His red plated war armor settles on his shoulders for the first time in years, nowhere near as foreign as the dark robes he'd taken to wearing outside of missions. The metal is scratched and dented in several places, where he hadn't bothered to clean it after his last battle with the Senju.
He straps on the rest of his gear, slowly, efficiently, and it's like coming up for air, like waking up from a long overdue nap and discovering everything you expected to be different is still exactly the same as you left it.
It's relief, and it hits him so hard his legs quake.
He's aware, truly, perhaps for the first time since Izuna's death, and the ice of horrified guilt in his heart is tempered by the burning rage in his gut; that he would set his last little brother's death aside and work alongside his murderer to build a village that would eventually eat their clan alive is an insult to Izuna's very memory – he should've listened to him, should never have trusted the Senju – but he reins it into the treacherous calm before the storm.
Uchiha Madara is awake again, no longer the docile creature the Senju thought they could tame with honeyed words of tranquility and happiness for generations to come, as if the Uchiha will actually last for longer than perhaps half a century under the rule of biased, hateful Senju instead of falling to quick and ruthless genocide the second things go even a little bit wrong.
He has read the tablet; it may as well be a prediction for the future.
They are traitors, they hate him, but they are still Uchiha, still clan; for Izuna if no one else, he will try to bring freedom to them through the Eye of the Moon, whether they're worthy of it or not.
But first, of course, there is the matter of wiping the rest of that pathetic village off the face of the earth.
The red plated armor sliding onto his shoulders is a half-forgotten weight, the smell of fresh polish and glimmering sheen of fire light reflecting off the surface making it even stranger; Hashirama has barely even looked at his old gear since the wars ended. Who could have cleaned it?
His answer comes in the form of Tobirama hurriedly snapping several hard to reach fastenings together with practiced movements, fingers more accustomed to this then to holding a pen and filling in paperwork.
"Madara's smashed through every barrier we have set between here and the border with Kumogakure; what scouts have survived and managed to outpace him say he's riding a giant demon fox. He'll be here within the hour; I'll have the chunin start evacuating all the civilians to the designated safe areas and put together a squad to accompany-"
"No."
Tobirama meets his eyes, sharp, defiant, protests ready on his tongue, and they all die without his brother having to say a word. The sorrow and resignation is plain to see; he never wanted it to come to this, never wanted this for the man he'd thought was his friend; had thought was something more, in a moment of a dream now shattered on the ground.
Senju Hashirama prepares for war against his dearest friend, and knows, with utter certainty, that whomever lives through this fight, they'll both lose in the end.
The End.
A/N: Today's prompt was free to choose, so of course I chose the parallels in how they prepared for one last war. Of course, they have no idea they'll meet one more time in battle after this, but perhaps I'll write about that at another time.
~Persephone
