A Thousand Hands

Summary: The rise and fall of the man who moved nations; Senju Hashirama.

Disclaimer: Naruto Series is not mine

Arc One: The Mountain Top

Chapter One

"Seek in high bare trails

sky reflecting

violets …

Mountain-top jewels"

- Basho

"Hashi … Hashirama? Still trying to feel the universe?"

His eyes were closed, but he was certainly not without sight. Instead, his body saw for him. He felt the mountain he sat on, a sleeping behemoth. Yet even in its slumber its power was without measure. He could feel the forest beneath him, so full of natural wonder and the footsteps of people as they moved with somber eager toward a ceremony of commemoration. Atop the mountain, he saw everything that was, is, and ever would be. It pleased him.

Hashirama felt almost sad as he opened his eyes, and relinquished his grip of the universe. Slowly the universe melted away, and he was once again limited to only what his eyes could see. His intruder stepped closer, and offered him a hand which he gladly took.

"You've been up here for four hours," Tobirama said. "We're going to miss the funeral."

When Hashirama had folded his legs atop the mountain and closed his eyes, the sky had been the darkest shade of black. When Tobirama had ventured out of the village to find his brother atop the mountain, the sky had transformed into a dull gray. Now, as they stood together atop the mountain, the sun was rising to its pedestal in the heavens, and the sky was now a myriad of reds, golds and yellows.

"Heaven's garment is without seems," Hashirama said.

"Always the philosopher. Come on, else we'll be late."

They made a quick descent toward the village, speaking lightly about the day to come. The funeral had been scheduled early in the morning to keep it from conflicting too much with the daily life of their little village. Tobirama said that winter was coming, and they would need to stock up on money quickly as money was hard to come across when the sun waned earlier.

The brothers reached the village just as the final villagers were leaving their small, wooden homes and walking to the nearby pasture used to give the dead their final goodbyes. Several hundred people were gathered, dressed in their best clothing and wearing their most sympathetic faces. They split down the middle and the let the two brothers pass.

Whispers filled the air. It was still hard to swallow for many of the villagers that Hashirama and Tobirama were brothers. Hashirama was very tan with straight, black, and flowing hair that could tickle his waist if left unwrapped. Tobirama has very pale, and sported shaggy, white hair that jutted towards the sky. Nevertheless, as they walked shoulder to shoulder to the burning area, no two people could have seemed closer.

Once they made it to the front of the group, the whispers were silenced. An old man, Chuuko, dressed in the traditional clothe of the forest gods, stood next to an open wooden casket; inside lay a wrinkled woman who was not quite ancient, but old enough to have died peacefully in her sleep.

"We assemble this morning," Chuuko began, "to offer our hands of assistance to Senju Nagori on her ascension into the warm breasts of Amaterasu, and of Jizo, and of Inari. First, we must remember fondly her husband, Tamago. He was a man who defended this quaint village with all his heart and might.

"Second, we must remember fondly her sons, Hashirama and Tobirama, for they have dedicated their very beings to the well being of the people beneath his mountain. But most importantly, we must fondly remember Nagori's actions. We must fondly remember how she loved without asking anything in return. How she toiled, without peeping a word of discomfort. How she offered her single hand a thousand times to those in need. For these reasons, we now offer her our thousand hands."

The ceremony continued in a similar fashion. Confessions were made, regrets were voiced, roses were given. Once everyone had said their piece, Hashirama raised his mother's coffin with rudimentary Earth Style Jutsu, and then the coffin was lit.

The Senju brothers stood in silence; the flame patiently picked away at their mother's body, and her soul returned from whence it came. Once the body was gone, the people of the village all surrounded them and delivered hasty condolences before returning home to tend to their own families.

"My condolences for your loss, Hasirama, Tobirama," Chuuko said, "she was a wonderful woman."

"I have no regrets," Tobirama said.

"Neither have I," Hashirama said. "In this world of strife, we can only be thankful that she passed peacefully with her sons on either side of her bed."

Once left to their own devices, the two brothers returned home to enjoy what could have been considered a day off for them. Tobirama brewed them some tea, and they sat in silence. The brothers basked in the memory of the aged woman who had once gently sifted through the humble abode.

"We'll need to move quickly," Tobirama said, putting his cup down. "We'll be given, at most, another three weeks before the chill sets in. The harvests this year have been unimpressive … if we can't cushion it with a hefty supply of money for the village, some might starve."

"Tanzaku Gai," Hashirama said. "That city is plagued by raids around this time. Surely they have no shortage of need for ninja guards."

"I'll be the one to go then," Tobirama said. "We can't have you returning there, can we?"

Hashirama blushed at Tobirama's playful jab. His first, and last, trip to Tanzaku Gai had been marked by a horrible defeat. A pair of young lasses had lured him into a gambling spot. There they had loosened him with drinks until he gambled away every bit of money he had brought.

"You're no better," he replied in haste.

After having their fill of conversation, the two went out to attend to duties they should have ignored for the day. They patrolled the village's indistinct borders for any sign of bandits and helped villagers with tasks requiring strength and dexterity. It was not until the blue sky had blushed red that they met in an open space not too far from the village, but far enough to provide them seclusion and sat right next to the Naka River.

They stood across from each other, bare chested, and dropped into solid fighting stances. They moved slowly forwards until their leading forearms grazed. Leaves blew gently in the wind. Hashirama thought briefly that the trees bathed in red and gold sunlight, while swaying back and forth, looked distinctly like flames.

Tobirama struck first, like lightning. He released a flurry of blows that were too fast for a normal eye to follow. Hashirama countered with skill. He parried until he saw an opening and struck, only to miss as his brother had ducked to the ground and was attempting to knock his feet out from under him. Hashirama leaped away like a grass hopper, and they stood once more in stance.

They met again in a flurry of blows with neither gaining an upper hand. Once distance had been made, Hashirama made a quick set of hand seals.

"Earth Style: Earth Flow Spears!"

Hashirama stomped the ground underneath, which rolled forward in a wave as giant spears of solid earth erupted from the ground and chased his brother hungrily. Tobirama leaped into the air to avoid a grisly demise. Hashirama continued his offensive.

"Water Style: Tearing Torrent!"

The Naka river came to life behind him. A steam of water snaked from its essence and made its way rapidly towards Tobirama, gaining speed and strength with each passing moment. Tobirama quickly ran through hand seals. He landed with the grace of heron and extended his hands to meet the oncoming water. Instead of shattering his arms, the water moved to his whim; it split evenly between his two palms.

"Water Style: Water Sword!"

Tobirama swung his hands at Hashirama and the water lurched forward while filing down to the form of two razor thin blades. The blades of water cleaved clean through Hashirama's earthen spikes and continued their trajectory. Hashirama inwardly reprimanded himself for his folly; Tobirama could not be defeated in mastery Water Style techniques.

"Earth Style: Earth Wall!"

The ground in front Hashirama rose to his defense in the shape of solid, earthen wall. The first of Tobirama's blades was handily absorbed, but the second found a weak point that shattered the wall before dispersing. Tobirama came like a blade himself. He sliced through the rubble and delivered a solid blow to his brother's cheek. Before he could continue, a pair of earthen hands latched onto his ankles.

Hashirama quickly regained his composure and back handed his brother hard enough for Tobirama to roll away.

They met again in a clash of fists; no animosity was born between. Rather, a brotherhood was deepened. They moved gracefully around each other in what might have seemed like a dance to an untrained eye. Sword sharpening sword. Once they had blacksmith-ed to their hearts content, the brothers bowed gracefully to each other before sitting beside the river and digging into their dinner.

They joked heartily about times past and times to come.

Then they spoke politics; their frequent outings to the greater cities of Fire Country kept them well informed. The Fire Daimyo continued to hole away in his fortress of marble as the country fell even more to the dogs. Though it could not be said that a single other nation was faring any better. News from the south was that the Uchiha Clan had most suddenly gained an upper hand in their never ending battle against the Fuuma Clan.

They had only met an Uchiha once before; Uchiha were prominent in the southern plains but rare here in the forests. Their father had been alive then, and they had been but boys. The Uchiha had been a man fleeing his clan. Their father had hidden his tracks, protected him and facilitated his escape into Earth Country.

"Do you think …" Tobirama began, "that there's something beyond the Five Countries? Beyond all this war?"

"Wherever, and whenever, you are, there is always war."

The topic then shifted to woman. Tobirama took great pleasure in harassing his elder brother for Hashirama may as well have been an adolescent when faced with a woman with courtship on her mind. But even so relaxed the two were tensely prepared. They knew, both of them, that a figure had been lurking in the foliage since they had begun their dual.

Finally, the figure gained the courage to scuttle out of the trees and move gently towards them. He was a short fellow with a gleaming head and flowing orange and yellow robes

"You watched us long enough to paint a portrait," Tobirama joked.

"Forgive me," the man said, bowing his head, "I didn't wish to disturb you."

"Only to watch us instead?"

"Tobi … be kind," Hashirama said. "You're a monk … of what congregation?"

"The Fire Temple," the monk said. "Our following his small, but our faith is strong. My name is Nezumi, and yours?"

"I'm Hashirama, and this one here is my brother, Tobirama. Forgive his rudeness, but I'm sure you can understand that not many people can handle being spied upon as well as I can. Regardless, it's getting dark. Come with us to our home; surely you've been traveling. We'll feed you, and you'll tell us your intentions."

The sky was an inky black by the time they had reached their home. Distance stars twinkled like diamonds in the sky. Hashirama sat down with food and tea at the central table, across from Nezumi. Tobirama nestled himself in the corner and laid his head gently against a giant, white fur that he cared for like he would his own child.

"You are great warriors," Nezumi said. "I've never seen such immense skill, and I've met my fair share of ninjas. You said you are brothers … how can that be?"

"We only share a mother," Hashirama said. "And it was Tobi's father that trained us to be such excellent practitioners of the art. Anyway, what exactly would a monk want with ninjas?"

"Protection," Nezumi squeaked. "My temple has been under constant pressure from bandits lately. Usually, they are no problem for we are well versed in self defense. Recently, however, the bandits have grown bold and powerful. Both in numbers and in skill. Runaway ninjas have joined their group, and many of us have been killed. I fear they will launch a major assault sometime this week, and I came in search of you."

"Just how did you hear of us?" Tobirama asked.

"I approached the Yamanka Clan for help, and they suggested that I find you," Nezumi answered.

"Well … I am willing to consider it," Hashirama said. "But, this village is our home, and we cannot leave it unless compensation is hefty."

"I understand. I've come bearing fifteen thousand ryu for one week of your protection."

The brothers took leave of him to discuss it elsewhere. Tobirama was suspicious of his intentions, but neither of them could turn down such an offer. Fifteen thousand ryu would be more than enough to cushion the village for the entire winter season. They argued for only a second about who between them would go; Tobirama realized with haste that he probably would not enjoy being in a monastery for a single second. Let alone an entire week.

Nezumi disagreed.

"I won't pay fifteen thousand for only one of you; seven thousand then?"

"One of us will be enough," Hashirama assured him. "Either fifteen thousand, or you'll leave the village alone tomorrow morning."

The monk grudgingly agreed. His monastery was a day's walk away for a normal man, so it was decided they would leave just as the sky turned the dullest gray color. And so they did. They rose early, and Chuuko was told of the transpirings. The old man gladly gave his blessings for the voyage; anything to lessen the blow of the bad harvest and ensure that his status as the villages leader was safe for another winter season.

So that morning, before the sun peaked its head over the horizon, Hashirama rose, donned his finest clothing and grabbed his sword; his final present from their father. Tamago had been a ninja hailing from Water Country, where swords were made the finest.

This particular sword was one of legendary make; the Sword of Kusanagi. Its story dated back to ancient times, when beasts and gods roamed the earth along with men. A great warrior had supposedly pulled the blade from the stomach of a beast he had slain. While Hashirama did not particularly know if he believed the story, he could not deny that the blade was of the finest craftsmanship.

So they took their leave, just as sun rays began to illuminate the village like a flame.

Most of the journey was covered in silence, but they exchanged brief stories every hour or so. Hashirama told Nezumi about his adopted father, and the skills he had ingrained in him. Nezumi told Hashirama of his past; he had been a vagabond and a thief. One day he had been captured stealing and had been doomed to execution. It was then that Mottomo, the head of the Fire Temple, had saved him in exchange for his loyalty to the temple.

Along the way they stopped at a small inn to rest. It was there that Hashirama learned that Nezumi was not the most abstaining monk. While there, the young monk gladly indulged himself in the cheap alcohol and loose woman of the town. The rest of their journey was awkward as Nezumi smelt of alcohol and shame, and many times they had to stop so that he could regain his wits.

Just as the sun began to slink back into darkness, they arrived. The temple was cleverly hidden in three directions by thick foliage, with its front facing an open field of flowers. A set of marble steps lead them up to a large brass gate which was surrounded on each side by two brass figures of Tengu; half-human and half-crow demon creatures. On the gates was what Hashirama recognized as a rudimentary sealing jutsu that kept them locked, and probably had some function of keeping enemies from simply scaling the walls.

Nezumi, now sober and thoroughly ashamed, stepped to the front of the gate and preformed a small ritual. In seconds the gates hummed, and then slowly opened. Then, they walked onto a small field of dirt. The actual temple, a red and white building with brown steps, was right in front of them. They walked over to the steps, where they waited.

Hashirama took a deep breath, and smiled. This place overflowed with … something. He was not quite sure what, but it pleased him.

The doors of the compound slipped open. Two men walked down the brown steps to them. To the right was a short and bald old man with tan skin and narrow eyes; Hashirama immediately identified him as Mottomo. At his side was a man of great stature and piercing eyes.

They bowed deeply, and Hashirama and Nezumi followed suit.

"You've returned," Mottomo said. "Is this the ninja protector whom you called upon?"

"Yes, Master," Nezumi said, bowing his head. "His name is Hashirama, and he is the leader of a small village not too far east of this very temple."

Mottomo turned his gaze to Hashirama, who met it politely.

"How do we know we can trust you?"

"I am a man of my word, first and foremost," Hashirama said. "I have given my word to defend his temple with my life for one week. And for that one week, I shall."

Apparently Mottomo deemed him trustworthy enough, and had his guard, Musei, lead Hashirama into the temple. The walls of the interior were lined with murals; paintings of great battles against great beasts throughout history. Noticeably, the wall bore only one mural of battle between a man and another man, yet it was the most epic of them all.

Musei led Hashirama to a room they had prepared for him. It was small but well lit, and the futon was very comfortable. He noticed immediately that, while the temple grew decidedly silent in the night, it was far from asleep. Monks moved throughout the compound to do their nightly rituals. The shifting of feet and the feeling of wonder that the temple exuded made Hashirama restless.

Without a single monk noticing, he slipped out of his room and out of the compound to the dirt field in front of it. There he sat with his legs crossed and eyes closed … and once again he was able to truly see. This place was alive with nature's energy. He saw the movement within the temple; blobs of chakra with human shape scurrying about.

But then he saw the energy beneath him … it was a deep, endless cavern of, not chakra, but pure energy. No matter how far he looked, he could find no end to it. It was like trying to swim to the bottom of the ocean he eventually rationalized. So, he settled simply for swimming in circles, and finally, he reached out to touch it …

"They say," Mottomo said from behind him, "that humans and animals aren't the only ones possessing chakra. There are people that would argue that everything living or not has some kind of chakra. It doesn't run well with my particular train of thought, but would you agree, Mr. Hashirama?"

"Not chakra," Hashirama said, rising, "but energy … I feel it; it has no alliance, no master. It is its own power. Forgive me, did I arise suspicion?"

"None," Mottomo assured him. "Its just that I've met many ninja in my life … but never have I known a ninja to meditate."

Mottomo led Hashirama back inside the temple, after assuring him that the grounds were being thoroughly surveyed at all times. Back on the way to his room, Hashirama spotted, again, the mural of the two men battling. Mottomo explained that that story was the primary scripture of the beliefs of the monks in the Fire Temple.

The legend said that there were once two brothers who were born long before the era of warring ninja, but yet wielded immense power beyond the scope of any current man's imagination. The brothers bore distinctly different beliefs about how one could acquire ultimate power. The elder brother believed that the ultimate key to power was hatred, and that he could only overcome a truly fearsome enemy by hating them more than they hated him.

The younger brother believed that the ultimate key to power was love, and that he could only overcome a truly fearsome enemy by fighting to protect that which he loved. Their father, an ailing old man, left everything he owned to the younger brother upon his death, for he preferred his method of gaining strength.

For that reason, the elder brother then came to hate his younger brother in the same fashion by which he hated his enemies. That hatred gave him power, and he challenged the younger brother and the younger brother's ideals. The elder brother told his younger brother that if he triumphed in their dual, then he would take the younger brother's wife for his own, and kill his children.

And thus their great dual began; it shook the world. Mountains shattered, seas expanded and the very earth was scarred; yet their power was equal. Finally, the elder brother set his younger brother on fire and gloated for what he thought was victory.

But the younger brother was not defeated for his will to protect his love and his home was much like the fire that attempted to consume him, it was relentless. The younger brother tamed the flames, and used them to obliterate that brother whom he had loved.

Mottomo did not claim that the story was fact; in fact he even implied that it was a fable derived from other fables. But still, Hashirama admitted that there was no denying the power of it. He imagined, for a moment, having to kill his own brother. His blood ran cold at the thought Tobirama's passing, let alone at Tobirama dying by his hands. But, his brother and that which he loved to protect was one in the same, and that gave him a sense of peace.

"The Will of Fire," Mottomo said. "The will to protect that which you love. I love his temple, so I will always be willing to fight for it. And you, Mr. Hashirama? What do you wish to protect?"

Hashirama went to bed with images of the story reeling through his head silently. He saw the two figures, who loved each other no doubt, split apart by a simple matter of ideology. He saw their epic battle: the crumbling mountains, the surging seas … and he wondered, knowing already the answer, how many men of the world had taken the path of the older brother. Hatred was as staple as wheat in Fire Country. It was as natural as water or land on this continent.

And the philosophies of the younger brother? They were hiding away behind foliage in the far corners of Fire Country and were protected by nothing more than an old man and him … for one week. How easy it is for men to chose the path of hatred, he thought, when the path of love provides so much more.

Hashirama's dreams took him back on his journey. He retraced his steps carefully; first he walked through the open field in front of the temple, then he found a trail that meandered recklessly around Tanzaku Gai, then he found the small inn he had stayed in. There he bought tea and smiled at the old lady behind the counter. All the while he was engulfed in flames.

Finally, he found his way back beneath his mountain. But, for the life of him, could not find his village. He sought bare roads and made his way to the mountain-top. There, the sky reflected a deep, violet hue, and he found his villagers gleaming in the darkness, like jewels.

Chapter Edited