The dulled pink hues of the rainy dawn were quickly replaced with a heavy blanket of snow.
Mornings were always quiet in the Sky District, the nights always full to bursting with reverie that tended to last until sunup itself. When Madara had woken, there was still a lone courtesan singing somewhere down an opposite alleyway, the melancholy warbles of her voice floating like a ghost through the streets.
Sakura, as he'd expected, was not in his arms upon waking. When he let his Sharingan eyes spin alight, the sparkling green glow that'd hailed her was gone, too. It was with a sigh that he got to his feet—his joints did not ache, and his back did not scream in protest—to relight the fire. And, though he knew none of the maids had disturbed him in the night, the clothes they'd dressed him in that Sakura had stripped him of were folded neatly in a pile by the futon. It would be best, he figured, not to bother wondering how.
He opened the screen covering the window while he dressed, admiring the gentle, falling snow and the grey-white haze of it blotting out the faraway mountains of Lightning Country. When he caught the scent of his wife on his robes, he couldn't help but smile, content. Her sudden appearance had stirred him, renewing his strength to carry on, both in his task appointed by the Lord Hokage and in finding a way to unite with Sakura on a permanent basis—though it had also renewed in him a staggering sense of longing. The flame of his heart was in an uproar now, compared to the dull throb of it like footsteps thudding in his ears during his time on the road.
Small sounds came from the first floor, the padding of feet and the soft sounds of just-woken voices muffled by the layers of wooden walls between them and his room. There came the unmistakable clanging of iron pots and a shrill laughter, quickly shushed, before the stairs at the end of the hall creaked. He smoothed his robes, the knot he tied a far cry from how beautifully the young woman had fastened it the night before.
One of those very women knelt now at his door, asking after his permission for a moment of his time. When he granted it, she slid open the door but did not stand. With her head bowed she expressed her sincerest regret, for the Granny Cat had already woken and was tending to business elsewhere in the city. He pursed his lips and cocked a brow, unable to hide his displeasure for a few long seconds. But far be it from him to frown about the comings and goings of an elder, let alone the clan's patron.
He bent at the waist and thanked the maid, stepping past her into the hallway.
"Return just after sundown," the woman called after him as he descended the staircase. "She should be back by then."
Skeptical of the word should, Madara almost laughed as he made his way into the small main room to slip into his shoes. One of the other maids had been leaning against the reception desk, her chin propped in her hand as she fought off her lingering sleepiness—but once she realized he was leaving, she blinked her eyes open wide as saucers. She bent down to grab something, then hurried to his side and held out a folded bangasa plain in its deep red coloring.
"To keep the snow from your hair, sir," she said with a dip of her head.
He nodded, mumbling his thanks as he ducked through the doorway and opened the umbrella. The cold air, he hoped, would help clear his soured mood. It certainly woke him fully, the chill biting to the bone. With most of the day open to him, he decided that he may as well wash up more properly than he'd allowed himself the night before.
There was a crowd, however, at the mouth of the bathhouse. He walked past, redirecting his route to the stables to tend to Kioku to give the gathered folk time to dissipate. Their boisterous voices carried down the quiet, snowy road, the sound of it a constant din even as he combed through the mare's mane and ensured with the stablehand that her breakfast would be given out soon enough.
Though the pool of people had thinned indeed, it seemed that they'd merely shifted into the bathhouse instead. It was with a sigh that Madara lowered and folded the umbrella, ducking under the curtains as he went into the warm, humid building. He stripped among the other men and stored away his clothes, then found a still enough space to sit and ladle hot water over his shoulders, trying to take in the way it felt snaking across his chest and over his ribs. With so much of his usual soreness so strangely absent thanks to Sakura, he found himself more irritable than he perhaps should be by the crowd: the first chance he'd had at experiencing a bath just to relax and not for the primary aim of soothing his aching muscles, and he had to share it with a dozen or so others.
As he rinsed himself and poured the steaming water over his hair, he observed. The others spoke in accents that, to Madara's ears, indicated they were from the east. Every now and then as one would pass him by on his way to wash, Madara would catch the scents of saltwater and lingering, rough leathers. He also noticed the sight of their palms and the shallow cuts along them—in contrast to his that'd already healed—and it was as he finished washing and made his way to the steaming bath for his soak that someone shouted his name.
Of course he could only go for so long without being recognized by fellow shinobi.
The man who'd called hadn't done it in anger, no; it was in an unusual tone, aggressive yet friendly, his voice loud and rich with long years of commanding soldiers. A clammy hand slapped Madara at one of his shoulders, and he turned to see an elderly man, his grey hair rivaling even the Uchiha's in length, wrapping a towel around his waist just as a stray cat scurried past his legs to slip out the doors.
"A shock to see you here, Madara-dono," began Byakuren, who pulled back his hand to run it down the expanse of his facial hair. Briefly he studied the other man with his good eye, pensive. "Even if you weren't married, I wouldn't have guessed you as the type to leisure in a place like this."
"Indeed not, my lord," returned Madara coolly with a short bow. "But like my father before me, sometimes there is business I must tend to in unlikely places."
The other man barked out a sudden beat of laughter at that, motioning for Madara to follow him to soak in the onsen. "Yes, I assuredly recall Tajima-dono being quite the stickler. It made him all the more terrifying in battle, a man who didn't need to drink to forget either his sorrow or the things he'd done. But you, my boy, will join me and my men in a day of revelry, yes?"
"I—"
"Don't even think of playing coy," he said as he tied back his hair at the back of his head. As he stepped into the steaming bath, he gave a contented sigh. "When we've all had a good soak, we'll drink 'til moonrise, and even thereafter. Who are you to deny the First Mizukage?"
Madara, following suit to pull back his own hair and step into the water, gave a puzzled look. "I did not think Water Country had yet settled on the matter of a hidden village."
"The matter has only just been settled, it's true," replied the older man, wading through to the deeper parts of the quickly crowding springs. "We island folk can be difficult to rally. But I managed it. I might've been the only one who could."
Though spoken in arrogance, it was the truth, Madara knew. The natives of Water Country's islands had always been known to be particularly brutal, and he did not find he envied their new leader's position. Byakuren, who claimed no clan, was a fierce warlord with whom no one should trifle, but didn't all men have limits?
The old man had been carrying on after twisting his spine, his back giving an audible pop. "We've only just arrived from your Village Hidden by Leaves. That Hokage-sama is certainly a different man in negotiation than he was in battle, but he could hold his liquor, that's for sure."
Well, no point in letting himself be outdone by Hashirama in something that seemed as simple as drinking. Madara voiced his acquiescence; not like he had much else to do in the way of passing time, waiting for Granny Cat to return for whatever business to which she was attending.
"I'm honored by your invitation," he answered as he leaned back in the bath.
And that was how the once-heir of the Uchiha clan found himself at the nearest sake bar, the streets packed with nin of the newly-established Village Hidden by Mist and their proud ex-warlord leader. Madara tried subtly to sniff at the liquid in the wooden cup that'd been all but shoved into his hand. His father had never permit him drink before—there was little room for defiance in this regard, as Madara and his brothers rarely dared disobey Tajima in the presence of guests—and so he was grateful when Byakuren insisted that no man take their first drink alone; they were to wait until each and every one of them had a cup in hand to toss back their drinks. From the dark spaces among the rafters of the ceiling, a cat's eyes gleamed as it watched.
The sake's scent had a sour bite to it, mingling strangely with something not unlike the fragrance of a just-sliced plum. He stared down at it with narrowed eyes, knowing it would not necessarily taste good, but that taste wasn't necessarily the point, either. He'd seen plenty of drunken men and knew well the way it would make one's breath reek, and try all he might, he couldn't see the appeal—but far be it from him to back down from the uncomfortable or the unknown.
The men were growing restless, eager to drink and celebrate the founding of their new village and the end of the long war. The very moment Byakuren shouted a hearty kampai, all of them tipped back their cups into their open mouths, Madara included. The taste of it made him shiver even though the heat of the bath still clung to his skin beneath his vibrant robes, his skin breaking out in chills across his forearms. But the bitterness didn't linger, and he found the sensation of the burning liquid settling in his stomach rather pleasant. By the time he slammed the cup back down onto the table, the cat in the rafters had disappeared.
Madara spent most of the day at the Mizukage's side, though the older man was often preoccupied in many different directions: he was popular among his men, or at least the ones who'd decided to join him on this detour of debauchery. Madara instead fell into the easy company of a man closer in age to himself, of equal stature, with similar long, black hair, and the same propensity for silence. He would go on to be the Third Mizukage, although for now he was simply the First's retainer.
The two of them passed the time swapping stories and watching the general revelry, stopping only to reach down and pet a passing stray cat. Though they couldn't reasonably decline the drinks being poured more or less continuously and placed into their hands by Byakuren himself, they did politely reject the more private company of the pleasure girls. More than once, Madara caught a wistful look in the other man's eye, and wondered whom he'd left behind to be here, his reason not to slink off with any of the exquisitely-adorned, painted women of Sora-ku.
As more and more alcohol flooded his bloodstream, he found his worries of the man in black easily shed. He thought little of the mission on which Hashirama had sent him, how the long days on the road had tired him, and how he often felt like a man made of memories and prophecy. Even the seemingly ever-presence of stray cats that appeared to be keeping tabs on him didn't bother him in the slightest. The levity of the crowd did not falter, not even as the sun began to set and some of the men began to stumble. Music filled the streets, the sweet singing of women's voices, and the cooks began their work of filling the air with steam and scents that made the mouth water.
And though Madara had taken his bath early in the morning, and the snow was falling harder now than it was then, he'd still not gotten cold. He was warmed from the inside out by drink, and knew that his face was flushed—he could feel it—even before some of the men began to draw women, giggling all the while, into their laps out in the open. Their kisses were deep and passionate, hardly appropriate for such a public setting, and some of them would even grope at their curves; he had to glance away, flustered. When Byakuren called for another round of drinks, Madara took to it eagerly.
Standing was a challenge, but he managed to find his way around the corner of whichever of the hundreds of establishments on the main street and into an alley to relieve himself. The hour was growing late, snowflakes catching in the lanternlight from the street. It was a challenge to balance the umbrella in his hand while also fumbling with his robes, especially given how blurry his vision had become, but what was an Uchiha if not good under pressure—and good at adapting even when going blind?
But he wasn't going blind, he reminded himself as he finished up and shuffled his robes back into place. Not yet, anyway; no, he was just drunk, and the loose-limbed feeling was, shockingly, a good one, for all his father spoke out against it like one would die on the spot the moment some sake touched their tongue.
Madara turned to head back into the building when he spied a cat, a small and slender one, hop down into the alley and block his way. He stared down at it, and it up at him, neither of them blinking. When he took a tentative step towards it, it did not move. When he tried to shoo at it with his foot, it still did not move, merely cocked its head to the side and kept on staring. It was reminder enough, he realized then, of not only where exactly he was and why he was there.
He blinked. "I take it Granny Cat has returned?"
The ninneko narrowed its eyes in a way that seemed judgmental, but was satisfied enough with his answer that it nodded once before leaping up to the roof and scurrying away, out of sight.
Madara sighed. The extended minutes out in the cold had begun to push back at the edges of his intoxication; he shivered, and could feel a spot at the crown of his head begin to ache dully. It was with a frown on his face that he decided to forego saying his goodbyes—Byakuren would insist on him staying for as long as possible—and started his trek back to the house.
The road seemed to stretch on forever. It was difficult to focus on putting one foot in front of the other; the only times he could recall not being in complete control of his body were when he were under the genjutsu of an enemy ninja. He gave up on holding the bangasa over his head, letting the chilly snow hit his face and settle in his hair like dust. He scowled; combined with the budding headache now spreading to his temples, he was beginning to think he'd overdone it when finally the building came into view.
Stumbling, he bent beneath the painted curtains and plopped down to remove his shoes, caked in chunks of snow that'd just been glittering golden in the streetlights. Here, though, it was dark, the powder colorless as he gave the soles a halfhearted beating with his palm. When he stood he nearly tripped again, the room spinning even after he caught himself on one of the sturdy wooden walls; he would wake the entire house, at this rate. Indeed, his trek up the stairs was not pretty, especially when one of the cats growled at him menacingly for nearly kicking it, hissing before it ran off down the hall.
The moment he slid open the door to his room—much too noisily, for the late hour and the quiet state of the house—he was slammed from the side. With his senses dulled by alcohol, his reaction time had slowed so much it was almost unbelievable to him; it was no wonder his father never drank. By the time Madara thought to pivot and struggle free of the hold, a second pair of arms, or were they perhaps legs?—wrapped tightly around his middle, an elbow or knee digging into his back where he lie pinned to the floor. One of the assailants had taken hold of his unruly hair, his scalp giving an unpleasant tug as if his captor didn't quite want to hurt him (which, of course, did nothing but exacerbate the gnawing migraine he'd been trying to ignore).
He'd been too drunk to bring his Sharingan to life, but he glanced up in the only direction he could look to see a single candle radiating a faint orange glow in a small circle, casting deep and strange shadows that seemed unnatural to his drunken mind. The dark undulated, and only then did his instincts return to him. Chakra sped to his eyes, their red tones mixing with the candlelight. He realized only a beat after his futile attempt to shrink away in a spike of panic that the room was filled with cats: some bore signatures only of chakra, mortal animals that'd been drawn to Granny Cat and her maidens, and others carried a trace of shizen energy within them—mystical beings, bound to the old woman through a contract of blood that'd lasted who knew how many generations.
Whatever joint was pressing into his back was starting to bother him, now that he'd decided his life was not in any imminent danger. He opened his mouth to protest, but only got so far as,
"What is the meaning of—"
"Silence," hissed the voice of an old woman, "you great oaf."
He swallowed, wide-eyed, properly scolded. The candle—he'd thought it'd been sitting on the shallow windowsill—turned, cradled in a small dish held between two wrinkled fingers. Her face was like a carving, lined with age and no small amount of strife, her nose stained black there beneath her startling cat's eyes. She was wrapped in a finely-woven kimono of silk, half of her hair styled high atop her head with the rest of it cascading down her back.
"Your father did not raise some drunk," she spat. Gesturing with her free hand, she went on, "Girls, release him. And take your leave; I would speak to him alone."
The women did as instructed, though Madara kept his eyes level on their master as he stood and dusted at his clothes, smoothing back his damp hair. When the maids left, a few of the cats ran out with them, though most stayed lurking in the shadows, turning their heads back towards the window now that the commotion caused by his sudden entrance had calmed.
Granny Cat narrowed her eyes, then beckoned him forth with her hand. Steady as he could manage, he crossed the room to stand at her side. She was shockingly frail up close, her many layers of robes adding to her withered stature; she stood at full height only to his ribcage. The heavy earrings dangling from her lobes clinked together when she turned her head and, without a word, pointed out the window.
Though he had to stretch his neck a bit to see, Madara peered from the opened slats. Aided by his Sharingan eyes, the falling snow was a dull grey against the night sky, the fieldlands covered in a blanket of wet snow and ice cut through by an inky black wall of trees. He could feel his pulse quicken in his veins and the breaths through his nostrils come heavier, aware, now, that he was being watched.
There in the treeline were a pair of yellow eyes, small as pinpricks. They blinked, and then vanished into the darkness.
Adrenaline coursed through him, gradually sobering his blood. "I've heard more of this creature already than I'd like." He pulled the chakra from his eyes, the headache threatening to spread behind them, too. "What is he?"
At length she said, "Nothing natural. A devil, as far as humanity is concerned."
A long silence followed as Madara brought up his hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. His sinuses pounded uncomfortably in time with his heart, and he swore he'd never drink again.
Beside him, the old woman gave a small grunt, shutting the slats unceremoniously. "Help me to the hearth, boy."
She'd already proffered one of her frail, wrinkled hands; he took it as gently as he could, only a trace of the fumbling awkwardness of his drunken stupor remaining, and supported her weight as they crossed to the center of the small room. She held fast to his arm as he lowered it to help her sit, smoothing the frocks of her robes and overcoat as she went.
With Granny Cat settled, Madara himself found the futon with ease, one of the cats only barely darting away in time before he plopped down heavily upon it. With a sigh he propped one arm upon his bent knee, still squeezing the space between his eyes as one of the animals pushed its way onto his lap, another pawing at his hair that'd pooled on the cot. Beside the hearth, old woman brought down the candle to light the fresh kindling. She waited until the soft, golden glow of the flames filled the room to pull a small pipe spun of glass from her sleeve, along with a crinkled packet of brown paper from her obi. As she opened it and pinched at some dried herbs inside to pack them into the bowl, her sharp gaze flickered up to meet his.
"Quit staring," she snapped. "These leaves are not from Shikkotsu, and so your wife will not be joining us this night."
He averted his eyes and gave a lazy, half bow, mostly to distract her from seeing the flush spreading across his face. "You have my thanks for her summons last night."
She struck a match to light the herbs, then waved it in a hurry to extinguish it. As she brought the bit to her lips and inhaled, the dried greens smoldered in the bowl, obscured in the next moment by a thin white smoke. "You still have some measure of manners, I see."
He fought the urge to glare at her; she liked his father for his unwavering hold on traditions of respect, but he'd raised Madara just as well. Although, he supposed then, he had only himself to blame for his inebriated stumbling into her home. He straightened and said nothing, watching her.
"As for the man in the shadows," she said around the pipe, "he is a son, of sorts."
He didn't much need to think on that, his memory still sharp. "Sakura mentioned the offspring of something beyond our understanding."
"Yes." She lowered the pipe, glancing towards the dark window briefly. "This creature has been scheming for centuries. And now, your wife has utilized the taboo and unraveled a major thread of his plans. His eyes fell to you quite some time ago. Now that is no more."
Madara swallowed, a small, bubbling fear rising in the core of him. "Me?"
"It was Tajima-dono first, to be fair." She blinked, then—rather unexpectedly—held out her hand to offer her pipe to him. At his curious look, she bit out a laugh. "It will rid you of the sickness of drink. Though it will only tire you more."
He dipped his head in thanks and brought it to his mouth to take a small inhale. It tasted of burning mint, cooling his throat and chilling his lungs. "Why my clan, Nekobaa-sama?" Smoke billowed from his mouth.
"Uchiha rage is the stuff of legends," she said with a wave of her hand. "Lord Mizukage proved that to you today, did he not? But now a second son has died—but not the one intended."
That fear stirred wilder in him. "That day..." He furrowed his brows, gnawing idly at the bit of the pipe. "You're saying Izuna was meant to die?" The look on her face spoke for itself, but he could hardly believe something like that could be possible. "How is it you know something like that? Have you proof?"
"A cat has nine lives, boy," she snapped at the same time that she reached out to snatch back her pipe from his hand. "Did you think we spend them all in one place?"
Madara blinked, uncertain—though his head was clearing, as she'd promised. "My apologies, then."
Something in her was softening, though, as she searched him with those inhuman eyes. "It isn't a simple task by any means, but I exist in past, present, and future. Some things are less certain than others, but the most prominent threads of time have never changed. Not until your wife's meddling."
At that his heart seemed to seize in anticipation.
If the Granny Cat noticed, she made no comment, giving a tired shrug instead. "But who am I to question the actions of a Great Sage? The lord of them all, an old toad high in the mountains, assured me it was for the good of the world. Although the Great White Snake is far less convinced."
He frowned, wishing he wasn't so exhausted and wishing his sobriety would return to him faster. "You may well be speaking of gods, Grandmother." The headache teasing behind his eyes was blooming into reality. "I do not follow."
"Where once things were set in stone," she tried through some measure of frustration, "they now are fluid. The dust of your wife's actions must have time to settle—and where once I could offer some protection..." Her back straightened, and her eyes seemed to become distant. "...Now stormclouds have gathered in different places. The second son has died, but this new firstborn will not be lost to his grief. The shadowed man will double his efforts, triple. I can no longer see where next he will strike. The life of my future self has been thrown into limbo."
Madara swallowed down his fear and the urge to swear beneath his breath. Sakura had gone back to his time and warned him of what he could become. But in sparing him a terrible fate, had she unknowingly made things worse for someone else, somewhere yet to be seen? Something akin to an aching sympathy was pounding in tandem with his migraine: she'd said, her voice dripping with concern, that the creature with yellow eyes had once used his empathy against him. What if she'd somehow fallen into a trap of its master's making, believing in her heart she was doing the right thing?
He found comfort in the knowledge that she was, as far as he could understand, alive in her own future—working to ensure its safety.
"She wanted..." He searched for the right words. "She only wanted to help."
"Yes, well," she said after an annoyed click of her tongue, her eyes blinking themselves back into focus, "as far as these 'gods' go, she is young. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, after all." But she must have seen the glare he was trying to hold back, for next she said, "Perhaps I should not speak so unkindly of your honored wife. Things have not yet fallen apart, at least. That counts for something."
He shifted, eager to be free of the topic at hand. "What is to be done of the man made of shadows?"
"Well." Her regard could be felt as much as seen, gaze hard. "It was a long journey made on short notice, but I've made my deals with the first protectors of this world—he cannot enter Sora-ku. If you wish to pursue and question him, you cannot hide behind its walls. It seems your journey must continue, after all."
Offended, he bristled. "I never meant to linger here more than a day or so."
One of her brows raised in suspicion. "It can be easy for men who know nothing of war to lose themselves to a pleasure district. Especially come times of peace, for what else is there to occupy your wandering mind?"
He could not argue that, for all he'd seen today made him certain it was the truth. He thought of the men pulling in the women to kiss them, their thick hands wandering to their breasts hidden beneath their embroidered kimono. Suppressing a shiver, he could imagine clearly the feeling of Sakura's legs wrapped around him, her lips parted and her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.
"My wife," he returned, "is all I can think of." Glancing away, he reached down a hand to gently push the cats from his futon, eager to sleep away the alcohol and wake with a clear head. "I thank you for your time and your wisdom, Nekobaa-sama. Come morning, I will take my leave. Should luck be on my side, I will report any findings back to you."