Glass Trinity, Chapter 3: The Naka River
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Notes: Once again, this chapter is still jumping around the timelines a bit. It starts just after the events of Chapter 1, but before the Senju siege of Osaka Castle from Chapter 2.
Madara was exhausted. The trip to the mainland from the island cluster where the new Uzushiogakure would be was not sitting well with him. He'd never liked sea travel; too much water. Izuna, of course, was enjoying the journey, all deep breaths and wide, dark eyes watching the flying fish chasing their barge. Where Madara tended toward contemplating the past, Izuna preferred to bask in the moment. He supposed it balanced them out, among other things.
"What do you think about the new Uzumaki village?" Izuna asked as they leaned over the starboard railing of the barge. "Lord Harukage seemed pretty happy about it."
Madara let his eyes drift back to the fast-shrinking shores of the small island territory. "He's not giving up much. He handed them the island, but he controls all the land inland to the north and west for leagues. He gets preferential rights to their services in return."
Izuna frowned. "I dunno. They don't fight much, so aren't they just taking up space? The feudal lord needs an army."
"The Uzumaki are the best fūinjutsu specialists on the continent. They're so good at locking things up that people give them all kinds of things to keep safe. I guess you could call them bankers."
"Why would I give them my stuff? I can fight anyone who wants to take it."
Madara glanced at his brother. The part of him that trusted no one but Izuna agreed, but the memory of Mito sealing his best tantō into a seashell with little effort was one he couldn't shake. Reaching into a pocket in his navy gi, he fingered the small token. "You're just thinking about money or jewels. They can do a lot more than that."
Izuna returned his brother's gaze, interest piqued. "Like what?"
"They say the Uzumaki can seal any object within another, no matter how big or small." He withdrew the seashell and held it out for Izuna to see. "That girl from the beach sealed Father's tantō into this."
Izuna squinted at the tiny shell, scanning it with his Sharingan. "No way. I can't see anything in it."
"That's the point," Madara said, pocketing the shell once more. "You know, apparently they seal people, too."
"Living people? Why would they wanna do that?"
"I can think of a few reasons to want to hide someone and make sure he's never found."
Izuna remained quiet as he digested that thought. Lapsing into silence, the brothers contented themselves with watching the waves undulate with the barge's slow journey, trying to beat it back toward the island. Eddies swirled in the distance, death traps for smaller boats and the untrained sailor.
"Ya hear that?" a voice said.
Madara and Izuna turned to see one of the hired sailors, his curly hair crusted with salt and a coil of thick rope slung over one meaty shoulder. They followed his gaze to the dozens of whirlpools dotting the early morning seascape.
"Hear what?" Izuna asked.
"The roar o' the whirlpools," the sailor said. "It's a sea monster's yawnin', hear?"
"There are no sea monsters," Madara said.
The sailor guffawed, low and deep in a way that reminded Madara of the roaring whirlpools themselves. "Yer confident, boy. Y'ever been to the bottom o' the sea?"
"My brother's no liar," Izuna said, taking a step forward.
The sailor laughed again. "No liar, just young. Ya boys seen things, I can tell from the look in yer eyes. But not like this."
"Like what?" Madara said, a little curious.
"A sea monster, bigger'n that island ya come from. Got one eye dark as a stone and three tails that glow like fire."
"But there are no sea monsters," Izuna said.
"I seen 'im with these eyes," the sailor said, pointing to his eyes for emphasis. "And I tell ya, he's as real as you two standin' here. On nights when the moon don't shine, they say he circles the islands. His tails glow brighter'n any lighthouse, but ya don't follow 'em. The ones who do don't ne'er come back."
"If they don't come back, how do you know that story?" Madara said.
The burly sailor clutched his belly as another rumble of laughter took him. "Ya boys're smart ones. Strong shinobi. But I tell ya." He leaned down as though this were some great secret he was about to impart, the look in his eyes suddenly unreadable. "In this world, it don't matter yer strength when the nightmares come huntin'."
Madara felt a chill run up his spine at the sailor's frightening tone, so different from his previous bawdy jesting.
"Whatever, the Uchiha are plenty strong. We're not afraid of some make-believe sea creature," Izuna said.
The sailor grinned. These seafaring types loved to spin tales until they no longer knew fact from fiction. Everyone knew that. Perhaps he thought the stories that scared civilian children would also scare them, but they didn't. If Madara ever feared anything, it would be something grounded in reality, not among the pages of children's fables.
"Ya boys stay outta trouble, hear?" The sailor excused himself with a wave and got back to work.
"Hey, Madara? Do you think—"
"Don't believe everything you hear," Madara said. "Always question."
Izuna leaned forward over the railing, dark eyes following the spinning whirlpools as they sank down, down, down to the seafloor. "It's not that, I mean, if there was a sea monster, do you think the Uzumaki could seal it? Like the way they can seal people?"
Madara rested his head in an open palm, contemplating the thought. It was silly to talk about something they both knew was ludicrous, but the question was an intriguing one. He retrieved the seashell from his pocket once more and turned it over in his hand, as though all the answers lay hidden inside its tiny folds along with his father's tantō.
Mito's face flashed in his mind as clear as the day they'd met at the juncture of sea and sand. There was something about her that he couldn't quite place, something sealed away much like she'd sealed his dagger, something that wanted knowing. It kept her rooted in his memory, the image of a fisher girl bursting through the waves when he first saw her, and the vision of her in full kimono, a princess who'd never known his struggle. She was an unsettling dichotomy of color and quiet strength about which he did not know enough. Madara hated not knowing.
"I guess if anyone could do it, it would be them," Madara said. "The real question would be what happens next. You can't keep a monster docile in its cage forever."
Izuna didn't respond. He had no answer to that. Waves bombarded the barge as they sailed over a whirlpool, its black center watching them with one depthless eye.
"Again."
Madara hoisted his chokutō up and assumed an offensive position. Sparring was at the heart of an Uchiha soldier's daily lifestyle. Madara had only lost a handful of times in his twelve years, which was more than could be said for most of the other boys in his age group and the one above them. The training master waited for his order to be obeyed.
Hikaku Uchiha lunged, chokutō aimed at Madara's chest as he bellowed a battle cry. Madara stayed his ground, waiting until Hikaku came into range to parry the blow at the last minute, using his opponent's momentum against him and whirling for leverage. But Hikaku was fast and a good improviser; it was what made him a tough opponent for Madara, who preferred to plan his moves ahead of time.
Instead of stumbling for lack of a target, Hikaku drove his dagger into the earth and turned around it. Madara wasn't fast enough to block the punch Hikaku aimed at his face, and he staggered backwards under the force of the stinging blow. He had no time to be stunned, however, because Hikaku lunged at him once more. Ignoring the pain, Madara swung his chokutō and winced at the clash of steel on steel.
"Madara, you've got two left feet. Next time it'll be my fist in your baby face if you don't get serious," the training master, Gendoru Uchiha, said over the clang of steel and labored breathing.
Gendoru was an old man with not a single black hair left on his head. At five foot two inches, he was not much taller than the boys he trained, but no one would ever hold it against him. He was among the most adroit swordsmen the clan had ever seen, and he'd been in the business of breaking in the green boys since time immemorial, if the rumors that circulated among the young warriors were to be believed. They said even the clan's esteemed leader, Tajima Uchiha, could not best him in a battle of blades.
Madara landed a well-placed hit with the flat of his sword against Hikaku's thick, leather armor, knocking the wind out of him and buying precious seconds. Around them the other boys looked on with rapt attention, clenched fists concealing sweets and coins from foreign lands to exchange for a bet won or lost. Seeing an opportunity to gain the advantage, Madara jabbed with his sword. Hikaku looked up and snarled, eyes now bloody with the Sharingan's glare. With lightning reflexes, he whacked Madara's blade to the side with his own, the collision birthing orange sparks where the steel screamed in protest.
But two could play at that game. Madara summoned familiar, heated chakra to his eyes, watching as the world came to life all around him in a sharpness he imagined only nocturnal predators could rival. Everything seemed to slow down. He could see the tiny beads of sweat forming upon his opponent's brow, the patch in the shoulder of his armor from a previous cut. And he could see Hikaku's blade fly towards him with every intention to kill. He could see it getting closer, and he knew he had no time to block. Abandoning his own weapon, Madara clapped his hands together around Hikaku's blade in a tight embrace. He could feel the sharpness slice through the calloused flesh of his palms, calling to the blood within and coating its shiny surface with beautiful red. Grunting with the effort, he stopped the blade's momentum just as it nicked the boiled leather shielding his breastbone. For several seconds he did not breathe, not trusting Hikaku to pull back should they break their eye contact.
"Yield, boy," Gendoru said as he yanked Hikaku back by the scruff of his neck. "We're not in the killing business here. Now turn off that Sharingan before I turn you off."
Hikaku blinked, the moment broken, and dispelled the Uchiha bloodline limit without a fight. Madara let his bleeding hands fall to his sides, scarlet eyes never leaving his opponent.
"Madara, turn it off. Now," Gendoru said, his hand moving to the hilt of his katana.
Madara looked between the old training master and Hikaku, his breathing audible. The skirmish was over, and he'd lost. There was nothing more to it. And yet, the whispers from his audience reminded him that failure, more so than success, would follow him. This would not be forgotten, and that angered him the most. Nobody respected a failure.
"Madara," Gendoru said, now drawing his katana. "Do you want to hear it from my sword?"
Madara let his eyes fall, the chakra receding with his bloodline limit. He registered that his face ached from Hikaku's punch earlier, and his hands were shredded to ribbons. "No, sir."
Gendoru watched him for a moment, suspicious. Then he sheathed his sword and closed the distance between them. A bony hand grabbed Madara's chin in a painful grip, turning it left and right before releasing it. "You lost the battle but not the war. Stop sulking."
Gendoru released him then and dismissed the boys for the day. Hikaku was the last to leave, but not before making the reconciliation seal as a courtesy. Madara returned it under Gendoru's watchful eye, and Hikaku said nothing of the blood that smeared his fingers. When Madara tried to leave afterwards, Gendoru stopped him.
"You have potential, more than most of the boys I've seen in all my time as training master."
Madara met the old man's gaze, not having expected that. "Sir, I—"
"Quiet down, boy. Never interrupt an old man or a beautiful woman when they're talking, you hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let this be a lesson to you. A battle lost today has no bearing on the war of tomorrow. You're good when you stay calm, but you fight like a dying man when you think you're at a disadvantage. You're too dependent on the Sharingan. I've seen men better than you lose everything because of that crutch. If you take anything from me, take that." He paused for a moment, thoughtful. "You're not like the others. There's something special about you, your brother too. You're hungry, motivated. More often than not, it's that drive that separates the strong from the weak. But it won't mean anything if you don't learn how to fight blind. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir," Madara said, this time with more confidence.
Gendoru peered at him a moment, searching for cracks in his resolve. "Get yourself cleaned up. You're on polishing duty since you lost, and I don't want to hear any excuses."
Madara bowed and watched him go, thinking on the old man's words. It didn't matter that he relied on the Sharingan when he was better at wielding it than most of the other boys. And yet, the stinging in his palms taunted him. Maybe there was some merit to Gendoru's words, but he'd never live this failure down with the other boys, never mind that Hikaku was older and more experienced. Scowling, he stalked off to find Izuna for help bandaging his hands before tackling the boring task of polishing all the training steel in the armory. It would be another sleepless night.
The mainland so far was boring. Madara found himself with little to do but train, which occupied his time but dulled his mind. He wanted adventure, some new challenge to conquer with all the boldness pent up inside, never quite satisfied with beating on his year mates. The wounds he'd received from his recent spar with Hikaku opened up fresh as the day he'd gotten them every time he took up a sword in the arena. He wouldn't have cared much if not for the reminder of his inadequacy. It angered him, and that resentment came through in his fighting. He was more ruthless with his opponents, most of which stood little chance against his superior technique. Gendoru said nothing, but the looks he gave Madara were enough to communicate that he knew the lesson had not taken root as it should have.
Izuna knew something was wrong. No matter how good Madara was at putting on a show for others, he could never fool his brother. A part of him was glad for this. It was important to have at least one person who knew his true feelings and not use them against him. Still, he didn't have the words to explain himself even if Izuna could deduce what had happened with one look at the raw skin of his palms. He knew Madara better than anyone, and he knew not to press.
Instead, Madara decided to wander this afternoon. He wanted to get away from the other Uchiha and the constant competition between them. It festered between missions when they had no one to beat up but each other. He just needed to think away from the smell of blood and burning.
The Fire Country was vast but unregulated for the most part. The feudal lord, Kenshin Uesugi, possessed a sizeable army, but they were not enough to police the far-reaching stretches of his territory. Looting and pillaging were common here unlike in the Whirlpool Country, where the size was more manageable. No one would dare pick a fight with the Uchiha, of course, but the damage was easy to see. Civilians holed up inside and locked their doors when they passed through villages, unwilling even to listen to their bartering terms. There was a tangible fear that permeated this desperate country.
The scenery matched the atmosphere. Barren plains stretched as far as the eye could see with few trees creating islands between diseased patches of coarse grass and shrubbery. The fires that gave the country its name had devoured the life that once flourished here many centuries ago. This was the sight of an ancient battle between the sons of the Sage of Six Paths on the eve of their father's death. Upset that his father passed his title to the younger son, Ashura, Indra, the elder and progenitor of the Uchiha clan, unleashed his fury on the very landscape in the form of black fire that burned for seven days and seven nights. The fires were so hot that not even the younger Ashura's divine waters could extinguish them. That was the legend, in any case. Whether or not it was true was open to debate, as all stories are. Regardless, it was no secret that the Fire Country was not the most hospitable environment for sedentary living. At least it wasn't a true desert like the Wind Country. There were worse places to rest between jobs.
Despite the sad, empty panorama interrupted occasionally by rocky hills, Madara had a particular destination in mind today. The Naka River ran from the northern border to the western, where it petered out under the scalding force of the mighty Wind Country desert. But here it ran swift and clean, a good fifty feet across at this particular spot. Madara stopped at the edge of the rocky bank, his reflection warped in the running water.
He closed his eyes and listened. The river's babbling sound reminded him of running in the wind, a heady battle where every breath could be his last. It twisted and raged, always trying to stay on top and ahead. Yet when he opened his eyes again, it was just a river, one mass incapable of outrunning itself. Somehow, the realization calmed him. Bending over, he picked up a smooth, flat stone at the edge of the water. It glistened in the sunlight like a gem, though it held no material value. He palmed it in one hand, then the other. It felt cool against the dull heat in his shredded palms through the dressings that hid them. Small red splotches dotted the bandages, refusing to heal. The pain didn't bother him so much as what it represented.
The other side of the river seemed farther away than it was. He could easily walk across it with the aid of chakra, but Gendoru's words returned to him, unbidden. Was he really too dependent on the Sharingan? Was chakra truly a crutch? If it was true, it was a problem. With no one around to see him question himself, Madara took a moment to contemplate the old man's advice. If he was falling into such a trap, he needed to climb out of it as soon as possible. There was no way he would ever make it to the top carried on brittle wings that could fail him at the first sign of strain. He needed to cover all his bases, eliminate any potential curve balls looking to catch him off his guard before they could cut him where it hurt. He clenched a ruined hand, ignoring the ache as he drew blood from the pressure.
"I can fight blind," he said, fingering the smooth rock in his other hand. "I don't need the Sharingan."
For reasons lost on him, he suddenly felt the urge to fling the rock clear across the river. Never one to question his instincts, Madara gave in to the desire and swung his arm hard, releasing the rock at the apex of the arc. It skipped over the water as though it burned once, twice, thrice before finally sinking upon the fourth skip. Madara stared at the place where it had sunk, just missing the other side of the river by another skip or two.
"So I can't even skip rocks the right way," he said aloud, as though waiting for the river to offer up some explanation for this new inadequacy.
Splashing to the left caught his attention, and his eyes found the path of a flying rock skim the water's surface before landing with an awkward thump on the beach a few feet away. Frowning, Madara walked to it and bent to pick it up.
"You just need to put your whole body into the throw."
Muscles tensing at the sound of another's unfamiliar voice, Madara whirled in a defensive stance, the tassels on his leisure yukata rustling. Across the river, another boy stood alone and watching him with a curious gaze. Dark of complexion and dressed similarly in loose garb, he didn't look like much. But Madara recognized the stiffness in his shoulders and the wide positioning of his feet. His hand hovered over a section of the sash tying his robes, perhaps the location of a concealed weapon. This boy was a shinobi, there was no doubt about it.
"Who are you?" Madara asked, still clutching the offending rock.
The mystery boy didn't move for a breath or two, but once he processed the question he smiled a lopsided grin. "…You can call me Hashirama. And like I said, you're not doing it right."
Madara pressed his lips together, sorely tempted to toss the rock back at Hashirama's smug face. Who did this guy think he was? "Rock skipping is a useless talent. Who cares if I'm not doing it right?"
"Well, at least you admitted you're not doing it right," Hashirama said. "That's the first step to fixing it."
Madara squeezed the rock and took a step forward. "Listen, I'm not—"
"Hey, are you okay? You're bleeding."
The sudden change of subject caught Madara off guard. Following Hashirama's gaze to his hands, he had to swallow the growl that wanted to escape. This injury was nothing life-threatening by any means, but it was a constant reminder of his shortcomings. He hated it.
"I'm fine. What's it to you, anyway?"
"I can fix it if you want. But only if you want."
"How?" Madara was growing more and more suspicious of this boy by the second.
Hashirama crossed his arms and puffed out his chest. "Because I'm kind of awesome."
Madara gaped at Hashirama, waiting for him to laugh or something because there was no way he was serious right now. "…I'd call you arrogant, but I'm pretty sure you're just dumb. I'm leaving now." He turned to do just that.
"Hey, wait!"
Hashirama splashed as he ran across the river with the aid of chakra, and Madara repressed the urge to roll his eyes. He turned, unwilling to show his back to a potential enemy whose strengths he did not know. Everyone who wasn't Uchiha was the enemy, that was what he'd always been taught growing up.
"Seriously, I can heal them if you want. See?" Hashirama held out a glowing, green hand, the telltale symbol of medical ninjutsu.
Madara stared at the offered hand as he turned over this newest observation. If Hashirama was a medical ninja, the likelihood of his being a real threat was low. Medical ninja were known to be passive supporters, usually trading their services for sums of gold or protection. He couldn't be sure, of course, but it was a safe bet. Besides, if he was wrong, Madara knew he was more than capable of defending himself. He was an Uchiha, after all. This boy looked to be about his age, maybe only a year or two older. Madara had faced bigger and meaner before.
"…I don't have any money," he said.
Hashirama looked confused for a moment before breaking out into that stupid grin again. "Oh, I don't want any money."
"Then what do you want?"
"I don't want anything. You just look like you're in pain."
"Everyone wants something. You can't get something for nothing."
Hashirama thought about this for a moment. "…All right. Tell me your name, and I'll fix your hands. Deal?"
Trusting a medical ninja required a leap of faith or a well-positioned knife to the heart. Giving access to one's body was nothing to sneeze at, no matter the skill level of the medical ninja involved. One malicious pulse of chakra could mean instant death, and there was little time to circumvent such a technique. Hashirama must have picked up on Madara's sudden wave of mistrust, and his expression softened again.
"Hey, if I wanted to kill you, I could've done it before you knew I was here. Besides, if I killed you now I'd never know your name."
Madara wasn't sure what was so important about knowing his name, proud of it as he was, but this Hashirama kid seemed guileless enough to be believed, if nothing else. It was hard to slip a lie past Madara's keen eyes, and he detected none here. Hesitating another breath, he finally gave in and showed Hashirama his wrapped hands, the bandages now soaked with blood from their earlier abuse with the rocks.
Hashirama hissed. "That doesn't look too good. Let me see them unwrapped." He began uncurling the bandages even before Madara gave permission, which was irritating.
"These look like old cuts. Why didn't you get them healed earlier?" Hashirama asked when the extent of the compounded damage was revealed.
Madara shrugged. "It's nothing I can't put up with."
"Yeah, well, if they get infected, you could lose your hands."
"…That's ridiculous."
"It's not. I've seen it. These look like sword cuts. If you don't clean the blade, you can get all kinds of diseases just from a little cut. You know, you're lucky I'm here to help."
"Whatever. Just get it over with."
"Sure." Hashirama raised a chakra-laden hand to hover over Madara's.
He worked in silence, efficient and without discernable effort. Madara had to give him credit; when he finished with one hand, the scars were too faint to notice without close observation. He tried clenching and unclenching his mended hand while Hashirama worked on the other, testing the new skin and pleased at the raw, healthy feel of it. He could work with this. Training would be less burdensome now.
"So, are you gonna tell me your name?"
Madara's gaze drifted to the green energy dancing across his other hand, watching as it churned out the dirty skin and blood to eliminate the threat of infection. He'd never paid much attention to medical ninjutsu because the Uchiha were so far removed from it. But watching Hashirama restore his hands like this was fascinating. He wondered how different the Uchiha would be if they employed skilled healers to fix them up after their rough missions. How many lives could be saved?
Hashirama finished his work and stood up straight, an expectant look in his dark eyes. Madara returned his gaze, a little awestruck by the power in this boy's hands and repelled by it as a potential threat at the same time. Still, there was no malice there, no judgment or suspicion. He just wanted to know his name, what he was promised.
"Madara," he said finally.
He declined to offer his clan name because Hashirama had not given his. It was a red flag, an indication that Madara would likely recognize him for his heritage, and that was always a wild card. The Uchiha held no alliances with other clans, but they were on neutral terms with most. On the off chance Hashirama was from one of the few hostile ones, Madara would be obligated to engage him in a battle to the death. Tired and troubled and with mended hands at such a low price as his name, Madara felt little inclination to do battle right now.
"Madara," Hashirama repeated. "You don't look like a Madara."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, just that I took you more for a Musashi or an Oda. Something a little more fearsome."
Madara raised a fist. "Are you saying my name's wimpy? What kind of a name is Hashirama, anyway?"
Hashirama laughed, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Well, it's the only one I've got, so I'm stuck with it."
Madara stared at the other boy, now at a loss for words. He lowered his fist. "There's something wrong with you."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Hashirama said, shrugging. "Anyway, I gotta get back." He started to run back across the water to the opposite shore, but before he got to the other side he turned back and said, "Hey, if you come back here tomorrow, I can help you with your swing."
"I don't need your help," Madara snapped.
Hashirama smiled a little. "Then I guess you'll be able to get it across the river tomorrow, no problem."
"Of course I will. I wasn't really trying today, obviously."
Just before disappearing behind rolling hills, Hashirama waved and said, "See you!"
Madara stared at the empty spot, wondering about the strange boy who'd been standing there only a moment ago. Strange was the understatement of the century. He stretched mended fingers, testing the tautness of the fresh skin. They ached a little, but it was nothing a good night's sleep wouldn't cure. He showed the river his back and walked back in the direction of the Uchiha camp.
"See you," he said to himself before vanishing behind the rocky outcropping around which he'd come.
Two men sat alone in a tent upon a fine, crimson throw rug, their faces only half visible in the dim light of melting candles. A list of names scrawled in rigid angles lay between them as they conversed in hushed tones.
"I tell you, the boys get lazier with each generation. They don't make them like they used to in my day," Gendoru said, taking a sip of his ale and savoring the crisp effervescence.
"The problem is that the soldiers are outnumbering the nobles. My own son is a coward in battle. The only thing he can wield with any confidence is his cock." Tajima Uchiha tapped long fingers against the rim of his own mug, grey eyes staring into the murky depths. His patrician features fell in a troubled frown.
Gendoru laughed. "Well, at least you'll be blessed with a brood of grandchildren, my lord."
"I have no use for bastard runts. They won't be worthy, anyway. That boy doesn't have an ounce of my skill."
Tajitsu Uchiha was known throughout the clan as a womanizer and a craven. At sixteen, he was in line to lead the Uchiha upon the death of his father, but none supported the transfer beyond the courtesy allotted to any princeling. Gendoru knew it, and Tajima did, too. Tajitsu's sisters, while possessed of more courage and chivalry than their brother, had the misfortune of being born women. They were obsolete in the struggle for power and leadership.
Gendoru took another swig of his beer. "Aye, that he doesn't. There's no beating around that bush."
"What this clan needs is a strong base. I'll wed my eldest daughter, Haruka, to a worthy noble."
"My lord, all his shortcomings aside, Tajitsu is your lawful heir. To pass him over would be to break a thousand years of tradition."
"What would you have me do? Reduce the Uchiha to a clan of whoremongers and drunks? As long as I breathe, we will not trade our swords for wine cups."
Silence ensued as the two men brooded over the quandary. It had been a constant subject of discussion among the Uchiha nobles as Tajima grew older. Of course, no one dared raise the issue to his face. The last one who did so ended up excommunicated for slander, his wealth distributed among the other nobles. But Tajima was not a fanciful man. He understood the reality of the situation and knew something had to be done. The fact that he'd chosen to confide in Gendoru was either humbling or terrifying. Perhaps a bit of both. Gendoru had trained Tajima as a boy in the ways of the sword for which he was now notorious. Having lost his own father as a young boy, Gendoru supposed this was partly an unspoken plea for a mentoring voice.
Still, Tajima was known to be immovable. Gendoru could speak freely, but only for so long. Tajima had a short temper that did not discriminate, not even for an old friend.
"No, what I need is a strong boy I can wed to Haruka and groom for leadership. Haruka is Tajitsu's senior and past the marriageable age. No one can object to my decision about the succession."
A woman cannot legitimize authority, Gendoru thought forlornly, but he said nothing.
"Take me through the list of your best. I need a boy with noble blood and excellent command over the Sharingan."
That had been about an hour ago. Now, mugs nearly empty and backs aching from bending over the list of high-born young soldiers, neither man was reassured. They were all too reckless or too stupid or too weak.
"That boy Hikaku isn't a bad option. His mother is a second cousin of yours, his father a high-ranking lieutenant. The boy has decent control over the Sharingan, and he's only thirteen," Gendoru said.
Tajima shook his head. "It's just not right. You said he's impulsive in battle and doesn't plan well. I need the opposite, someone who can strategize ten steps ahead of the enemy and remain calm under pressure. He must be malleable, not rebellious. I need someone who can carry the weight of the Uchiha pride on his shoulders and stand tall underneath it."
Gendoru peered at the younger man over the thick spectacles he wore for reading. In all his years, he'd seen a good many boys with so much potential squander it in the heat of battle for empty glory or carnal prizes. There was no lack of good soldiers, but to find someone whose tactical mind was as sharp as his sword was no easy feat. They needed a born leader with the passion and drive to inspire others and keep the Uchiha at the top of the food chain.
"...There may be someone," Gendoru said, rolling up the list of names.
"Let me see," Tajima said, indicating the scroll.
"You won't find his name here. He's as low-born as they come."
Tajima frowned. "Then why broach the subject at all?"
Gendoru had to consider for a moment if he ought to pursue this path. If he did, he would have to commit to it with all that he had or Tajima would not listen. Self-doubt was a weapon in the hands of an observant foe...or a shrewd superior. It was part of what made Tajima a good leader. Gendoru had always preferred the surety of steel in his hands to the shadowy schemes of politicians.
"He's green, and he's got a lot to learn. It's difficult for him to improvise in battle when things don't go his way. And he's a bastard son of a third tier soldier and a civilian whore."
"Then why are we even having this conversation? If what you say is true, this boy is not even worthy to clean the mud off my boots."
Veiny hands fiddled with the ends of his wiry, white hair as Gendoru tried to compose his thoughts. "I've known this boy since he was four years old. He was always the quiet type, smaller than the other boys. He never said much, just watched and waited. I thought he was afraid at first, but when I put a sword in his hand, I realized how wrong I was."
Tajima watched him with a neutral expression, betraying nothing. "How so?"
"He learns through observation. Once he sees something done once, he can replicate it. It's beyond the abilities of the Sharingan; he can mimic in a matter of days what took me months to perfect. He's a genius fighter."
Tajima was silent for a moment as he thought about this. "You're not one to give out praise where it isn't due. Suppose this boy is what you say he is. A soldier can rule with a sword on the battlefield, but not in a throneroom. I have Ikema Senju to worry about, and I know for a fact that his eldest son will be a capable leader one day if I don't manage to kill him first. Besides, I would never ask the Uchiha to bow down before a rat no matter how hard he bites."
"My lord, you know I have the utmost respect for Lady Haruka, but I must be blunt. She is a woman, and a woman cannot be trusted to lead men. It won't matter if she weds a highborn lordling if he doesn't command respect on his own."
Tajima pressed his lips together. "You speak quite freely with me. I hope you haven't forgotten your place. I'm your leader, not your training grunt."
Gendoru bowed his head, wincing at the biting tone. If he pushed any further, he could end up suffering the consequences. "No, my lord, never. I only meant... The Uchiha respect power and cunning. If the boy has that in spades, the chances of this unconventional succession plan you've hatched won't go over so roughly. I meant no disrespect."
Grey eyes, lidded with the effects of alcohol, peered at the elder man through the soft gloom. Gendoru held his breath, waiting.
"It's out of the question," Tajima said at length. "We are a noble clan descended from the Sage of Six Paths himself. Divine blood flows in our veins, and you would have me taint that legacy by adopting a whore's son as my own? It's ludicrous. Perhaps you're deeper in your cups than I realized."
Gendoru squeezed his hands to calm their shaking. "Forgive me, my lord. Of course you're right. I won't speak of it again." On the inside, however, he itched to smack the younger man upside the head. For all the ocular prowess the Uchiha could boast, their egos tended to blind them from the most important details. But there was no arguing with an absolute authority, at least not like this.
The men rose, tired from the evening's deliberation and the impasse that divided them now. Gendoru bowed low before excusing himself, but Tajima's voice stopped him.
"Out of curiosity, what's the boy's name?" he asked.
"Madara Uchiha," Gendoru said.
"Madara." It smacked of disgust, as though he'd bitten into rotten fruit. "A dirty name for a dirty boy. How fitting." With that, Tajima strolled to the back of the tent, a silent dismissal.
Gendoru watched his former student's retreat, dismayed. He'd thought there might have been some hope in this option, but it seemed he was wrong.
Stick to the swords, old man. Leave the politics to the young. Lord knows they'll never listen to you, anyway.
Sighing, he stepped outside into the rain.
He hadn't planned on going back to the river. He hadn't been thinking about that strange Hashirama kid at all or the favor he'd done for him. This was what Madara kept telling himself even as he wandered back to the banks of the Naka River, lead by some invisible force. Something about Hashirama was suspicious, and Madara had learned early on to trust his instincts. He didn't know much about medical ninjutsu, but he did know that it was a difficult skill requiring above average chakra control. Never one to ignore a source of power, Madara was unsurprised to find himself here again. Not that he would admit it out loud.
"I didn't think you'd be back."
Hashirama sat on the opposite bank hugging his knees as he stared into the rushing river water. Madara peered at him, curious. He didn't know Hashirama very well, but it was obvious something was bothering him. The quirky boy who spoke too carelessly was nowhere to be found today.
"You look like someone died," he said rudely.
Hashirama looked up, an unreadable glint in his eyes that sent a shiver down Madara's spine. It was gone as soon as it had come, but the damage was done. He had to physically restrain himself from going for the tantō at his hip. Now curious and a little abashed, he tried again.
"...Did they?"
The river between them shone with the light of the sun, a glinting blade of steel between them. Water was all Madara heard, running and struggling to keep moving, perhaps closing in on a distant goal or escaping the place from which it had come. Alone and divided, he and Hashirama remained still as time itself slipped by without them.
"My brother," Hashirama said. "When we found him, I didn't recognize him. They burned his face off."
Madara's eyes never left the other boy as he spoke terrible truths without an ounce of emotion. He'd seen death, plenty of it, but every incarnation was unique, like spring flowers blooming for the first time. It was amazing to him how many ways the human body could greet death. Burning, of course, was one of the more familiar to him. But then again, he'd never lost a brother.
"People die."
Hashirama just stared at him with a hollow look, and Madara couldn't tell if he was shocked or angry or something wholly different. There was nothing there.
"Funny, isn't it?" Hashirama said, smiling a little. "It doesn't matter who you are, where you come from, where you're going...even how old you are. People die, and they don't stop."
It was unsettling seeing him like this. Madara could almost fool himself into thinking their last meeting was a figment of his imagination. This boy was not the one from the other day. It made him angry, and he boldly crossed the river dividing them. Hashirama said nothing even though he must have seen Madara approaching over the river. Once across, Madara maintained a safe distance and remained standing, just in case.
"How old was he?" he asked.
Hashirama didn't answer for a long time. A light breeze ran cool fingers through Madara's shoulder-length mop of hair, struggling to weave through its choppy spikes. Hashirama released his knees and leaned his weight backwards on his palms.
"Seven."
Seven.
He'd killed younger. He supposed Hashirama had, too. Children, in certain situations, were more dangerous than adults. Their young faces, so bright and full of hope, could be enough to disarm soft hearts long enough to wreak havoc. He'd once seen a girl child from a clan in Earth Country pose as an orphan and murder eight unsuspecting Uchiha in their beds during a northern campaign three years ago. Needless to say, the child and the soldier that had taken her in were both executed in plain sight as a lesson for all. The incident taught young soldiers to offer begging orphans the points of their swords instead of a morsel of food. One could never be too careful, and the enemy wore many masks.
"That's an old age," Madara said, dark eyes staring into the depths of the river.
"I know. That's just the problem. There's no room for children in this world. We're born, and we die."
"No."
"No?"
"I don't plan on dying, not yet. There's still something I have to do." Madara looked down on his companion. "If you don't have something like that, then you're already dead."
"So I guess...I'm ghost who keeps coming back here." Hashirama smiled again, and Madara decided he hated that fake smile, a mask hiding the pain underneath. A lie. "If I really were dead, then at least I'd get to see my little brother's smiling face again."
Unbidden, an image of Izuna as he used to be when Shiori was still alive came to mind. He smiled so much back then, so happy without a care in the world as long as his big brother was there to protect him. Losing that... He couldn't imagine it.
"What was his name? Your brother," Madara asked.
Hashirama looked surprised at the question. He was easy to read when he wasn't trying to act tough. "Kawarama."
"And I thought 'Hashirama' was ridiculous."
The two boys locked eyes for a breath before Hashirama burst out laughing. He held his stomach to ease the spasms, tears kissing the edges of his eyes as Madara watched him, mildly disturbed.
"He woulda gotten so mad to hear you say that!"
Hashirama's laughter died down, replaced with the sound of the rushing river. The sun was beginning to dip low on the horizon, clouding the waters until the bottom faded from view. As his own reflection disappeared into the abyss, Madara wondered about the denizens of the dark lurking under the surface, watching them.
"I'm sorry," Madara said at length.
Hashirama hugged his knees again and watched the inky waters pass them by. Madara had to wonder what he was thinking in that moment. What did it mean to lose a brother? What did it mean to continue living without him? He would never know. Izuna was strong, and fire flowed in his veins. Not even death could come between them.
"Thank you," Hashirama said softly.
Madara lingered for a little longer in Hashirama's company, silent as a statue. If it were him, he would not want to be alone.
"Steady your grips, ladies," Gendoru said as he walked among the pairs of young shinobi. "This isn't a tea party, it's training. No need to be delicate."
They were improving little by little, he supposed, although progress wasn't stellar. Most wouldn't live through puberty, and most of those that did would still die young, anyway. Only the prodigious or the cautious had the luxury of growing wrinkles and being called 'grandfather'.
"The Senju won't give you any breaks," he said as he passed sweating boys with blood on their faces from careless hits. "Your eyes are a weapon. Try opening them."
The ones that did live would be the ones that made the clan great. They would write its history, lead its armies, and carry the centuries-old Uchiha pride on their shoulders. In the end, history is written by the winners.
"Izuna, you're too safe. Don't let up."
He lingered a little to watch the brothers duke it out. Madara seemed to have recovered finally after the botched spar against Hikaku, and now he was on the verge of cutting his brother to ribbons if Izuna did not start fighting back. The younger brother had always been wont to defer to the elder, a natural tendency but one that could get him in trouble one day. Even so, he exhibited a similar gift for the sword as his brother, as well as that same dogged determination lost on most of the other young boys. When he wasn't sparring with Madara, he exerted a ruthless will that drove opponents to their knees.
Are they truly the stock of a lowly foot soldier and a common harlot?
As he turned to make his way back down the line, he spotted Tajima leaning against the nearby armory tent. Tajima wore a hood to conceal his face, but Gendoru knew him a mile away. He also knew that Tajima would not want to be approached, lest his identity be revealed. Instead, he thought about a more indirect method of getting the younger clan leader's attention.
"Stop, everyone break apart," he said, waiting for the boys to lay down their weapons. "I've been lenient with you lot today, and I'm afraid you're getting lazy. Group with the pair next to you and work together."
The boys scrambled to do just that, the spars suddenly turning more heated and serious as they were forced to concentrate not only on their opponents, but also on the movements of their partners. To the left, Madara and Izuna faced off against a pair of boys a good foot taller than them. Dark eyes narrowing, Gendoru tapped the shoulder of the nearest boy.
"Tano, you and Sen join that group. Catch them by surprise."
The two preteens bowed and scurried to do as they were told. And he waited. The brothers were busy fighting off two formidable opponents and didn't notice the approach of another team of enemies at their backs at first.
Izuna lunged, his twin tantō parrying his opponent's sword and jabbing at dented armor, searching for a joint to slip through. As Tano and Sen prepared to ambush them, Madara delivered a hard blow to his opponent's sword hand, knocking the blade to the ground. He whirled with the motion, just in time to block Tano's chokutō from gutting him from navel to nose. The sound drew Izuna's attention, and he scowled at the new odds.
Gendoru watched as the brothers quickly adjusted their formation without speaking, their backs touching to cover each other's blind spots. Izuna brandished his two tantō while Madara squeezed a chokutō in a two-handed grip. A brief moment of calm passed before all four enemies ran at them shouting battle cries.
Steel sang as they fought, thrusting and rolling with the rhythm of the dance. They moved as one, tag-teaming their opponents with the fluidity of long-time partners well-versed in each other's fighting styles. Where Madara pushed, Izuna caved. And when Izuna slashed with all his might, Madara skidded to fill his blind spot and prevent the ambush waiting to catch him in the back. Alone they were blind, but together they could see beyond their limitations, a lethal combination of give and take.
"To fight is to dance. If you have the right partner, you can deliver an unforgettable performance," Gendoru had told them.
Madara disarmed Tano and bludgeoned the older boy's head with the hilt of his chokutō, knocking him out. Sen, desperate not to lose, threw caution to the wind and charged wildly, a mistake that sealed his failure. Madara had expected such a reaction and was ready to put an end to the fight. He swung his blade in a hard, wide arc, catching Sen in the shoulder with a deep cut. It was a simple matter to knock his sword from his hand and subdue him.
All the while, Madara paid no attention to what was going on behind him. He trusted Izuna to see for him. It came as no surprise when he turned around and observed his younger brother shoving his last opponent to the ground and straddling him, dagger to the jugular should he try to put up a struggle.
It was over in under a minute.
"Pathetic," Gendoru said, nudging the fallen Tano with a booted toe. "You just lost to two halfling bastards, boy. Remember that when you fight the Senju. A sword in talented hands cuts deep. It's doesn't matter who bore those hands."
Tano picked himself up and kept his eyes downcast as he made the seal for reconciliation, which Madara returned without a word. Gendoru nodded, satisfied.
"Don't just stand there. Did I say you could stop?"
The boys all returned to their sparring, unwilling to suffer the wrath of their training master. Gendoru made his way to where Tajima still stood, unmoving and unimpressed.
"My lord," he said by way of greeting.
Tajima said nothing, and they continued to watch the young Uchiha hack away at each other with increasing ruthlessness and cunning. Gendoru could relax a bit; they were learning every day. It was a good thing, too. One day, they would be all that held the Uchiha military force together at the front lines.
"You didn't tell me he had a brother," Tajima said.
"Aye, he does."
Tajima stepped away from the wall, perhaps bored with the whole ritual. "He's decent."
Gendoru stared at his leader's back, stunned. "My lord, I—"
"I'll be going. I'm a busy man," Tajima said with a dismissive wave.
Gendoru watched him go, unsure what to make of this. Tajima rarely examined the up-and-coming soldiers until they were old enough to hold office in his army. Life had taught Gendoru that he was not cut out for the schemes and machinations of politicians, so he decided to let it go. Whatever Tajima was thinking (or not thinking) was out of his control, anyway.
"Crap, move!" Tano shrieked.
Madara released a signature Great Fireball at Tano and Sen, who had recovered after their defeat and resumed the attack. Some of the other boys had dropped their arms and cheered on the contenders. Izuna burst through the flames, tantō at the ready to catch Tano and Sen by surprise.
"Stop that this instant!" Gendoru said, jogging to the scene. "You'll burn down the tents! Take it somewhere else!"
Damn kids.
It was easy to forget that they were just children looking to have a little fun when the old training master turned a blind eye.