Madara glared out over the bloody light of dawn where crimson bled across the horizon in seeping, heavy clouds. What remained of the night clung to the dark fabric across his shoulders in fading shadows, the distant reds and grays of dawn reflecting off the mass of silver and white hair that fell down his back. He was painted in to the decimated warscape, standing among its jagged contrasts atop the vast curve of a Divine Tree branch.
He shook his head as if to shed himself of the light, leaping down from the curve of a vast branch as a stream of white and black that landed silently along the shadow-drenched forest floor. What little light that could find him caught in his eyes, glinting as his glare sliced through the trees.
Damn them all to hell.
Madara's black-gloved fingers dug into the hard bark of an adjacent evergreen as his rage continued to blaze. Around him, the morning melodies of birdsong and insect keening had gone silent.
How had four months yielded nothing?
The wood squealed as if in apology as his grip crushed through the trunk's diameter, splinters exploding around his hand; Madara didn't so much as glance over when the tree groaned and slowly fell, collapsing to the ground in a cloud of pine needles, sawdust, and dirt. He closed his hand into a fist, glancing back at the intrusive red-pink rays of dawn with a baleful glare as if it had been what kindled his anger.
Endless weeks of hunting a prey that had become infuriatingly elusive – tedious nights of waiting, tracking, observing. He had thought decades of previous plotting in his past life had given him near-boundless patience, but this comparatively trifling stretch of months had proved excruciatingly frustrating. Now at the end of his patrol and pushed to the furthest reaches of his patience, Madara itched to kill: to finish this war at last in a brutal tide of blood and mortal finality.
He'd thought he'd easily find Team Seven within the first week, if not first few days, and end it all there and then. He hadn't thought he would actually need this much time. After all, before the whole debacle with that poison, Team Seven had nearly died by Madara's hand so many times — only the stubborn, resilient talents of their little medic kept them alive.
Madara strode through the trees, resisting venting his anger through sheer destruction. Tantruming was for children. No; he would find new bounds of fortitude and continue his hunt, soon. He had survived half his life in the shadows, waiting and planning; finding and exterminating a team of shinobi would take half the patience and be twice as worthwhile. Fun, even. Long days and longer nights had afforded him the time to decide which ways each erstwhile team member would die, and how quickly or not.
Obito's death would be the most drawn-out. Madara stepped out into a clearing, kicking aside a mouldering log with a particular vehemence; it shattered beneath his boot, the wood splintering and collapsing in a pile of sharp fragments through the grass and wildflowers. That damned Kamui — it was much of the reason that Madara's hunt had yielded little but observations and festering frustrations. How had he survived?
Madara lifted his head, silver locks falling away from his face as he met the red glare of the Tsukuyomi moon. It was fading back into the deepening blues and softer greys of the dawn sky, receding to its starry throne to await the next coming of night. His narrowing metallic eyes matched its ringed pattern, reflecting its image.
His frown deepened as his thoughts continued to rankle. Thanks to Obito's apparent health, Kamui had kept Team Seven in constant transition between planes, their less-frequent supply runs and rare reappearances on this plane kept brief and infrequent. And thanks to all the time that had passed… the general health and chakra levels of each member were now, undoubtedly, regenerated in full.
Madara radiated rage like the aura of heat from a forest fire. Damn it all. Though he had not been intimidated in the least by any of them upon the dawn of the war, the combined skills and abilities of Team Seven and their recent new recruits would be nothing to laugh off now that they were at their full potential. Now, without war fatigue, without chakra drain nor the psychological strain of constant paranoia from the once-impending perpetual threats of death, every one of them was at minimum a threat. Obito alone was enough of an annoyance, now that he had both of his original eyes.
Turning towards the south, Madara walked through the dawn-drenched trees, casting any branches and errant logs out of his way with irritated ease. Damned children they all were. Insects to squish, now more like a particularly resilient infestation, with several remaining Edo Tensei making the erroneous decision to side with them. Though he cared nothing of the yellow-haired one joining them, he had certainly recognised the other two with particular anger, their too-familiar faces adding to the fuel of Madara's hatred and frustration all the more.
Seething, Madara's fingers twitched with the ache to tear each of them apart as he made his way through the silent forest. He was more than confident in his own abilities. He, himself, was fully regenerated, recharged, and ready to kill. He had been ready for a long time to finish this final war, and he was still sure that he would win. However… it would be dicy this time.
Madara ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, its jagged falls around his face blocking the rising light from his eyes. He brought his attention past the trees to the distant hill, a speck in the horizon lit in the warm hues of the dawn sun.
It would be trickier to dominate this war again, but Madara found himself glad he had stolen their feisty medic. Not only had he taken away their safety net from death and maiming, but he'd ensured that safety net for himself. In the very least, she was a valuable hostage; none of her former teammates were ruthless enough to risk her life should Madara decide to threaten her well-being in a hostage situation.
He grimaced as he walked. No; he wouldn't let it escalate to that. In truth, he had no interest in harming Sakura. She had proved herself useful, worthwhile beyond her Senju ability and strength. She was valuable in more ways than one.
This passing realisation had Madara scowling at himself this time, and he slowed his walk towards the hill in the horizon, taking a pause to ruminate a little longer.
Madara closed his eyes, his scowl grooving deepening lines through his features. Though he had taken this time away from her to patrol and to hunt her team, he had also needed it to clear his head and reassert with himself that she was nothing but a pawn. Nights of careful logical disseminations and harsh self-examinations had brought him the refreshed certainty that he would use her as he could, discarding her once she turned against him or otherwise lost her value.
Why, then, did he still hesitate to even ponder imperilling her?
Madara's previous rage smouldered on as no clear answer rose from the flames. Ever frustrated and tired of being alone with his thoughts, he glared up at the speck of a house on the far hill, deciding it was finally time to see what had become of her.
Madara landed silently in whispering grasses, hair drifting around his face as he lifted his eyes to the little house he'd summoned four months ago. He was half-surprised that it still stood, remembering her indignant fury when he had left before; her anger tended to be as destructive as his own.
He flicked a dead leaf from the long hair across his face as he paused, his gaze tracking over the garden that stretched along the front of the house and led around into the back. Tangles of fully-grown rose bushes grew in lush dark greens and reds through the well-tended soil. Thorns glinted in the warm morning light, a medley of young red rosebuds pushing through the protective leaves and reaching for the sun.
They were blooming past their typical season, unnaturally overgrown. Madara tapped a gloved finger along his scowl, eyeing the rose bushes. Behind their abundant, neatly-trimmed shapes, young new vines crept up the sides of the house, framing the latticed windows and avoiding obscuring the glass; crimson blooms graced the roof gables and climbed across the formerly plain white walls, curling through the beams and bannisters of the veranda. Every leaf, petal, and branch was healthy, apparently unaffected by the cold air, though the skies were heavy with the warning scents of impending winter.
Beside the vine-embraced house exterior, several fully-grown trees swayed and creaked with the breeze. A willow tree sighed with the wind, its long fluted branches rippling, each leaf a vivid golden-ochre as it prepared to drop them for the end of the autumn season. Its long, soft shape cast a shadow over the garden, protecting it from the high overhead sunrays.
Madara folded his arms, doubly annoyed as he recognised the obvious signs of Wood Style encouraging the flora to grow at an accelerated pace. So his clones had been feeling generous to her gardening hobby. He scowled, tempted to revert the health of the garden out of spite.
His ornery mood remained as he strode towards the front sliding doors. Before opening the front door, he glanced over the veranda, unable to help observing more. Flowers hung in careful arrangements from the rafters, unfolding in the light of dawn; vines crept along beams and caressed along the doors and windows. The forked, variegated leaves upon the vines had turned colour for the autumn season, draping across the neat symmetry of the house and veranda in vivid green and scarlet shades. They seemed to purposely frame the Uchiha symbol above the front door, each tendril and bloom careful not to obscure it.
Madara also noticed the flat rocks perfect for skipping that lined the window sills, readied for future trips to the stream.
His brows twitching from the sight, he turned from it, pushing the sliding front doors aside and stepping through into the house itself.
Madara's scowl became a perplexed frown. The central sitting space was almost completely white, covered in overflowing piles of paper cranes that spilled over surfaces and collected like piles of snow around furniture edges and across the tatami mat floor. Some of them gathered at the windows, and some scattered aimlessly like they had been flicked from their placements on surfaces. There had to be hundreds; only one surface in the room was clear of them, a cushion beside the kotatsu table. There was a basket of food pills to the side; a small ornate comb sat beside it, pink strands tangled with clear silver in its teeth. A shadow in the hall had Madara glancing aside, only to see that it was his worn Six Paths robe hung along an open door, the fabric resewn, the clasps repaired.
Upon hearing a muffled giggle and the crackling of a fire, Madara turned, running a hand through his hair and shifting through the mess of folded paper cranes to cross over to the kitchen. Delicious wafting scents warmed his nose, and his expression faltered with further surprise, the unexpected ache of old childhood memories stabbing through his chest.
Madara stood in the open doorway to the kitchen, staring.
Standing in a cozy kitchen cluttered with a variety of wooden kitchen implements, baskets of herbs, and scattered paper cranes, Sakura hummed, stuffing cooked rice into breaded pockets of tofu. A boiler in the old-fashioned stove behind her bubbled with swirls of steam that perpetuated the homey smells of seasoning and broth through the air. She turned, and she held out a waiting hand to her side; Madara watched with disbelief as his Limbo clone handed her the tool she needed from where he stirred the pot beside her. His long jagged hair was tamed down his back with a single tie near the nape of his neck; the sleeves of his long robe were rolled up past his elbows. Sakura bumped into his side, nosing his shoulder affectionately as she finished her work on the pockets of fried tofu. Leaning against him, she closed her eyes, breathing him and the scents of cooking in.
Pausing where he'd been stirring over the stove, the Limbo clone met Madara's eye, who stared at him blankly.
His Limbo clone set a hand on Sakura's arm with a low rumble of her name. She opened her eyes, lifting her head away from his shoulder with a blush and shaking her head as she patted the plump rolls beneath her hands. "No no, I told you, you can't eat the inarizushi yet. They're not done. But almost done. I can't wait to try them, thanks for showing me this recipe. Was it your mother's?" She brushed against him as she stirred a different pot; after a thought, she straightened from her lean over the stovetop. "Oh! I forgot! I set aside a bit of cooked meat for Akane earlier."
Sakura set down the chopsticks she'd used to stir and swayed against Madara's clone at her side, picking up a piece of meat from the counter and hurrying past him beyond the cluttered countertop. She aimed a dazzling smile in his direction, leaving the original Madara yet still unnoticed where he was shadowing the kitchen doorway; she stepped outside through a back sliding door. "Keep an eye on the stove!" she called back as she disappeared.
Madara looked from his Limbo clone to where Sakura had gone. He set his mouth in a grimace before following her, dismissing the clone with a gesture of his hand. He braced himself for the onslaught of memories he knew he was about to receive.
Sakura was already out in the grassy field, her arm extended. A high, melodious whistle rose from her sunlit figure, floating through the warm orange-pink skies. Dark clothes Madara recognised as his own fluttered around Sakura's slender frame; her long cherry-blossom hair fell in silky waves over the Uchiha symbol printed high on her back.
Stricken by the image she made, Madara stood back in the shadow along the veranda. Conflicted already by all he had seen and sensed here, he could not shake a deepening worry about how the domesticity of it all warmed a long-cold part of him.
Shaking his head of the spell he was under, Madara gestured once more, releasing every Limbo clone that he had left behind to keep Sakura here. He knew it would be overwhelming to simultaneously receive so many memories atop the unwelcome warmth he was already suffering, but he was confident that he could handle it.
Steam rose in clouds across the field and along the roof and garden as every clone left to guard Sakura vanished. Memories burned in a colourful reel through Madara's mind — a thousand moments, spun across months spread across his mind in perfect detail, all at once. Each was as crisp as if they were happening now.
As the immense amalgamation of sensations slammed into Madara's mind, a dark speck soared through the rosy sky, descending upon Sakura's awaiting arm with a lilting call.
"Hello beautiful," Sakura murmured to Akane, stroking the feathers down the side of her beak. "This is for you." Akane devoured the strips of meat that Sakura offered her in a greedy gulp before preening where she perched, her feathers catching the light in a healthy gleam that reflected the morning light.
Sakura stroked down her wing affectionately. "You could eat so much more, huh? Sorry, that's all I've got for now." Akane chittered in protest, and Sakura laughed, regarding her with tangible warmth. "What, you didn't already eat some poor unsuspecting bird today? The finches and hummingbirds too quick?" She brought her palm gently beneath Akane's wing, thumb drawing over where her heart beat beneath her feathers; a minty glow reflected across Sakura's focused expression, and she nodded. "You're feeling better. Good. This bit of healing should help you feel a little less achey, old girl."
Slowly, Sakura turned, the dawn lighting her in full; rosy golden-tinged light painted down her figure. Her smiling eyes snagged upon where Madara watched her, standing in shadow at the back kitchen door.
Her breath caught, and she stood perfectly still, as if moving might shatter the illusion of him before her. Neither of them moved, eyes locked through the glow of sunlight across the whispering meadow.
Without taking her eyes from Madara, Sakura drew her finger along Akane's wing gently with a low murmur. "Go on," she said, lifting her arm, "Enjoy the morning." Akane took off in a flapping of great dark wings, her shrill call echoing through the field as she flew off. Without breathing, without blinking, Sakura stood perfectly still, her pulse a rapid thrum beneath her sun-warmed skin.
Madara took a step towards her, and she mirrored him, one hand pressed over her chest. Looking him up and down, she blinked several times, as if she could not believe her eyes.
When he leapt down into the grassy field, Sakura broke into a run, her hair spilling around her in a wild array of cherry-blossom pink, her dark Uchiha robes billowing around her figure. Her feet pounded through the grass, scarcely louder than the pounding of her heart. He stopped, and she crashed into his arms, exhaling sharply into his shoulder and wrapping her arms tightly around him. With her face buried in his robes, her voice was muffled, full of relief and concern. "You've finally returned," she managed through a tight throat, "Did anything happen? Did you see anyone? Are you all right?"
Madara drew Sakura back, hands steadying her shoulders, and before she could say anything else, he dipped down and slanted his lips over hers.
She quaked like a leaf as Madara's large hands slid up the sides of her face, and in a kiss she expected to be punishing or rough, he was gentle instead. Every movement was a slow, tasting progression, his brows twitching as he brought her face deeper up against his.
Sakura slid her arms up around Madara's shoulders, lost in the kiss that was nothing like she'd known before. It was a different timbre, a deeper pitch, and she drifted away in its cadence, both thrown off and drawn in by his new level of intensity. The familiar ache in her chest sunk further down into her heart with every movement, every push and pull between their mouths.
Beyond the melody he strung from her heartstrings, Sakura didn't notice the change of setting whatsoever, everything around her drowned out in feeling and adrenaline but for Madara surrounding her. She only became dimly aware of their matching movements across the threshold when he slid her across the wall of the kitchen, the scents of cooking awakening something in her mind. Opening her eyes, Sakura beheld the heat she'd come to yearn for burning behind Madara's familiar metallic stare, more fiery and almost frightening than she'd ever seen.
Her pulse caught in her throat at the rare sight. Exhaling shakily, Sakura met his mouth again hungrily, her brows furrowing as she realised that this might be the moment that she had been waiting for, all these months.
Coherent thought was difficult to coax from her mind with the sliding of Madara's large hands around her figure and the blazing intensity pounding in her chest. She cared nothing of the paper cranes crushed beneath their feet as they danced through darkness towards the nearest room, thought nothing of the simmering stove or unfinished inarizushi. Almost lost already, Sakura forced her mind to stay aware regardless of her desire to give in to Madara's demanding touch, opening her eyes once more and searching his pale face in the dim light.
She knew something was off. There was no more distance between them – no measured words, no reminders of the gaps or lines between them; only a singular focus behind his narrowing eyes, a honed intensity that she dared not label passion but was not naive enough to name otherwise. Staring up through the shadows into Madara's face, Sakura recognised that he must have dismissed all of the Limbo clones. He was fully experiencing all of their memories en masse – every feeling, every moment, their bond deepened and forged through many daily routines, heartfelt moments, and long, late nights.
She drew back, swallowing hard. She had meant everything she'd done and said with his clones these past months. Yes, she had been playing a kind of long game, planning and hoping for a result like this; but that she genuinely loved every moment down to her bones had taken away any regret for it before. The resulting sheer intensity of Madara's reaction now staggered her, far more than she'd even hoped for — but why did she feel so guilty?
Her pounding heart beat in a clashing rhythm as Madara led her through the quiet house with shifting, matching steps. Her throat tightened again as she knew that the time to act was now, when Madara was thrown with the bond she'd built through the months with him; now, when he wasn't quite himself. Trying to dismiss her inexplicable guilt, Sakura tried to recall the wordings she'd rehearsed for her request as he pushed the door to their room open, pulling them both through and sliding it shut behind them.
"I'm glad you're home," Sakura said in a rush as his warm hand returned to slide along the soft curve of her face; his touch was tender enough that she was rendered temporarily speechless.
She fell with him to the mess of sheets below, their faces tilting together, and before he devoured her with another breathless kiss – before this chance was lost – she breathed the beginning of her long-awaited request.
"I need to ask something of you." Sakura slid her legs around Madara's lap, her arms wrapped around his neck as she surrounded herself with him. He moved forward with her, pressing her back into the sheets atop the futon, his searing touch digging in with a dangerous heat. "Ask."
His hands slid down her sides, fingers rippling over her robes, and Sakura bit her lip. She needed Madara's focus to remain on their verbal exchange, and she took his face with firm hands, turning him to meet her eye again; she searched his face with adrenaline-spiked nerves she barely kept hidden. "I had told you," she said, "I want to know you. Everything about you. I want —" A deadly serious expression unfolded across Sakura's face. Madara's pupils widened upon the furious intensity of her stare, and she held him still as she simmered with her passionate words. "I want you to show me, like at the riverbank before. Not just one memory, not just one moment. Show me you… all of you. I want to see everything of your life through your genjutsu."
Madara's brows twitched with conflict, and Sakura pushed up against his warm body that enveloped hers, her passion shining through the twin fires behind her green eyes that he couldn't look away from. "I must know you, for not only what I want, but for the sake of everything," she whispered, a genuine need playing out in her tone; her voice rose, more confident, more demanding. "Show me your life, Madara."
Madara's head still spun with countless new memories, absorbing the many sensations. Too many visions replayed in his mind's eye. Every thought, every passing emotion he'd oppressed as Limbo clones, exploded now; all their memories were ignited further by the sight of her, this house, and all that had led to this moment. It was not just one distraction pulling Madara from his usual sharp judgement, but thousands, and the many layers of his icy exterior were melting under their combined heat.
He knew he was off-kilter, knew beneath the tsunami of unexpected emotion that his judgement might be flawed in this moment – he knew that he should pull back and clear his head, but this knowledge was drowned out by the vivid intensity of Sakura's expression as she held his face over hers, making her passionate demand. The depth of the bonds she had woven with the invisible shades of himself pierced through to a piece of Madara's soul he had long thought dead. In the bloom of feeling that bled across his vision, he felt a powerful obligation to acquiesce, to give her what she wanted in this moment without hesitation.
Madara's expression shadowed with a new intensity as he looked back down to Sakura beneath him. She burned with the passion of her demand and resolve like she was a beacon beneath skin, setting him afire along with her with the soft touch of her hands through his hair and the pleading lilt of her voice.
"Please," and Madara pinned Sakura down with his grip securing her face, meeting her widening eyes. His Rinnegan stare pierced her in a rush of power as he granted her request.
The light died out from Sakura's eyes as she fell limp in Madara's grasp. Her gaze was unfocused, half-lidded, and colour drained slowly from her pale features, her body slackening; her hands fell away from his face.
Madara blinked down at Sakura before gripping her tightly with a curse. He laid her down on the futon, his hands around her shoulders flexing uncertainly before he sat back, running a hand through his wild hair. When he prodded Sakura's limp body experimentally, she was unresponsive, her eyes closed as she breathed slowly in her deep unconsciousness.
Madara stared down at her in vexed disbelief. He should never have given her what she wanted. He shouldn't have put her in that genjutsu, and now she was lost in it for an unknown stretch of time. Her previous unconsciousness the last time he'd done this had spanned only a few minutes, but that genjutsu had encompassed only one memory; how long would a lifetime of memories keep her unconscious? And in his addled moment of weakness, he hadn't set strict enough limits on the genjutsu, granting it purely as the wording of her request —- which meant it was wild-card, unpredictable.
"Tch." Madara clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to shove the girl out of his sight. She had known. She had premeditated that he might become overwhelmed upon his return home, and his anger at her boiled beneath his skin. He didn't care how genuine she seemed in every memory he had inherited from his Limbo clones. If Sakura had had the ulterior motivation to persuade him into this genjutsu the entire time, then he couldn't care less if she stayed unconscious for days or for weeks. He would leave her here to rot in this house full of sickening domestic reminders of her. Her, and their months spent in foolish joy.
Madara got to his feet with a flourish of dark robes, sizzling with rage, restraining himself from any more rash actions. Sakura could lay there in her damned genjutsu while he cleared his head like he should have done much sooner.
Traitorous girl. To put him in such a state – to purposely push months of bonding for the sake of such an idiotic ploy — Madara stormed out of the room, angrier with every progressing thought. Good, he hoped she enjoyed suffering through his life, then. If that's what she wanted so badly…
Madara half-hoped that Sakura's desire to see his life was not purely out of some naively romantic notion of getting closer to him, but knew better than to dismiss that idea entirely, knowing how dangerously close his Limbo clones had allowed her to become. Too many memories of her looking at him with undeniable adoration and deep affection made it a real possibility, and he found himself shaking his head at her idiocy as well as his own for granting her such a wish. Had she never considered the dangers of Rinnegan genjutsu at all? Was she blindly trusting that since he was the one casting it upon her, that he wouldn't hurt her? Was it a trust in the bond they had forged? Or was she just so enamoured that she didn't care about the genjutsu's risks for the sake of knowing him better?
Madara stepped outside, and upon seeing the line of skipping stones on the sill, swept them off in a backhanded strike, scattering them across the veranda with a vicious scowl. A burning smell rose to his nose, and he swerved, becoming a blurred shadow as he darted back through the house and into the kitchen; he put out the fire rising from the stove before turning and accidentally sweeping the unfinished inarizushi to the ground. It skittered through dirt into corners and across the floors.
Madara slid back against the counter, dipping his face into his hands with a long exhale through his fingers. He stayed there, cast in a shadow; motionless and cold, the light unable to reach him through the high windows, he slowly bowed his head deeper into his calloused palms.
Sakura's scent rose from his fingers, heady and strawberry-sweet, warm with the smells of cooking among his own smoky scents. Madara brought his fists down upon the counter with a curse, shattering it into cracked, split pieces that crumbled around his feet in a cloud of flour and sawdust. Kicking the rubble aside, he shoved through the back kitchen door with enough force that the door broke out of its frame, toppling over and breaking behind his feet as he disappeared into the blinding bright light of day.