The Woman from Whirlpool, Part II

Character(s): Mito, Hashirama + Founders, Kushina, Minato

Pairings: Hashirama/Mito, Minato/Kushina

Warnings: Sensuality

Dedication: For ncfan, who left a comment that inspired me to try and see if I could really write Mito. I tried: now it is up to you to decide if I succeeded.

Daybreak is slow in coming. Mito shivers in her shift, her damp hair streaming down her shoulders. Kana sits on her heels behind Mito, quick efficient hands brushing the last of the tangles from Mito's hair, rhythmic strokes sweeping from Mito's head to her ankles in one fluid movement. She collects the fallen and broken strands and, with a twist of her fingers, rolls them up. Kana hitches her yukata up with a hand and steps out towards the garden where Mito's hair will be buried in the ground, nourishing the soil.

Kaori enters the room, carrying a wooden chest, which she sets down at Mito's feet. She places a key on top of it.

"Mito-sama," she says, "Your father had this put in your luggage. He asked me to give it to you."

Mito kneels, hesitant fingers fumbling with the lock. She stops, takes a deep breath, and tries again. The lid is raised open. Inside, the chest is filled to the brim with paper cranes, a note folded into the corner. Mito lifts it out.

A thousand cranes for the thousand years of happiness I wish you, my daughter.

The kanji is shaky and the ink seems to have blotted and run. Mito feels her eyes well up.

"Should I have them hung in the pavilion?" Kaori asks when Mito makes no move to speak. Mito nods, brushing ineffectually at the tears streaming down her cheeks. Kaori wipes Mito's face.

"Mito-sama," she says gently, "it is fine. Everything is going to be fine."

"I wish he was here," Mito whispers, "I wish – "

"We can't always get what we want, Mito-sama," Kaori brushes Mito's hair away from her face, "but if we cannot make do with what we have happiness will always be elusive. Now don't cry so much; your eyes will swell." She lowers the lid over the cranes and carries the chest out.

It is a little before noon when Mito is finally deemed ready. The robes of her juunihitoe (twelve, as Kaori had promised) whisper over the floor as she walks, her hands hidden within swathes of silk. Her hair has been pulled back and away from her face, a set of gold combs (an heirloom from Hashirama's mother) holding it in place – her face itself is unrecognizable, white from her hairline to where her throat disappears into her layered collar, her lips painted bright red, her eyelashes thick and dark.

She can hear the sound of drums and the hum of a crowd outside the house; the bridal procession is lined up outside the gates of the compound. Azumi adjusts the outer layer of the juunihitoe (pure white) so that is lies flat; Yuuka brushes a stubborn red lock of hair off Mito's forehead and Hitomi brings out the tsunokakushi, setting it over Mito's elaborate hairdo. The combs peek out over the top.

Mito's ladies take their positions behind her; an attendant slides the door open and Mito walks into the dazzling sunlight.

The only part of the ceremony Mito will remember afterward is the san-san-kudo and how Hashirama's eyes darken as he hands her the sakazuki one by one – heaven, earth, humankind – and beneath the white, Mito flushes a dull red. His fingers whisper at the back of her neck as they turn around – the thud-thud of the drums picks up and a cheer rises up from the swarm of onlookers gathered around the steps to the shrine.

In front of the crowd, Mito takes off the tsunokakushi and slides on the uchikake, the cheers growing louder as the gold thread, painstakingly embroidered onto the red, catches the sun.

Hashirama slips his left hand into Mito's right; he raises the other to the crowd, the sleeve of his haori sliding down towards his elbow revealing a lean, brown forearm. His chin is lifted, head thrown back, dark hair glistening, and for a moment Mito cannot really believe she is now married to this man.

There is a large pavilion set up in the village square, several wooden steps leading up to a pair of zabuton set in front of a pair of shoji screens featuring delicate bouquets of sakura. Hashirama keeps a cautionary hand behind Mito's back as she arranges the juunihitoe so she can sit comfortably.

In front of them, the village square has been transformed into an impromptu (or it appears impromptu, but Mito knows a great deal of thought went into the making of it) fair, various stalls and stands all fluttering with richly colored banners have been erected. Mito can now see the band that has been playing; mats have been set with low tables perched over them as seating areas; as Mito watches ushers (who are most likely shinobi enduring yet another exacting mission) seat guests and others carry trays back and forth from the stalls.

"How much – " Mito begins, but Hashirama is standing up to greet the daimyo and his wife, who are being shown into the pavilion by Tobirama Senju, who is almost unrecognizable because of the smile stretching his face. He seats the daimyo and then leaves the pavilion, coming back a moment later with a sour-looking man Mito is told is the Fire Country's prime minister.

Mito receives courteous nods and polite greetings with equal poise, smiling at all the right places and asking all the right questions, keeping her hands folded in her lap over the inkblot she had been horrified to discover staining her uchikake.

Hashirama, she sees, is in his element; he has the daimyo laughing within moments – even the standoffish minister cracks a smile.

The various clan heads and their wives arrive, Yamanaka Azumi, Mito is not displeased to discover, managing to outshine her in her silver-blue kurotomesode. Hitomi shakes her head at the blot on Mito's uchikake before folding the hem so that Mito can move her hands without embarrassing herself.

Servers bring platters into and out of the pavilion; the air is thick with the smell of smoke and spices, and after the first four dishes Mito loses count. The back of her neck is sticky with sweat despite the various fan-bearing ninja stationed around the tent.

About an hour in, another guest is lead to the pavilion – Madara Uchiha, too, has managed to conjure up a smile for the occasion, one that does not falter even when Hashirama tells him he is almost unforgivably late (granted, the laughter in Hashirama's voice clearly states that he is joking, and any other reaction would have been foolish). He leans in to wrap his arms around Hashirama in a (congratulatory) embrace; Mito sees him whisper something she cannot make out into Hashirama's ear whereupon Hashirama smiles a little and shakes his head. Madara presses Hashirama's shoulder and then he takes a seat on the Akimichi family head's other side.

Yuuka, dressed in a cream-and-pale-pink kimono, bows to Mito, her eyes bright. "Congratulations, Mito-san," she says softly, "I wish you the best of happiness." She squeezes Mito's hand and sits down.

By late afternoon, the square is cleared to make way for the kabuki actors, wearing their extravagant costumes and vivid face paint.

Later, Mito will not remember the details of the play – just that, half way through, when the lovers announce that they will rather die and be reunited in death than live and be separated in life, Hashirama turns his head sharply towards where Madara is seated, eyes fixed on the play.

The weight of Hashirama's look is unnerving; Mito sees Madara flinch (almost imperceptibly), but although Hashirama holds the gaze for several moments Madara does not turn to meet it.

With sunset the lanterns are lit, bright licks of flame casting red and gold pools of light over the ground; the shadows grow long and deep and with the end of the play the chirp of cicadas rises over the square.

Kaori helps Mito stand and leads her towards a room in the back of the pavilion where Kana Hyuuga spreads out Mito's final outfit for the day – a deep black furisode with an assortment of flowers patterned over the silk. Together, Kana and Kaori pin and tuck the kimono into place; Kaori wraps the obi; towards the back, she secures it with an elaborate clamshell knot.

With a wet cloth, Kaori wipes Mito's face free of the make-up; this is the last time she will wear a furisode – the last time she will be considered a girl instead of a woman – her final act as Mito Uzumaki and her first as Mito Senju.

(In an ironic twist on events, she will be remembered as Mito Uzumaki. She will be remembered as her own person.)

The crowd roars as she steps out again. Some of the feeling has come back into her legs and feet and Mito finds that smiling and waving is easier when one's extremities do not feel as though they are about to fall off. As she takes her seat again, folding her legs to the side on the zabuton so that they do not fall asleep again she finds Hashirama looking at her, eyes soft.

"Much better," he says, lifting a hand and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, "I could hardly see you behind all of that paint. Now you look like the Mito I've come to love."

Mito's breath catches in her throat.

"Hokage-sama, hime-sama," Tobirama Senju's voice sounds from the middle of the square. He is standing in front of a small group of men dressed in dark kosode and hakama belted with dark red obi. Folded across their backs are giant red flags; a little behind them, a set of taiko drums rest on their stands – lantern-bearers converging onto the group reveal the drummers poised behind their instruments and an empty stool sits by them.

Tobirama bows, the action revealing the elaborate shamisen strapped to his back. "Daimyo-sama," he says, "on this most auspicious day of my brother's wedding," applause from the crowd, "our clansmen and I would be privileged to perform in honor of the occasion." He stands with his hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, and Mito realizes he is asking Hashirama's permission to begin.

"Mito-san, you are going to enjoy this," Hitomi whispers into her ear.

Hashirama nods. "You may start," he says solemnly; seated by his side Mito can see the gleam in his eye; the ghost of a smile flickers across Tobirama's face and he retreats to the stool, settling on it and resting his shamisen on his knee, the pick held loosely in his right hand.

The first, slow, mournful notes float into the air, everything motionless except for the pick being pulled across the shamisen's strings – and then the drums start up, and the flag bearers leap forward, a whirl of red and black to the throbbing of the taiko and the easy, liquid melody of the shamisen, slow at first and then faster – picking up speed till the dancers are a blur of color set to a song.

Mito cannot put a name to the movements – they are like a dance, but not a dance, a fight, but not a fight – powerful, controlled actions speeding up and slowing down with the music; she can feel her heart pulsating in time with the shamisen, the pounding of the taiko resounding in her very core, harsh shouts from the drummers punctuating the air.

Hashirama taps his fingers on his knee in time to the music; he turns his head to Mito his smile widening at the look on her face.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"What is this?" Mito says, and he laughs a little at the awe in her voice.

"Oh," he says, "this is what we Senju are famous for." His cheek dimples when he smiles, the flickering lantern-light throwing the depression into sharp relief.

"Really," Mito says, feigning consideration, tapping her chin with her finger, "I thought you were known for your incredible battle prowess."

Hashirama places a hand on her back, setting his face next to hers, pointing out the individual dancers' movements.

"The flag," he says, "symbolizes a sword – we used to use real swords but the flags are more eye-catching – " he grins in response to Mito swatting his shoulder with the back of her hand, not taking his eyes off the dancers, "and the movements are kata – you'll see it if you follow them closely – exaggerated for the sake of performance. That's not to say they can't still kill a man, though." His eyes crinkle.

The music comes to a halt, the last, quivering note reverberating in the air, and the performers, landing on their heels, bring their feet and hands together and bow as one.

When the applause has died down the daimyo gets to his feet, a little stiffly, and Mito bites back a smile.

"That was an excellent performance," he proclaims. He raises his cup, turning towards Hashirama and Mito. Shinobi move through the crowds, replenishing people's cups. "A toast," the daimyo says once everyone has received a refill, "to a prosperous marriage and a successful village!"

Mito sets her hand in the crook of Hashirama's arm, stepping into the norimono. She is so tired she does not protest sitting in a palanquin for a distance that can be covered in mere minutes – but there's a growing knot of apprehension under her ribs that is keeping her from relaxing.

Her husband – the word is strange on Mito's tongue – stands by the door, his hand on the frame, conducting an argument in whispers with his brother, who stands, mulishly, with his arms crossed, in the middle of the road.

The square is mostly empty now, with only a few stragglers still present, and it is quiet – so if she strains her ears she can hear what they are saying, but she finds she doesn't really care. Mito concentrates on breathing, tucking her hands into her sleeves. Since the sun set it has gotten progressively cooler, and now, the air is chilly.

A moment later Tobirama rolls his eyes and apparently concedes, because he pulls his haori on and moves toward the front of the norimono. He walks just like Hashirama, Mito notices, bent slightly forward with his head tucked in, looking at his feet, his hands tucked into his pockets.

Hashirama turns towards the palanquin, pulling himself inside. His eyes are heavy with weariness and Mito feels a pang of anxiety.

"I'm sorry for making you wait," Hashirama says to her, leaning back against the seat. He looks after his brother's retreating figure. "He is going to be the death of me," he remarks, closing his eyes. The palanquin bearers secure the door and move to lift the norimono off the ground.

"He annoys you?" Mito asks for the sake of making conversation.

"Oh, Kami doesn't he," despite the words, there is nothing but fondness in Hashirama's voice, "but I can never stay angry with him; he's my brother and I love him and we're shinobi so anyone we love is another way to get to us – and that is terrifying, Mito – absolutely terrifying."

It goes like this: the house is quiet when Mito precedes Hashirama over the threshold, the corridor dim, only a single candle burning in the hall. Hashirama whispers a prayer and lights more candles, bathing the narrow walkway in flickering light.

Hashirama pads barefoot down the hall, sliding off his haori and loosening the collar of his kosode as he walks. Mito, carefully lifting her skirts, follows him down to the last room in the hall. He makes a ceremony of sliding the door open; despite her exhaustion she laughs at his description of the room as Ryuu-sama's cave out of which she, the fair maiden, will never be allowed to leave and his warning that it isn't really much so please don't be disappointed.

There are candles already lit within the room and he watches as she steps inside, a slightly anxious expression on his face.

There is a little alcove to her left; a low table with paper and ink set on the surface – a scroll bearing the inscription if the current sinks, it will rise again has been hung in the alcove above the table; walking closer Mito can see incense sticks beneath the inscription.

To her right, the futon has been spread over a wooden dais, elevating it from the ground; the wood is dark and polished, matching the edging on the tatami mats underfoot, and, in the center of the room there is a little pond set into the floor, lily pads and blossoms drifting across the surface – the shoji panels making up the long wall towards the back of the house has been slid open – the trailing branches of a willow sway back and forth in the breeze – the first tree of a glen-like forest, narrow-close-growing trunks rising upward, forming a canopy over the moss-carpeted ground.

"Well, Ryuu-sama," Mito clears her throat, "what if I escape through the back door?"

She feels him come up behind her; he sets his chin on her shoulder and wraps his arms around her. It is, Mito realizes, the first time he has really touched her – but somehow, the feeling of his chest against her back is the most natural sensation in the world.

"Do you like it?" His breath is warm, ghosting over the shell of her ear.

"It's a room for a queen," Mito says.

"You are a queen," Hashirama informs her, and he turns his hand palm up, and as she watches fine wooden tendrils erupt from the tips of his fingers, intertwining, vine-like and curving inward into a coronet, tiny leaves sprouting from the stems and as she watches flowers unfurl themselves from within the leaves, so delicate she can see the veins running through the petals.

It is her first time seeing the mokuton in action – as Hashirama breaks the jutsu, Mito thinks second-hand accounts cannot do it justice – the sensation of it, the humming of pure-life energy slowly increasing and then flaring suddenly (Mito is reminded of lightning crackling through the air). The broken skin over the pads of his fingers knits itself together and Hashirama leads Mito over to the futon and sits her down, standing in front of her so that his knees are against hers.

He removes the combs from her hair, running his fingers through and disentangling the strands from the updo. His fingers are cool against her scalp; Mito feels a shiver traverse the length of her spine. Hashirama parts her hair to the side sets the coronet carefully on her head, placing it so that it does not fall.

He kneels on the tatami mat, looking up at her; Mito reaches out and places her hands on either side of his face, stunned at her own brazenness – he smiles, covering her hand with his own and Mito tilts her chin downward, her hair falling forward as she bends forward –

"Hokage-sama!" There is a crash in the hall and the sound of feet pounding against the wooden floor; Hashirama mutters something under his breath. "Hokage-sama – " the door skids open, slamming against the frame, and Mito winces as the paper tears, "I apologize for the disturbance," the words come tumbling out of the shinobi's mouth, "but you are needed at the daimyo's rooms at once; there has been an assassination attempt on his life – "

Mito watches Hashirama stand; his shoulders straighten and his face sets, "do you know who did it?" he asks, his (gentle, quiet) voice stony, and the ninja nods, "a shinobi from Water," he says, "the watchmen were able to apprehend him but he had managed to enter the inner chamber before – "

Mito stands, retrieves Hashirama's haori and drapes it over his shoulders; he starts, glances down at her, and then his face relaxes and he curls his arms into the sleeves.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, and presses a kiss to her hair – and then he is gone.

Mito picks up the pieces of the shattered shoji frame and wonders if there is a way to put them together.

He is back before dawn, slipping quietly into the room. Mito lies motionlessly, on her side, her face turned away from the door. She can hear the tatami mats rustle as he crosses the room; the mattress dips as he sets his knee on the futon.

"Mito?" he whispers. She doesn't move, and he sighs. "Mito – I know you're awake. Don't ignore me, please." He sets a hand on her shoulder and Mito sits up, looking stonily at him. "What," she begins, "do you – "

He cuts her off, closing the distance between them and pressing his mouth to hers, his hands on either side of her face. He smells of sweat and conifers and he tastes like salt.

A month after the wedding Mito and Kaori share a tearful farewell; Kaori sets out to leave for Whirlpool and her own husband, carrying Mito's missive to her father, and Mito says goodbye to the last of her childhood.

The sun hung low over the horizon, diffused red through the clouds scattered over the sky.

"It's getting late," Mito said, her voice throaty with overuse, "you should probably get going."

Kushina shot to her feet. "Oh," she exclaimed, "Sakumo-sensei will be wondering where I am! But – Mito-sama," she lowered her voice, tilting her head, "I would like to know the rest of the story – could I come back tomorrow after training?"

Mito looked at her a long moment. "Aren't you tired of this old woman's rambling?"

Kushina emphatically shook her head. "Of course not!" she said, "that's not even possible!"

Mito smiled (it was a sad smile, now that Kushina thinks about it), her eyes bright, and nodded.

Kushina, rushing to the door in the sort of mad frenzy she was so (in)famous for, paused just inside the door, turning around and bowing deeply. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mito-sama!" She left the room, drawing the door closed behind her, and set off for home.

(She remembers Sakumo-sensei hadn't been worried at all; quite the opposite, and Kushina realizes now that he had been expecting her to be late. He may have even hoped the talk would do her good.)

After being dismissed for the day Kushina had made a beeline for Mito's rooms; she found the older woman in much the same way as yesterday – paper cluttering her immediate vicinity, brush in hand – Kushina giggled upon noticing the black smear across Mito's cheekbone (the scrolls she was working on now sit on Kushina's desk – a lifetime's worth of research on Whirlpool fuinjutsu – and while Kushina, in this at least, is a dedicated scholar, she knows it will take another lifetime to learn it all).

"I have ink on my face, don't I?" Mito remarked, looking up, beaming, "how are you today?"

"I'm alright!" Kushina told her, "Sakumo-sensei let us off early. Mito-sama – " Kushina perched herself on Mito's bed, her back against the headboard, "I've been wondering – how did you end up with the Kyuubi sealed inside you? Was it the same way I will? So who was the jinchuuriki before you?"

Mito gave her a wry smile, "if I told you that now," she said, "there wouldn't be a point to the story, now, would there? – unless you really want to know."

"Ah, no – I'd rather hear it in order," Kushina propped her chin on her knees. "What happened next?"

Mito put her brush down. "I was invited to join the council," she said, "I accepted. – I taught basic fuinjutsu to Senju clan children – this was before the Academy was established by the Nidaime – "

"I think it might be a good idea to establish an archives library," Mito says, folding her hands in her lap, "and to register any new jutsu that are developed, for future reference." She is seated on Hashirama's left, the rest of the council (composed of the clan heads) in a circle around them.

"Don't you think," Sasuke Sarutobi says, "having information like that stored in writing may lead to its misuse?"

Hashirama opens his mouth – Mito lays a surreptitious hand on his knee, "of course," she says, "it certainly is possible – however, at the same time, I believe it may be helpful to have a record system for the village's shinobi and its jutsu – to keep track of things and keep them organized. Like any other tool, Sarutobi-san, information is susceptible to abuse but it is only as dangerous as the person who wields it – and while it is naïve to hope the village never produces a person like that it is a goal to work towards, isn't it?"

Sarutboi nods his head in acknowledgement. "You make a fair point, Hime-sama."

Hashirama clears his throat. "Are there any other objections?"

There are none; Hashirama presents Mito with a scroll and a brush, "My handwriting is awful," he states flippantly, completely unashamed, "so I'm afraid you'll have to be the one to write things down, wife-of-mine."

The Nara clan head coughs; Mito sees several amused smiles and refrains from rolling her eyes. She accepts the items and sets brush to paper.

"Well," she tells him, "I'll do it this time, but it looks like we're going to have to work on your handwriting, aren't we?"

"Keep your elbow off the table," Mito instructs, "and don't hold the brush like that!"

The fifteen-odd children seated around the room giggle to see the Shodai being scolded. He winks at them over Mito's head; unfortunately, she catches the expression, and her eyes narrow as she looks down at him.

"You're mocking me, aren't you," she says flatly.

"I would never," he vows, an utterly guileless look on his face, "that would be unforgivable of me."

Mito is not fooled. "Hashirama," she says dangerously, standing over him with her arms crossed, "the game is up."

Meekly, he picks up the brush, dips the tip in the ink and traces out two perfect characters onto the paper.

"Next time you want me to do something," Mito informs him, "just ask, please."

(Of course, he doesn't learn. Mito finds she doesn't mind.)

And so a year passes by.

Kagami Uchiha is born late one night in early May. Mito goes to see Yuuka the next morning, carrying a covered platter of kashiwamochi. The baby is tiny (despite being full-term) and his face is all Yuuka – but his hair, already unruly, is his father's.

Yuuka is pale but composed, her dark hair scattered over her pillow, and Mito sits and talks to her for a few moments: how are you, how is everything? and Yuuka beams and answers, her voice quiet but strong, that she is fine, and so is everything else –

And later, Mito will remember her friend in as she is in this moment, because it is the last time she ever sees Yuuka Uchiha smile.

On the surface, after Madara Uchiha defects, Hidden Leaf hardly changes at all, continuing to prosper and advance steadily.

But Mito's husband becomes quieter and seems to withdraw into himself; while his public persona remains mostly the same, he is weary and haggard when he comes home in the evenings; there are shadows under his eyes that were never there before and Mito, brushing the tangles from his hair one evening, is horrified to discover three, pure white strands just behind his ear.

"Don't pull them out," he tells her, voicing the old superstition that if a gray hair is plucked two more will grow back in its place – and so Mito lets them be, wondering if he means to keep them as a memento of the friend he has lost.

She goes to see Yuuka, who, considered a widow by the clan, is now residing with her parents. Her eyes fill with tears in response to Mito's tentative smile – her once full cheeks are hollow, her eyes swollen – and when Mito extends her arms Yuuka comes without complaint, setting her dark proud head against Mito's shoulder and wrapping her arms around Mito's waist.

She cries wracking, heart-wrenching sobs. Mito holds her till she is spent.

Slowly, wounds begin to scab – and then Madara attacks the village and Hashirama goes out to meet him – and the injuries are ripped open, fresh lacerations appearing among the old -

-and a pattern emerges: where Madara strikes at Leaf and the Hokage defeats him and returns – twice, thrice, four times – each time Hashirama coming back later and fighting harder and looking wearier than the last.

"Why don't you just kill him?" Mito chokes, her throat raw as she sponges the blood from his body, "just kill him and be done with it!"

He doesn't look at her, staring straight ahead, his eyes blank. "I can't," he whispers. "I can't do that."

"And I can't keep doing this!" Mito cries, "I can't keep waiting here for you to get back, not knowing if you're going to come back at all – if you're going to die and I'm going to – " she breaks off, her breath coming in gasps, trying to keep the anger back in her throat.

Hashirama leans against her. "I'm sorry," he says softly, turning his head into the crook of her neck. His lashes are damp; Mito feels him shudder. She sets her cheek against his head, winding her arms around his shoulders and supporting him as best as she can. "I'm sorry," Hashirama whispers again, and Mito lets the tears fall.

The rumor reaches the Leaf before Madara does: that the former Uchiha clan head has tamed the Kyuubi, the most fearsome of all the legendary tailed beasts, and that the next time he attacks he will have strength that can be rivaled by no-one.

Mito watches Hashirama's face drain of color; his hands clench into fists till the skin across his palms splits and he bites his lip so hard he draws blood – and she feels a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest, because Hashirama's anger is not directed toward Madara; he is punishing himself.

A passing comment from Tobirama (who is also beginning to resemble the living dead) is what makes Mito resolve to find out more about sealing chakra.

It comes faster she thought it would.

She waits till Hashirama leads Madara away from the village and then follows, dressed in (Hashirama's) kosode and trousers and keeping her distance, a precautionary defensive seal activated to ward off the residual shock from the immense amount of chakra being released.

Mito is perched on a giant oak's branch, sending chakra to the soles of her feet to ensure she does not lose her footing, carefully spreading out her materials – wolf-hair brush, black ink infused with herbs, and her scroll, with the preliminary seal already painted on, a single brush stroke away from activation, which Mito, dipping the brush into the ink, adds with a deft flick of her fingers.

She unties the sash from around her waist, lifting the kosode and securing it beneath her breasts, baring her abdomen. She concentrates on the Kyuubi's chakra, fixing the tendrils in her mind and concentrating chakra in her fingertips. The characters leap off the page and to her hands, chakra focused so intently it is visible. She takes a deep breath.

Keep calm, she tells herself – you have to focus, or you'll miss it. The more pragmatic (cowardly) part of Mito tells her that she is being irrational; how can she hope to seal a tailed beast – especially one as powerful as Kurama – within herself in a moment between a battle such as this? –where every time Madara and Hashirama clash, a new rift is created in the landscape, and lightning arcs through the sky? When Kurama is encased within the Susanoo, and apart from herself, no-one knows she is there?

Mito sternly tells herself to shut up. She can do this: in theory, it is perfectly reasonable to assume that, should an opportunity arise – a lull in the fight, for example – she can use the image of Kurama's chakra she has imprinted into the seal on her hands to call the beast towards herself.

A wave of chakra flattens her against the tree-trunk – Hashirama's, she registers dimly, and she sees the Shinsu Senju – the Buddha with a thousand hands – rise over the forest. Mito's mouth curls into a smile despite herself, and she reminds herself that she has a job to do, too, and it is not worth risking death to watch Hashirama use senjutsu no matter how much she may want to – at least not before she has sealed Kurama (besides, she is looking forward to seeing the look on his face) –

- and a moment later, Mito's opportunity arrives when, with a massive crash, the Susanoo dissipates, the Chojo Kebetsu smashes into Kurama's face, sending the Kyuubi soaring into Mito. Mito leaps from the tree to avoid a collision, landing gracefully on her feet, just in time to see Kurama crash headlong into the oak.

She retreats several steps while the fox disentangles itself from the wreckage, hissing and spitting, smoke rising from its ears. Mito tugs experimentally at its chakra; Kurama turns in her direction so quickly Mito nearly falls over, struggling to maintain the chakra flow to the seal.

The Kyuubi roars, the impact of its voice alone sending more trees toppling to the ground, creating a space several meters wide. Mito's hair comes undone; she is thrown backward into a tree so hard a crack echoes across the (impromptu) clearing - Kurama pulls free of her control and the seal inactivates, the symbol disappearing off the palm of her hands.

Mito sits up, stifling a groan. She curses under her breath. To reactivate the seal she needs time to concentrate her chakra; she has lost the element of surprise, so to speak, and to start over she'll have to contain Kurama and render it immobile.

Mito takes a deep breath and straightens, ignoring the dull ache spreading across her lower back. She extends her arms, chakra chains erupting from her wrists, wrapping themselves around Kurama's body. The Kyuubi resists, dragging Mito several yards across the ground. Mito summons more chakra, strengthening the chains, biting her lip against the strain.

The chains shorten, forcing Kurama to its knees, and Mito anchors the shackles to the ground, effectively pinning the Kyuubi down. She allows herself a little smile as the fox thrashes ineffectually; there is no weakness in the defense. Mito approaches Kurama, condensing chakra in her hands again; slowly, the seal begins to reappear –

- and Kurama, in a last ditch effort, opens its mouth, a dark sphere of solid chakra rapidly appearing in the air. Mito's eyes widen; she quickly calls up another chain, intending to bind the Kyuubi's mouth closed, but it is too late – Kurama releases the orb and it flares outward, moving towards Mito with the speed of a shooting star.

Mito prays the chains will hold and throws herself sideway, weaving a hand sign as she does so. She misses the brunt of the impact, but it still knocks the breath out of her body and Mito feels several ribs crack. She hits the ground, hard, skidding to a stop on her side.

Her breath coming in hoarse rasps, Mito lifts herself to her hands and knees. Kurama looks straight at her, teeth bared in a snarl.

"What makes you think you can take me on and win, whelp?" Kurama's voice pounds against Mito's ears; she struggles to her feet, pressing a hand against her ribcage.

"Because," Mito says, more confidently than she feels, "I never lose."

Behind Kurama, Mito's shadow clone raises its hands, emblazoned with the seal, and places them on the fox, taking a firm hold on the Kyuubi's chakra. Kurama growls – but pinned to the ground as it is, it cannot combat the removal of its chakra, and Mito, rising unsteadily to her feet, disperses the shadow clone; before dissolving, the clone transfers the chakra link.

Mito strengthens the connection and watches, impassively, as the great beast is slowly pulled towards the seal emerging on Mito's abdomen, fighting every step of the way, its physical form unraveling till it is nothing but curls of chakra coiling towards Mito's body.

Mito falls to her knees once the sealing is complete. She is heady with the sudden inflow of foreign chakra, her chest heaving – and every breath is agony. Mito coughs. Her fingers, when they come away from her mouth, are slick with blood.

There are raindrops pattering against her skin – and someone is shaking her shoulder, calling her name loudly, insistently. Mito struggles to place a name to the – vaguely familiar – voice. Dimly, she recalls a lean, tall man with dark hair down to his waist – ah, Mito thinks. She knows this man – she loves this man – Hashirama – Hashirama Senju – and he sounds as though he is in pain, Mito grasps, and she feels worry twist her middle.

She comes to fully, lying on her back in the middle of the Kyuubi-made clearing, rainwater trickling into her mouth and soaking her hair. Her eyes focus on Hashirama's face, inches away from her own, his eyes wide and dazed, his mouth twisted unnaturally. He is missing a sleeve, Mito notices, dried blood speckling his arm, but otherwise he seems miraculously unharmed. Laughter bubbles up in Mito's throat; it comes out sounding like a gurgle. "Hashirama," Mito says hoarsely, "you're alright."

Hashirama's eyes harden, dark with fury, "what did you think you were doing?" he hisses at her, and behind the anger there is concern, and hurt – Mito hesitantly lifts a hand, brushing the back of her fingers against his face.

"It had to be sealed," she says as he covers her hand with his own, squeezing her knuckles, "and this way it can help you – help the village – " she coughs, and the alarm in Hashirama's eyes grows more pronounced. He places an analytical hand on her chest, his brow furrowing.

"You have four broken ribs," he informs her crisply, "and one of them has penetrated your right lung. – Mito, you idiot – you could have died! Why didn't you tell me what you were – "

Mito presses a finger against his lips. "You would have stopped me," she says, "and I had to do this."

Hashirama lowers her hand, avoiding her gaze. "I don't have enough chakra to heal you completely," he tells her, "but I should be able to patch you up enough so that you don't die on me till we get home."

He works quietly, efficiently; within moments Mito can sit up. She is aware that she is filthy and looks the part, her hair caked in mud and grime, but there is something about the way he is turned away from her that makes her hurt in a way that has nothing to do with her cracked ribs.

She lays a hesitant hand on his back; she feels him stiffen under her touch. "Hashirama?" she murmurs, her eyes suddenly stinging.

He doesn't answer, gathering up her fallen equipment – ink, brush, scrolls.

"Hashirama?" Mito repeats, louder.

"What?" his voice is flat, his back still to her. Mito removes her hand.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. In the back of her mind, she registers this is the first time she has apologized to him, instead of the other way around.

"Sorry for what, Mito?" Hashirama turns to look at her. "For not telling me about your suicide mission? For planning the suicide mission in the first place? For going through with it? You almost died, Mito – "

"But I didn't," Mito interrupts him, and Hashirama gives her an incredulous look.

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't die," Mito says, more strongly, "and I'm not the only one who goes on suicide missions, you know, Hashirama, so that isn't a fair point, and if you knew about it you wouldn't have let me try, so that isn't a fair point either."

Hashirama studies her for a moment, his eyes glittering. "I almost lost you, too," he whispers, and the too jolts Mito to her very core; he had done it, then, the one thing he couldn't bring himself to do and now here he is, sitting in front of her, soaked to the skin and wounded and hurt but alive, almost painfully so – and Mito leans forward and brushes the hair out of his face and the tears from his eyes.

He reaches for her then, pulling her against him, mindful of her injuries. He lowers his face into her hair.

Overhead, the rain stops, sunrays breaking through the clouds, and as the mist clears, a rainbow arcs through the sky.

Sometimes, during the night, Mito wakes with a start and reaches out, blindly, to her side; her fingers meet Hashirama's back and she relaxes, secure in the knowledge that he is still here and they are still safe.

It is one of the many things being Kurama's jinchuuriki has changed about her – but they are little things – minor things, and mostly, Mito can truthfully state that sealing Kurama into herself hasn't affected her much at all – she is still Mito, the woman from Whirlpool, fuinjutsu specialist, Hidden Leaf's First Lady, and a girl who adores her husband.

But then, Hashirama Senju is easy to love.

And that, Mito thinks, makes all the difference.

"That was a beautiful story," Kushina said, her eyes shining, "when I grow up, Mito-sama, I want a love story just like yours."

Mito tweaked her nose, smiling. "I wish you better one," she said, as Kushina slid off the bed and stretched her arms over her head. "A thousand years of happiness to you, my daughter," Mito said, and Kushina, bending over to lift her bag from where she had left it, flashed Mito a smile.

"I'll come see you tomorrow, Mito-sama," Kushina promised, and she did.

Tomorrow and every day after, Kushina smiles wistfully, fingering the string of cranes draped over her dresser, till the end.

(Hashirama Senju died, peacefully, in his sleep, towards the end of the Nidaime Hokage's rule. His wife followed ten years later.)

Kushina draws the blinds and walks over to the bed, where Minato has fallen asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the bedstead, his book still open over his knees. Kushina shakes her head, picks up the book, setting it on the bedside table, and adjusts his pillow so that he does not wake up with a crick in his neck. She pulls the covers over him; Minato shifts and mumbles something; Kushina makes out her name.

Kushina smiles, the memory replaying, unbidden – her twelve-year-old self, toothy grin plastered on her face - when I grow up, Mito-sama, I want a love story just like yours, and Mito's answering smile, I wish you a better one.

She sets her head against her pillow, reaching out to turn off the light.

Kushina sighs.

It was remarkable, really, how her hair had still been red.

A/N: A link to a glossary of terms can be found on my profile page. Thank you for reading.