3.
He makes good time to Sora-ku, and the city is within his view on the horizon as dusk approaches. At least this place is exactly the same as he remembers it: spindly, rundown towers, standing in crowded rows like crooked teeth; glowing lanterns in shades of red and orange; tattered multicolored banners flapping over every doorway. A black-and-white cat slinks around a corner and out of sight as he steals down the alley, away from the lights at the center of the city, following the faint pulse of Izuna's chakra. He scales one of the little spires and jumps from roof to roof, searching. Izuna is really here, somewhere on the east side of the city, close to the river.
Madara breaks into a run. He's close. He leaps down from the rooftop and lands in the street, his cloak flapping around him. Not much longer now. He scans the plaques and signs on the doorways for the familiar Uchiha crest, heart racing, blood pounding in his ears. Izuna's chakra is burning like a beacon now, and he feels as if the talons of the Susanoo are squeezing his chest, puncturing his lungs and his heart—
Madara chokes on a sob as he runs. There it is. The Uchiha crest is carved underneath the dirty glass panes of the window at the far end of the alley, barely visible in the dimness. But he'd recognize that simmering smoky chakra anywhere, no matter how far he has to travel, no matter how much time passes.
He rearranges his cloak and straightens out his bangs and knocks frantically—bang-bang-bang-bang-bang—on the window pane. "Izuna?" he calls. His voice is shaking. "Izuna, are you there?"
Madara peers into the window. Inside the house, an old gray cat limps over to the door, its tail curling back and forth. It nuzzles against the door, meowing loudly. Soon, another cat joins it, this time an orange tabby with one eye missing. A bell jingles somewhere in some distant room, and out comes a third, black cat, with a red ribbon around its neck.
Out of sight, Izuna's chakra flickers, then gives a faint surge. Slowly, slowly, he comes into view.
He's not dressed in shinobi clothing, Madara notices immediately. He's barefoot, wearing a long kimono with little cat heads on it, and his hair is down to his ankles, tied back in a loose ponytail. He slowly opens the door. His eyes are closed, for reasons that Madara can't discern, and his hand gives a little twitch before he reaches up to cup Madara's chin with gentle, trembling fingers. All of the apologies, the supplications, the pleas for forgiveness that he had frantically thought of on his way to Sora-ku have utterly vanished from his brain, and as he stands in Izuna's parlor, seeing his brother for the first time in over a year, Madara finds himself quite unable to speak.
"Madara?" Izuna whispers. His voice is hoarse, indicating months of disuse. The dam breaks. Madara throws his arms around his brother and cries.
"I'm so sorry," he chokes out at last, holding him as tightly as he can. "Izuna, I'm so sorry."
Very tentatively, Izuna rests one hand in Madara's hair, his cold fingers combing through the unruly tangle.
"Your hair has gotten longer," he says, sounding mildly surprised. He pats Madara on the shoulder as they come apart, Madara furiously wiping his eyes. And then: "What's this?"
He pulls a piece of sycamore bark from Madara's hair, turning it over and over in his fingers.
"Oh," Madara sniffs. "It's nothing. Izuna, it's—it's good to see you."
Izuna doesn't respond right away. Something doesn't feel right here, though he can't put his finger on what. Madara examines Izuna's pale face, a frown tugging at his lips. Oh, he thinks. Izuna looks almost identical to the way he had looked back then, cold and bone-pale and still, lying in his coffin with his hands folded neatly over his chest in gentle surrender. If not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, he could almost be a corpse. Madara shudders, remembering. And then he realizes—Izuna's eye sockets are hollow and empty, his eyelids draped over nothing like a pair of wrinkled curtains over two dark windows. And then he sees the scars, a scattering of scratches and cuts and shallow little gouges, and even a few that look like the uneven indents left by long fingernails, all around Izuna's forehead and cheeks. Bile rises in Madara's throat. He tears his gloves off with his teeth and shoves them into his pocket, moving on instinct to seize Izuna's shoulders, but draws back, in case Izuna doesn't want to be touched.
"What happened to you?" he cries instead, finding that his hands are shaking. "What happened to your eyes?"
Izuna doesn't answer. He bites his lip.
"Oh, no," Madara whispers. "Tell me I didn't."
"Come out of the doorway," Izuna says finally, his voice flat. "You'll let the cats out."
Madara moves into Izuna's warm kitchen, the awful hot lump in his throat swelling. Every cell in his body is overcome with a white-hot, burning rage. The aroma of simmering rice porridge and the vague smell of cats barely feels real at all. For the first time since Izuna's death in his own world, he feels the overwhelming urge to fight, to inflict unfathomable pain upon this monster who has hurt his brother so badly, to make him hurt, not caring how badly he gets hurt in return.
"I'll kill him," he whispers, his breath coming shallow and fast. "I'll kill him."
Izuna's jaw clenches. He swallows. "Madara," he says, quietly.
His brother's voice brings him back to his senses. Enormous blue blossoms of chakra are flaring up around his feet, sending indigo sparks scattering around the room. Madara's hair is floating around his face in black clouds, and as Izuna reaches out for his shoulder, a great flicker of electricity jumps between them. He takes a long breath in, then lets it out. The blue flames recede back into the floor. Gradually, his hair settles.
"Let me take your cloak," Izuna says, unclasping it from Madara's shoulders. He slowly brings it over to the hook by the door and hangs it up.
"I'm sorry," Madara says carefully, glancing once more at the scars around Izuna's eye sockets. "I didn't mean to—I must have brought back some bad memories for you, didn't I."
Once more, Izuna doesn't answer. He hovers by the entrance to the kitchen, twisting his fingers together. "You're not from this world, are you?" he says instead.
Madara's mouth falls open. "No," he says at last. "I'm not."
He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Izuna always was uncannily perceptive towards matters like these. But the resemblance to the Izuna he had once known ends there. Where the old Izuna had been loud, boisterous, larger-than-life, this one is timid, docile, small. It makes Madara's chest hurt. He wonders just how many of this Izuna's misfortunes are his own fault, and prays that the Izuna he had known in his old world had not felt like this on the inside because of him.
Madara shakes himself. "I need your help," he says. "Hashirama told me to come. I'm trying to get back to my own world."
"I might be able to help you," Izuna says, his face brightening somewhat. "Come and sit down. Let me show you what I have."
"You're taking this rather well," Madara says, impressed.
Izuna shrugs. "I've dealt with worse things," he says, going over to the little closet behind the kitchen. He emerges with an armful of yellowing scrolls. As he comes closer, Madara notices the pattern of mottled, craterlike burn scars running up his forearms. He bites the inside of his cheek.
"So," Izuna says, gently setting the scrolls down on the counter, "What do you want to know?"
"Anything on space-time ninjutsu," Madara says quickly, "or really, anything I was working on before I left. I don't know. I just need to start somewhere."
"Well, then, start here," Izuna suggests, passing him a scroll off the top of the pile. Madara unties the red twine and unfurls it. He recognizes its contents as part of the message inscribed on the Uchiha tablet—the part that he hadn't been able to translate. This translation reads:
When someone who possesses the power of Saṃsāra approaches the moon, the eye will open that is reflected on the moon to grant the eternal dream…
"This is my handwriting," Madara says, fingertips brushing over the brittle parchment. "You kept my old notes?"
Izuna nods. "I saved everything that I thought you might need," he says. "I don't know how much of it will be of use to you, but…"
"Indra's holy bones, Izuna, you're a godsend," says Madara, lifting the scroll up to take a closer look. The other Madara's handwriting is a little neater than his own, and a little flashier; the sharp upward strokes give each character a slightly slanted appearance. He frowns. It's jarring to look at his own handwriting and see words that he has no recollection of writing. Eternal dream in particular sounds vaguely foreboding.
Izuna's face lights up. "I have more," he says. "Check the wardrobe."
Madara rolls up the scroll and goes to look. It's as if he's looking into his old closet; he moves aside several old pairs of sandals, a very worn and patched-up cloak, and two faded old mantles, astounded at the effort Izuna has put into keeping it all organized. There's a scarlet wooden mask with carved tengu-like features, and underneath that, a dusty object that he recognizes as his old falconry glove and stirrups. On the small shelf above the row of coat hooks, he discovers more treasures—a pair of gleaming kunai, rolls of bandages, shuriken, a basket full of smoke bombs, a box of incense sticks and candles—he's even kept a half-empty jar of leather polish. Madara pockets it, rather touched. He comes back to the kitchen.
"I remember reading this one, a long time ago, although I didn't know what it meant," Izuna is saying, running his thumb over the binding of a thick scroll with fraying silk edges. "Seeking stability," he recites, "one god split into yin and yang; it is these opposing forces, light and dark, operating together—"
"—that give rise to all things in creation," Madara finishes. "I remember. I get the feeling that whatever is going on in this world, the other me is at the very center of it."
"I'm afraid you're right," Izuna says. Madara takes a deep breath. He feels faint. He sways on his feet, quickly gripping the edge of the table for support. Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes. He sits down with a clatter, rubbing his temples. He hopes Izuna won't notice.
Izuna is onto him in an instant. "Madara?" he says sharply. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Madara says. His voice comes out weaker than he had intended.
Izuna frowns. "When did you last eat?"
The question throws him off guard. He honestly can't remember. "Yesterday?" he says. He squints. "Two days ago, maybe? Is it past midnight yet?"
Izuna stands up from the table. "Stay where you are," he says. He crouches next to the stove and very carefully blows a little stream of flame at the front burner. "Tea?" he says, getting a pot of water ready.
"I—I can make it," Madara says, going to stand up. "Don't bother—"
Izuna reaches over and places a surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder. "Just sit." He feels around on the counter for the teabags, then lifts the lid of the simmering pot of rice that's already on the stove. Two of the cats emerge around the corner, meowing curiously at all the activity. One of them, the one-eyed tabby, climbs up into Madara's lap and curls up into a nearly perfect circle. He scratches behind its ears and fails to bite back a smile as it begins to purr softly.
Izuna brings over a platter with two steaming bowls and two hot mugs of tea. "Here," he says, passing him one chipped bowl. "Okayu."
Madara accepts it with a muttered "thanks." He raises the bowl to his lips, then pauses.
Izuna seems to notice. "You're not eating," he says.
Madara stares into the bowl of okayu, feeling tears prickling in the corners of his eyes yet again. "Why do you still care so much for me?" he says. "I've caused you nothing but misfortune, and yet you still—"
"You haven't caused me any misfortune," Izuna says. "We just met today, remember."
"Even so," Madara says, staring down at the pile of scrolls on the floor. I let you die in the other world, he thinks. Something else occurs to him then. He puts his bowl aside, frowning.
"Izuna?" he says.
"Yes?" Izuna replies, in barely more than a whisper.
Madara takes a long sip of tea before continuing. "How did you know I wasn't from this world?"
"Well, I did master sage jutsu," Izuna says softly. "I can tell these things."
"You're a sage?" Madara exclaims, setting his teacup down with a loud clack. "Izuna, that's amazing!"
"There really wasn't much to it," Izuna says, squirming uncomfortably in the chair. "Some of the ninneko helped me." He bows his head for a moment, and when he surfaces, there are red and white markings around his eyes and his nose, looking like a set of matching whiskers and stripes.
Madara beams into his okayu. Of course his brother would be a cat sage. Izuna ducks his head again, and his sage markings fade away.
"What was I like in this world?" Madara says. "Why did I change? Why did I abandon the village?"
Izuna sets down his mug, thinking hard.
"I don't think you did change," he says, and Madara's heart sinks horribly. "You were always like this—always reaching for the top. It was inevitable, I think, that the village could no longer contain you. The clan trusted you, and I trusted you to do what was best for the clan."
The gray cat leaps up and sits in Izuna's lap. He strokes it absentmindedly.
"And you always did do what was best for the clan. Even when it hurt." He pauses, shivering slightly.
Madara glances down at a small red scroll bearing the instructions for unlocking the eternal Mangekyou sharingan.
"I know there's no point in trying to apologize," he says slowly, mentally tracing the harsh brushstrokes until each one is ingrained in his memory. He looks up across the table at his brother, pale and demure, holding his mug of tea with trembling fingers. "Izuna, believe me, I would go blind a thousand times over if I could somehow get you your eyes back."
"You did what needed to be done," Izuna says dully, setting down his tea. "It's all right."
"No!" Madara cries. "It is not all right, Izuna! I can't let you just—"
"It is an honor to serve the Uchiha clan and my elder brother," Izuna cuts in. "These eyes were a small price to pay."
"Is that what I told you when I took them?" Madara cries. "And you listened to me?"
Izuna shakes his head. "Madara, enough. I've already forgiven you."
"You don't have to forgive me!" Madara cries. "You deserve to be upset! I did something terrible, and you took the fall for it!"
Izuna doesn't answer. He keeps stroking the gray cat.
"Big brothers," Madara says, "are supposed to protect their siblings. I have failed you in every possible way." He bows his head. "Izuna, I am so sorry. If only—"
A flurry of movement out the window catches his eye. Madara gapes. It's the same pitch-black, oozing, humanoid being he had spotted off Hashirama's balcony, and at the shrine. The instant it appears, he feels a wave of that now-familiar dark, rotting chakra wash over him. The other Madara's chakra feels infinitely worse now that he knows what he did to Izuna in this world. He clutches his head, groaning.
"What is it?" says Izuna.
"Nothing," Madara says. He lets out a long, slow breath, and wipes the blood from his nose. "I think I'm being followed."
Izuna's mouth forms a solemn line. "By whom?" he says, barely moving his lips
Madara glances out the window once more. One of the red lanterns across the street has gone out. "I'm not sure," he admits, staring at his pale reflection in the dirty glass. "This whole world has thrown me off. I'm not sensing things correctly. I don't think it's human." He gulps down the last of his tea. "Whatever it is, it followed me from my own world. And I'm certain that it's connected to—the other Madara. That thing might be my best shot at him."
Izuna looks paler than usual.
"It could be a trap," he says.
Madara scoffs. "And?"
"Madara, he's…he's unbelievably powerful," Izuna says, gripping his forearm arm with one pale hand.
Madara raises one eyebrow. "So am I," he says. "There are things more important than power, you know."
Izuna bites his lip. "Still," he says.
"Listen to me," Madara says, putting his hands on Izuna's shoulders. "I will go to the ends of heaven and earth for you, Izuna. I will defy death and reason, I will protect you with all my might. I love you, more than I can say. I swear I will defeat him."
Izuna sits there in shocked silence, lips parted slightly, grip loosening on his sleeve.
"Come on," Madara says. "Let me just be your big brother for a moment.
He takes Izuna's hand and leads him outside. At the end of the alley, the wind whistles through the paper-thin cracks in the buildings; and grit and sand fly in their faces. Sora-ku stands before them, dim and dark and dilapidated, and for the first time in a long time, Madara looks up at the stars and feels at peace with himself and his resolve. Finally, finally, he feels as if he is working towards something worthwhile.
Izuna is shivering. "Here," Madara says, and removes his cloak, wrapping it tightly around Izuna's shoulders. "Better?"
Izuna nods, the tiniest of smiles gracing his pale face. They sit in silence for a while.
"We used to do this a lot," Madara says presently, "sneak outside the compound to get away from everything. We'd talk for hours."
"That sounds nice," Izuna says, "just talking."
"When you were little," Madara gazes at the horizon, remembering, "I would tell you stories, you know, to get you to fall asleep." He laughs. "Of course, I was young then too, so none of them were very good, but…"
Izuna lifts his head very slightly. "What kinds of stories?" he says.
"Oh, just whatever was on my mind, really," Madara says. "Talking birds, and forest spirits, and moon magic, and one about a travelling band of dancing cats—you were especially fond of the dancing cats," he says. Izuna laughs. "We both grew out of them at some point, I suppose."
Madara looks up at the sky, no longer so concerned with the cold. The more he watches, the more stars he seems to notice. It seems almost impossible that the night sky can hold so many of them all at once. Madara feels very small. Izuna leans up against Madara's shoulder, his breath quiet in Madara's ear.
"And then, when you got hurt," Madara says, "very badly, years ago now, I told you one more story. I had never felt so helpless. I needed to do something to ease your pain, no matter how insignificant it was. But then you—you—"
Izuna's folded hands spasm in his lap. "I died," he says quietly, "didn't I."
A shooting star makes its glittering arc across the sky. Madara nods.
"There are so many things I wish I could have told you," he says, cursing his voice for breaking. "So many little moments I wish we could have shared. After we founded the village, I thought I would feel better, but most days I just miss you more and more."
"Tell me about the village in your world," Izuna says, resting his chin in his hands in a manner painfully reminiscent of the old Izuna.
"Oh, it's—it's wonderful," Madara says, realizing, with an almost divine moment of clarity, just how wonderful it is. "I wish I could bring you back and show you. Oh, Izuna, you would have loved it. One of the first things Hashirama did was designate a huge swath of the forest for a nature preserve. He's got all sorts of rare plants in there—he's been growing these carnivorous flowers recently, as big around as umbrellas, and the leaves are so sharp that you can cut yourself on them—and the animals! Enormous wild cats with claws like meat hooks, and great big eagles the size of warships, and all sorts of snails and worms and frogs and salamanders and other little creatures like that—Hashirama has taken a liking to those little snails recently," Madara says, smiling as he remembers.
"And there's an enormous botanic garden just outside the Academy," he continues. "We just had the Winter Solstice festival there, so all the lanterns are still strung up. I feel like I'm walking through a field of stars every time I leave the Academy after dark. Oh—and the aviary is really something; all kinds of hawks and owls and crows and ravens, just the smartest birds you could imagine—there's this one fish hawk, Kishiko I think her name is—she'd kill me if she knew I had forgotten her name," Madara laughs. "She just came to us from Kirigakure, and she has the most exquisite golden eyes.
"There's a cat shelter, right at the entrance to the Uchiha district," he continues, watching Izuna's smile widen ever-so-slightly. "Hikaku's in charge of it right now, but most everyone from the clan stops by to volunteer; they take such good care of those cats.
"And we have a cat that lives in the office—she was a stray originally, and she took a liking to me as we were building the Academy, but when I brought her home to my house she ran away. Well, naturally we all thought she was gone forever, but one day we came into the office and there she was, curled up in that very sunny spot on the windowsill just behind the Hokage's desk—you know the spot, right? You would love her, Izuna, she's such a sweet lady." He grins. "I feed her Tobirama's fish sometimes, but I don't think he's figured that out yet."
Madara looks down at Izuna, whose chest is rising and falling so peacefully, he thinks he might have fallen asleep. He continues, in a softer voice:
"And Kagami's aunts just opened a senbei shop—it's a tiny little place, but the sweets are divine, and last I heard, they're working on building an addition. And the dumpling shop is always worth a visit—it's near the offices, so I end up dragging Hashirama there for lunch at least twice a week—and the sushi shop is quite good too; once the alliance with Kiri made a bit more headway, the tuna got a lot fresher.
"Oh!" he says, remembering more details. "And the clan has its own tavern—I haven't been in a while, but Naori started a band a few months after the truce, and we have live music every other Friday—you like sweet drinks still, don't you?"
"I don't really drink," Izuna admits, stirring slightly, "but I do like sweet things."
Madara puts his arm around him, pulling him a bit closer. How he wishes he could pluck Izuna out of this world and place him gently in his own. He thinks of the village again, warm and bright and beautiful; and he thinks of the smell of frying food, and the carefree, easy music of street performers, and families laughing, and children playing; and then he remembers being so lonely it felt like dying, despite all of it right there in front of him, and then feeling worse and worse at his own self-imposed isolation. He wants to belong so badly.
"You're allowed to be a part of the village, you know," Izuna says softly, as if he's read Madara's mind.
"I know," Madara says, surprised to find that he's crying.
"Thank you, Madara," Izuna says softly, resting his head on Madara's shoulder.
Madara wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "For what?"
"I had hoped you would come back someday," Izuna says, "so I could be useful to you one last time."
Rabbit. Boar. Ram.
Madara examines his hands. He doesn't feel any different after making the handsigns, although he can't see why the jutsu wouldn't have worked. But he isn't done just yet, he thinks as he steps into the desert and begins his long journey back to the village. He can't leave this world—leave Izuna—like this. He needs to make one final stop before he sets off for good. He just hopes he's given himself enough time.