Glass Trinity, Chapter 4: The Dream
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
There was no sand on the beaches of Uzushiogakure. Even so, Mito insisted on traversing the porous rocks barefoot to feel the cool, ocean spray on her toes. It was a welcome change from the stuffy shoes she had to wear in the presence of her lord father and the many important Uzumaki nobles and their guests. The sky was as stormy as Mito's gray-green eyes, but she wasn't worried about rain—the skies were always foggy at this early hour.
She perched upon a jagged expanse of rock, the waves breaking several feet below. There were whirlpools for miles as far as the eye could see, churning the water a frothy blue-green until their centers faded to black and sank down to mysterious depths. Most were about as far across as Mito was tall, if she had to guess, but others farther out were bigger—much bigger. She bet they stretched as far across as a whole house. The thought frightened her—what could have caused such a terrible force of nature? And yet, she wondered what lay below the surface, beyond that black eye of the storm to the heart of the ocean below. Had Madara and Izuna's ship made it through the whirlpools safely?
"You're up early, my lady. Eager to get started, I'd wager."
Mito turned at the sound of Satto's voice and smiled. He'd promised her he would teach her a very old technique today, and she could not say no to such an offer. "Yes, General. Can we begin?"
Satto escorted her inland a bit so they weren't so in danger of tumbling into the sea. If Ensui had caught her out here he would be cross, but Satto wasn't the type to keep tabs on her. They stood opposite each other, Satto in a comfortable blue gi and sandals, Mito in a salt-stained, brown fisher girl's dress.
"Today, you'll summon your first slug," Satto said.
Mito went wide-eyed. "A slug? But only a few members of the clan can do that!"
"Yes, and not many of them had your talent when they were twelve years old. Unless you think this it's a waste of time? I could always let your lord father know you'd like to practice tea ceremony instead."
Mito shook her head a little harder than necessary. "No, of course not! Show me, please!"
Satto grinned. "Thought so. Okay, memorize these hand seals."
It took her a few tries to get the seals perfect, and then came the chakra output.
"Channel just the right amount. Release too much or too little and the technique will backfire."
That took the better part of the morning, and Mito's stomach was beginning to grumble for some lunch. But she didn't give up. She had a tendency to overcompensate with too much chakra, and each failed attempt resulted in lowered vitality. And yet, she kept at it until Satto was satisfied that her execution was good.
"And now for the contract," Satto said, producing a thick scroll as long as his arm and unrolling it on the rocks.
Mito crouched down on all fours, curious eyes drawn to the beautiful runes painted over the paper. They'd faded with time, but to a practiced eye the scroll's restoration was obvious.
"This is the Scroll of Shikkotsu. With this, we can communicate with the slug and snail beasts that live in the fabled Shikkotsu Forest. This scroll was originally passed down from the Sage of Six Paths himself to the descendents of his younger son, Ashura, the progenitor of the Senju clan. It fell to us when our family branched from the Senju many centuries years ago."
"The Senju clan," Mito said, thinking. "If we're related to them, why don't we have an alliance with them? They're one of the most powerful shinobi families on the continent."
"That's right, my lady. You'd have to ask your lord father about the politics of it all, but my understanding is just that the Senju were so large a force that people began to develop specializations. We Uzumaki didn't care for the bloodshed as much as others. Well, you can see where we are now."
Satto's smile was contagious, the crow's feet around his eyes giving him a jovial air. Around them, the sound of waves crashing and the pungent smell of salt and sea bream in the air had an increasingly soporific effect on Mito. It was relaxing being here like this even though she was expending a rather large amount of chakra in such a short time.
"Anyway, let's get a move on with the summoning. If the beast takes a liking to you, it could become a great ally."
Mito nodded, eyes trained on the scroll. Tracing the many looping designs along the edges of the seal, she realized she was not just looking at an ancient written language, but also at a kind of painting. A forest.
"The Shikkotsu Forest," Mito said, following one sloping tendril of ink with a finger. "Is it made of bones for real?"
"I'm not sure," Satto said, thoughtful. "No one alive today has ever been there and lived to tell about it."
"Why not?"
"Well, it takes a certain amount of strength, and not necessarily this kind." He held up an arm and patted his covered bicep. "Your great, great grandfather found a way through the forest, or so they say."
Mito hadn't known her ancestor (not even the Uzumaki lived quite so long), but she'd heard stories from her father. His chakra was like the essence of life itself, able to heal even the gravest injuries via simple blood transfusion. Scientists and priests alike had studied the effects of the Uzumaki's chakra, but there was no explanation for why it was so vigorous. There was even less information about how to control such a potent life force—only the few had managed to harness its true potential, and Mito's great, great grandfather had been one such person.
She bit her lip. "I wonder... You don't think I could possibly...?"
She wasn't even sure what she was asking. Mito Uzumaki had been born into a privileged life with a stable, if not rigidly defined, future ahead of her. What could she possibly hope for outside of that, realistically? It angered her, but she knew that her father was right: better to learn the rules and play the game if she wanted a chance to win it.
"I don't know," Satto said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I s'pose we won't know anything unless you try this summoning technique. What do you say?"
Mito followed his instructions, hyper aware of every move she made and her chakra output. Sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead with the exertion. Even with her expansive reserves for her age, her body couldn't take such brutal output over the few hours they'd been out here. Biting her thumb to draw the blood necessary to sign the summoning contract, Mito held back a wince at the sting. The blood of her ancestors marked previous signatures, some loopy and beautiful, others more angular and illegible. The hand seals came next.
"Kuchiyose no jutsu!"
Chakra poured out of her like a waterfall, pooling and combusting with a loud pop and a burst of thick smoke. Mito coughed and tried to ignore the burn in her damaged hand. When the air cleared, her eyes lit up at the sight of her success. A snail-like creature a little longer than her arm sat on the ground before her, eyestalks peering around as though disoriented.
"I did it," Mito said, breathless and falling to her knees. "I really did it!"
Satto squatted down to have a look at their guest. "And who might you be?"
The snail creature had a single blue stripe painted down her back and a spiked shell as black as the ocean floor. The flat of her belly leaked a clear mucous that Mito was disinclined to touch—not because she was revolted, but because it could be poisonous.
"I am called Sazae," the creature said.
"I summoned you," Mito said, observing the wicked points of Sazae's still-developing shell. Just before she gave the creature her name, she remembered what Madara had said about his own name.
"A man's name is his identity; it's everything."
"I'm Mito Uzumaki," she said, dipping her head respectfully. "Thank you for coming here."
Sazae peered at her askance (or so it seemed given her strange eyes—Mito wasn't sure which one to focus on). "Lady Mito," Sazae said haltingly. "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Mito couldn't help but giggle. Who would have thought turban shells were so polite? "Just Mito, please. We're going to be partners, right?"
"I-I suppose..."
Satto cleared his throat. "My lady, you should spend some hours each day working with Sazae. A contract is a binding agreement between shinobi and summon beast. You're responsible for her, and she's responsible for you. Do you understand what that means?"
Mito wondered if snails could blush. She supposed it would look something like this, the way Sazae twitched her eyestalks and shrank visibly, and the thought made her smile. "It means...we're like sisters. And sisters look out for each other."
"Oh!" Sazae said, eyestalks peering about as though nervous. "That's, um..."
"So, what kinds of jutsu do you know? Let's try something!" Mito stood up and wiped her sweaty bangs out of her eyes, beckoning for the oversized snail to follow suit.
Satto watched the two new partners get to know each other from his silent post a few yards away. The last time he'd seen his young princess so animated was when he'd taught her her first sealing technique. That childlike light that brought her to life shone through now despite the gloomy atmosphere. It was hard to imagine that this girl, so vibrant before him, was the same one who swallowed her duties as the clan regent's only daughter, an heiress destined to a life of servitude to whatever husband her father chose for her one day. It angered Satto to think of such strength being squandered for the sake of tradition, but he wasn't one to argue politics on most days.
"Oh wow, do that again!" Mito said, eyes glued to a patch of rock rapidly dissolving under the power of Sazae's acid spray.
"Oh, um, you liked that? All right, I suppose," Sazae said.
"Oh, wait! Wait, let me just seal some of it for later!" Mito scurried to seal the acid away in one of the many sea shells or other knick knacks she carried on her person. With what looked like little effort, the acid was sucked inside a shell the size of her small hand, leaving only steaming rock behind. "Never know when I'll need some melting power, right?"
Astounding.
Satto couldn't remember teaching her that. Simple things like water or sand, sure, but snail acid? She would have to have taught herself the proper seals to incorporate in order to stop corrosion of the container, among other things. Satto shook his head, wanting to laugh.
"You don't think I could possibly...?"
"Yes, I do," Satto said to himself as he continued to watch Mito and her new summon practice.
I really do.
Madara met Hashirama by the Naka River nearly every day after his training was over for the day. It had become a routine for them, although neither admitted that he sought out the other's company. Hashirama recovered after Kawarama's death, although Madara suspected he was just good at putting on a stupid grin and hiding his true feelings. Not that he blamed Hashirama. Emotions were a sure-fire way to end up dead due to distraction and desperation.
Today, they were skipping rocks again and Madara was practicing his technique as Hashirama babbled something about centrifugal force. "You know, if you stopped talking I'd be able to concentrate a little more."
"How're you gonna know how to do it right if I don't tell you how?"
Madara shot him a poisonous look. "You're distracting me. It's annoying."
"All right, all right, geez. You're nearly there, anyway."
Madara ignored him as he bit his lip in concentration. Then, he pulled back and swung hard, feeling the flat rock spin out of his hand at the height of the arc just as Hashirama had explained. It skipped four times before sinking to the bottom of the river.
"Damnit," Madara said, watching as the ripples drifted away with the force of the rushing water.
"You're still not putting your back into it," Hashirama said, passing his own rock between his hands. "It's not about brute strength, you know? You have to want it to reach the other side."
"I'm pretty sure that's what I want," Madara sneered, crossing his arm. "Whatever, this is boring."
Hashirama laughed and they sat down together at the bank of the river watching the sun dip low on the horizon.
"You're wrong, you know," Madara said after a while.
"About what?"
"Just because you want something doesn't mean you can have it."
Hashirama thought about this for a moment. "Wanting is half the battle. If you don't really believe your desires, you'll never get them."
Madara snorted. "If that were true, then there'd be no poor people and children would outlive their parents. It's a dream, plain and simple."
"Well, what if it didn't have to be?"
Madara felt Hashirama's eyes on him and turned. He picked up a rock from the shore and tossed it between his hands. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"What if we could make that dream come true? What if kids could live in a place where they could grow up, have a family, be happy? Where they didn't have to die so young?"
Madara instantly thought of Hashirama's dead brother. It didn't take a genius to deduce that the kid had been a victim of some fire technique or other, a casualty of Uchiha warfare. Many had died the same way before him, younger, too, but seeing how that singular death had affected Hashirama made him a little uncomfortable.
"That's stupid. You can't just make something happen because you want it to. I just said that."
"Then how would you do it, smart guy?"
Madara resisted the urge to turn up his nose. "If you want something, you have to work for it." He scratched the rock's surface with a dirty nail, fingers itchy. "If you work hard, you'll get stronger. And people listen to the strong."
"I guess that makes sense," Hashirama said. He broke out into a stupid grin. "So, I bet I'm stronger than you."
Madara shot him a dirty look. "You keep dreaming."
"Bet I could wipe the floor with you."
"Bet I could."
"You can't even throw that rock across the river!"
Madara chucked the rock at Hashirama's stupid head, but he caught it just before it hit his face—fast! There was a moment of tension before both boys scrambled to their feet and put some distance between them. They'd never resorted to this, concerned with revealing too much about their respective clans and techniques. It looked as though that was all about to end.
"You're not gonna beat me just because you want to," Madara said.
Hashirama grinned. "Then I guess I'll just have to show you I'm better, huh?"
The seconds ticked by, and Madara ignored the glare of the setting sun as it sparkled upon the rushing waters of the Naka River, their audience. There was no one here but them, no river between them on this side of the bank. Madara's hand hovered over the hilt of a hidden tantō, ready to draw.
Hashirama made the first move—a thrown shuriken. Madara easily deflected it with his blade, and Hashirama was on him soon after. It started with steel, both boys still loathe to show off any incriminating techniques. Hashirama was good. Madara went for the jugular, and Hashirama read his body language perfectly. But as the weeks rolled by and they continued to meet, they took risks.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no jutsu!"
Fire roared as it flew across the sparkling waters of the Naka River, drawing steam in its wake. Madara grinned when he thought he'd gotten a good hit, but Hashirama was a hard one to put down. The river water churned and rose as though called upon by the skies above, enveloping the fireball. Madara wasn't about to let such a pitiful defense beat him, though. He fed more chakra to his technique and ran after it, sword drawn. The afternoon sun glinted against the cold steel of his chokutō, and he flew, fearless, into the heart of his own flames for a surprise attack.
Branches, gnarled and thick, ramified through the orange heat on a one-way collision course with Madara's vitals. He was forced to slash his way out of the death trap, spinning in midair to cut one and use the momentum to hack at another. Nimble feet landed on the uneven water, but he didn't let his guard down. Hashirama appeared through the dissolving fireball, his wooden branches twisting about him like a sort of shield. They snaked toward Madara as though sentient, but it was no matter—Madara knew this technique. He hacked away at them, splinters flying and sap staining his blade, until Hashirama was in range of his sword. Steel clashed with steel, sparks bouncing between them and falling into the murky waters below like so many stars.
"Not bad," Madara said over the scream of steel.
Hashirama grinned. "Speak for yourself!"
The more they fought, the closer they grew. It was a dance, just like the old man had said. No one had fought Madara the way Hashirama fought him, so full of vigor and pushing him to his limits. And a dance can only be as stunning as the partners performing it. Whenever Madara had free time in the afternoons and evenings, he would return to the Naka River to see his friend.
Friend?
He supposed that was the only way to describe Hashirama at this point. He wasn't an ally or a brother, but he wasn't an enemy, either. He's not my enemy. This was what Madara told himself. This was what he reassured himself of when he left their meetings drained to exhaustion, having suffered some beating from Hashirama's unique Wood Release bloodline limit (unheard of, if he was being honest, but they never were honest). This was what he told himself at night when he would lie in bed and dare to dream of the world Hashirama talked about sometimes, a world without war where people could live together without having to fear death around every corner. A place they could create together, a world of peace and prosperity. A promise to become strong enough to make the dream a reality.
Izuna began to notice how worn out Madara was for training (how could he not?). Madara was slower than usual due to compounded exhaustion. Hashirama could heal his body's aches and pains, but he couldn't do a thing for the bone-weary limit Madara always seemed to reach with him. It showed in his training with the Uchiha, and Izuna was worried.
"I'm just doing extra training on my own time," Madara told his brother to mollify him.
Izuna was not convinced, of course. "You never have any wounds or signs of chakra exhaustion. If you're training enough to be this tired, it would show."
Sometimes Madara wished Izuna wasn't as perceptive as he was. "It's nothing. Forget it."
Izuna watched him from behind the glow of the Sharingan, searching for cracks in his brother's armor. "Just be careful, Brother. I'm not the only one with eyes that can see underneath the underneath."
Madara ruffled his brother's hair, a rare sign of affection he would never display in front of others. "I know. It won't be like this forever."
Neither boy noticed the presence of another around the corner, having overheard their conversation. Gendoru waited until his two most promising students cleared out of the armory to step out of the shadows. Dark eyes followed Madara's back as he walked out, the Uchiha fan emblazoned proudly upon his shirt back.
Like all good things, this, too, would come to a stark and horrifying end.
"Where do you go all the time?" Tobirama asked his brother when he returned late yet again. "I'm not gonna keep telling Father you're fishing when you never come back with any fish."
"You could tell him I'm watching the clouds," Hashirama said with an easy smile as he removed his shoes and stepped inside the tent he shared with his remaining two brothers.
"Can I come next time, Hashi? Please?" Itama said, taking Hashirama's hand in his.
"You're too young to be training with me," Hashirama said, patting his youngest brother's head. "Just wait a few years."
Itama did not like that answer, and it showed. At nine years old, he was only a year younger than Tobirama. It should have been no issue at all for him to train with his brothers, but Itama had none of the talent Hashirama and Tobirama had. It mattered little to Hashirama—he was happy to become strong enough to protect their family alone. That was his duty as heir. But their father was not as pleased with this situation. Ikema was a reasonable man on most days, but when it concerned the dignity of his family (and his heirs, specifically) he wanted the best for them and for the clan. Kawarama had had far more budding talent than Itama, and he was gone. A darker part of Hashirama wondered if his father wished he'd lost a different son, but Hashirama never let the thought take shape. Surely, their father treasured his sons equally.
"But I'm gonna kill all those Uchiha," Itama said, now very serious. "Tobi's only a year older than me. I can take 'em!"
"Cut it out," Tobirama said, laying a hand on Itama's shoulder. "You're not ready for the Uchiha."
"Am too! I'm gonna make 'em pay for what they did to Kawarama."
Hashirama hesitated only a second before his bright smile was back in place. "Anyway, Itama, did'ya save me some dinner? I'm starving!"
The boys sat with Hashirama as he ate, talking for hours about this and that. Eventually, Itama fell asleep, and Hashirama and Tobirama lay in their bed rolls, whispering.
"Who's this guy you're fighting all the time?"
Hashirama smiled through the darkness. His brother was sharper than him on most days, and something like this would never get past him unawares.
"Just a friend," Hashirama said. It was the truth, after all. Madara was his friend. As far as Hashirama was concerned, that was all that mattered.
"I'm your friend."
"You're my brother. There's a difference."
"Yeah. You don't have to sneak around to train with your brother."
Hashirama sighed. "Don't worry about it, okay? He's just another kid. We talk, we train, that's it."
Tobirama turned over and showed Hashirama his back. "You better wash before you talk to Father tomorrow. You stink of smoke."
Hashirama said nothing to that fair warning, wanting to shrug it off as nothing. But in the back of his mind, he knew it wasn't nothing. As he fell asleep that night, visions of brilliant battles danced in his head, fire and water and earth, symphonies of steel. And clocks ticking in the background, counting down the precious hours until the end. Hashirama didn't get much sleep that night.
When Madara left the Uchiha settlement that late summer day, he knew something was wrong. He didn't know what, exactly, but it was a gut feeling. He took the usual route to the banks of the Naka River, but his steps were heavy and mechanical. Even the air tasted stale without wind to churn it.
Arriving at the usual spot, Madara picked up a rock, their ritual greeting. He'd never been able to make his skip all the way across, but today he knew he would have to deliver.
Don't look back, he willed himself. Dark eyes focused on the opposite bank where Hashirama suddenly appeared, rock in hand. No goofy waving, no unnecessary, 'Madara, is that you?' because who else could it possibly be? Everything about him was off, tense. This wasn't the Hashirama he knew.
Madara clenched his fist around his rock. The time for dreaming was over. "I don't have time to train today," he said.
"Me neither," Hashirama said, shifting his weight. "I guess we'll just have to wait till next time, huh?"
"Yeah."
Shadows moved behind Madara—a trick of the light? No, his eyes could see through the cleverest tricks.
"Catch!" Hashirama shouted, launching his rock across the river.
Madara swung his arm back and threw his own rock, arching his body and following through with the swing. Three, four, five skips. He caught Hashirama's rock just as his own made it across for the first time. Victory.
Run.
The message was crude and hastily inscribed upon the rock's surface, but its intent could not be clearer. Madara was not one to quail before fear on most days, but today he felt those icy fingers grab hold of him if only for a second. Hashirama clutched his own rock, eyes hard and unreadable. They turned and dashed back towards their respective homes, but it was too late. From among the rocks and trees emerged the ugly truth that Madara had always known would come between them—it was only a matter of time.
"We meet again, Ikema Senju."
Madara skidded to a halt before the man he knew by reputation to be the leader of the Uchiha clan...and Izuna at his side dressed in full armor. Of all the people to have followed him here, he hadn't been expecting the Uchiha clan leader to be here, and with his brother no less.
"Lord Tajima," Madara said, the shock evident in his voice.
Tajima spared him a glance and nodded. "Madara Uchiha," he said. "You managed to lure out the heir to the Senju clan. Good work."
Heir to the Senju clan.
Madara looked over his shoulder to where Hashirama stood flanked now by another boy and a man Madara could only assume to be Ikema Senju, his father. Hashirama's expression of frustration matched Madara's as they faced off on opposite sides of the river, the seconds ticking away until the age-old fight would continue on the banks of the Naka River. Izuna's expression was hard and uncompromising in the face of battle. Izuna would never betray him, but he would have been in a pinch if an authority figure had cornered him about Madara's erratic behavior lately. Cursing inwardly, Madara returned his gaze to the Senju shinobi across the river. It glimmered silver under the light of the bright summer sun.
"Tajima Uchiha," Ikema said, going for his katana. "You don't know when to roll over and die even after all these years."
"I could say the same for you."
"Lucky for you, I'm happy to rectify that problem here and now, once and for all."
The fight was explosive. Tajima led Madara and Izuna, who'd never fought with him before, in a triple Great Fireball. Orange flames covered the river like three great suns, causing the waters to hiss and steam as the fire barreled toward the other side. Madara squinted through the bright light, searching for Hashirama.
"Brother, I'm sorry, I didn't have a choice," Izuna whispered.
"I know," Madara said, stealing a glance at the infamous leader of their clan several feet away.
The sound of roaring water drew their attention, and great water spouts the likes of which Madara had never seen Hashirama ever produce twisted up among the flames. Through the steam and mist, he could make out the boy he assumed to be Hashirama's younger brother controlling the water. But there was no time to dwell on the sheer genius he was witnessing here. Sharingan flaring to life, Tajima shouted at the young brothers to follow him forward. With little choice, Madara obeyed his leader and flew into action.
Sentient tree branches found him and knocked him backwards. Hashirama let out a battle cry as he attempted to entomb Madara with his technique. But after all the time they'd spent training together, Madara was familiar enough with Hashirama's power to know what was coming. The Sharingan slowed Hashirama down enough for Madara to spring off a branch and avoid the wooden tomb. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of Tajima and Ikema engaged in a deadly battle of fire and earth, astounding in their power.
These are the most powerful shinobi alive today.
It was humbling, even for him.
"Madara!" Hashirama shouted just as he landed on the earth and summoned roots from underground.
They rushed at Madara in midair, and he was unable to dodge the attack completely, suffering a laceration to the soft flesh in his left flank through the flimsy yukata he wore. Acting quickly on the untested strategies he could not help but dream up during his time spent with Hashirama, he gripped the offending root and powered up yet another fire technique. Flames licked at the wood and raced closer to Hashirama, who was too shocked to disengage in time. Fire burned his palms, and Madara used the split second of distraction while Hashirama slammed his palms to the earth to land and put some distance between them.
Blood dripped from Hashirama's fingers, and Madara was suddenly reminded of their first meeting, when it was his hands that bled. A green glow indicated that Hashirama was healing the burns, but blood continued to fall. Behind them on the opposite bank, Izuna and Hashirama's brother clashed in a fight almost more vicious than their own.
"Some dream, huh," Hashirama said, panting.
It was wrong, all wrong. This wasn't how he'd wanted this to end. There would be an end (this, Madara had known all along), but this bloody battle was not how he'd wanted to part ways with the only friend he'd ever had. Lurid Sharingan studied Hashirama.
"You're next in line to lead the Senju."
Hashirama nodded as he continued to heal his hands. "And you the Uchiha."
Madara gripped the wound on his side and swallowed the pain. "No. I'm not like you, just getting something because I want it. A base-born soldier like me's gotta work for it."
Shouting could be heard in the distance—reinforcements. Of course, why pass up an opportunity to catch the enemy outnumbered? But Madara wasn't about to let that happen.
"Then work for it," Hashirama said, gritting his teeth against the pain from his burns. "We'll become the strongest and make our dream come true!"
Snarling drew Madara's eyes to Tajima, who'd just taken a slice to the shoulder between the joints of his armor from Ikema's katana. Izuna was wearing out nearby and dripping wet. All the while, the roar of the Naka River filled Madara's ears like a war drum, fueling the bloodlust and forcing them onwards with the tide.
Some dream.
"I will," Madara said. "I'll do it, just you watch."
"We'll do it together," Hashirama said, approaching him and holding out his half-healed hand, still bloody and blistering. "Promise me."
Hashirama Senju, his mortal enemy by name and blood. Were they destined to become the same as their leaders, ripping each other apart for no other reason than a name? Together with this boy who had become his friend, his partner, the measure of his own strength and progress—could they make their dream a reality?
Madara took Hashirama's hand in his, feeling the blood stick to his palm and mold to every groove and crevice between them. Red met brown and a thousand silent words passed between them. "I promise."
Soon after, Gendoru arrived on the scene along with a small team of elite Uchiha soldiers. The Senju's own forces began to trickle in as well, and Madara knew that if this didn't end now, it would turn into a full-scale bloodbath with neither side coming out victorious or without heavy casualties. Tajima and Ikema, arriving at a similar conclusion, called off their soldiers, and once again the Naka River rushed between them. It seemed wider across now than it ever had under the glare of the late afternoon sun, a knife laid unsheathed between them.
"This isn't over, Tajima!" Ikema said from across the river, backing up and nursing what looked like a broken arm.
"No, not until my men burn all your sons," Tajima said, bleeding through his armor from invisible wounds.
Madara searched for Hashirama's eyes, but the glare from the water was too bright. He knew Tajima was talking about Kawarama, the brother Hashirama had mourned. He didn't know what it was like to lose a brother—Izuna was at his side worse for wear but alive and breathing, eyes narrowed at the Senju boy he'd fought. Hatred, disgust, anger. One look and it was easy to see even in the eyes of his little brother, the same Izuna who'd smiled brighter than a summer day at the prospect of candy and cried for hours when their mother died. Madara could see it in all their eyes as the Uchiha stared across the river at the enemies they'd been born to kill or die trying.
All over a name.
"A man's name is his identity; it's everything."
It was what he'd told Mito Uzumaki so many months ago, and the words haunted him now as he finally understood their true and terrible meaning.
When he and Izuna had recovered, he was shocked to find out that Tajima wanted to speak with him about a chance to achieve everything he'd ever wanted if he could prove himself. It was really happening. One step at a time, the bastard boy with no name would rise up, and with him the hatred the Uchiha clan shouldered—its pride and joy, a legacy to the world.
"We'll do it together. Promise me."
"I promise, Hashirama," Madara said as he was fitted for a new set of armor. The mirror before him reflected the cold fire of the Sharingan and the Uchiha fan newly painted upon the shoulder of his breastplate. Sometimes if he listened hard enough, Madara could still hear the waters of the Naka River at his back, beating him onwards. War drums played in the background—the enemy awaited.
I promise.