Author's note: some parts of this piece were published as separate stories ("Heartwood" and "Bumps and Stones").

.

.

The bronze boy stands kneedeep in centuries,
and never grieves,
remembering a thousand autumns,
with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips
and his eyes gone blind with leaves.

— "Gold Mouths Cry," Sylvia Plath

.

Earth

It doesn't rain the day her mother dies. One moment, she is back at camp, weaving bamboo mats and tossing leather skins on the makeshift clothesline; the next, she's found twisted at odd angles at the mouth of a river, eyes still open and her temple covered with matted dry blood.

Hashi can almost imagine it: her mother's body, half submerged in the water and slumped against a smooth boulder, the river currents crashing against her as if her body were just another rock. By the time the others had found her, balancing precariously at the bank of the river, seaweed had gathered and settled against her mother's body, rising as swirls of blood bubbled at her throat.

xXx

.

They hold the funeral at sunset. In the old days, the Senju with the Mokuton would be the ones to bury the dead. At dusk, they would circle the body and call from the earth twisted columns of timber and wood, encasing the body into a funeral pyre.

But no one has had the Mokuton in a thousand years, and so her mother's body is floated down the river, fingers pressed against her chest in a position of prayer; fire would be dangerous, as it would alert the enemy to their current position. Silently, Senju toss lotus petals onto the river as the small boat is carried off by the current, rocking steadily by the water as it rides into the crashing waves.

xXx

.

No one tells her how her mother died.

It is nighttime, and her father is conducting a meeting at the center of the camp. Furtively, Hashi kneels in front of an open flap of the tent, the orange glint of the fire inside flickering as her father unrolls a map.

"Hashi," Tobirama says, and Hashi scowls as her brother frowns at her, concerned. "We're not supposed to be here," Tobirama says.

"So?" Hashi says, and she peers into the tent, listening. "Don't you want to know how mother died?"

"The Uchiha killed her," Tobirama says, but Hashi waves her hand and listens.

They aren't subtle enough: soon enough Senju guards have descended around the tent, and Hashi and Tobirama are caught shamefaced and hiding behind the pitch post by the field. "What shall we do with them?" one of the sentries says.

Their father rises. "Children," he says. "A word."

xXx

.

When Hashi was born, her father had prayed for a boy. They say when the doctors presented her, swaddled in linens and hands clenched into tiny fists, her father had asked if they would take her away.

Hashi runs. She leaps and tumbles and laughs, face split into a wide grin. Senju boys play with sticks and toy swords and Hashi fights with the best of them.

"Hashi, what are you doing?" one of the elder women says, and Hashi just turns and looks up at her innocently, despite the dirt smudged on her face and the grass stains on her skirt.

"I was gathering flowers," Hashi lies, but the elder woman rolls her eyes and yanks Hashi by the arm.

Her mother loves her. Though Hashi may be a disappointment, a source of embarrassment to her father and of hushed whispers among the Senju elite, Hashi is loved and cuddled and encouraged. She snuggles up against her mother's side and begs her to tell her stories again, chubby hands playing with the edge of her mother's skirt.

"You cannot leave the camp," her father says. His face is pinched. Beside her, Tobirama holds back tears.

xXx

.

The women of the Senju stay at camp, tending the horses and sewing together the thick leather smocks that line the hard plates of armor. At camp, there is a quiet safety in the large line of tents that dot the grassy plains of the borders of the Fire Country, where the women can tend the children unguarded. "They would have to face our men," the elder explains, and Hashi looks out into the mountains at the curved line of men marching away from them, the white of the Senju banners flapping against a bright blue sky.

"Obasama," Hashi says, and the elder looks at her. "What does it mean to be raped?"

Behind her, women beating a sheet of leather turns to stare at her, but Hashi persists, questioning. "They said that's what happened to my mother," Hashi says, and the elder sits beside her, frowning.

"Where did you hear, child?" the elder asks, gently.

"I heard my father talking about it at the council," Hashi says. "He said the Uchiha did it."

The elder pauses. There is a small breeze, tendrils of gray hair move against the deep lines of the elder's face.

"It is the reason why we must not join the battle," she says. "It is the reason why the men must keep us safe."

"I don't understand," Hashi says, and the woman kneels close to her, touching her hand on Hashi's knees.

"Your mother never told you, has she?" the old woman says.

"Told me what?" Hashi says, and the old woman smiles, kindly.

"Child," the woman says. "Have you had your time?"

"My what?" Hashi says.

"Have you bled?" the woman says. Hashi frowns and tilts her head.

"I see," the woman says, and she tells her.

xXx

.

Her younger brother is next in line to lead the clan. Unlike her, Tobirama is imbued with that clear-eyed seriousness that befits a future leader, rarely smiling or laughing, choosing to train instead of skipping stones by the river.

"It's because Itama died, isn't it?" Hashi said once, a few months after their youngest brother's death, and Tobirama just gave her that cross, stony look he always did whenever she said something he didn't agree with. Though she is a full year older than him, Tobirama carries himself like the protective older brother, watching out for her and irritating her with his cautiousness. It worsens after their mother's death, and soon Hashi catches Tobirama waking before dawn to train.

"I'm stronger than you, you know that, right?" Hashi says. She's bored and she's kicking her feet into the river as Tobirama goes over his katas, swinging his katana with a wooden precision that makes Hashi yawn and roll her eyes. "Why do you even bother, when you know that I can beat you?"

The sword lands at her feet with a soft thud, and Hashi looks up at him, confused.

"Brother?"

"Pick it up," Tobirama says, and Hashi's face splits into a grin as she grabs the sword and scrambles onto her feet, taking a stance. "I'm only going to show you because I don't want you to end up like mother. Okay?"

"Really?" Hashi says, because women are not allowed to fight and Tobirama is a stickler for rules.

"It's to protect yourself," Tobirama says. "Let me see your stance."

Later, after Hashi effectively crushes Tobirama into a not-quite literal pulp, Tobirama grudgingly agrees that she has natural talent and it would be a waste to squander it. They spar in secret, away from their father's tent, Hashi and Tobirama, practicing katas and swinging their swords.

xXx

.

At night, the old woman sits at Hashi's bedside and brushes her hair. One-hundred strokes, a withered hand smoothing the path following the brush, while Hashi sits dutifully by candlelight. "This is a woman's place," the old woman says, and in the summer of Hashi's fourteenth year the old woman stands her in front of the mirror, two shaking hands cupping Hashi's shoulders, leading her.

"You will make a beautiful wife. You are a beautiful girl."

They dress her in Senju ceremonial robes while her father speaks with the next clan over, a clan of bug keepers whose territories are starting to encroach on theirs. "The Aburame boy is a good match," the old woman says. Hashi stares at her reflection, mournfully.

But when Hashi disappears inexplicably the day she is to meet her would-be husband, negotiations fall through, and the clan that is bringing honey and horses as gifts take grave offense.

The matchmakers declare her unmarriageable. Her father laments that he did not have a son.

xXx

.

In secret, Hashi decides to sneak into battle.

The spear comes from nowhere and gores the horse's side. The horse rears up and throws Hashi backwards. She slams against her shoulder, the hard edge of her brother's armor driving into the leather smock and wrenching into her skin. She starts to rise but the sword comes down before she can think, and she's barely able to block it, the dull edge of her katana blocking the blow.

People are yelling. Men scuffle and the scent of blood and fire rises in her nostrils, and Hashi whirls around, the heaviness of her armor slowing her movements.

The blow slams against the side of her face, and her helmet splits, knocking her back, and for a brief moment the falling blows stop.

"She's a woman," someone says. Hashi's eyes are wide and a trickle of blood drips down her temple. "She's a woman! She's a woman!"

A kick. Hashi blocks it and dodges, then breaks into a run. Around her, horses whinny and men fight and die. The Uchiha yanks her arm back.

"No!" Hashi says. She struggles but they wrestle her to the ground.

A woman has no place in battle. The old woman's words ring in her ears as one man pins her arms back and the other yanks the metal plates from her hips, the blunt edge of his knife pressing against her skin. The stitches of her smock pop open and Hashi screams, cranes her neck and flails her legs, but she's pinned down and helpless, the pivot points of her body pulled back. Rough hands shove against her windpipe and pull off her breastplate, and there's the sound of cloth tearing and the bindings of her breasts being cut with a knife.

"Sister!" Tobirama says. She can see him break into a sprint toward her, only to be intercepted by another Uchiha, blocking his path. He slams his spear into the man's side, then lurches forward, shouting and running toward her.

"Tobirama!" Hashi says, and she sees it:

The Uchiha's katana, slicing into Tobirama's side.

It's as if everything is in slow motion. The arc of the blade, the slow spatter of blood as Tobirama's body stops, mid-motion, the force of the man's thrust knocking Tobirama down.

Wood. It explodes from the earth, gutting them, goring them. Uchiha scream and scatter as spears of wood slam into them and through the heart of them.

"Sister!" Tobirama says, and Hashi cries into his chest, hands shaking. Tears and dirt stream down her face.

xXx

.

"Don't tell Father," Hashi says. They're back at the camp; she is wrapped up in a blanket, covering her breasts and the tattered remnants of her shirt, while her brother seethes and shakes with rage."Tobirama, promise me."

"I can't do that," Tobirama says. "You nearly got yourself killed."

"Please," Hashi says, and tears well up in her eyes. "If you tell him, he'll take away my freedom. He'll marry me off to some other clan! Tobirama, promise me," Hashi says, and Tobirama sighs.

"Fine," Tobirama says. "But don't do it again." Hashi's face lights up.

"I promise," Hashi says, but they turn to see a group of Senju walking toward them. Tobirama turns and rises stiffly as Hashi huddles under the blanket, pale. The elder Senju steps in front of them, frowning.

"Your Father would like a word."

xXx

.

She is the first Senju in a thousand years to awaken the Mokuton. "The rarest of the bloodline limits," her father says, and there is a touch of pride in his voice. "The ability to imbue chakra with life itself."

She glances at Tobirama, who stands silently and doesn't breathe a word as to how she awakened her ability, overpowered by a small army of Uchiha men. She sees his jaw tighten when their father announces she will be joining them in battle from now on.

"This armor is too heavy for you," Tobirama says, and Hashi glares at him when he hands her the thin-plated red armor instead. "The blue metal is stronger, yes, but it will slow your movements. You'll have to use your Mokuton as your shield."

Neither of them says what they are both thinking, that Hashi is a woman, unskilled and weak. Tobirama saddles the horse, silently.

"Brother," Hashi begins, but Tobirama cuts her off.

"You were defending the encampments," Tobirama says. He tug the saddle and ties the knot, expertly. "Fifty Uchiha men and only one of you. And you managed to fend them off."

"What if I can't do it again?" Hashi says, and Tobirama stops, turning to look at her.

"You will be fine," Tobirama say. He hands her his sword.

xXx

.

Her reputation grows.

She wins battles. The Senju banner waves above the flames.

When the decision comes, she is flanked by elders on all sides, and her father stands in front of her, looking at her with darkened eyes.

Tobirama, surprisingly, is supportive of her. "Why?" Hashi says. She twists her sleeves in her palms, agitated. "Brother, if any one of us should be the leader of the Senju, it should be you."

"You dishonor yourself," Tobirama says, and he steps forward, pressing a strong arm to Hashi's shoulder. "You above all are the most deserving. You are the strongest. You alone carry the bloodline limit within you."

"But I don't know if I can lead," Hashi says, and Tobirama squeezes her hand.

"I have faith in you."

Root

When their mother died, Tobirama was among the first to recover the body. Hefting it from the large rocks, he was struck by how her robes had been disheveled, and how one pale white thigh was uncovered obscenely, the huge dark marks of bruises covering her skin.

"Okaasan!" Hashi wailed and ran behind them but Tobirama grabbed her, pushed her back. "Okaasan! Okaasan!"

"Don't look," Tobirama said, and he pushed her face into his chest and held her, the men of the Senju covering their mother's body under a canvas sheet and tossing it onto a wheelbarrow.

That night, he found his sister weeping behind one of the tents stacked with animal pelts, pulling her chest to her knees and crying miserably. Silently Tobirama sat next to her and looked out into the darkness, at the Senju men leading their horses and at the old warriors speaking amongst themselves at the campfire.

"She had her basket with her," Tobirama said, finally, and Hashi looked up at him with tear-streaked eyes. "Father thinks she was gathering herbs when she was attacked."

Hashi said nothing. Beside them, Tobirama plucked a blade of grass and held it between his fingers. It quivered slightly, and when Tobirama let go it caught the wind and floated toward the direction of the fire. "You can't go running off by yourself," Tobirama said. "You could end up how mother did."

"Why won't he train us?" Hashi said. Tobirama glanced back. "Brother, if we're so vulnerable to attack, why won't he let us learn how to use the sword?"

"It's not your place," Tobirama said. Hashi glared and shoved hay in his face, standing fast.

"Sister-"

"Mother died because she didn't know!" Hashi said.

She didn't know.

Their mother had been raped before she was killed. Tobirama had overheard them discussing it. At first, they blamed the Uchiha, but as it turned out, as many as six traveling men had been spotted prowling the area. They were simple bandits, not nin and it was easy to dispatch of them.

Fear. It is something Tobirama keeps to himself, even to this day: even as his sister, a woman now and leader of their clan, straps on her breastplate and sheaths her katana on her back. Tobirama never forgets, even if his sister already did, just how close she was to becoming just like their mother.

xXx

.

They are born less than a year apart, and though Tobirama had been born the winter after Hashi's birth in the spring, he treats his sister as if she were younger.

"You are not my Ani," Hashi says. She is fourteen and so is he, during that inexplicable half-year where they are the same age.

Tobirama scowls then glares then has half a mind to yell at her, except that his sister is in the right. "Well you are the woman," Tobirama says bluntly, and it makes his sister so angry he has to duck and cover his head.

But she isn't angry long, and soon Hashi is laughing and making faces at him, because she is wearing a woman's robes and Tobirama is shielding himself as if under the threat of a heavy rain.

He has no shame in this: Hashi's chakra is massive. It is a dense, powerful feeling, a rolling pressure that flattens her surroundings. "If only I could weave it," Hashi says one day, and despite their father's warnings Tobirama agrees and silently shows her, taking her back out behind the pup tents and showing her simple signs. His chakra is thin and delicate, which he weaves like silvery unspooled thread, and what he lacks in power and brute strength, he makes up with precision and measured control.

(Later, when Hashi manages, through dumb luck and sheer brute force, to beat three Senju boys her age, it's Tobirama who has to beg her to please be more discreet, father will lock her up and father will kill him, and it's only then that Hashi agrees.)

xXx

.

The change comes, not long after Itama dies.

They spend the evenings sparring, when Hashi is supposed to be practicing flower arranging and perfecting the delicate movements needed for serving tea. And afterwards they would sit on the highest point just outside the campsite, sharing water and looking out into the dots of tents housing their clan. But after Itama dies, Hashi no longer meets him to spar. He searches for her by the forges and the tanneries, and when he can't find her, he has to push back the fear that's squeezing his chest, mind racing and remembering what happened to their mother.

xXx

.

"What were you doing?" Tobirama says.

"Skipping stones by the river."

"Why?"

"Because I felt like it," Hashi says. She is weaving a wreath of flowers on her lap; she is obviously doing it to irritate him, looking as girlish and vulnerable as ever.

"It is dangerous," Tobirama reminds her, and Hashi sighs and rolls her eyes. "Sister, do not go there by yourself. Promise me."

"You are not my older brother," Hashi says.

"I don't care, just promise me," Tobirama says.

And Hashi smartens, straightening her back and looking into his eyes.

"I promise," Hashi says, solemnly, then adds. "Tobirama-onii-sama."

xXx

.

He doesn't believe her.

He follows her to the river. Unlike Hashi, whose chakra is wide and loud and announces itself miles before Hashi's presence, Tobirama is able to dampen his chakra to almost invisibility.

"Who is there?" someone says, and he hears his sister say, "Huh? I don't see anyone," and Tobirama crouches carefully in the bushes, and looks.

There is a boy. Someone around Hashi's age, maybe a year or so older.

"He wouldn't do that!" Hashi says. She looksup desperately at their father, then at him. "He isn't spying on me! Madara is my friend!"

Their father slaps her. She pitches forward, stunned, her hand flying up toward her face. Tears prick the corners of her eyes but Hashi begs him, "Father, please-"

"Enough," her father says, and Hashi bows her head, helplessly. It is something for which Tobirama silently does not forgive himself: that he was not there for her, that he had left her alone. If he were a better brother, Hashi wouldn't have gone seeking the company of some strange boy, would not have gone off wandering off into the forest where nobody could find them. He promises himself that he would always protect her, even if she hated him and even if she didn't want it, because she is his sister, and even though it sometimes feels like he is her older brother, he takes the responsibility seriously, because no one else would.

xXx

.

The men of the Senju are bitter. "She is a weapon," they say, and the men stare at her, distrustfully. "You would not make her leader any more than you give a title to a rabid dog."

"It will come," Tobirama says quietly, as Hashi fiddles with the sleeves of her robe and looks out into the sea of untrusting faces, nervously. "They will learn to love you. Just give it some time."

Hashi nods. Her face is pale but she looks up at him and smiles. It makes his heart ache. Quietly Tobirama presses a hand to his sister's head - she always seems younger, though she is older than him - and smiles, encouragingly.

It was Tobirama who ceded leadership. He doesn't tell his sister this, because he believes in her and sees her as a symbol of their clan. He has seen first hand the way she fights in battle, the thousand-hand jutsu that brings other clans falling to their knees. If she were a man, her leadership would be unquestioned. He smiles at her and squeezes her hand.

Years pass. His sister stands on the highest point of a cliff overlooking the battlefield. The sky is a burnt-out orange that lies atop the rolling green hills, and the image is a startling one. Her back is toward him, the wind stirring her hair and her body a strong silhouette, and for a moment, he feels it: the thrum of his heart like the crashing of waves.

xXx

.

It takes a few days to dismantle the war camps, Uchiha and Senju working with grudging tolerance as they fold up the large side walls of makeshift ridge tents, piling up animal pelts alongside stacks of wooden poles. It is the way of all nomadic warrior clans, but Hashi claps her hands and creates wooden compounds that could serve as houses, the first buildings of their permanent village.

"Is this wise?" Tobirama says, because his instincts say that even though the Uchiha have come to a truce, that is not necessarily the same for the rest of their enemies, and an immobile home only makes them vulnerable. He glances behind him and sees Uchiha Madara leaning with his arms crossed against one of the dismantled posts, looking bored and somewhat indifferent to the goings-on around him.

His sister almost killed herself. For that reason alone, Tobirama could never forgive Madara, nevermind the countless times Madara had tried to kill them. "He manipulated you," Tobirama had said, and at the time Hashi just smiled and shrugged.

"He was testing me. He didn't let me go through with it."

"But you could have died," Tobirama said. "Sister, I cannot believe you continue to trust this man. A truce with the Uchiha, fine. But your continued insistence on meeting with him...it is untenable."

"He's the clan leader," Hashi had said, and Tobirama had watched helplessly as she adjusted her ceremonial robes, preparing to step out in front of both clans and shake their old enemy's hand.

He doesn't trust him. It isn't any one thing, specifically. There was their past, of course, and the inexplicable but fierce loyalty it inspired in his sister. But there are other things, as well. Whispers of how he betrayed his brethren and stole his brother's eyes.

"He gave them to him," Hashi says, and Tobirama scowls and mashes his chopsticks into the ramen. "He loved Izuna more than anything. We were the ones who killed him."

"And yet you still trust him," Tobirama says. Hashi nods.

"Yes."

And he rubs his temples to stave off the coming migraine.

xXx

.

He's sitting alone at a table, going over a stack of unrolled scrolls, when Madara slides into the seat in front of him, setting down loudly a casket of wine.

Tobirama looks at him. Madara looks as equally put-upon as Tobirama feels, and through the wild mass of dark hair Tobirama can see the beginnings of a sharingan turning at the irises. "It's not poisoned, if that's what you think," Madara says, and Tobirama finally understands that Madara is offering him a drink.

Tobirama looks at him warily, then pours himself a cup. "What do you want?" Tobirama says. Madara leans back, crossing his arms.

"A marriage alliance," Madara says. "It is the only way to ensure that the Uchiha and the Senju stand on equal ground."

Tobirama stares at him. The suggestion is so absurd, he has half a mind to laugh at him. Almost, except Madara is watching him with a predatory stillness, the threat of an activated sharingan just lying beneath the surface.

"Are you suggesting you marry my sister?"

"No," Madara says. A shadow falls over his eyes. "A match between either of the head families would be just as suitable. But I have no sisters," Madara says. His eyes flash. "My brothers are already dead."

His words are calculated. Even the truth drips with guile. "And what does my sister think?" Tobirama says.

"I heard it was not her decision."

"She is a proud Senju woman and leader of this clan, of course it is her decision," Tobirama says. Madara snorts, derisively.

"If that is the case, then why are you brokering the match between her and the Uzumaki?" Madara says. "Their clan is weak. Pathetic. Joining them would offer no tactical advantage."

"The clans are allying against us," Tobirama says. "Already the Hyuuga and the Aburame clans have negotiated. The Senju are strong, but even we know when we're outnumbered."

"You speak as if the Uchiha will not fight alongside you," Madara says.

"And if you are our allies, why must you marry my sister?"

The question hangs. He can't see Madara's eyes.

xXx

.

She is talking with her advisors when Tobirama walks up to her, blocking her path.

"Do you love him?" Tobirama says.

Her advisors glance at each other before turning to leave. Hashi just stares at him.

"Who?"

"Uchiha Madara," Tobirama says, and Hashi starts to laugh. "Sister, answer the question."

"You cannot be serious," Hashi says. "Madara is my friend. He's like another brother to me."

"He asked you to kill yourself," Tobirama says. "He's tried to kill you scores of times. I have no qualm with the Uchiha themselves, but that man makes me uneasy."

"His brother died," Hashi says, simply. "We're the ones that killed him."

"It is not that simple," Tobirama says.

"But it is," Hashi says. She looks up at him, earnestly.

"He doesn't have anyone," Hashi says. "When he took his brother's eyes, he lost the trust of the people he was trying to protect. He is alone, we are all the family he has left. Be kind to him," Hashi says. She searches his face.

"Little brother. Please."

"Fine," Tobirama says. "But I still do not trust him."

"I don't expect you to," Hashi says. Tobirama glares.

xXx

.

Uzumaki Makoto is as handsome as the stories say, and even Tobirama can appreciate the sturdiness of the other man's build. Hashi is nervous. She smiles shyly, twisting the sleeves in her hand as Makoto offers her his arm.

It is a good match. Tobirama is pleased, watching his tomboy sister blush and stutter at the Uzumaki's name, and his happiness is only tempered when he glances back at Uchiha Madara: he is standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed, sharingan turning, watching everything.

He is dangerous. Tobirama watches, his mouth pressing into a thin line, as his sister talks and laughs with him, touching him on the arm.

The image is a troubling one. The Uchiha looms, towering over his sister with barely concealed menace, and reflexively Tobirama's mind snaps to the moment his sister had been shoved down and almost raped, when his mother's body was found covered with semen and bruises and old dried blood.

Even if it weren't for their past - if Madara were not an Uchiha - there is still something about him that seems, for lack of a better word, off. It is in the way he carries himself, body bent like the curve of a bow pulled taut, the potential for violence coiled in the sinews of muscles and nerves. Tobirama doesn't like how his eyes seem to glitter even in the daylight, narrowed and unblinking, the slightest hint of the sharingan reflecting like the iridescent sheen on a slick of oil. And it makes Tobirama's jaw set, because he is dangerous and violent, and because his sister insists, for some reason he cannot even begin to fathom, that he is not at all a very bad man.

Seed

The first time Madara meets her, he doesn't realize she is a girl. Bowl-cut, wearing a boy's haori and a pair of loose-fitting shorts that fall just above the knees, Madara thinks she is a boy about his age. It's only when he takes a closer look at her that he figures out the truth.

"You're...you're a girl?"

She's squatting in the dirt, grinning up at him through sweaty bangs, when Madara sputters and stares at her, goggle-eyed and incredulous.

"Damn right I'm a girl!" she says. "You didn't notice?"

He rearranges his face into something like apathy, shrugging and palming a rock. "I don't like hanging out with girls," he says. She pushes into his face, yelling.

"I can definitely beat you, even if I'm a girl."

"Ha," Madara says, standing.

"I'd like to see you try."

xXx

.

As it turns out, the girl is some sort of freak, out-running and out-punching him with consummate ease. She's stronger and faster and climbs up to the top of the tree before he could even catch his footing, laughing and showing off in front of him.

"Well I'm better at molding chakra than you," he says, because he's embarrassed and mad and she just stares up at the sky, hands behind her head, and shrugging.

"You're just mad because I'm better than you."

"Shut up," Madara says, but he's grinning. The day is nice and warm.

xXx

.

It probably isn't the smartest thing, becoming friends with someone who is likely an enemy shinobi. At first he's merely curious about her in a detached, clinical sort of way, because she is a girl and girls don't run or fight or kick each other in the shins. But then he talks to her and he forgets that she is a girl, she's just another kid just like him.

"Why are you watching me pee?" he snaps, after he catches Hashi peeking at him, giggling a little and hiding behind a tree.

"I just wanted to see if you can aim!" Hashi says, and she ducks and dodges the ball of dirt Madara chucks at her, retaliating by hurling a ball of mud in his general direction.

It irritates him a little, how good she is at a lot of things. Her taijutsu is good, she's fast and brave and her chakra reserves are incredibly strong, even if her control has something left to be desired. She's a natural fighter, something that even a boy like him can appreciate.

"Doesn't anybody miss you?" Madara says, but Hashi shrugs, chewing on a leaf and looking at the clouds.

"They think I'm pulling flowers," Hashi says, and before Madara opens his mouth to tell her it's gathering flowers, he realizes pulling is probably the right word and quietly lets it go.

xXx

.

One day, he finds her by the river, crying. They had sent her youngest brother into battle. He did not survive.

"I'm sorry," Madara says, and Hashi sniffs beside him miserably.

"How are your parents?" Madara asks, quietly. Hashi shrugs.

"My father says he died a noble death," Hashi says.

"And your mother?"

"My mother is dead," Hashi says. Madara nods, then tosses a stone.

xXx

.

He stares out into the charred earth and silently takes stock of the damage: a Senju banner waves obscenely above them as Uchiha bodies are littered on the ground.

She is still stronger than him. Even now she has the upper hand, her figure a distant wavering silhouette behind a curtain of thick black smoke.

The Kyuubi roars. Madara leaps, jumping onto the Kyuubi's back while the Uchiha army storms behind him. In front, she claps her hands and calls out the names of jutsus Madara can barely hear, and the earth splits beneath him in an eruption of growing trees: there is a violent thrust of growth and expansion, leaves bursting like fireworks and obscuring his field of vision. She counters and the curtain of her hair catches the wind like banners, and when she goes for a killing blow, Madara barely notices, not until Izuna shouts a number of obscenities and just barely pushes Madara out of the way.

xXx

.

She is the leader of her clan, something entirely unheard of in a world dominated by men. So when their clans come to a truce, Madara almost takes it for granted that their suspension of hostilities would be solidified by a political marriage, a foundation on which they could build their village.

"Wait, what?" she says, and then she starts laughing. Madara stares at her, confused.

"I'm serious," Madara says. "The union of the Senju and the Uchiha. But if you're worried that we will subjugate your clan-"

"No no no," Hashi says. She wipes tears from her eyes, wheezing. "We build our village on a foundation of trust and mutual respect. There is no 'marriage' involved in it."

"I see," Madara says, but he is doubtful.

She is smart enough and shrewd enough to realize marriage is a tool not to be squandered carelessly, and Madara watches her, how her hair moves against the long line of her neck as she looks out into the horizon. "That doesn't bother you?" Madara asks, because he had assumed that something like that actually would.

"There are no love matches," Hashi says. She leans back on her hands, thoughtfully.

"I just hope Tobirama is the one who gets matched up, first."

xXx

.

There is much to do to build a village. Though their clans had joined and a tentative peace had been reached, there still was the matter of the warring countries that had employed them, as well as the fact that a family of shinobi had no other useful skills. "No one knows how to farm?" Hashi says.

They stare mournfully at the terraces of rice, the rows of slender green leaves beset with the starting rot.

Madara kicks a potato plant with the toe of his foot, the leafy stems wilting and browning at the sides. He activates his sharingan, peering into the dirt.

"They are too close together," Madara says. He closes his eyes, lets his sharingan regress back to the normal iris, before opening them again. "The roots are not given enough room to grow."

"I see," Hashi says. She sighs, mournfully.

Shinobi are well-suited for hard labor. Backs bent, they push the bulbs of potato roots into the dirt while others dig perfect rows, lined and scraped by weapons repurposed as gardening tools. "Can we not slaughter animals?" Madara says. "Find a wild herd of goats and take the meat?"

"And whose herd are we going to steal?" Hashi says. "Madara. How did you feed your people, before?"

"We pillaged," Madara says. Hashi makes a sound that almost sounds like frustration, but Madara tosses a potato bulb, sniffing. "Really, Hashirama. The simplest thing would be to raid the nearest enemy enclave and take what we need. We have the strength in numbers for this."

"So you would jeopardize the peace for a few bags of rice?"

"It was a hypothetical," Madara says. "And what did you do? Don't tell me you grew your own crops," Madara says. "You Senju are as hapless as we are."

"If only there were farmers you could spy on," Hashi says. "You could use your sharingan to copy their techniques."

"You think we haven't tried?"

"Well your fields do look better than ours."

"Hm, that is true," Madara says. "And unlike yours, we have managed to grow something."

"Except that everything is wilting," Hashi says. Madara rolls his eyes, magnificently.

"Details."

xXx

.

Two clans used to roaming, trading weapons skills and warrior tasks for food and bags of rice. They pitched tents made of animal hides and huddled around communal fires, warming their hands and trading stories of war.

Wood grows. Thin stems turn to twisting vines and then thick trucks of trees, and Hashi conjures timber from thin air, forests of oak and birch, molding chakra like plumes of exhaled breath.

She is the only one of her bloodline limit, and the impracticality of building houses for everyone in the village rears its head when she nearly collapses after creating the hundredth wooden house, stumbling over the woody platform.

"Idiot," Madara says. Hashi smiles a sickly little smile and Madara hefts her forward, taking her full weight against his shoulder. "Your chakra is nearly spent. If this were a battle you would be dead, by now."

He watches her sleep. Her face is pale and her breathing is shallow under the thin blanket. Madara watches over her, frowning, before coming to a decision.

She is resting her head on the table when Madara drops the bag of coins beside her, the loud thud startling her upright. "What's this?" Hashi says. Madara shrugs, elegantly.

"War reparations," Madara says. "It is a portion of what we were paid. Consider it a gift. The Uchiha are happy to give it."

"I don't understand," Hashi says, and Madara rolls his eyes.

"Money," Madara says. "We have no skill in farming and we have no skill in craft. Other than metal work - which is useless, by the way, who would buy weapons besides other shinobi clans? - we have nothing. With this we can purchase what we need. Hire contractors," Madara says. "Surely there are civilians we can bring into the fold."

"Civilians," Hashi says.

"Farmers," Madara says. "Fishermen. Craftsmen. People who could benefit from our protection."

"Of course," Hashi says. Her face splits into a grin. "Madara, you are a genius! Do you know of any such clans?"

"I know of plenty," Madara says, sniffing, before adding,

"Who do you think we've looted, before?"

xXx

.

There are still enemies despite their truce, and in the winter of their first year, Madara and Hashi go out to negotiate.

The ice begins to crack. Madara crosses the river quickly but Hashi loses her footing. The ice breaks. She crashes into the icy waters.

Madara throws down his battlefan and runs, diving head-first into the water. The water is cold and dark and the weight of his armor slows down his movements, the heavy cloth of his undershirt ballooning around him. Sharingan active, he sees her and grabs her by the arm, yanking her up and swimming violently upwards, chakra coiling and springing him upwards like a just-shot arrow. He crests the surface and gasps, pulling Hashi up beside him.

Boots squelch as Madara tugs and drags her body onto the shore. Her face is pale and her skin is cold. Dark hair sticks to her neck and face and her eyes are closed. Pale.

"Oi!" Madara says. He pounds on Hashi's ribs, pulling off the water-soaked pieces of armor and throwing them on the ground. "Oi!"

She coughs until she's coughing up water, water dribbling down her mouth and chin.

"Idiot," Madara says, and he hefts his friend forward.

There is a cave near the river. Outside, the sky is turning dark and even with his sharingan activated, Madara isn't sure they're not surrounded by enemies, just waiting for a signal fire. He rubs his arm and looks back at Hashi, whose legs are curled up to her chest and who is shivering, pathetically.

"Here," Madara says, and he pulls off his shirt, moving gingerly to tug off her wet clothes.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't start a fire," Madara says. Her skin is cold and Madara nearly recoils when he presses his chest to the cold skin of her back. "We are surrounded by enemies and a fire would only alert them to our position. If only someone weren't idiotic enough to walk out into a river-"

"-it looked safe," Hashi says.

"-Into a river with fifty pounds of armor on, and did I mention that you're an idiot? You don't know how to swim."

"I thought that we could cross," she says, and that damn stupid optimism makes Madara grit his teeth. He presses her closer, rubbing her arms.

She is still shivering. Madara thinks a moment, then concentrates his chakra at that same warm spot in his chest, as if he were to perform a katon and breathe fire. He doesn't, though, letting the heat build and build until Madara is sweating and Hashi relaxes into the warmth.

"How come you're not saying anything?" Hashi says, after a few tense moments, and Madara glares at her and spits out the small fireball he had been forcing back down his windpipe.

"Oh," she says, and Madara glowers, letting his chakra build back up again.

They return to the village three days late. "Sister!" Tobirama says, and Madara watches as he runs and catches her, holding close. "When you didn't come back we were so worried. We thought you didn't survive!"

"Of course I did," Hashi says. She grins. "Madara was always with me."

Madara is far enough away that he can't hear Tobirama say, That's exactly what made me worry, but his sharingan is sharp enough that he can easily pick out the words.

"If I wanted to kill her," Madara says, loudly enough for all the Senju and Uchiha standing around them to turn and look, "I would not have to stoop so low as to wait for her to be alone."

Tobirama jerks forward. "Teme-"

"Brother, please." Hashi puts a hand on her brother's arm, stepping in front of him.

"Thank you, Madara-sama, for agreeing to accompany me," she says, and the honorific unnerves him.

"Of course," Madara says.

He thought that they were friends.

xXx

.

He hears second-hand about Tobirama's newest scheme: a block of houses intended for the Uchiha at the furthest quarter from the village center. Many Uchiha had agreed to move there, despite Madara's angry warnings.

"They are herding us into a corner, as if we were their sheep. It is unfair," Madara says. The other Uchiha frown at him.

"We all have to do our part for the stability of this village.

You need to get over yourself, and do your part as well."

He loses his temper. "You're blind!" he says. "You're fools to believe you can trust them. Don't walk away from me!" he says, while the younger generation rolls their eyes.

xXx

.

"I don't see the problem with low-income housing," Hashi says.

She is sitting on top of her desk. Not behind it, like a proper lady would, but squarely on the desktop, legs folded in front of her and loudly crunching an apple. Madara glares and paces and wrings his hands.

"The poorest among us happen to be Uchiha," Hashi says. "I only want to help them."

"We are poor because of your war reparations," Madara says, and he sees Hashi's face fall a bit, before he amends, "It's not you I'm angry at. It's your brother. He is the one behind all of this."

"You're being paranoid," Hashi says. He feels himself go white with quiet rage when she leans forward, touching his arm.

"Tell me what's really the matter."

He looks at her a moment, then looks at his hands.

"The young ones no longer listen to me," Madara says. "I'm trying my best, but they do not listen."

"Well, you know, maybe you need to smile more," she says, helpfully. Madara glares at her.

"I do not see the point," Madara says.

"It's encouraging harmony," Hashi says, and she smiles at him, showing him. "No one will have confidence in you if you always have a sour face."

"You're an idiot," Madara tells her bluntly, and leaves. Hashi laughs.

"Remember to smile!" Hashi calls out behind him.

xXx

.

Friendship does not come easily to Madara, who looks at his allies with thinly veiled contempt. Even among the Uchiha, Madara is held with suspicion, hushed whispers of traitor and monster coming at the heel's of Izuna's death.

"It must be lonely," Hashi says one day, and it almost startles him - almost, except Madara is used to Hashi's sort of nonsense, and he doesn't feel like pretending to care.

"Lonely?" Madara echoes, and she nods, looking back at him, warm brown eyes reading everything. "What makes you think that I am lonely?"

"Because I know you," Hashi says, and she gives that same smile that makes Madara want to tear his hair and kick things. "You isolate yourself. You do not sit with the others. Even among the Uchiha they speak of your strength, but no one speaks of you as their comrade."

"Because I am their leader."

"Because you cordon yourself off," Hashi says.

Madara turns and looks out into the center of the village square. There, Hashi had sprung timbers and built houses for their would-be villagers, Senju and Uchiha and refugees of war, alike. "It must be hard, everyone accusing you of stealing Izuna's eyes like that-"

"Don't," Madara says. Hashi claps him on the shoulder and smiles.

"You are a good brother," Hashi says. And then her face is serious. Sad. "If I have one regret, it's that we took him away from you."

"Tch." Madara pushes her hand away. "You were always much too soft."

"Better soft than bone-headed, right?"

"Who are you calling bone-headed?"

In the sunlight, Hashi laughs. Madara grins, despite himself.

xXx

.

One day, she asks his advice on potential suitors.

There are no love matches. Madara leans with his body pressed into the ledge of the window frame, watching as Hashi pours over papers of would-be suitors, the mind-stealers of the Yamanaka and the forest warriors of the Nara.

"What do you think about him?" Hashi says, and she shows him the profile.

"Rumors say he is not very honorable," Madara says.

"Then what about this?" Hashi says.

"He is the bastard son of a fractured family," Madara says. "What else?"

Hashi frowns and shuffles through her papers, loudly.

"This one is the head of the Inuzaka-"

"A clan of dog walkers. You can do better," Madara says. Hashi frowns.

"Well what about the Aburame...?"

"Pray your house does not become infested," Madara says. "What else?"

"The Hyuuga?" Hashi says.

"That weak-watered dojutsu? I take great offense to that," Madara says.

"Well obviously no one is good enough for you," Hashi says. Madara sniffs, loftily.

"I think your brother and I can actually agree on that point," Madara says. He looks out the window. "You should just marry me and be done with it."

Behind him, Hashi laughs. "Madara. I cannot marry you anymore than I can marry Tobirama! Besides, marriage is a tool," Hashi says. "We must save it to broker political alliances. What if your clan needed to negotiate with someone else's?"

"And if I told you it would be to protect my clan's interests?" Madara says. He looks back at Hashi, who is lowering her papers slowly.

"...Are you asking me?" Hashi says.

Madara looks at her. She is dressed as any woman of her time did, with a loose-flowing robe and a small pendant around her neck. Her hair is long, flowing down the curve of her neck and shoulders like unadorned silk. There are callouses marring the palms of her hands.

"The Uchiha are important," Madara says. He doesn't look at her. "I would do anything to protect my clan."

"You needn't worry," Hashi says. She rises, touches Madara on the shoulder.

"We already have an alliance between us," Hashi says. "Marriage can only be done once. I have Tobirama, but you are the only one left in your house. You mustn't waste it," Hashi says. Madara rises, beside her.

"No," Madara says. "I suppose I should not."

She falls asleep on her desk, the light from the candle flickering, quietly. Gently, Madara stands behind her and bends to cover her with his cloak. He smooths the fabric over her shoulder, then straightens.

He will talk to her brother. For the good of the village and his clan.

She is still asleep, eyes closed and breathing deeply. There is a lock of hair covering the side of her face. He snuffs out the candle and moves to brush the hair away from her cheek, but thinks the better of it, moving his hand and turning softly away.

Stem

Madara is raging again, this time spouting some nonsense that Tobirama hates the Uchiha, that he shouldn't be trusted. Tobirama turns, rolling his eyes.

"I get along with many Uchiha," Tobirama says. "I just don't get along with you."

He sniffs derisively, then turns. Tobirama steps in front of him, pointedly

Madara's jaw tightens. "What?" Madara says. The word is gritted out between clenched teeth.

"What do you want with my sister?"

"I want nothing to do with your sister," Madara says. "I hear she is betrothed to that Uzumaki idiot from the next clan over. It is not my concern. Now, if you excuse me-"

He starts to walk forward but Tobirama blocks him. Madara glares.

"Now what?" Madara says. Tobirama's eyes narrow.

"What do you intend to do to the village?" Tobirama says.

"I don't care about the village," Madara says. He stares back at him with slanted eyes.

xXx

.

He is fighting again in the plainlands: Hashi paces, agonized, as word of Madara's latest exploits reached the heart of the council.

"It is to be expected." Tobirama had said. Hashi wrung her hands while her brother stared at her, as if in rebuke. "Uchiha Madara is a rabid dog. That he chooses now to rampage against the neighboring clans is not a great surprise."

"He has his reasons," Hashi had said, but Tobirama looked at her stonily. "The Hyuuga were making threats against us. He probably went out to negotiate-"

"By eyeballing them into tiny little pieces. Yes, Sister, that is exactly how we should negotiate."

Hashi's mouth thins, remembering.

It is a growing problem. Though the Senju and the Uchiha had called a truce, that did not stop the neighboring clans from fighting: already feudal lords were negotiating with the Nara and the Yamanaka clans to the east, and the Hyuuga had used the opportunity to declare war against the Uchiha. Two Uchiha children were targeted and killed, much to the horror of everyone in the village. Madara railed, beside himself: "What good is a village if we cannot even protect our own?"

There is a sound, the flap of the tent pushed open, and Hashi turns to see Madara limping forward.

"Madara," Hashi says.

Madara looks up. His clothes are wet. Strands of long hair stick to his back and face.

And then his legs buckle. Hashi rushes forward, taking his weight against her shoulder.

"Dammit, Hashirama-"

"You're injured," Hashi says. Patiently, as if talking to a small and very difficult child. "Let me help you."

Madara scowls. She leans him against her shoulder, helping him inside. "I'm not even going to ask what it was you were doing," Hashi says.

"I was taking action," Madara says. He winces, limping carefully and sitting at the edge of the bed. "While others waste their words and pray for a solution, I went and I found another way."

"Did you kill anyone?" Hashi says.

"What do you think?"

"I think I shouldn't ask," Hashi says, and she leans Madara forward.

There is a deep gash just to the left of Madara's breast plate, where a sword or spear had managed to make its way through a crack in the armor.

Madara is watching her the way a dangerous but wounded animal would, with slitted eyes and chakra simmering just beneath the surface. "I'm going to remove your breast plate," Hashi says, and she gingerly approaches him, one hand carefully pressing against Madara's shoulder.

First there is the breast plate, which is dented and scratched. The red paint is chipping in small flakes, and when Hashi removes the arm guards, she can see the distressed places in the leather under-coverings, shallow cuts and frayed ends from where sharp objects had pierced through the metal.

"Raise your arms," Hashi says. With difficulty she pulls off Madara's plate armor and winces when she sees it, the slow spread of dark blood seeping through the fabric of Madara's shirt; he's holding the wound with one tight fist, thin red smears of it dripping against his hand.

"I need to take off your shirt," Hashi says, and she watches as Madara braces himself, tensing slightly as she tugs at the fabric. The shitagi is damp with blood and rain and sweat, and Madara grunts as she pulls it off, the clots in the wound opening, slightly.

"Let me see," Hashi says. Madara scowls, fist pressed against the wound. She gently covers his hand. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

"I am fine," Madara says.

"You're not fine. You're bleeding into the furniture."

Madara glares. Slowly, Hashi unwraps the soiled bandages covering Madara's wounds.

The gash is long and jagged, sliced hard against the side of Madara's ribs and the meat of his back. But it isn't deep, and it doesn't reach any vital organs. Slowly, Hashi lets her fingers map the grain of Madara's skin, feeling currents of chakra flowing like water over bumps of stones.

Madara's muscles are tense. She can see it in how he clenches and unclenches the muscle of his jaw, the strap muscles of his neck tightening with the contact. His hair is matted, sticking to the damp skin of his throat and collarbones, and there is a sharp smell of rain and sweat, which is more pungent when she pushes back the wet tangle of Madara's hair, exposing the line of his neck and back.

"It's not like you to get so injured," Hashi says. She plies a layer of chakra on Madara's wounds, remembering how her mother used to heal her when she was younger: cool hands pressed on scraped knees and bruised egos, a necessary technique when faced with older, more experienced men. "What happened to your Susanoo?"

"I didn't use it," Madara says.

"Why?"

"I decided not to."

Hashi frowns.

There is only so much reading between the lines she can do, but judging from the latest quarrel - unkind words from Madara's own kinsmen, vicious rumors that Madara had willingly stolen his brother's eyes - she can understand why Madara had gone without it. He fought as if he had something to prove.

"You should have used it," Hashi says. Madara glances up at her, frowning. "I don't like it when you get hurt."

Madara sneers. "Because it makes more work for you?" Madara says.

Hashi's jaw tightens. "Because you're my friend, and I don't like seeing you in pain."

Madara says nothing. Hashi frowns, focusing her attention on the shallow scrapes that peppered Madara's side and flank, the bruises along his collarbone and the boot-shaped welt on his ribs. She moves closer to him, molding her chakra to the shape of Madara's body, whose chakra was disordered and chaotic, electric pinpricks of a thousand tiny silver blades.

Madara leans close, and Hashi lets her hand slide across the ridges of his abdomen, concentrating on a particularly vicious blow to the solar plexus. His chakra is tortured and violent, swirling in turbulent eddies, and Hashi lets her hands guide them to a soothing warmth, feeling the tension in Madara's body lessen and slack, until he's physically leaning against her.

"No one touches me like this," Madara says. quietly. "Perhaps my mother, once, when I was a child. But no one has ever sat this close to me, since."

"You don't use healing jutsus in your clan?" Hashi says.

"This is different," Madara says. "I have lost everything, and yet you've stayed by my side," Madara says. Red eyes flick upward, unfocused. "Why would you do that? Why waste your time, caring for someone like me?"

Hashi looks at him. His shoulders are hunched. There are deep shadows under the creases of Madara's eyes.

No one trusts Uchiha Madara. Not the Senju, who look at him with veiled contempt. And not even the Uchiha, whom Madara had sworn to protect. Hashi had seen it herself, in how his kinsmen looked at Madara with slanted eyes, and how the Uchiha of the village openly jeered at him. She looks at Madara, and at the callouses of his hands, and understands that he has nothing and no one. And suddenly, irrationally, she is filled with a quiet rage.

"Who hurt you?" Hashi says.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Hashi says, and a shadow falls over Madara's eyes.

"Why are you like that?" Madara says.. "Why do you have to care?"

"Because you're my friend," Hashi says again.

"Friend," Madara says. "What exactly is a 'friend'? You toss that term around so easily. Everyone is a friend to Senju Hashirama. Even her enemies are her friends."

"Why are you angry?" Hashi says, and Madara reaches for her with a sudden, savage motion, grasping her by the nape of her neck and pulling her forward.

"Idiot Senju," Madara says, and the words are ragged. Harsh. "You are more to me than just a friend. Without you, my life has no meaning. You know not the depths of my feelings for you."

Fingers dig into the back of Hashi's scalp. Dark eyes stare deep into hers, unblinking.

"I feel the same way," Hashi says, and she searches the face that is only a finger's breadth away. "You're my family. You're another brother to me."

The words hang, low-lying clouds of a distant fog. She felt the hand behind her neck drop.

"Of course," Madara says, and Hashi can't see his eyes.

xXx

.

Rain lashes against the fur-lined flaps of the tent, and with each gust of wind Madara can see how the darkness of the sky is juxtaposed against the warm orange glow of their tent: dark trees, leaves whipping violently off thin branches, the storm raged in harsh torrents of horizontal rain.

"It is cold," Hashi had said, a few hours earlier, and Madara had glanced behind his shoulder, frowning as she unrolled the sleeping mats, matter-of-factly. "You're still wounded. We should share our bed to conserve our warmth. Unless you're uncomfortable with that sort of thing?"

"No," Madara said, and then amended, "I'm not," and he laid down next to her.

Now Madara watches as the shadows move violently against the fabric of the tent, keeping a measured distance between their bodies and trying to fall asleep. Gingerly, he palmed the crest of his ribs, tracing what would have been the jagged edge of scars were it not for Hashi's expert healing. There is nothing, just a thin line of pink translucent skin, smooth and pale snaking across his body like an arabesque. Though his wounds are healed, there is a dull pain at the seat of his chest, hurt and loneliness like a nagging ache: if he were a brave man, he would drag his fingers into the silk of Hashi's hair and pull her forward, lips finding the tender curve of her neck and jaw.

But he is not a brave man, and the confession fell in the face of her good intentions. He watches as she sleeps, the slow rise and fall of her breathing under the blanket, the feel of warm skin like the shadows of trees. Reflexively, he thinks of Izuna and how he had stood vigil in his bedroom in the days before his death, and he felt the same ache.

The pain in his heart is like cracking glass, but Hashi sighs in her sleep, and pulls him closer.

Bud

His father told him stories: of a man who stabs his wife, of a son who strangles and burns his father. Killings of their precious people for the sake of a stronger eye.

"How awful," Hashi says, and Madara gives her a withering look, before reflecting for an angry, agonized second that perhaps he should have refrained from sharing his clan's deepest, most innermost secrets - when Tobirama somehow ends up standing behind them.

"Gruesome," Tobirama says, and it takes all of Madara's self-control not to turn around and end him right there, were it not for Hashi striding toward her brother, first.

"This conversation does not concern you," Hashi says. She is angry and her face is about a finger's breadth away from Tobirama's. But Tobirama sniffs, bored, peering around her shoulder.

"A clan of hate," Tobirama says, and Madara feels it, rage coiling tight in jaw and the muscles of his neck. Tobirama's gaze turns to Hashi, who is still standing in front of him. "Sister, I do not know why you continue to trust him."

"This village would be nothing without him," Hashi says.

"This village could do without a gilded monument to some criminal."

The chair clatters. Madara jumps to his feet, sharingan flashing. Tobirama glares.

"And so he threatens me with his brother's eyes," Tobirama says, and Madara springs, one fierce, sudden movement, and his hand slams against Tobirama's neck, slamming him into the wall.

"Madara!" Hashi says, and she comes between them. Tobirama wheezes.

"You see," Tobirama says, and blood trickles down the side of his lip. "The Uchiha are nothing but rabid dogs. And yet you continue to be seduced by him."

"Brother, I understand your concern, but you're making things worse," Hashi says. Madara snaps toward her.

"What do you mean, 'you understand'?" Madara says. Hashi offers him a weak smile.

"You're twisting my words, Madara," Hashi says. "You know that you're my friend."

But Madara turns and leaves, slamming the door.

xXx

.

Both the Uchiha and the Senju pay their dues. It's only after a few months that Madara realizes the Uchiha are paying more.

"Why?" Madara says. He bursts into the room where the Senju are having their meeting: Tobirama and several top advisors stand. "Why are the Uchiha paying more?"

"It is commensurate to the damage you've made," Tobirama says. "Really, what did you expect? The Uchiha has been a rather destructive clan."

"Why was I not informed?" Madara says.

"Madara, please," an advisor says. "You have to understand, it's for the greater good. Perhaps we could talk about this a bit more calmly-"

"I have had enough," Madara says, and he turns with one swift motion, sharingan turning in his eyes.

Madara is no fool. Though they had ended their conflict with a treaty, the Uchiha had technically lost. War reparations, movable goods, those are the defeated's responsibility. But the other Uchiha just stare at him, confused. "Do you not want to help build the village?"

"Of course I do," Madara says. "But the burden must be shared equally. Not shouldered by the blood of the Uchiha."

"You are just eager to fight," an elder says. "If paying tribute is what is required for peace, then so be it.

Do not be so eager for bloodshed, Madara-san," the elder says. "The eyes will soon betray you."

xXx

.

He stands at the foot of Izuna's grave. Behind him, he hears Hashi step forward, the gentle crush of her footsteps rustling against the wet grass "So you're back," Madara says, without turning. He can imagine her face: placid, without the slightest hint of surprise, and he straightens, wiping his hands at the front of his robe. "I find it difficult to believe you find such interest in following me. Perhaps you should find yourself a hobby."

"I was worried about you," Hashi says. Madara shrugs.

"Such is the way of the Senju, I suppose."

Neither one of them speak.

Izuna's body is not buried here. Madara had already told her the story: how they had cremated his body, lighting him atop a funeral pyre and sending the burning mass down the length of the Nakano, the blood-stained head-covering draped over his eyes curling and charring with the flames. It was Hashi who suggested they erect the monument, the symbol of all fallen shinobi on either clan, and her earnestness had touched him. Despite himself, he had allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of her good intentions. But the monument is unfinished, and what was supposed to be a shrine to heroic sacrifice sits in near ruins: veins grow on half-hewn rock, its polished marble sitting under a layer of dust.

"His gravestone is pathetic," Madara says. "It is dirty and crumbling. I thought we agreed it would be a monument: a testament to the Uchiha's loss and suffering. Instead it is this," Madara says, and he looks at her, pointedly. "Half-remembered and overlooked. Much like the treatment of my clan."

"Give it time," Hashi says, and Madara prickles. "Soon enough both our clans will appreciate the sacrifices we have made."

"No one remembers him," Madara says, and he feels it: a hand, sure and strong, gripping him on the shoulder.

"Izuna lives within our hearts," Hashi says, and Madara wants to laugh, wants to spit in the face of the idiot woman who stands beside him, spouting worthless platitudes while pasting on that sickening smile on her face. Rage, hurt, and love rise and fall by turns, until Madara is laughing, Madara is crying, anger and rage streaming down his cheeks.

"There is no peace!" Madara says. "Every day, new villages are appearing. Instead of the Uchiha versus the Senju, it is the Hidden Cloud versus the Hidden Leaf. All that's happening is we've increased the scale."

"Madara-"

He pushes her back, but Hashi is quicker. One hand grips Madara by the arm.

The hug surprises him. He relaxes for a moment, but then he tightens up again, pushing her away.

xXx

.

The schism comes quicker than anyone predicts.

"Who would you choose?" Madara says, savagely. "Your brother or me?"

And she squeezes her eyes and can give no answer.

xXx

.

"Madara," Hashi says. They're facing each other at opposite sides of the river, an entire Konoha army against Madara's one. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this."

"I have to," Madara says. Even from far away he can see the look of determination in his old friend's face, in the way she grips her spear and how the light flashes in her eyes.

"You are my brother," Hashi says, and Madara laughs, mirthlessly.

"My brother is dead," Madara says.

And he pretends not to see the hurt in her eyes.

xXx

.

After the battle, they can't find Madara's body. Shinobi from both clans descend onto the valley, awestruck at the devastation. Broken bits of earth, forests razed, the Valley of the End is a charcoal waste.

It takes some time before Tobirama can find her, standing alone on the cliffside and looking out into the dark of the horizon.

"Sister," Tobirama says, and she turns slowly. "Sister, what happened? Tell me."

She looks up at him. Solitary figure, cloak still in tatters, she stands against the blood red teardrop of sun that is inching its way into the shadows; everywhere else, the sky is black and thunderous, gusts of wind whipping her hair like war-torn flags.

"I won," she says, and he moves to hug her. It isn't until then that she begins to cry.

xXx

.

It is surprisingly quiet: except for the sound of wind and the flapping frantic sound of torn banners, there is no sound, nothing but the half-gasped wheeze of Madara's breath as he lies on the ground. He is alone. Around him, pieces of armor and other bits of detritus are strewn on the yellow grass, and as he lies on his back his vision comes into focus.

He is dying.

Once, his father led him to the secret room behind the Uchiha monument. In the flickering torchlight, Madara squinted his eyes and knelt in front of the stone tablets, reverently touching the jagged inscription with his fingertips.

At six years-old, Madara knew the meaning of love. Knew it like the jab of sharp metal into the meaty insides of an enemy's flesh. When Izuna died, hands clutching the fabric of Madara's cloak, Madara feels the devastating swell of love upended, torrents of grief and love and loss swirling at the backs of his eyes.

Above him, sky opens in a light rain. A bird flies, and slowly, Madara's eyes crack open. Crusted and painful, a thin trickle of blood drips down the side of Madara's face like tears, and he sees, for the first time, the world through the bruised lens of the rinnegan.

He closes his eyes again, tears spilling down the corners.

Leaf

Her mother's body floats down the river. Slowly, flames rise, and the wooden planks of the boat start to char and break into a hundred little pieces, leaving with it a a thin trail of ash and floating wood.

She stands at the edge of the highest cliff and looks out into the village. Below her, she can see the thousand little lights that wink out in the darkness, ignoring the heated discussion between her brother and her best friend, behind her.

Senju and Uchiha. Voices rise, and Hashi watches them, satisfied, happy in the knowledge that she's brought them both home.