'll protect you!

Whirling red eyes. A blade, piercing straight through. A smile dripping with tears.

"…You don't have to hide it from yourself. Only those around you. A shinobi's—no, a kunoichi's mask is only a method of defense against our foes. Not suppression, not erasure, but control. If you learn anything from me, please let it be that."

At some point, she'd reached up and grasped her sleeve, too, holding her close as a sister, kindred in spirit.

Running away and leaving everything behind… had been wrong. Mitsuba hadn't wanted that, not really. She just didn't want to suffer the pain of it all—of loss and heartache and a family so broken there was no possible way to put it back together.

All she'd wanted was a mother who stayed. A father who cared. A father who'd be proud.

All she'd wanted was a family who believed in her. A family who'd protect her—who she could protect in turn. Who she could save.

But she couldn't erase the damage—she couldn't change the past.

She could only move forward through her mistakes and make damn sure it never happened again.

She could only move forward, left alone to mourn a brother only she knew had been lost. Left alone to ensure his bravery did not go unrepaid.

Itama was right. Touka was right. Hashirama—young in his ideals, at this time—was right, and maybe no one was wrong when all they were trying to do was build a better future for the ones they loved.

Slowly, she drew away from Touka's embrace. On her face was a smile, just like Itama's. An adopted mask, because his death was her responsibility to bear and she'd never let herself forget it. They shared the same face. The same smile. Even the same hair. She'd never forget.

And her tears dotted the ground, falling, falling. One. Two. Three. Sowing the seeds to something that would grow into a legend.

NOTES: Hey readers, did you happen to see the sweet new cover for this fic? It's fanart done by Emocean and it's just lovely.