Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The forest bled shadows onto the frozen earth, the dusk light a dull smear across the sky. Tobirama stumbled again, one hand pressed hard against the open wound along his ribs. His vision blurred, black creeping in at the edges, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward.

He would not die here.

The Senju border was, he estimated,  a day's march, if he moved fast enough. But the blood trailing behind him marked his passage like a beacon, and he could already feel the flicker of chakra signatures closing in.

Uchiha.

The mission had been simple, a reconnaissance sweep along the southern frontier, well away from contested ground. But a rogue patrol, a hidden trap, a blade he hadn't seen in time. Now he was bleeding out too close to Uchiha borders, his only chance of survival dragging him deeper into enemy reach.

He spat into the dirt and pushed himself onward.

The underbrush clawed at his legs, tearing what little remained of his uniform. Every breath rattled in his chest, shallow and wet, as if his lungs themselves were rebelling. The wound at his side pulsed in time with his heartbeat, sluggish and uneven, a warning he could no longer afford to ignore.

Snow crunched beneath his sandals, half-melted and refrozen into jagged shards. The trees stretched high above him, blackened skeletons against the bruised purple sky. In the dying light, everything seemed sharper, crueler: the cold, the ache in his bones, the knowledge that he was too slow.

Chakra signatures flared brighter now, no longer a vague sense but a searing presence at his back. He stumbled again, one knee giving out completely this time, and hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his body.

For a long moment, Tobirama simply lay there, cheek pressed against the ice-slick earth, his blood staining the snow in wide, ugly blooms. His fingers twitched, reaching instinctively for a kunai he no longer had the strength to wield.

Not yet, he thought, the words thick and leaden in his mind. Not here.

But his body had long since stopped listening to him.

Dimly, from somewhere deep and half-forgotten, he thought of Hashirama. His brother's voice, always too loud, too bright, cutting through the worst of the world like sunlight through a storm. Hashirama would be waiting. Pacing the outer walls, no doubt, hurling orders at anyone who dared suggest Tobirama might not come back.

And Mito,  sharp-eyed, steady, already planning what needed to be done if the worst came to pass. She would not waste time mourning. She would endure. Stay strong for both of them. 

Tobirama felt something twist inside him, something hot and unnameable, too raw to face properly. He had never been particularly good at hope. It had always seemed a foolish, breakable thing, better to rely on strength, on strategy, on the certainty of his own hands.

But now, lying broken and bleeding into the dirt, Tobirama realized hope was all he had left. A bitter laugh caught in his throat, little more than a rasp of breath. 

How pathetic.

The crunch of footsteps through the snow dragged him back to the present,  heavy and sure, fanning out in a wide arc around him. Chakra pressed against his senses, oppressive and thick as storm clouds.

He forced his head up, blinking blood from his eyes. 

"Senju Tobirama," someone said, voice low and amused. "How very generous of you to come to us."

A boot connected sharply with his ribs, flipping him onto his back with a wet crack. Pain exploded through him, sharp enough to rip the world apart for one blinding instant. Still, Tobirama bared his teeth in something close to a smile. 

If they expected him to beg, they'd have to do far worse. They could tear him apart, snap every bone, carve the Senju name from his very flesh. It would not matter

Shapes loomed above him, blurred by blood and failing sight. The world tilted, spinning in and out of focus, but Tobirama could still feel them, two presences so vivid they seemed to burn through the haze.

One was a searing weight, hotter than wildfire, oppressive and inescapable. Madara's chakra rolled off him in heavy waves, suffocating the air, coiling around the clearing like smoke choking the life from everything around it. Even wounded, Tobirama recognized the raw, untamed power that clung to him. Vast and consuming.

Beside him stood another figure, leaner, his chakra sharper, wilder — not a wildfire, but a blade honed to a killing edge. Izuna vibrated with barely-contained violence, his presence like the snap of a bowstring just before it breaks, bright and lethal.

Through the blur, Tobirama caught the glint of their armor, the deep red plates, the coal-black hair, the faint glow of the Sharingan spinning lazily in the dusk.

Predators, both of them. And he was bleeding out at their feet.

"Tch."

Izuna’s boot nudged him, not gently. Tobirama clenched his teeth against another wave of pain as Izuna crouched down, a cruel grin curling across his face.

"Look at you," he said, voice rich with contempt. "The White demon, brought low like a common mutt. Bleeding in the dirt where you belong."

Tobirama didn’t waste the energy to respond. He kept his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Izuna's shoulder, every breath a battle, every heartbeat another victory. Somewhere behind them, another Uchiha, rough-voiced and eager, spoke up.

 "Why waste time? Gut him now."

Izuna laughed, sharp and bright as broken glass. "Gladly." 

He rose, chakra crackling at his fingertips, and reached for his sword.

"Enough."

Madara's voice cut clean through the gathering bloodlust. The crowd stilled as he stepped forward, the weight of his presence dragging the air itself tighter. Madara stood over Tobirama, expression unreadable, the Sharingan burning slow and steady in the dying light.

"Alive," he said, as if stating a simple fact. "He's worth more to us breathing than dead."

Izuna hesitated, clearly displeased. After a long, tense moment, he stepped back, sheathing his blade with a sharp, frustrated motion.

Madara moved instead, slow and deliberate, crouching beside Tobirama with the casual ease of a man who knew he had already won. His hand closed around Tobirama’s arm — an iron grip, brutal and unyielding — and hauled him upright, dragging him into a half-seated sprawl against the frozen earth. The sudden movement sent a jolt of agony lancing through Tobirama’s battered body, his ribs screaming in protest.

Tobirama snarled low in his throat, a ragged, broken sound, and tried to pull away. His limbs refused to obey fully, but he dragged up what strength he could, driven by a refusal deeper than instinct, deeper even than pride.

Around them, the gathered Uchiha laughed, cold and sharp.

Tobirama twisted harder, muscles locking in raw defiance. Madara's grip only tightened, the bones of Tobirama’s arm grinding together beneath his fingers.

His skin crawled under the touch, every nerve screaming protest. He would not be handled like an animal — he would not be taken like some broken trophy.

Madara’s voice was almost amused when he spoke again, low and steady, threading through the cold.

"You're only making it worse for yourself," he said. "But by all means — keep struggling.”

Still holding him upright by the arm, Madara raised his free hand and curled his fingers around Tobirama’s jaw, bruisingly hard, forcing his head up. Tobirama fought him blindly, teeth gritted, body bucking weakly against the iron hold. The world blurred at the edges — pain, exhaustion, fury folding in on themselves — but still he fought. Chakra slammed down against him like a rising tide, cold and suffocating.

"Look at me," Madara ordered, and the Sharingan flared to brutal, burning life.

Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut, breath rasping through clenched teeth. He twisted his face away, denying him, fighting the pull with the last shreds of his strength.

Madara was relentless. His grip bruised deeper into Tobirama’s jaw, fingers digging like claws, hauling his face back around. 

"Look," Madara said again, softer now. Coaxing, almost gentle, and infinitely more terrible for it.

The Sharingan caught him at last.

Tobirama felt the world seize and lurch sideways. The forest, the broken sky, the biting cold of the snow beneath him, all peeled away in slow, stuttering pieces.

He shuddered once, a final twitch of resistance, before all the tension bled from his frame. 

Tobirama collapsed like a puppet with the strings cut, sagging fully against the iron grip still locked around his arm. Madara caught him without visible effort, shifting his hold before Tobirama could crumple entirely onto the frozen earth. For a moment, he simply stared down at the Senju, the bloodstained armor, the limp body still radiating a stubborn defiance even in unconsciousness.

"Get a runner to the compound," Madara said, his voice low and steady. "Tell them to have the medics ready."

A soft shuffle of boots. One of the Uchiha peeled away from the loose ring surrounding them and vanished into the trees, chakra flaring briefly before being swallowed by the gathering dark.

Madara adjusted his grip again, sliding his arms more securely beneath Tobirama's knees and shoulders. The Senju weighed heavily against him, all blood and cracked bone and battered pride.  Madara lifted him with smooth, unhurried strength, cradling the limp form against his chest.

For a heartbeat, he studied the pale, blood-smeared face tucked against his shoulder, unreadable beneath the burning spin of his eyes. Then he turned without ceremony and began the march home, boots crunching through frostbitten earth. 

The others fell in silently behind him, a dark procession winding back into the woods, their shadows stretching long across the snow under the first bleed of starlight. Above them, the sky deepened into a bruised black, the cold biting deeper with every step.

---

The compound gates swung open without ceremony, the guards already braced for their arrival. Lanterns burned low in the corners.

Madara strode through without slowing, Tobirama’s limp weight cradled against him. The assembled Uchiha warriors stepped aside in silence, heads turning to track the bloody procession.

A small team of medics was already waiting, kneeling beside a pallet laid out in the center of the courtyard — a rough thing, hastily constructed from spare wood and blankets.

Madara knelt smoothly, lowering Tobirama onto the pallet with a care that was neither gentle nor cruel. Simply efficient. The Senju’s armor scraped against the wood, blood smearing dark streaks across the rough planks.

The medics surged forward immediately, hands glowing with chakra as they began their work. Cloaks were peeled away, cracked armor cut free. One muttered a curse under his breath as the extent of Tobirama's injuries became clear.

Broken ribs. Torn muscle. Deep punctures. Blood loss severe enough that it was a miracle he was still breathing.

And yet Tobirama's chest rose and fell — shallow, stubborn.

Madara straightened, dusting frost from his gloves with slow, deliberate movements. Nearby, Izuna hovered with a scowl carved deep into his features, arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

Hikaku arrived at a brisk pace, drawn by the commotion, his brows already furrowed in suspicion. His gaze swept over the scene, the broken Senju sprawled across the pallet, the tense set of the medics’ shoulders, the bloody trail still staining the snow behind them, before settling squarely on Madara.

"What the hell is Tobirama Senju doing here?" Hikaku demanded, voice low and sharp.

Izuna barked a short, mirthless laugh, shaking his head in disgust. "I wanted to kill him," he said, glowering at the limp form on the pallet. "Would've been cleaner."

Madara's expression didn’t change. His arms folded loosely across his chest, stance loose but unmistakably final.

"Dead, he’s just another casualty. Alive, he’s leverage."

Hikaku’s mouth thinned into a hard line. For a long moment, he said nothing, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching along his cheekbone.

He didn’t agree, that much was clear. But Hikaku was loyal to a fault, his discipline carved into him deeper than doubt. Orders were orders.

“Understood," he said finally, the word clipped, crisp. He turned toward the courtyard without hesitation. "There’s space in the old holding cells beneath the southern training ground. Reinforced stone, minimal access. We’ll prepare it."

He paused, glancing back at Tobirama's still form. "We’ll need to restrain him. Properly. If he wakes before we’re ready, it’ll be a bloodbath."

Madara inclined his head once, approval, or at least acknowledgment, and Hikaku moved off, barking quiet orders to the nearest cluster of warriors.

Around the courtyard, the Uchiha moved like dark, silent currents, already snapping into motion.

"He's stable enough for transport," one of the medics muttered after a tense minute, voice low and grudging. His hands hovered just above Tobirama’s chest, chakra glowing faint and unsteady where it seeped into torn flesh.

"Stable," another scoffed under his breath. "Barely. It’ll be hard to chain up a man who's an inch from death."

Madara said nothing. He didn’t need to. The medics fell silent under the weight of his stare, and after a moment, set about their work with grim efficiency.

The worst of Tobirama's armor had already been stripped away — the shattered breastplate discarded, blood-soaked underlayers sliced open to grant the medics access. His body was a patchwork of hastily closed wounds, deep bruises already blooming across his ribs and shoulders.

Two guards stepped forward at Hikaku’s nod, lifting the pellet  between them with the practiced impersonal hands. The Senju hung limply in their grip, white hair matted against his forehead.

The walk to the lower compound was brisk and silent, the faint torchlight along the stone corridors throwing long, twisted shadows that danced over the walls.

The old holding cells lay beneath the training grounds, half-forgotten, half-frozen, built for function, not comfort. The air turned colder still as they descended, the stone slick with condensation, the smell of damp earth heavy in the throat.

A heavy iron door stood at the end of the hallway, banded in rusted steel. Above the frame, someone had already scrawled a crude suppressor seal in thick, messy strokes of ink,  not elegant work, but functional enough. It hummed faintly with power, pressing down like a weight against the senses.

"The seal will hold," Hikaku said shortly, noticing Madara’s glance. "It’s not refined, but in his state..." His mouth curled briefly, almost grim. "He won’t be breaking it."

The heavy door groaned open, the faint light of the torches spilling into the small, barren cell beyond.

It was a room stripped of anything unnecessary — four rough stone walls, a floor worn smooth by years of damp and use. A crude iron cot was bolted into one corner, little more than a slab with a thin, ragged mattress stretched over it. Beside it, tucked against the far wall, sat a cracked, utilitarian basin and an ancient toilet built directly into the stone, a grudging concession to basic needs.

In the center of the room, a thick iron ring was embedded deep into the floor, heavy chain links coiled beside it. The guards moved, their faces grim. They hauled Tobirama onto the cot with little ceremony. He slumped sideways at first, unconscious and unresisting, until they wrestled him roughly into place.

Thick leather cuffs closed around his wrists, binding them tightly together in front of him. A length of chain was fed through the iron ring and attached to the cuffs, allowing for some movement. Enough to sit, to lie down, to stand and walk to the sink, but nothing more.

His legs were secured separately. A heavy shackle around each ankle, each attached to its own short length of chain bolted into the center of the room. The iron was cold against his skin, leeching heat from the bruised flesh beneath it.

Madara watched in silence as the last of the chains were secured, the guards stepping back with grim finality.

"Double the guard on this level," he said at last, voice low and final, cutting through the thick, damp air. "I don't want so much as a whisper getting past that door."

Hikaku nodded once, sharp and wordless, already turning to relay the order down the line. Satisfied, Madara let his gaze linger for a brief moment longer, on the battered figure chained to the cot, on the slow, shallow rise and fall of a chest that refused to still, before he turned without another word.

His footsteps were near-silent on the damp stone as he left the cell behind, the faint hum of the chakra suppressor following him like a living thing. Behind him, the heavy door groaned shut, the locks clattering into place with a deep, final sound that echoed down the corridor.

The cold swallowed the hallway once more, leaving only stone, silence, and the quiet drip of water from somewhere unseen.

---

They reconvened in one of the smaller rooms just off the main hall of Madara’s residence, the air still heavy with frost dragged in from outside. Heavy beams creaked overhead as the compound settled into uneasy night.

Madara stood near the hearth, his arms folded loosely across his chest, the red glow of the embers from the fire pit in the core painting the edges of his armor in dull copper light. Hikaku lingered near the doorway, stiff-backed and grim, his expression carved from stone. Izuna paced like a restless wolf, the sword at his hip rattling lightly with every sharp step.

"For the record," Izuna said, breaking the brittle silence, "this is a shit idea."

"Noted."

Izuna scowled, throwing himself into one of the low chairs with a graceless sprawl. He leaned back, one boot propped against the edge of the fire pit, radiating all the casual insolence of a man who would obey but refused to look like he enjoyed it.

"I'm serious, aniki," he said, tipping his head back to glare up at the beams. "We should've put a sword through his throat and been done with it. No risks. No complications. No Senju crawling through our territory looking for blood."

Hikaku made a low sound of agreement, barely more than a grunt. "You’re gambling with a lot," he said, glancing toward Madara. "If the Senju come for him, we could end up with war at our doorstep."

Madara finally moved, slow and deliberate, stepping out of the fire's reach into deeper shadow. His eyes caught the light for a moment, gleaming red as coals banked against ash.

"The Senju have been begging for peace," he said, voice low and even. "Hashirama's sent no fewer than six messengers this past season alone, offering treaties, truces, talks. Always talks."

He smiled then, a thin, cold thing.

"They want peace. Fine. We'll give them a reason to sign."

Izuna scoffed, dragging his boot down from the fire pit with an ugly screech of metal on stone. "You think dangling his brother like a carcass on a hook is going to make Hashirama roll over?"

"Not roll over," Madara said. "Bend. There’s a difference."

Hikaku crossed his arms, his frown deepening. "You’re assuming they'll negotiate. Assuming they won't just burn half the countryside to get him back."

"Hashirama might," Madara allowed. "But Hashirama isn't the only voice in the Senju clan. There are elders. Cousins. Leaders who are tired of blood and loss. Tired enough to cut a deal — if we apply the right pressure."

He paused, letting that sink in. The fire popped softly, spitting a few sparks into the cold air.

"Tobirama," he continued, almost thoughtful now, "is more than just a brother. He’s the heir. Their top general. The architect behind half their walls and their machines. Losing him would cripple them, strategically and politically."

Izuna slouched lower, glowering into the fire like it had personally offended him. "You're putting a lot of faith in cowards and elders," he muttered. "Better men than them have slit their own throats rather than give us the satisfaction."

Madara tilted his head slightly, the curve of his mouth sharp as a knife.

"Perhaps," he said. "But Tobirama isn’t dead yet. And he’s worth far more alive. Bleeding, humiliated, visible, than he would be cooling in a grave."

He stepped back toward the fire, the heat throwing a harsh glow across the hard line of his jaw.

"Let them see what it costs," Madara said, soft and vicious. "Let them understand."

For a moment, no one spoke. The room seemed to tighten around the three of them, the stone walls pressing closer, the fire casting long, flickering shadows that danced and twisted in the corners. Finally, Izuna huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a snarl, and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he said, throwing his hands up. "Fine. But when this explodes in our faces, I get to say I told you so."

"You always say that," Hikaku said under his breath.

Izuna grinned, sharp and wolfish, the firelight catching in his teeth. "Yeah, but this time it'll be extra smug."

Madara’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough that Hikaku blinked in faint surprise.

"Prepare the message," Madara said, his voice snapping back to command, slicing cleanly through the momentary lull. "We’ll send a hawk to the Senju compound — once Tobirama awakens."

A thin, sharp smile ghosted across his mouth, gone before it fully formed.

"Let them stew for a bit."

Hikaku shifted his weight slightly, the movement scraping faintly against the stone floor. His eyes narrowed, the soldier in him already moving three steps ahead.

"And what exactly," Hikaku asked dryly, "are we offering?"

Madara turned, the movement deliberate, precise, as he stepped closer to the fire. The flames threw his shadow long against the far wall, a jagged silhouette in the half-light.

"Simple," Madara said. "Request a meeting. Neutral ground. Tell them we have Tobirama, and that we are prepared to return him — on our terms."

Izuna let out a low, disbelieving laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. "You make it sound so simple." he muttered. " Here’s your brother back, hope you don’t mind a few broken bones. "

Hikaku's mouth twitched, almost despite himself.

Madara ignored them both, his gaze distant, calculating. "We won't demand the impossible. Not yet. Concessions. Territory."

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming beneath the heavy fall of his hair.

"A binding treaty. No skirmishes for the next five years."

Izuna made a rude noise low in his throat. The fire popped again, a sharp crack in the heavy quiet. The wind howled low against the outer walls, a reminder of the cold waiting beyond the fire’s reach.

Hikaku nodded slowly, though doubt still shadowed his features. "I’ll start drafting the terms," he said. "Formal enough to look serious. Threatening enough they won't think it’s a bluff."

"Good," Madara said. His eyes flickered toward Izuna, who was slouched so far back in his chair now he was practically horizontal. "You , " he said, voice sharpening, "will oversee security."

Izuna raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh, me ? Lucky me."

Madara didn't so much as blink. "I want three teams watching the Senju border. Patrols doubled inside the compound. No surprises."

Izuna sighed loudly, dragging himself upright with exaggerated effort. "You're really no fun, you know that?" He scrubbed a hand through his hair again, the firelight catching on the thin scars along his knuckles. "All this plotting and scheming. I miss when we just stabbed people and called it a day."

Madara’s lips quirked in something that might have been amusement.

"This is how we win."

Izuna rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue further. He just shoved to his feet, clapping Hikaku roughly on the shoulder as he passed.

"Come on, old man," he said. "Let’s go write love letters to the Senju."

Hikaku grunted, tolerating the jibe with the grim patience of a man who had long since stopped bothering to correct Izuna’s mouth. The two of them headed toward the door, their footsteps echoing briefly before being swallowed by the stone.

Outside, the storm gathered.

Inside, Madara remained where he was, unmoving. He stared into the heart of the fire, its red core pulsing low and steady, the heat licking against the cold in stubborn defiance.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned like a slow, grinding tide, dragging Tobirama up from the depths of oblivion inch by agonizing inch.

He surfaced into darkness first. Not the cool, open dark of the forest, but something heavier, pressing against his skin like damp stone. His body ached in too many places to catalogue, a dull, throbbing cacophony of pain that made his heart stutter and his breath catch weakly in his throat.

He lay still for a long moment, disoriented, every muscle trembling with the effort of simply existing. Something cold and unyielding encircled his wrists, biting into abraded skin, and when he shifted — experimentally, gingerly — iron clinked softly in response.

Chains.

Memory surged in fits and starts. Blood on the snow. Uchiha boots looming. Madara's iron grip. The cruel flare of Sharingan light scorching through the fog of his mind.

Tobirama forced his eyes open, a sluggish blink against the heavy weight dragging at his eyelids. The world that greeted him was grim and spare, the torchlight from the corridor leaking in faint and watery around the edges of the heavy door. His breath fogged faintly in the cold, each inhale rattling in his chest.

The cot beneath him was little more than a slab, and even through the threadbare mattress, he could feel every uneven groove in the stone. His arms were drawn tight in front of him, wrists shackled together. Separate chains shackled each ankle in turn.

Movement was possible, but just barely. 

Pain lanced through his ribs as he shifted, sharp and immediate, and he gritted his teeth against the sound that tried to escape his throat. The medics had done something, he realized distantly. The bleeding had slowed, at least, and he could feel the ghost of crude chakra work stitched across his worst injuries. 

Just enough to keep him breathing. Nothing more.

Tobirama exhaled slowly, letting his head fall back against the cold stone wall behind him. His thoughts were sluggish, disjointed, as if they too had been wrapped in iron and chained down.

Suppressor seals, he realized after a moment. He could feel their hum now. A heavy pressure against his senses, a low, thrumming note that set his teeth on edge. His chakra was there, still his, but distant, muffled, like trying to grasp smoke with broken hands.

The Uchiha had been thorough.

He let his gaze sweep the cell again, cataloguing with mechanical precision: one door, heavy and iron-banded. No windows. No ventilation grates large enough to exploit. One basin in the corner, cracked and half-frozen. One ancient toilet. No tools, no weapons, no leverage.

Movement was agony, but surrender was worse.

Grimacing, Tobirama braced one cuffed hand against the cot and levered himself upright inch by grueling inch, dragging his chains taut. He managed to push himself into a rough sitting position, his back thudding against the cold stone wall. Sweat slicked his temples despite the freezing air.

He stayed like that, panting shallowly, willing the world to stop spinning around him.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside, slow and deliberate, and Tobirama stiffened instinctively, every exhausted nerve ending sparking with warning. He drew what little strength he could into his battered frame, jaw tightening, muscles locking beneath the torn and bloodstained remains of his uniform.

The footsteps paused outside the door.

A long moment of silence stretched out, taut and heavy. Tobirama could almost taste the presence beyond the iron, familiar in a way that sent a fresh spike of anger twisting low in his gut.

Madara.

The lock groaned. The door swung open with a slow, deliberate scrape.

Madara stepped inside, haloed by the flickering torchlight. He looked much the same as he had in the clearing. Red armor scuffed but intact, dark eyes glinting with an unreadable light behind the fall of his hair. His expression was composed, almost casual, but Tobirama could feel the weight behind it.

Madara closed the door behind him with a soft thud, sealing the cold in with them. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Tobirama lifted his chin a fraction, despite the screaming protest of his ribs. He would meet this with open eyes, with iron in his spine, no matter what else they took from him.

"Awake, then," Madara said at last, his voice low and rough-edged. "Good."

He crossed the room in a few unhurried steps and stood in front of the cot, just out of reach, if Tobirama had the strength to reach at all.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to die after all," Madara said, almost conversational, as if commenting on the weather.

Tobirama said nothing. Words were precious right now. Every breath burned.

Madara studied him in silence for a long moment, the flickering firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, the faint curl of his mouth.

"You're resilient," he said finally, almost musing. "I'll give you that."

Tobirama forced a slow, shallow breath past his teeth. He held Madara's gaze, unflinching.

"You should have killed me," he rasped, his voice little more than a broken whisper, rough with blood and exhaustion.

Madara's smile widened slightly, not kind. Not even amused.

"No," he said, soft and sure, like a blade slipping between ribs. "This is better."

The fire outside the door guttered low, throwing long shadows that danced across the stone walls, twisting around them both.

Tobirama closed his eyes briefly, gathering what remained of his will.

"Whatever you want," he said, voice like broken glass, "you won't get it."

Madara tilted his head slightly, considering him.

"We'll see."

The chains rattled softly as Tobirama shifted, trying to draw himself upright against the wall, refusing the posture of defeat even now. Every muscle in his body screamed, but he forced the movement anyway, his breath harsh and ragged in the close air.

Madara watched him with that same distant, unreadable expression, like he was observing a wounded creature testing the limits of its cage.

"Get used to this, Senju," Madara said finally. His shadow loomed long across the cot. "You're going to be here for a while."

He turned without waiting for a reply, his cloak whispering against the stone as he strode toward the door. 

Tobirama's fingers curled into the tattered blanket beneath him, white-knuckled with effort.

---

Time blurred into something formless after Madara left, a slow crawl of pain and cold that dragged at Tobirama's mind until even clinging to consciousness felt like trying to hold water in broken hands.

He drifted in and out, anchored only by the relentless ache in his body and the iron bite of the chains binding him. Dreams and memory twisted together in fevered flashes. Snow underfoot, blood on his tongue, Madara’s voice curling around his thoughts like smoke.

The door clanked open again at some point, minutes later, hours, he couldn’t tell. The scrape of boots against stone loud in the drowning quiet.

Tobirama forced his eyes open with effort, squinting into the flickering light.

A young Uchiha stepped through, carrying a battered wooden tray. His face was wary, mouth set in a grim line. He kept his gaze averted, as if Tobirama’s very presence might scorch him.

The tray was deposited with a graceless clatter at the entrance of the cell. A chipped bowl of thin, watery broth, a hunk of stale bread, and a battered cup of what might have once been tea, now cold and bitter-smelling.

The Uchiha did not linger. He retreated immediately, shutting the door with a heavy finality that rattled the chains bolted to the floor.

Tobirama stared at the tray without moving.

He couldn't have reached it if he'd tried.

Deliberate, then. Psychological warfare stitched into every detail. Even in this, they would deny him dignity.

A bitter sound caught low in his throat.  Something between a laugh and a cough, but it died quickly, swallowed by the cold.

The next time the door opened, it wasn’t a faceless boy carrying scraps.

It was a medic.

Older, with sharp, impersonal eyes and hands that radiated a sterile, professional kind of cruelty. He knelt beside the cot without preamble, and began his work with brusque efficiency.

Rough fingers prodded at half-healed wounds, tearing shallow gasps from Tobirama’s throat despite himself. Splintered ribs were checked, bandages were tugged loose and replaced. Bruises were pressed until new blood welled up beneath the skin.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

Pain bloomed anew across Tobirama's battered frame, white-hot and blinding, but he gritted his teeth and bore it in silence. He would not give them the satisfaction of a sound.

When the medic finished, deeming him, apparently, still marginally useful, he rose without ceremony and swept out of the cell. Leaving behind only the faint metallic tang of blood.

Silence reclaimed the stone once more.

Tobirama sagged back against the wall, every breath a shallow, rattling effort.

He barely registered the third arrival.

The door banged open this time. Not the careful, wary creak of before, but a casual, careless shove that slammed against the stone wall and rebounded.

Boots scraped lazily across the floor. A familiar presence coiled into the room, sharp, wild.

Izuna.

Tobirama didn't lift his head immediately. He refused to waste the energy. Instead, he watched from beneath lowered lashes as Izuna sauntered closer, arms folded loosely across his chest, his mouth already curved in a mocking grin.

"Well, well," Izuna drawled, voice rich with cruel amusement. "Still breathing. Disappointing, but not surprising."

Tobirama shifted slightly, drawing his legs in closer to the cot's frame, an instinctive guard more than anything meaningful. His chains rattled faintly, a hollow sound in the close air.

Izuna crouched beside the cot, all restless malice.

"You look like shit," he said cheerfully. "Smell worse, too."

Tobirama said nothing. He kept his gaze steady, his breathing slow.

Izuna clicked his tongue mockingly. "What's the matter, demon? No clever quips? No self-righteous lectures about honor and war crimes?"

He leaned in closer, until Tobirama could see the faint flicker of his Sharingan spinning lazily through his peripheral vision. 

"Does it kill you?" he whispered, smile widening. "Knowing we could kill you right here, right now — and nobody could stop us? That your precious brother would find nothing left but a corpse with a broken neck?"

Tobirama's eyes snapped open, pale and searing, the fury there enough to cut through the fog of pain. He lifted his head slowly, chains rattling at the deliberate motion, and pinned Izuna with a look so cold it burned.

"Careful," Tobirama said, voice soft and dangerous. "You're not nearly strong enough to speak his name."

Izuna barked a laugh, sharp and mocking, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A flash of something Tobirama caught and filed away instantly.

"You really think he's coming for you?" Izuna sneered, prowling closer. "Think he’ll march through our gates, tear it all apart for your sake?"

Tobirama didn’t rise to the bait. Not directly. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Izuna the way a man might study a rotting animal carcass, with faint, clinical disdain.

"Jealousy doesn’t suit you," he said, voice a little rough from disuse but cutting all the same. 

Izuna's grin twitched, the easy amusement faltering for a heartbeat.

"You don’t know what you're talking about," he snapped.

Tobirama smiled, thin, bloodless, cruel.

"I know exactly what I’m talking about," he murmured. "You hate him for it, don’t you? The way Madara looks at him. The way your precious aniki saves his respect…for Hashirama."

Izuna’s chakra flared sharp and hot, rattling faintly against the suppressor seals lining the room. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a grin too sharp to be anything but a snarl in disguise.

"You think you're clever, Senju," he said, low and venomous. "Sitting there in chains, half-dead, and still trying to claw your way higher."

Tobirama's smile didn't falter. It deepened.

"Better a half-dead Senju," he said lightly, "than an Uchiha."

Izuna’s fists curled at his sides, the crack of leather gloves flexing tight over his knuckles loud in the tense, frozen air.

"You don't know anything." 

Tobirama arched an eyebrow, slow and disdainful.

"I know enough," he said. "You're here, frothing at the mouth, because no matter what you do, Madara will always be looking past you — for him."

Izuna surged forward, grabbing the front of Tobirama’s tattered shirt, hauling him upright against the chains with brutal force. Pain exploded through Tobirama’s ribs, but he bit down on the sound clawing up his throat.

“I’m not the one living in someone’s shadow,” Izuna hissed, voice raw with fury. “Maybe you’re just projecting.”

Tobirama didn’t resist. He let Izuna hold him there, limp and unbothered, blood drying at the corner of his mouth.

"Look at you," Izuna snarled, shaking him once, hard enough to send another lance of pain through Tobirama's battered form. "Reduced to nothing. Not a warrior, not a leader — just a bargaining chip.”

Silence slammed into the room after the words, hard and absolute. Izuna's eyes widened just a fraction, the barest flicker of regret crossing his face,  but it was already too late.

Tobirama’s smile sharpened into something cold and victorious.

"Ah," he said softly. "There it is."

Izuna shoved him back with a vicious curse, the chains clanging as Tobirama slumped hard against the stone wall, the breath knocked from his lungs.

"You Uchiha," he murmured,thin and breathless, "always so predictable when you're angry. Spill every secret the moment someone tugs the right leash."

"You won’t be so smug when you're dragged to the meeting like a dog on a chain," Izuna spat.

Tobirama only watched him, unblinking.

"I wonder," he said idly, "if Madara will have you standing behind him at the talks. Or will he hide you away, like the embarrassment you are?"

Izuna looked like he might leap at him, fury breaking through the tight leash of command, but a sharp bark of a voice from the corridor outside made him stiffen, spine straightening.

Someone was calling him. Summoning him away before he could dig himself in deeper.

Izuna glared down at Tobirama, every line of his body vibrating with pent-up rage.

"You'll regret this," he hissed.

Tobirama tilted his head mockingly.

"I’m sure."

With a final snarl, Izuna spun on his heel and stormed from the cell, the door slamming hard enough behind him that flakes of stone dust drifted down from the ceiling.

---

Izuna stormed into Madara's study without knocking, a scowl carved deep across his face and his hair still bristling with fury.

Madara didn’t look up from the map he was marking, the soft scratch of his brush steady and unhurried. Izuna slammed the door behind him anyway, hard enough that the ink trembled in its pot.

"He's insufferable," Izuna snapped, pacing like a caged wolf. "Arrogant, stubborn, smug — he’s chained to a wall, half-dead, and still mouthing off!."

Madara set the brush down with a soft click, exhaling through his nose.

He waited.

Izuna spun on his heel, jabbing a finger toward the door as if Tobirama could feel the accusation from floors away. "He— he said— he thinks he’s better than us. He said—" Izuna cut himself off, snarling under his breath, too furious even to form the words properly.

Madara finally looked up, dark eyes heavy with long-suffering patience.

"What did you say," he asked, voice dry as bone, "to make him think that?"

Izuna bristled immediately. "Nothing important," he snapped. "He twisted my words — like he always does. He—"

He hesitated.

Madara’s mouth twitched. Not in amusement. In grim, inevitable understanding.

"You told him what we had planned." he said, tone flat and resigned.

Izuna’s jaw clenched. His silence was answer enough.

Madara dragged a hand down his face, slow and tired, like a man who had seen this exact disaster approaching from a hundred leagues away and still couldn’t get out of its path.

" Of course you did," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Izuna scowled, defensive. "He provoked me! Talking about Hashirama — about how you— about—"

He broke off again, teeth grinding audibly.

Madara leaned back against the table. His expression was carved from stone, faintly incredulous, mostly exhausted.

"You do realize," he said, very mildly, "that Tobirama has exactly two weapons left to him. Words and pride. And you handed him both."

Izuna’s face darkened, but Madara only shook his head, some of the sharpness bleeding out of him, leaving behind a weariness that sat heavy across his shoulders.

"You’re predictable when you’re angry," Madara said, not unkindly. Almost like a reminder. "And he knows it."

Izuna muttered something under his breath that sounded distinctly obscene.

The door creaked open again, more controlled this time. Hikaku stepped inside, his presence steady, practical. A grounding contrast to the lingering crackle of Izuna’s temper. He inclined his head in a brief nod toward Madara, ignoring Izuna entirely.

"The hawk is ready," Hikaku said, tone brisk. "Message secured and sealed. Do we send it?"

Madara exhaled slowly through his nose, as if physically dragging himself back to the present. His gaze flicked once to the small scroll resting in Hikaku's hand. A plain thing, outwardly unremarkable. The future of the clan bound in a few tight twists of parchment and ink.

"Send it," Madara said. His voice was low but firm, brooking no argument. "It’ll take at least another day to reach the Senju compound in any case."

Hikaku nodded sharply and turned on his heel without wasting a breath, already moving to carry out the order.

At the doorway, he paused.

"There’s another matter," he added, glancing back, mouth twisting faintly in something almost like dry humor. "The guards on the lower cells are asking if we’re expecting... further outbursts."

Madara dragged a hand down his face again, slower this time, wearier.

He cast a long, resigned look at Izuna, who immediately bristled.

"I suppose," Madara said, tone flat and faintly dangerous, "I should go deal with the mess personally."

Izuna straightened, outrage flashing across his face. "Hey!" he snapped. "You make it sound like it’s my fault!"

Madara shot him a look so sharp it could have flayed skin from bone. Izuna folded his arms across his chest, the motion stiff and defensive, his mouth pulling into a mutinous line.

By the door, Hikaku shifted his weight, the barest scrape of sandal against stone. He lifted a hand halfway to his mouth, a short, aborted cough smothered into his fist. He quickly smoothed his face back into impassive lines and slipped from the room without further comment, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

Madara pushed away from the table with deliberate slowness, the brush and ink forgotten. His armor whispered faintly with the movement, leather and steel shifting as he turned toward the door.

He didn’t look back. 

"Next time," he said over his shoulder, voice smooth and cutting, " don’t engage with prisoners we’re using as leverage."

Izuna huffed loudly, kicking at the leg of a nearby chair with the heel of his boot. "Next time," he muttered, "don’t put me on babysitting duty."

Madara was already gone, his footsteps steady and inexorable as he headed toward the lower cells, the cold stone corridors swallowing his silhouette.

---

The guards straightened as Madara  passed, their faces schooled into impassivity, though their eyes followed him with barely veiled wariness. The heavy door groaned open under his hand, the chakra suppressor humming low and steady against his skin like a warning bell.

The air inside the cell was sharper, thinner somehow. The scent of blood lingered, iron and salt heavy in the back of the throat.

Tobirama was awake.

Barely, but awake.  Propped stiffly against the stone wall like a man too proud to let collapse claim him, even when his body clearly begged for it. He didn’t move as Madara entered. Save for the slow, stubborn lift of his head. As if daring Madara to strike the first blow.

Madara let the door fall shut behind him. He said nothing at first. Simply stood there, letting the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, until even the dim torchlight seemed to lean inward.

Tobirama endured the weight of his gaze without flinching. But Madara, ever precise, could see the minute tremors in his fingers. The way his breath rattled shallowly in his chest. The tight, controlled lines of his body, stitched together with pain and pride and sheer force of will.

It would have been impressive.

If it weren’t so stupid.

Madara crossed the room slowly, the quiet scrape of his boots against stone impossibly loud in the stillness. He stopped just outside the reach of the chains. 

"You," Madara said quietly, "have been busy."

Tobirama said nothing. His breathing rasped low in his throat, but he held Madara’s gaze with a steadiness that spoke of iron buried deep beneath the broken surface. Madara’s mouth curved into something slight, almost  resembling amusement.

"Izuna," he continued, tone light as frost, "is still sulking."

The silence between them stretched, weighty and dangerous. Tobirama didn’t smile, but there was the faintest flicker of something in his expression. The shadow of satisfaction quickly strangled into stillness.

Most would have missed it. Madara was not most.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the hem of his cloak brushed the outermost edge of the chains coiled around Tobirama's ankles. Tobirama stiffened fractionally, his body tightening instinctively against the proximity, against the pressure of Madara’s chakra filling the cramped air.

Madara studied him in silence, letting the moment stew, letting Tobirama feel the weight of the eyes on him, the raw calculation clicking silently through every heartbeat.

"You push," Madara said at last, voice soft and speculative, "because you think you can still shift the battlefield from inside these walls."

Tobirama's fingers curled minutely against the chain links, the metal whispering faintly under his touch.

Not denial. Not confirmation. Just that same, burning, silent defiance.

Madara crouched in front of him, slow and sure, until they were eye to eye, breath to breath.

The torchlight threw deep shadows across Madara’s face, hollowing his cheeks, catching the gleam of his eyes as something dark and bottomless.

"You are clever," Madara said, almost thoughtfully. "But you are not omnipotent. And you are not untouchable."

He reached out and very lightly brushed his fingertips along the chain connecting Tobirama’s wrists. The contact was feather-light, almost tender.

It was worse than a blow.

The chain shivered under the touch, a bright, metallic sound that seemed to echo forever in the cold, damp air.

"You are here," Madara said, voice dropping to something soft and lethal, "because I allow it. You live because I permit it."

The chain between Tobirama's wrists swayed once, a hollow, mocking sound against the stone. For a long, heavy moment, Tobirama said nothing.

Then he lifted his head another fraction. The battered line of his mouth carving into something dangerous.

"And you," Tobirama rasped, voice raw but steady, "are here because you need me."

Madara's eyes narrowed, faintly, a glint catching deep in the coal of them. He leaned in a breath closer, close enough that the faint scent of blood and cold sweat hung between them.

"Need," Madara echoed, as if tasting the word and finding it lacking. "Is a strong word."

Tobirama gave a low, rough laugh, broken at the edges but viciously alive.

"Call it what you like," he murmured. "You're still standing in a cell, speaking to a man you would rather see dead." 

Madara’s mouth curved, slow and razor-thin.

“You’re a useful bargaining chip, Senju. Nothing more.”

Tobirama tilted his head, pale eyes gleaming faintly in the torchlight. "Useful," he echoed, weighing the word on his tongue. His voice was rough, but steady. "That's a dangerous thing to call a prisoner."

Madara’s smile deepened, subtle and edged. "Useful things are preserved," he said, almost idly. "Valued. Protected — if only for the leverage they offer."

He reached out again and let the backs of his knuckles brush the torn fabric of Tobirama’s sleeve. Not a touch meant to comfort. A touch meant to remind.

Tobirama’s body locked against the instinct to recoil, the chains rattling softly as tension sang through every battered line of him. Madara withdrew his hand without hurry, his gaze heavy, assessing.

"But," he continued, voice a lazy drawl that belied the sharpness underneath, "things can be broken. Even useful ones."

Tobirama’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smirk if it weren’t so bloodied at the edges.

"You should worry less about breaking me," he said, low and cutting, "and more about whether you can live with the consequences."

"Careful, Senju," he murmured, straightening with a slow, easy roll of his shoulders. His presence filled the room like a storm gathering weight. "You might find," Madara continued, glancing down at him "that chains suit you after all."

Tobirama didn’t move. Didn’t blink.  Just met Madara’s gaze with that same slow, burning patience, the kind of endurance that did not come from arrogance but from the stubborn, ugly will to survive anything.

Madara exhaled quietly through his nose, a sound more acknowledgment than dismissal.

For a moment, he lingered there, standing over Tobirama, the chain between them swaying faintly in the cold, damp air. Madara’s mouth curved,thin and private.

"You’re not nearly as irreplaceable as you think" he said, voice low and even.

Tobirama’s lip curled.

"Neither," he rasped, "are you."

Madara let his gaze drag over Tobirama, slow and deliberate. The wreckage of him — the bruises blooming dark beneath his skin, the tremor in his shoulders he fought so viciously to hide, the chains biting red into his wrists — none of it could quite mask the raw, molten thing that still burned in him.

Madara let the silence stretch another moment, savoring the tautness of it, the crackle of iron will against iron will. Then, with a faint rustle of heavy fabric, he turned, the sweep of his cloak whispering against the stone as he moved toward the door.

His hand paused briefly on the iron handle, fingers flexing once, almost idly.

"Rest well, Senju," Madara said, voice smooth as cut stone. "You'll need it."

The door groaned open under his hand, spilling colder air into the cell, and for one heartbeat, Madara let the moment hang there — as if daring Tobirama to speak again, to strike at his retreating back.

Tobirama, wisely or stubbornly, stayed silent.

Madara stepped out without another word, and the heavy iron door swung shut behind him with a deep, final thud. Against the wall, Tobirama stared into the cold, empty, air. 

He did not move. 

Chapter Text

The storm had broken overnight.

Now, in the gray light of dawn, the Senju compound lay buried under a thick, heavy quilt of snow. The trees bowed under its weight, skeletal branches bending low. Smoke curled thin and straight from the chimneys, too cold even for the wind to stir it. The world felt muffled, swallowed under the pressing quiet.

Hashirama stood atop the outer wall, the hood of his cloak thrown back, letting the sharp, clean bite of winter air fill his lungs. His gaze swept over the frozen woods beyond the palisades, every shadow between the trees cataloged and dismissed, every glint of movement weighed against the raw, gnawing worry that refused to leave his chest.

No message. No sign.

Tobirama should have returned two days ago.

He clenched his gloved hands tighter around the rough timber of the battlements. Somewhere behind him, the courtyard stirred with the slow waking of the clan — sparring partners thudding into practice mats, the low murmur of orders passed between shinobi, the clang of weapons being checked and re-checked. The sound of a compound trying to carry on as if its heart hadn't begun to fray.

Footsteps crunched softly in the snow behind him.

"You're going to freeze yourself solid standing up there," Mito said, her voice carrying the dry edge of long-suffering patience. She crossed the courtyard at a brisk pace, a thick cloak of deep crimson swirling around her ankles, steam rising faintly from the cup she carried.

Hashirama didn't look away from the forest.

"He should have been back by now," he said, low and rough.

Mito stopped beside him, standing just close enough that the sleeve of her cloak brushed against his arm. She said nothing for a long moment, simply standing there in the brittle cold, sharing the silence without trying to mend it.

Finally, she passed him the cup.

Hashirama took it without thinking, feeling the heat of the tea sear against his chilled fingers. He sipped automatically, barely tasting the sharp bite of herbs.

"We knew it was risky," Mito said eventually, her voice quiet. "Sending him alone, even for something simple."

"It wasn't supposed to be dangerous," Hashirama muttered, a rare edge of anger curling under the words. "The southern frontier is supposed to be stable."

Mito hummed, noncommittal. She knew better than to offer hollow reassurances. Hashirama appreciated it more than he could say.

The cold settled deeper into his bones as they stood there, two figures against the endless white.

A sharp cry split the morning.

Both of them turned instinctively, eyes snapping to the watchtower at the eastern gate. A sentry waved an arm, signaling frantically. Below, a pair of guards shoved the heavy gate open against the drifted snow, and a figure came into view — small, blurred by distance, but unmistakable in the way it moved.

A hawk.

Hashirama and Mito descended the stairs without a word, boots crunching hard and fast over the snow-packed steps.

By the time they reached the courtyard, the hawk had landed on the outstretched arm of a young shinobi. Its talons dug into the thick leather bracer he wore, its feathers ruffled and flecked with ice. Strapped to its leg was a small, tightly wound scroll, sealed in a band of dark wax.

Not Senju wax.

Mito saw it at the same time Hashirama did. Her mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

Hashirama stepped forward, reaching for the scroll. The hawk shifted, shivering, but made no move to resist. It was exhausted. Pushed hard across the winter sky.

He broke the seal with a snap and unrolled the parchment with hands steadier than he felt.

To the Senju Clan,

We write to inform you that Senju Tobirama is alive and in our custody.
In light of recent, unfortunate encounters along the southern frontier, we believe it is in the best interests of both our clans to open negotiations.

We propose a meeting on neutral ground to discuss terms for his return, as well as the broader conditions for a lasting cessation of hostilities.

Delay will be taken as refusal. Choose wisely.

Respond within three days.

Hashirama read the scroll once.

Twice.

A third time, slower, as if the words might shift under his gaze, reveal some other meaning — something less sharp, less final.

They did not.

Beside him, Mito waited in silence. She understood. Hashirama could feel the weight of her gaze, steady and unwavering, as he clenched the scroll tighter in his hand until the parchment crumpled.

Alive.  But in Uchiha hands.

Tobirama, his sharp-tongued, stubborn, fearless brother— chained, bled, held like a bargaining chip.

The thought ignited something deep and raw in Hashirama’s chest. Not the clean blaze of battle-rage he knew so well, but something older, hotter, forged in the bones.  He inhaled sharply, forcing the breath past the knot twisting in his throat. Across the courtyard, the clan had begun to gather, drawn by the hawk’s arrival, by the quiet tension that rolled outward in thick, invisible waves. Eyes flickered toward him, hopeful, wary, afraid.

They were all waiting. Waiting for him to decide what came next.

Mito touched his arm, light but grounding. "Hashirama," she said, quiet enough that no one else would hear. "Think."

He tore his eyes away from the frozen ink of the scroll and met hers.

"They have him." His voice was low, rough-edged. "They have Tobirama."

"I know," she said, her hand steady on his sleeve. "But rushing will not bring him back faster. It will only give the Uchiha what they want."

For a moment, he almost hated the calm in her face. Hated the careful wisdom that he knew — knew — he would need to borrow, even now, when every part of him screamed to tear down the walls of the world until he had his brother back in his arms. Hashirama exhaled through his teeth, every muscle in his body thrumming with the effort to stay still.

Finally, he looked away from Mito, turning to the gathering shinobi.

"Summon the elders," he said, voice low but carrying. "Summon the council. We meet within the hour."

The younger shinobi sprinted off without hesitation, boots kicking up plumes of loose snow.

Mito didn’t move, her hand dropping away at last.

"What will you tell them?" she asked, not unkindly.

Hashirama flexed his fingers once around the crushed scroll, the motion stiff, controlled.

"The truth," he said. His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, had it not been so bitter. "The Uchiha want a meeting."

"And Tobirama?"

Hashirama’s jaw locked. He looked past her, past the walls of the compound, past the distant line of skeletal trees. Somewhere out there, his brother was chained in enemy hands, battered and bleeding but alive. Alive.

Hashirama would move heaven and earth to bring him home.

"We're getting him back," he said, quiet but absolute. "Whatever it takes."

The wind caught the edge of his cloak then, snapping it sharply around his boots. He didn’t flinch.  Didn’t look away.

Above the compound, the gray sky hung heavy, another storm incoming. 

---

The hawk had been dispatched a day ago, disappearing into the teeth of the storm with a final beat of its wings. Now the waiting had settled like a weight across the clan, thick and heavy, pressing down harder with every hour that ticked past without a response.

In the training yard, two young Uchiha were sparring — harder than necessary. The clash of wooden practice swords rang out sharp against the frozen air, each blow landing with bruising force. Nearby, a group of shinobi stood in low, grim conversation, voices pitched too quiet for eavesdropping but sharp with urgency all the same.

Even the elders, normally so detached, cast glances toward the main gates as if expecting enemy riders to crest the hill at any moment.

Inside the main hall of his house, Madara paced.

Not fast. Not restless. Each step measured, deliberate. But he paced , and that alone was enough to make the few shinobi outside the doors exchange wary glances.

Izuna sat sprawled in a chair near the hearth, one boot kicked up against a side table, spinning a kunai between his fingers with sharp, impatient flicks. The firelight caught the gleam of the blade each time it turned, throwing quick, flashing reflections across the walls.

"You're wearing a hole in the floor," Izuna said at last, glancing up through the fall of his hair. His voice was easy, mocking — but underneath it, there was a thread of something sharper. Tense.

Madara ignored him.

Outside, the wind howled low against the walls, a mournful sound that seeped through the stones.

A runner would come. Or not. The Senju would respond. Or not.

And if they did not—

Madara’s gaze drifted, unseeing, to the far wall, where the valley map hung pinned in place, its inked ridgelines and marked outposts ghosting in the firelight. Contingencies whispered through his mind, familiar and ruthless: fallback positions, scorched paths, the grim calculus of necessary sacrifice.

But some sacrifices bit deeper than others.

His hand curled loosely at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly under the strain.

They couldn’t keep Tobirama forever. That was not the kind of war either clan could afford. Not a slow, dragging rot in the dark. Sooner or later, the Senju would come with blades drawn, or not at all.

And if they did not come, if they left him.

The choices narrowed to a single, brutal truth.

Madara would have to kill him.

Not just a Senju. Not just an enemy.

Tobirama — Hashirama’s shadow. A boy who had grown into a man with teeth and iron in his spine, who stood now as both rival and proof of everything they had lost.

Madara exhaled slowly through his nose, a breath that tasted of ash.

He would do it.  He would drive the blade himself if he had to.

Because the alternative, keeping Tobirama alive, visible, a constant symbol of their failure — would tear the Uchiha apart from the inside out. Every hour he lingered in their dungeons eroded the fear and respect that held the clan together.

A show of mercy would look like weakness. Weakness would look like defeat. And Madara knew, better than anyone, that defeat was not something the Uchiha survived.

Across the room, Izuna watched him, still spinning the kunai once, twice, the blade catching and scattering the firelight. Madara did not meet his brother’s gaze.

He turned instead back to the map, the inked borders swimming before his eyes, and waited for the storm to break.

One way or another.

---

The council chamber was thick with voices.

The firepits burned low, throwing heavy shadows across the gathered Senju elders, their faces drawn and grim beneath the flicker of flame. The smoke of damp wood curled sluggishly toward the ceiling, mixing with the sharp scent of cold iron and old anger.

"...can't trust them to honor any terms," an elder was saying, voice rough with age and anger. "It's a trap. It must be."

"We have no proof of that," another countered sharply. "If Tobirama is alive— if they mean to trade—"

"If," the first elder spat, the word brittle as glass. "You think the Uchiha would hesitate to send lies under a false seal?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the older shinobi gathered, low and uneasy.

Hashirama stood at the edge of the hearthlight. The heat licked faintly at the hem of his cloak, but he felt no warmth. Only the thrum of blood in his ears. The dry parchment of the Uchiha letter still crackled between his fingers.

He looked out at them all — old warriors, battle-scarred strategists, cautious tacticians — and felt their expectations settle onto his shoulders like a second, heavier cloak.

"I won't abandon my brother," Hashirama said, voice low but fierce. "Not for strategy. Not for pride. If they expect us to hesitate, they will be disappointed."

The gathered elders stilled, heads turning toward him as one. Hashirama met their gazes without flinching.

"They hold the advantage," someone muttered.

"They think they do," Mito said coolly.

A man across the fire leaned forward, his hands steepled before him. "You would have us trust Uchiha Madara to honor a truce?"

"No," Hashirama said. The single syllable cracked like a thrown kunai. "I trust no such thing."

"But," Hashirama continued, softer now but no less steady, "I trust Tobirama to hold. However long it takes. I trust us to plan well enough that we don't hand them a second victory."

He paused, scanning the faces before him. Some hardened. Some shifted, uncertain. All were listening.

"We can't ignore this," Hashirama said, his voice low and certain. "We cannot leave him there. We will not leave him there."

Across the hearth, Elder Himura frowned deeply, his hands curling into the sleeves of his robe.

"If you go," he said slowly, "you are risking far more than your brother. You are risking the future of the clan. Of everything we have built here."

Hashirama met his gaze without blinking.

"If the foundation of our future can survive while we abandon our own," he said, "then it was never strong enough to begin with."

A heavy silence followed. The fire cracked softly. Outside, the wind shrieked against the stone.

Finally, Mito spoke, her voice threading through the tension like a needle through cloth.

"We will plan," she said. "We will prepare. We will send an answer — carefully, wisely. And when we meet the Uchiha, we will not do so alone, or blind, or helpless."

She inclined her head slightly toward Hashirama, the smallest gesture of alliance. "And we will bring him home."

Slowly, slowly, the elders began to nod. Grim, reluctant, but convinced all the same.

Hashirama let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The parchment in his hands crumpled further, the ink smearing under his damp fingers.

Across the fire, Elder Himura’s mouth twisted into something almost like a smile,  bitter and bone-deep.

"Then we had better pray," he said, "that Tobirama is still alive when we get there."

---

The cell stank faintly of blood and cold sweat. Of infection waiting, biding its time.

The door swung open, spilling a gust of colder air into the room. A healer ducked inside — older than the last one, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, his mouth pulled into a tight, dissatisfied line.

He gave Tobirama a long, assessing look.

"This won't do."

Without waiting for a reply, he crossed the cramped cell and knelt at Tobirama’s side. He peeled away one of the crude bandages and hissed under his breath, the sound sharp and disapproving.

"Infection setting in," he said curtly, half to himself. "Not surprising, given..." He waved a hand vaguely at the general wreckage of Tobirama's condition.

Tobirama said nothing. He could feel the fever prickling under his skin already — a slow, sticky thing, dragging down every thought, every movement.

The healer clicked his tongue and rose in a flurry of rough movements. 

"Hikaku! Get in here."

Heavy boots scraped against stone as Hikaku stepped inside, his face a familiar mask of wary distaste. He cast a glance over Tobirama, then narrowed his eyes at the healer.

"What do you need?" he asked, already half-dreading the answer.

The healer snorted. "To wash him. Properly. Scrub the filth off. Get those wounds flushed before they fester."

Hikaku stared at him for a long beat.

Then looked at Tobirama. Really looked.

The battered, half-shackled frame. The cold glint in his half-lidded eyes. The way even now, barely able to stand, Tobirama seemed to coil around the weak points in his chains like a man studying a battlefield.

And Hikaku felt a thin trickle of cold sweat slide down his spine.

He could restrain a mercenary. A thief. Go toe to toe with most shinobi. Maybe even a whole squad.

But this ?

This was Tobirama Senju.

"I can't handle that alone," Hikaku said flatly, turning on his heel without waiting for a response. "We have to get Madara-sama."

He was already moving before the healer could protest, striding back up the corridor, his steps quick and sharp against the damp floor.

If they were going to lay hands on Tobirama Senju, they would do it with Madara standing there in person — or not at all.

Hikaku walked quickly through the halls, boots striking the stone with clipped, purposeful strides. Shinobi and civilians alike stepped hastily aside at the sight of him, the set of his shoulders and the grim slash of his mouth warning them off before they could even think to ask.

When he reached the doors to Madara’s office, he didn’t knock. He shoved them open with a hard push of his palm.

Inside, Madara stood near the hearth, his cloak slung carelessly over one shoulder, a half-finished map spread out across the low table. He didn’t look up immediately, didn’t need to. His chakra, sharp and coiled, had already registered Hikaku’s presence the moment he crossed the threshold.

Madara set down the ink brush with deliberate care. Slowly, he turned, the fire catching along the steel edges of his armor, casting jagged shadows against the walls.

"Problem?" he asked, voice dry.

Hikaku stepped inside, letting the door thud shut behind him. He crossed the room in a few strides, stopping at the edge of the firelight.

"The Senju prisoner," Hikaku said, voice steady but rough-edged. "The healer says he needs to be washed before infection sets in."

Madara tilted his head slightly, finally deigning to glance over his shoulder.

"And?" he prompted, arching a brow.

Hikaku exhaled slowly through his nose. "And I can’t handle him alone."

For a beat, silence stretched between them. Then Madara huffed a quiet, amused sound. Not quite a laugh, but close.

"You fear him," he said, turning fully now, folding his arms across his chest. His hair caught the firelight, a wild, untamed halo. "Even like this."

Hikaku held his gaze without flinching. "I respect reality," he said simply.

Madara’s mouth curved, sharp and faint.

"Good," he said, voice low and pleased. "You should."

He crossed the room in a few unhurried strides, fastening the clasp of his cloak as he moved.

"Get the chains," he said. His voice was soft, almost thoughtful. "And open the showers."

Hikaku fell into step beside him without comment.

---

By the time Madara arrived at the lower cells, Hikaku was waiting with a heavy set of reinforced chains, thick enough to drag against the stone with a sound like grinding teeth. The healer lingered just beyond the threshold, arms crossed tightly over his chest, plainly unwilling to set one foot farther into the danger.

Madara entered the cell alone.

The cold hit him first, sharp and wet, smelling of blood and unwashed skin. Tobirama still sat slumped against the wall, but his head lifted when Madara entered, a slow, deliberate motion that was somehow more defiant for its obvious effort.

Madara studied him in silence. The state of him, battered, fevered, filthy,  and still dangerous enough that Hikaku, one of their finest, had come running rather than risk the attempt alone. Madara stepped closer, his boots ringing hollow against the floor.

Tobirama's eyes followed him. Red-rimmed and fever-bright, the old feral intelligence burning underneath the ruin.

"You'll walk," Madara said, voice low. "Or you'll be dragged. It makes no difference to me."

For a long moment, Tobirama didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he shifted his weight, iron links grinding as he fought against stiff, half-healed muscles. It took obvious effort, the movement ragged and halting. Eventually, he pushed himself upright with a shuddering breath, the chains rattling against the stone as he stood.

He swayed once, catching himself against the wall, and lifted his chin in the same motion. The tilt of a man who refused to be pitied.

Madara’s mouth curled faintly.

Without a word, he reached out and fastened the new set of chains around Tobirama’s wrists, threading them through the old cuffs already biting into raw skin. He added a second loop around his waist, cinching it tight enough that any real lunge would throw the Senju off-balance immediately.

Tobirama endured the handling without flinching, his breath rasping shallowly between bloodied lips. Madara gave the chains a sharp tug, testing.  The metal creaked. Tobirama gritted his teeth but didn’t stumble.

Good.

The walk to the showers was short. The corridors were narrow and damp, their steps echoing against the stone, sharp and jarring in the thick silence.

At the far end, a heavy iron door stood ajar, the space beyond lit by sputtering torches jammed into wall sconces. The faint roar of water echoed inside, fed from some underground spring, half-frozen but still running strong.

It wasn’t luxury. It was a concrete pit. A drain carved into the center of the floor. No privacy. No warmth. Just stone, water, and the iron stink of old blood.

"Strip him," the healer said briskly, setting his tools down with a clatter. "You can't scrub through blood and cloth."

Hikaku hesitated visibly. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, an unconscious, instinctive recoil. His gaze flicked away, then back, uncertain.

Madara didn’t. 

He moved with a detached precision, stripping away what little remained of Tobirama’s tattered clothing. Bloodstained fabric peeled free with a wet rasp, falling limp to the stone floor. The armor had been taken long ago; now even the last defenses of cloth surrendered, leaving him exposed to the cold and the eyes upon him.

Tobirama did not resist. He stood as the chains allowed, his frame raw with bruises and bandages, breathing shallow against the chill seeping into his bones. If he felt the weight of it — the indignity, the pain — he did not show it.

Madara’s touch was brisk and clinical. There was no cruelty in it, only necessity. The healer stepped in, setting down a rough bucket of half-frozen water with a heavy splash that echoed against the stone. Steam curled faintly where it hit the colder air.

Without ceremony, the healer dipped a coarse cloth into the water and wrung it out with a twist of his gnarled hands.

The first shock of icy water hit Tobirama’s skin like a blow. His breath hitched. Sharp and involuntary,  but he made no sound beyond that. The water traced bitter paths over the planes of his back, over half-healed lacerations and old bruises gone purple at the edges.

The healer scrubbed without gentleness, but Tobirama bore it with a grim, unflinching stillness, his jaw tight, his gaze turned away from the wall as though the cold alone could not reach him.

Hikaku stood near the doorway, stiff and uncomfortable, eyes carefully averted. His hands clenched at his sides, the set of his shoulders betraying the tension he could not voice.

Madara did not look away.

He watched, his gaze level and unblinking, as water sluiced over battered skin, as stubborn life refused to surrender even to exhaustion.

And then, slowly, Tobirama turned his head, drawn, perhaps, by the weight of that unrelenting stare. 

Their eyes met.

The air between them felt electric, the noise of water and scraping cloth falling away into a hum of tension, thick enough to taste.

Madara’s expression did not change. He allowed the moment to stretch between them, unbroken and taut, before the healer’s movement stirred the air again. Bandages were reapplied, fresh cloth smoothing over treated wounds. The healer worked with speed now, sensing something in the room he could not name but dared not disturb.

When he finished, he fished a folded bundle of clean clothing from his satchel — a plain tunic, soft trousers — and hesitated, glancing meaningfully at the heavy chains binding Tobirama’s wrists.

"He'll need these," the healer said, his voice low, almost cautious. "But he can't dress himself like that."

Madara didn’t break eye contact.

He simply shifted his grip on the chain, the iron links singing faintly against the floor.

"Fine," Madara said, voice a quiet rumble. "But carefully."

He turned slightly, gesturing Hikaku forward without words, the intent clear.

One shackle at a time.

Chapter Text

The hawk arrived just after dawn, slicing low across the treeline like a shadow cast from steel. Its cry rang sharp and high over the Uchiha compound, wings stiff with urgency.

Hikaku was the first to see it.

He stood at the edge of the northern watchpost, arms folded, cloak tugged tight against the morning chill. The wind had sharpened again overnight, carrying the cold weight of the mountains with it. Frost rimmed the outer battlements, catching faint glints of light as the sun tried, and failed, to burn through the thick clouds overhead.

The hawk banked once, then dropped in a clean arc toward the central courtyard, its claws flaring as it landed with practiced precision on the outstretched wrist of a young sentry. The boy flinched, breath fogging in a startled puff, but held steady as the bird settled, feathers ruffling against the stiff air.

Hikaku was already moving, boots echoing down the steps in a clipped, efficient rhythm.

He reached the hawk in time to see the flash of pale wax, Senju wax, sealed tight around a slim scroll affixed to the hawk’s leg. The sentry looked up, wide-eyed.

“It flew straight in,” he said, breathless.

Hikaku grunted, taking the scroll with gloved fingers. He turned to the nearest runner, a lean boy half-swallowed by his winter cloak, and jerked his chin toward the main keep.

“Fetch Madara-sama,” he said curtly. “Now.”

The boy took off like a released arrow. Hikaku watched the hawk for a beat longer — its feathers ruffled but proud, the banded muscles of its legs trembling faintly from the long flight. Senju-bred, no doubt. Trained to fly straight, fly fast, never circle.

He tucked the scroll beneath his arm and waited.

It didn’t last long.

Madara stepped into view, dark cloak flaring slightly behind him, the wind catching the hem like a banner unfurled. Izuna trailed behind him, looser, sharper, his walk all spine and teeth.

The moment they crossed into the courtyard, Hikaku straightened, offering the scroll without a word. The seal cracked with a clean snap as Madara broke the wax. He unfolded the parchment slowly, deliberately, letting his eyes drift over the content.

Izuna didn’t wait. He edged in over Madara’s shoulder, peering at the script with a squint.

The contents of the scroll were brief — formal, controlled, but laced through with quiet urgency.

To the leadership of the Uchiha Clan,

We acknowledge your message.

If Senju Tobirama remains alive and in your care, we agree to a meeting to discuss terms of his return.

Location: the shrine at the river’s mouth. Neutral ground.

Time: first light, one day from now. The seal will alert us when it has been opened. 

Tobirama must be present at the meeting. Proof of life is required.

We will come prepared to negotiate. We expect the same from you.

— Hashirama Senju

Madara's mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line as he finished reading. He lowered the scroll slowly, letting it rest at his side.

"They agree to a meeting. A day from now” 

"One day," Hikaku echoed, voice low. "They aren't wasting time."

"They can't afford to," Madara replied.

Izuna shifted his weight slightly, his arms folding across his chest, gaze still locked on the scroll.

“They want Tobirama there.” Izuna added, his voice cutting across the courtyard. “Want to see how much damage we’ve done. Or how much they can blame us for.”

Madara’s eyes hardened. “We didn’t put him in that state.”

“They won't care,” Izuna said, folding his arms. “Perception is half the war.”

Madara was silent for a long moment, the scroll still clenched in his hand, the morning wind tugging faintly at the edge of his cloak.

“We’ll need to move him carefully,” Hikaku said at last. “He’s improving, but not enough to walk on his own. Not that distance.” 

Madara’s gaze flicked sideways. “Then he won’t walk on his own.”

Hikaku nodded. “The medics can stabilize him further. Reduce strain, clear the worst of the bruising.”

Izuna shifted his stance. “That’ll push him closer to fighting shape.”

“It has to,” Madara said. “He goes to that meeting on his feet.”

Izuna’s mouth pulled tight as if it physically hurt him to speak.  “He’s still Tobirama. We give him strength back, we’re gambling.”

“You’re gambling,” Madara corrected, calm and cold. “I’m not.”

Izuna huffed, his breath fogging in the cold. 

“We’ll restrain him,” Hikaku said, more practical. “Visible enough to send the message. Clean enough not to be accused of mistreatment.”

“Suppression seals on the cuffs,” Madara said. “Layered.”

Hikaku nodded. “No access to his chakra whatsoever.”

Madara glanced back toward the halls where Tobirama lay. “No chains. Hands tethered at the waist, no more. He walks. Not stumbles.”

“And the rest?” Hikaku asked. “It’ll be cold on the river path.” 

Madara nodded once. “A travel cloak. Thick. Hooded. Cover the worst of the injuries”

Izuna made a soft sound, not quite agreement, but not refusal either. “So he’s dressed like a diplomat, dragged like a threat, and bleeding just enough to remind them he’s not in charge.”

“Exactly,” Madara said.

A gust of wind tore through the courtyard, snapping at their clothes. Overhead, the sky had begun to shift, the clouds thinning to hard gray streaks, the faint light edging through.

Madara’s voice cut through it, quiet but final.

“Prep the restraint seals. Get the medics moving. We don’t need him strong — just standing.”

Hikaku inclined his head. “It’ll be done.”

Madara turned, the last of the scroll tucked back into his sleeve, and started toward the keep without looking back.

Izuna lingered, watching him go. Then he spoke, low and flat.

“He’s going to hate every second of this.”

Hikaku didn’t look at him. “Which one?”

Izuna’s mouth curled, humorless.

“Both.”

---

The infirmary stank of iron and heat. Not fresh blood, that sharp, metallic sting had long since dried. But the heavier, clinging scent of opened wounds and lingering pain. The small chamber had been cleared for him alone, sealed from the main hall.

Tobirama sat upright. His back pressed to the headboard, breathing measured, skin slick with sweat. Bandages wrapped most of his torso in layered strips. His legs, still raw with healing bruises, were covered by a blanket, but movement sent fresh stabs of discomfort lancing through the deeper injuries beneath.

The medics had worked in silence. Efficient, impersonal hands: chakra pushed into torn muscle, swelling siphoned away, bones re-knit along hairline fractures. None of them spoke to him. None of them dared.

And hovering behind them, from the moment Tobirama had first opened his eyes, was Madara.

Unmoving. A shadow at the edge of the room.

He hadn’t said a word. Not until the final medic — a thin man with sunken cheeks and chakra-drained hands — bowed slightly and stepped away from the cot.

“He’ll stand.” 

Madara only gave a small nod in reply.

The man dipped his head and left, followed by the others in practiced silence. The door clicked shut behind them.

Then there was nothing between them. Only quiet and breath and distance closing. 

Madara moved slowly. Not as a threat, but as someone who knew that power didn’t need to rush. He stopped at the edge of the cot, Tobirama’s gaze rising to meet his. Madara studied him a moment longer, then spoke — voice low and even, stripped of pretense.

“You’ll walk to the river shrine, early morning. You’ll be under guard. Restrained. Your chakra will be suppressed.

Tobirama said nothing. His jaw tightened, faintly. It appeared his brother had agreed to a meeting after all.

Madara continued. “You’ll speak only if spoken to. You’ll stand where you’re placed. And you won’t, under any circumstances, try anything clever.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed slightly at that, but his tone remained even.

“And if I do?”

Madara leaned forward, slow and deliberate, until his voice dropped just above a whisper. “I will put you down so fast your brother won’t have time to scream.”

Tobirama sat very still. Only the tight line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, betrayed the flicker of anger threading low beneath his ribs.  He knew when to pick his battles, and more importantly, he knew when losing ground now meant winning it later. His chin lifted a fraction.

“You’ll have no trouble from me.” he said finally, voice flat.

Madara didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze had shifted — down, briefly, dragging across the bruises still blooming along Tobirama’s chin and collarbone, the edge of a still-raw bandage peeking out beneath the blanket. Lingering on the skin there. 

By the time his eyes returned to Tobirama’s face, they were unreadable again.

“Good,” Madara said at last. “I don’t plan to be your handler any longer than I have to.”

The words were sharp, but the edge of them didn’t quite land right. Madara turned, cloak stirring faintly behind him as he crossed to the door. His hand lingered on the frame a moment longer than necessary, fingers flexing once against the worn wood.

The door shut behind him with a heavy click, sealing the room in stillness.

Tobirama exhaled, slow and soundless. The ache in his body had dulled to a steady burn. He let his head tip back against the wall, jaw tight, breath even.

He closed his eyes, and held.

---

The world outside was still black when they pulled him from the infirmary.

Not the blue-dark of predawn. But the true, depthless dark of the dead hours. Cold enough that even the frost refused to melt, the compound silent save for the distant crunch of boots and the low creak of shifting wood. Lanterns swung dim in the walkways, casting smeared golden shapes across the packed earth, light barely clinging to the fog that curled along the ground.

Tobirama stood under his own power. His frame was wrapped in thick, dark layers, a travel cloak thrown over plain clothes, the hood drawn low. The heavier injuries had been mended, enough to keep him upright, but the bruises were still vicious under the cloth. Every step sent a jolt of pressure rippling through his ribs and half-healed muscle. He didn’t flinch, but the rhythm of his breathing betrayed him, tight and shallow.

A suppression cuff gleamed at each wrist, iron-braced and chakra-bound, the seals inscribed along the inner rims pulsing with low light. His cuffs were chained directly to a reinforced belt at his waist, the links short and unforgiving. 

Eight hours, they’d said. At this pace.

Tobirama could have crossed that stretch in three, at full strength. Three and a half if he’d stopped to count the Uchiha border patrols he could have slipped past blindfolded. Now he trudged at the edge of a moving formation, body locked down under suppressor seals and slow-healing bones, dragging his own breath through his teeth with every third step.

The irony tasted like blood.

They passed the outer gate in silence. The cold settled in early. Thick and steady. It gnawed through the edges of the cloak, into the spaces between joints, into the line of his spine. He didn’t ask for warmth. He didn’t stumble. But it showed in the stiffness of his stride.

The Uchiha squad moved around him in silent formation — six shinobi total, well-spaced, well-trained, their chakra signatures tight as wire. A precaution, or maybe a warning. He recognized Hikaku from the group, but no one else besides Izuna and Madara.

Izuna walked just behind him. Not quite within reach, but close enough to feel the static of his presence. And true to form, it didn’t take long.

“Bit stiff, aren’t you?” he said lightly. “You’d think after all that pampering in the infirmary, you’d be in a better mood.”

Tobirama didn’t respond.

Izuna smirked, moving just enough to make sure Tobirama could not miss the smug expression on his face. 

“What, are these conditions not to your liking?”

Madara’s voice came low and firm, without looking back. “That’s enough.”

Izuna didn’t stop.

“What? I’m making conversation. You told me to keep an eye on him, not trudge in silence—”

“Izuna.”

Izuna made a short, theatrical sigh through his nose, flicking a glance toward Tobirama.

“Touchy,” he muttered, mostly to himself.  But he fell silent after that, the line of his mouth drawn tight.

It was a long time before anyone spoke again. The path wound cold and narrow between the trees, the forest stripped bare by winter. The sky had lightened to the muted gray of early dawn, but the sun still hadn’t broken the ridge.

They had been walking for hours.

The Uchiha moved with the ease of familiarity.  Efficient, clipped pace, a formation made out of habit more than thought. Not fast, not by shinobi standards. But steady. Unyielding.

And Tobirama refused to fall behind.

The first hour, he’d adjusted without complaint. The second, his breath had grown shallow. By the third, the pain had started to bloom again, hot where the chakra work had held him together, cold where the bruises hadn’t healed clean.

Still, he said nothing.

One of the guards cast a glance back now and then, and once, Izuna muttered something half-formed,  but no one spoke outright. Tobirama kept his steps even. His eyes ahead. His pride locked down like armor.

He didn’t stumble. Not until the fourth hour.

They were halfway up a shallow rise when it happened. Just one step that didn’t land, one breath that didn’t come. Tobirama crumpled forward, knees folding without warning 

He did not hit the ground. 

Madara was there before gravity finished its work, dropping into a crouch with startling speed, one gloved hand braced against Tobirama’s shoulder, the other locking around his upper arm. Tobirama’s weight leaned into him instinctively, breath shuddering out in a sharp hiss through clenched teeth. Madara looked down at him,  at the drawn lines around his mouth, the pallor bleeding beneath his skin, the sheen of sweat plastering his hair to his temple.

“You stubborn bastard,” Madara said, voice low and furious. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Tobirama’s head tipped slightly, just enough to glare sideways beneath the edge of his hood. His voice was hoarse, flat with effort.

“I didn’t think you preferred delays.”

Behind them, boots crunched in the frost — a step forward, cautious.

“Should we—?”

“Give us a moment,” Madara snapped, without turning.

The others withdrew instinctively, some distance down the path, though their glances lingered. Izuna looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it, or was warned off by the look on Madara’s face.

“I would prefer,” Madara said, voice quieter now, laced with something harder to name, “if you did not collapse in the snow like a dying stray.”

Tobirama let out a faint, dry breath.

“Noted,” he muttered. “Next time I’ll be sure to make a scene.”

Madara stared at him a moment longer, eyes sharp,  then rose smoothly to his feet.

“Clear the ridge,” he ordered without looking at the others. “We’ll stop just beyond it.”

Hikaku gave a brisk nod and started up the incline. Izuna didn’t move, only raised a brow and let out a breath that sounded a little too close to a scoff. 

Madara lingered for a breath longer, eyes fixed on Tobirama’s bent frame. His shadow stretched across the frost-bitten ground, cloaking the churned earth where Tobirama had dropped. He stepped in again without a word. Madara’s hand reached out automatically — then paused mid-motion, his eyes flicking to the chains at Tobirama’s wrists.

The short length of the restraints pulled taut with every shift. His arms were pinned close, too awkward to brace, too bound to offer any balance or the possibility to lean on anything. Madara's brow furrowed slightly, hesitation ghosting across his face as he recalculated. 

Tobirama caught the flicker of deliberation instantly.

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes slitting up at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

Madara’s brow arched. “Think about what?”

Tobirama’s voice rasped low, clipped. “If you so much as try to carry me, I will make it the most undignified moment of your life.”

A beat passed. The corner of Madara’s mouth twitched. He crouched again, but this time only offered his hand.

Tobirama hesitated, jaw tightening, then reluctantly took it. It was the only option he had.

Madara pulled him to his feet with ease. Tobirama swayed once, briefly, breath catching, but held his footing. His hands curled into fists in front of him, the chains clinking once, lightly.

They said nothing else as they crested the ridge.

The others had already cleared a small resting spot beneath a stand of bare-limbed trees. The ground was harder here, littered with old pine needles and ice-dusted bark, but the wind broke against the slope and left the space relatively still.

Hikaku had begun unpacking a small blanket from one of the travel packs, shaking it loose with a practiced flick. Two of the guards stood watch just beyond the brushline.

Tobirama sank down slowly, wordlessly, onto the offered roll of cloth laid out for him. His breath was quieter now, but his pallor hadn’t improved.

Izuna tossed a pouch of dried rations to one of the guards and settled on a fallen log nearby, arms folded tight, chin tucked behind his scarf. He hadn’t said much since Tobirama collapsed — a rare restraint that even Madara hadn’t commented on. Hikaku stepped away,  scanning the perimeter in slow, regular sweeps. Watching the trees like they might grow teeth.

“You never said what happened.”

Madara’s voice cut through the quiet. He stood a few paces off, arms crossed, the faint silver of moonlight catching at the edge of his armor. Tobirama didn’t look at him. His gaze remained fixed on a knot of ice-webbed roots a few feet away.

“Does it matter?”

Madara’s voice stayed even.  “It might.”

Another stretch of silence. Only the distant snap of a twig beneath one of the guards’ boots.

“…Wind Country shinobi,” Tobirama said at last, voice low and unadorned. “Not a small group. Traveling light. Likely didn’t want to risk being seen in Fire territory.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed faintly. “You stumbled into them.”

Tobirama’s jaw flexed once. His shoulders stayed still, head angled slightly toward the ground.

“I spotted them,” he said. “They didn’t like that.”

“Alone?” Hikaku’s voice cut in from the side. He hadn’t moved from his station, but his tone had shifted, turning more pointed. Tobirama only gave a nod in reply. 

Izuna, who’d been stretched out half-lounging along the edge of a fallen log, tipped his head to the side, dark eyes gleaming.

“Ah,” he said. “So you threw yourself into a skirmish with foreign shinobi on purpose. Brilliant strategy.”

Tobirama didn’t answer at first. A flicker of tension crossed his features, the only outward sign of calculation.  

“Better me than a border civilian settlement.”

Izuna’s grin widened. “You don’t look like you walked away with the better end of it.”

“I walked away,” Tobirama said, finally looking at him. His voice was cool and clipped. “They didn’t.” 

That killed the next line Izuna had forming on his tongue. His smirk faltered for a half-second, then reset itself, a shade thinner. Madara didn’t move.  He looked at Tobirama for a long moment, his gaze weighted. The wind picked up again, scattering frost-dusted needles across the trail. Madara turned his eyes to the horizon. Morning was coming, slow and reluctant.

“We’ll rest fifteen more minutes,” he said, voice level. “Then we move”

The surrounding Uchiha shinobi nodded in response. Tobirama didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t need to. He was already adjusting his posture slightly, readying to push through again. The cold hadn’t let up, but neither had he.

Chapter Text

The river shrine sat in a hollow between the hills, its stone walls half-crumbled, overtaken by moss and frost. Once sacred ground, now neutral by necessity. The trees had receded here, leaving the clearing open to the wide gray sky, the shrine itself standing like a forgotten sentinel beside the slow-moving river.

Snow blanketed the clearing in a thick, untouched crust. A faint mist clung to the water, rising where it hadn’t yet frozen over. The silence was brittle, edged with tension that hadn’t yet broken.

The Senju were already there.

Hashirama stood at the front of the group, still and tall, his presence unmistakable even cloaked in the heavy folds of winter robes. Mito was beside him, her arms folded beneath her sleeves, red hair swept back and pinned neatly. Tōka flanked the other side, expression grim, sharp-eyed beneath her hood. Four other Senju shinobi were positioned at a careful distance, evenly spaced, weapons visible but not drawn.

Hashirama’s gaze was fixed on the tree line. Waiting.

The Uchiha arrived without fanfare.

They stepped from the forest in a wide formation, boots crunching softly over frozen ground. Six shinobi, spaced with military precision. Hikaku took the lead, his expression unreadable. Izuna moved at his right, dark eyes scanning every movement with coiled alertness.

Madara came at the center.

And just behind him, chained but upright, walked Tobirama.

The Senju reacted as one.

Hashirama took a half-step forward before stopping himself, his breath catching audibly. Mito reached out, one gloved hand pressing lightly to his arm. Her face remained composed, but the tension in her jaw was sharp as wire.

Toka’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t speak, but the shift in her stance was unmistakably furious.

Tobirama looked like a ghost.

His cloak was drawn tight around him, hood thrown back, the bruises along his jaw stark against too-pale skin. Every step was deliberate, held steady by sheer force of will. His breath misted shallowly in the cold. He didn’t look up. Not at first. Not until Madara stopped just short of the central stone marker that divided the two sides.

Then Tobirama raised his head. His eyes met Hashirama’s across the snow. For a moment, the whole world stilled. 

There was only the faint tremor in Tobirama's legs, the tight set of his jaw, the low burn of fury and relief and fear rising in Hashirama's chest so fast it made him breathless.

The tension in Tobirama's frame did not ease, but something in his gaze softened. The corners of Hashirama's mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smile that never quite formed. He didn’t speak. But his eyes were bright, raw with something dangerously close to grief. He nodded, once, small and deliberate.

Tobirama blinked slowly.

That was all. A thousand things passed in silence.

Madara watched them both.

For a moment, he let it linger—that wordless exchange stretched taut between the two brothers. Something about it made his jaw tighten, just slightly. His eyes flicked between them, measuring, weighing. Then he turned his head, slow and deliberate. 

Mito stepped forward, her voice low and smooth as drawn steel.

"We acknowledge the terms of the meeting. We’re prepared to discuss what you claim to offer."

Madara inclined his head once, precisely. "Good. Then let’s speak plainly."

He took a step closer to the dividing marker, the wind catching faintly at the edges of his cloak. Behind him, Izuna shifted his weight, eyes never leaving the Senju line.

Madara's voice was calm. Cold.

"Tobirama Senju is alive. Brought here, as requested. You want him back. We want what’s owed."

Hashirama's eyes narrowed slightly. "Which is?"

Madara looked directly at him, no trace of the warmth he once might have offered.

"Territory."

A pause. Tension thickened.

"The routes north of the border. The western forests between Matsu River and the mountains. And the farmland east of the Valley."

Tōka made a sharp sound in her throat—half scoff, half warning.

Mito's mouth thinned. "That's a quarter of our frontier."

Madara did not blink. "Then you understand the scale of your brother's value."

No one spoke for a beat. The river murmured quietly behind them, the only sound in the frozen still. Madara continued, unbothered.

"In addition: half of all missions dispatched from the neutral parties for the next three seasons will be divided evenly with the Uchiha clan. No exceptions. No private negotiations."

Tōka stepped forward then, eyes sharp as kunai. "You want our clients? Our contracts?"

"They won't be yours much longer," Madara said, mildly. "Not if word spreads that your strongest strategist can be taken without effort."

Tobirama worked to school his expression, but something cold flashed in his eyes. Mito caught it. So did Hashirama.

Madara's voice went on, smooth and final.

"And you will divert twenty percent of your clan's crop storage to the Uchiha for winter dispersal. Immediate. Before the thaw."

The air snapped. Mito's expression, always composed, finally cracked. Her jaw set hard. 

"You’re asking for too much."

"Am I?" Madara said, gaze turning back to her. "You came here to negotiate. I came to name terms."

The silence that followed was weighty, dense as snowfall. Across the marker stone, Hashirama stood still, his gaze no longer fixed on Madara, but back to Tobirama.

Tobirama’s jaw was tight. There was no plea in his eyes, no fear, only the quiet steel of someone prepared to endure whatever came next. But even through the mask, Hashirama could read him. He always had.

And Tobirama, despite the bruises and the cold and the unrelenting chain around his waist, read him too.

The barest shake of Tobirama’s head. A silent warning. Don’t.

Hashirama’s chest rose with a slow breath.

He turned his gaze away from his brother, the warmth gone from his face. When he looked at Madara again, it was with the rare gravity that stripped him of every kindness. This was not the peace-seeking visionary now. This was the war leader. The only Senju Madara had ever acknowledged as an equal.

"We cannot accept these terms," Hashirama said, his voice calm, final. "The elders would never agree."

Madara regarded him in silence, then shrugged—elegant, casual.

"Then I suppose," he said, voice almost idle, "we keep your brother until you convince them."

Tension spiked like a blade in the air. Tōka took a step forward, but Hashirama moved first.

"Then take me instead."

The words landed like a hammer. Even the river seemed to still in that moment. Tobirama jerked forward a half-step, the chain at his waist clinking sharply. His voice was hoarse and immediate.

"Are you out of your mind?!"

But his brother had already raised a hand—not in warning, but in command. And in that gesture, Tobirama recognized the posture, the tone, the immovable weight behind it.

Hashirama rarely gave orders. But when he did, the world bent around them.

"Quiet." Hashirama said, not unkindly, but with iron underneath. He didn’t look at his brother. He kept his gaze on Madara.

"You want leverage. You want someone who matters. Fine. Take me. Release my brother, and I will remain until the terms can be negotiated."

Madara didn’t answer right away. He turned slightly, eyes sweeping back to Tobirama—still upright, the defiance still simmering in his gaze—and something unreadable passed over Madara’s face. He stepped forward, slowly, crossing the snow until he stood almost directly across from Hashirama, the marker stone between them like a severed bond.

He looked back at Tobirama again.

Took in the bruises, the pale skin, the faint gleam of frost at the ends of his white hair. The corner of his mouth upturned into something that nearly resembled a smirk.

"No," Madara said finally, looking back at Hashirama, eyes like flint. "I think I’d rather keep this one."

Hashirama didn’t flinch.

The weight of Madara’s refusal settled over the clearing, cold and absolute. Tobirama shifted behind the Uchiha line, the chain at his waist pulling taut. His mouth was set in a hard line, but his eyes were still on his brother. Hashirama inhaled once, slow and controlled.

"Then," he said, voice like tempered steel, "we negotiate the conditions of his captivity."

The words hung in the air, heavier than the ones before. The Senju behind him stirred, but none spoke. Even Mito's sharp exhale was silent.

Madara arched a brow. "Is that so?"

Hashirama met his gaze, unyielding. "You will guarantee no harm comes to him. You will ensure he receives full medical care. And you will not chain him like some rabid beast."

Madara's eyes flicked briefly. "You ask a lot for someone in no position to demand."

"You said it yourself," Hashirama said, evenly. "You understand his value. Then understand this: if you treat him like a prisoner, we treat this as an act of provocation. If you intend to move toward peace, then act like it."

Madara was silent for a long moment.Then he tilted his head, just slightly.

"Your brother is a formidable opponent. One of the most dangerous men I have faced. And you expect me to leave him unchained?"

Hashirama didn’t hesitate.

"If we agree to formal peace talks," he said, "he will comply. You have my word."

Madara exhaled through his nose, a faint, dry sound. "That still leaves the issue of his chakra. I won’t risk letting him roam freely with access to power. If not cuffs, then confinement. One room. No exceptions."

At that, Hashirama’s gaze slid sideways.

Mito.

She had not moved, but her expression was carved from stone. Her jaw clenched, her hands tight in her sleeves. Rage simmered under her skin, carefully leashed. But when Hashirama met her eyes, she nodded.

"I will help seal it," she said, voice like a blade drawn slow. "My clan is exceptionally skilled in fūinjutsu. You will not need restraints. The seal will go directly on his skin.

Madara’s gaze flicked between them—Hashirama’s steady resolve, Mito’s cold precision—and his lips curled, faintly amused.

“And I’m meant to trust that? Your word. Your seals. Your brother, loose in my territory with his chakra locked away only by your good intentions?”

His voice was casual, but the sharp edge underneath it was unmistakable. Mito was not deterred. 

“You’re not meant to trust us,” she said, evenly. “You’re meant to decide whether this compromise serves your end better than provocation. The seal is not symbolic—it will suppress his chakra completely. You may have one of your own inspect it. Or would you prefer to parade him through your compound bound and bleeding? What message does that send on the progress of our negotiation? To your men? To ours?”

There was steel in every syllable. Not anger, just truth. Madara studied her in silence.

Then, with a tilt of his head and a breath like the faintest sigh, he nodded once. “Very well.”

Mito didn’t waste time. She stepped back from the conversation and knelt, retrieving a scroll from the inner lining of her cloak. The parchment shimmered faintly with sealing ink as she unfurled it across the snow. A flick of her wrist and a pulse of chakra activated the mark—a burst of red light flared outward before resolving into the shape of a compact tent, canvas reinforced with layered chakra threads, humming faintly with warmth.

“We’ll do it inside,” she said, already rising. “He’ll need to be unbound and exposed for the seal to take properly. I won’t do that in freezing air.”

Hashirama gave a short nod. “I’ll be present.”

Madara made no objection. “So will I.”

His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the underlying intent. Not just as a leader—as a witness.

He turned slightly, his gaze cutting toward his brother. “Izuna.”

Izuna moved forward without a word, gliding across the snow. He came to stand beside Tobirama, who met his presence with flat, unreadable eyes. Izuna reached out and began unlocking the chakra-infused cuffs around Tobirama’s wrists. The click of the seals breaking was faint, but it rang like a bell in the stillness.

Tobirama flinched slightly at the first touch, but didn’t resist. Didn’t speak.

The five of them entered the tent.

Inside, warmth spread from the center seal, melting the frost from their cloaks. The fabric walls glowed dimly, muffling the wind. It was not luxurious, but it was insulated, practical.

Tobirama stood in the center, motionless. His hands were free now, but his chakra still felt slightly dampened, as though the suppression tags had left a residue beneath his skin. He looked pale beneath the dim light, bruises gone purple at the edges of his jaw and throat.

Mito began her preparations in silence. She laid out a smaller scroll beside her, inscribed with the intricate, recursive spirals of Uzumaki sealing craft. Her fingers traced the pattern with methodical precision, building chakra in her palms until they glowed faintly red.

Tobirama watched her. Then, without prompting, he began to loosen the ties of his cloak. It slipped from his shoulders, and the air in the tent shifted.

Mottled bruises spread across his torso, dark and livid—fresh and deep. Swaths of discoloration lined his ribs and shoulders, hints of swollen joints and poorly healed strain that were not entirely covered by bandages. Several cuts, half-healed, peaked through along his side and collarbone, red and raw against winter-pale skin. No old scars—not a single one. Hashirama had always made sure of that.

Hashirama’s jaw clenched. His hand twitched once at his side, then curled into a tight fist. He took a single step forward before he could stop himself, fury flashing through his chakra like wildfire. His gaze snapped to Madara.

"You—"

"Anija," Tobirama said, sharp despite the hoarseness in his voice. He raised a hand, stopping him. "He didn’t do this."

Hashirama froze. From the edge of the tent, Izuna’s hand brushed the hilt of his blade, more reflex than threat, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“It was Wind Country shinobi,” Tobirama said, his voice low, but steady. “I intercepted them before they crossed anyone else.”

Hashirama’s eyes didn’t leave his brother’s face for a long moment. His expression didn’t soften, exactly—but something behind it pulled taut. Anger still simmered in the set of his shoulders, but he breathed it in, buried it deep.

“Are you—” he began, then stopped. His voice gentled, and he took a step closer “Are you alright now? Truly?”

Tobirama didn’t answer right away. Then, with a faint huff, he nodded once. “I’ll heal.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There was a flicker of something—grudging warmth, perhaps—in Tobirama’s tired glance. “I’ve been worse.”

Hashirama sighed, hand hovering near his brother’s shoulder, but not quite touching. “I’m not too sure about that.”

“Sit.” 

Mito’s voice cut off any response Tobirama might have offered.

He gave her a sidelong glance but obeyed without protest, lowering himself to the mat she’d laid beside the scroll. The bruises stretched and shifted with his movement, muscles stiff beneath skin that still bore a faint chill. He sat upright, spine rigid, hands resting on his knees. 

Mito knelt beside him, slowly peeling the obstructing bandages out of the way. She dipped her fingers into the ink well—chakra-reactive red, luminous in the low light. Mito pressed her palm to his shoulder first, and when the contact made him flinch, her mouth thinned.

“I am not happy about this.” she muttered, more to herself than anyone. 

Tobirama didn’t look at her. “It’s temporary.”

“That isn’t the point.”

She began to draw, careful and precise. Lines unfurled across his skin—spirals and symbols, seals of suppression and containment that would siphon chakra without damaging flow. It was elegant work. Painful work.

“I shouldn’t have to mark up my own kin like he’s some rogue weapon,” she continued under her breath, voice sharp with restrained fury.

“I’m not your kin,” Tobirama said evenly. “I’m your husband’s brother. Don’t burden yourself on my behalf.”

“Don’t tell me who I claim as mine,” she snapped, then caught herself, exhaled hard through her nose, and didn’t look up. 

Outside the sealing lines, Hashirama had not moved. His arms were crossed now, but his gaze was locked on Madara, unreadable. Madara watched him in return, just as still.

“This didn’t need to happen,” Hashirama said finally, low and controlled. “If you’d contacted us immediately—”

“I kept him alive,” Madara interrupted. “Your brother, for all his skill, nearly bled out in the snow ten miles south of here. My men found him. Not yours.”

“You kept him in chains.”

“I kept him from dying.”

A beat passed. The words weren’t wrong, and that made them cut deeper. Mito’s brush of chakra traced the final ring across Tobirama’s sternum. He hissed once, soft and involuntary, but didn’t pull away.

Madara’s gaze flicked to him.

“When will it be active?”

Mito sat back on her heels. “As soon as I finish the binding incantation. You’ll feel the suppression spike when it locks.”

“Good.”

Hashirama’s fingers curled tighter around his arms. “We’ll renegotiate the mission split. The border terms. Everything. But if anything happens to him—”

“I know,” Madara said, voice quiet. “And you know I know.”

Mito pressed her hand to the seal. The lines burned bright, once, then dimmed.

“It’s done.”

Tobirama inhaled, sharp and shallow. The seal settled beneath his skin like a weight. His chakra felt distant, unreachable, like a limb gone numb. The room was heavier without it, the edges of his awareness dulled. He didn’t show it outwardly, but the disorientation flickered faintly in his expression, just for a moment.

Madara, still watching, narrowed his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharpening. Though not a sensor of Tobirama’s caliber, he could feel the change—a vacuum where once there had been force.

"It's contained," Madara said simply. "But we will have someone take a closer look back at the compound."

Tobirama didn’t reply. He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, forcing his shoulders to relax.

Silence held for a moment.

Then Hashirama spoke. "We’ll need to meet again. One week from today."

Madara’s brow arched faintly, but he didn’t argue.

"Same ground?"

Hashirama nodded. "We’ll return with an amended proposal."

"As will we."

Mito was already packing away her tools with measured efficiency, her eyes never quite leaving Tobirama’s shoulder. Izuna had shifted against the tent wall, arms folded now, gaze flicking between the others with something too sharp to be called idle. But he said nothing.

Madara moved first. "Then we’re agreed. One week."

Tobirama shifted slightly, preparing to rise. Before he could push fully to his feet, Hashirama stepped forward and dropped to one knee.

There was no warning. He pulled his brother into a firm, solid embrace.

Tobirama stiffened instantly. His arms remained at his sides, spine going ramrod straight.

“Anija—” he hissed, mortified, voice low and sharp. “This is completely unnecessary—”

But Hashirama didn’t let go. His hand came up to the back of Tobirama’s head, steady and warm.

“I thought you were dead,” Hashirama murmured, voice barely audible. “Let me have this.”

A breath passed. Tobirama exhaled, long-suffering. “This is deeply undignified.”

“I don’t care.”

From the corner, Izuna rolled his eyes and muttered something about sentimentality under his breath. Madara said nothing, but his gaze flicked briefly to Tobirama’s face, then to Hashirama’s hand still curled protectively around his brother’s shoulder. 

Mito watched them, the line of her mouth softening for the first time that day.  Hashirama let out a slow breath and pulled back. He rose, then reached down—not with an offered hand, but by bracing a firm arm behind Tobirama’s back and under one elbow, guiding him upward with unobtrusive strength. Tobirama allowed it with a grimace but didn’t protest. Once upright, he shifted his weight gingerly, adjusting to the still-raw stiffness of his frame.

“Try not to piss off anyone too badly,” Hashirama said, the warmth returning to his voice in cautious degrees. “Just for one week. That’s all I ask.”

Tobirama’s eyes cut sidelong—past Hashirama, directly to Izuna.

“I am not the problem,” he said flatly. 

Izuna raised both hands, palms out, mock-innocent. “I didn’t say a word.”

Tobirama muttered something under his breath, already turning away.

He reached for his cloak, lifting it from the folded pile beside the mat and drawing it back over his shoulders with sharp, practiced movements. The seal at his sternum pulsed once beneath the fabric, then faded.

Mito moved past him, drawing the tent flap aside without comment. Hashirama lingered a moment longer. As he turned to follow her out, he looked back—and Tobirama, still settling his cloak into place, met his gaze.

It was a brief exchange. A silent current of understanding passed between them, old and familiar. Hashirama gave a slight nod. Tobirama inclined his head in return.

Then Hashirama stepped into the cold.

Tobirama exhaled. He followed a beat later, with Madara and Izuna flanking in silence behind him. The flap fell closed behind them, muting the warmth of the tent.

“You’ll have more freedom,” Madara said, voice low. “Within reason.”

Tobirama didn’t look at him. “I wasn’t planning to test it.”

Madara hummed—a neutral sound, impossible to read. “Good. I don’t like wasting effort.”

They walked a few more paces in silence before Tobirama added, low,  “I won’t jeopardize the talks. My brother’s worked too long to see them happen.”

Madara’s gaze stayed on him. “And you?”

“My brother,” Tobirama said flatly. “Wants peace.”

Izuna cast a glance over his shoulder, brow twitching. The air between the two was too still.

Madara considered Tobirama for a moment longer. "Don’t give me a reason to doubt you.”

Tobirama met his eyes, steady and sharp. “Don’t invent one.”

They stood beneath the weight of falling snow, eyes locked in mutual restraint. The river flowed on behind them, slow and silent beneath the frost.

Chapter Text

The tent had been packed away, seals locked tight in scrolls once more. Snow drifted soft and soundless over the clearing, settling into the spaces left behind by tense bodies and drawn lines. The Uchiha were turning to leave, Tobirama moving stiffly among them, his cloak pulled close, his steps steady but not strong. The seal was active. The chakra suppression had settled over him like a second skin.

And still, Hashirama stood there.

He watched his brother's retreating form, and something in him twisted—tight, sudden, breathless. A sensation like falling, delayed.

He stepped forward without thinking. "Wait—"

Tobirama paused. So did Madara and Izuna, both turning with measured caution.

Hashirama’s voice was uneven, the edges rough. “I should have—before—I forgot. I can ease some of the bruising, the internal damage. I can—"

His breath caught. He’d meant to sound practical, reasonable, but it came out cracked and raw.

He hadn’t thought of it until now. Until the moment was nearly lost. So much of his strength had gone into holding himself together, into not losing Tobirama again, that the instinct—the obvious truth of what he could offer—had escaped him entirely.

He always forgot, in moments like these. Caught in the swell of grief or fury or love. Tobirama had always been the one to remind him. The one to temper his instinct, to pull him back down from the peaks of his emotion.

Without him, Hashirama was left unbalanced. Too willing to give. 

He had offered himself in Tobirama’s place with no hesitation. But even as the words had left his mouth, he’d known. Madara would never agree. Not because the terms were unbalanced, but because the truth, heavy and unspoken, pulsed beneath every line of that negotiation:

They could not contain Hashirama Senju.

Now, Hashirama stood in the snow, bare and aching in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. His hand fell slowly to his side. “Please,” he said again, softer now. “Just let me help him.”

Madara turned fully to face him. His voice, when it came, was quiet and absolute.

“No.”

Hashirama’s brow furrowed, the question forming before he could stop it. “Why not?”

Madara didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Because if the seal you placed is a trick—if it was designed to falter before we reach the compound—then I need insurance.”

His gaze flicked, briefly, toward Tobirama. “I don’t plan to test my luck. He will be treated once we are back.”

It was not cruelty. It was strategy.

Hashirama said nothing. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the weight of helplessness cold against his skin. The moment passed.

Tobirama turned, no one stopped him.

The Uchiha disappeared into the trees, and with them, Hashirama’s brother vanished once more. Not into the uncertainty of death, but into something colder. Into the long stretch of waiting.

And all Hashirama could do was watch.

The snow closed behind them like a curtain, swallowing the path of retreat with a hush that felt almost reverent. Their departure left the clearing too still. The river whispered on behind him, indifferent.

The forest deepened. What little warmth the sealing tent had offered was gone, leached from them by the stiff weight of cold. By the time they reached the Uchiha compound, dusk had pressed low over the ridgelines, and the frost had begun to crust along the hem of Tobirama’s cloak. He didn’t stumble, but neither did he track his surroundings. His attention tunneled inward, to the aching pull beneath his ribs, the dull hum of suppressed chakra like static in his bones.

He passed through the compound gates unshackled.

That, more than anything, drew eyes.

No cuffs. No chakra-binding tags. No signs of restraint save the unnatural stillness in his movements—the slow, quiet pacing of a man braced against something unseen. The guards watched with a tension too deep for words, eyes darting to the empty space where chains had once hung. No one challenged Madara. No one dared.

Madara didn’t slow.

His cloak whispered against the snow-dusted stone as they crossed into the compound, the hush of their arrival trailing behind like a shadow. Izuna flanked his right, expression sour, and Hikaku moved up alongside them, his jaw set tight.

Madara didn’t look at him when he spoke.

“Get our best seal master,” he said, voice low, edged with command. “Not second-best. Not fast. The best.”

Hikaku gave a single nod, already moving.

Madara turned on his heel without waiting for confirmation, cloak snapping lightly in the cold. He started toward the east of the compound, steps brisk and unhurried, cutting clean through the courtyard's gathering dusk. Tobirama followed without being told.

It took only a few paces before Madara had fallen into stride beside him. Tobirama noticed it immediately. The way Madara’s shoulder nearly brushed his own. The way their steps aligned in eerie rhythm, neither forced nor consciously matched, but precise all the same.  He didn’t glance over. But he could feel the weight of that presence— the warmth of proximity where there should’ve been space, the absolute self-assurance that came with it. 

Uchiha lacked personal space like they lacked mercy. Or maybe just Madara.

The corridor stretched long and narrow, flanked by dark wood and low-burning lanterns. Tobirama's breaths stayed quiet, controlled, even as the seal beneath his skin pulsed with the distant pressure of containment. Not pain, but a heavy absence, like standing at the edge of something and not being allowed to jump. Still, every step sent a dull jolt through his left side, where the bruising ran deepest. His movements were steady, but tension coiled beneath them.

They reached the infirmary. The doors slid open beneath Madara’s hand with a dry wooden shush.

Two medics inside stood at attention. Neither moved to approach. Tobirama recognised one of them from his time in the cell.

Madara’s voice was curt. “No one heals him. Not until the seal’s been verified.”

They nodded and stepped back.

Tobirama entered on his own. The room was warmer than the halls, but only marginally. The scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air. The walls were bare, the only furnishings a pair of low beds and a set of cabinets with neatly labeled scrolls. He paused just inside the threshold. Then, slowly, he shrugged off his cloak and folded it with deliberate precision, the motion stiff.  The simple act of raising his arms sent a brief flicker of tension across his face, gone as quickly as it came. He placed the cloak over the cot without a word.

The silence stretched.

Madara remained standing, arms folded, his gaze fixed not on the medics, but on Tobirama. Watching. Waiting. As if daring the seal to fail.

A knock came at the door. One sharp rap. Hikaku returned—this time with a third figure in tow.

The man who entered was older. Perhaps in his fifties, with storm-gray hair tied low and a pale scar running just beneath one eye. He wore no clan crest on his robes, but the air shifted with his presence, like chakra held just beneath the surface.

“Fukami,” Madara said with a nod. “You’ll assess the seal. Full chakra suppression. No interference. No room for doubt.”

Fukami approached Tobirama with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need permission. He studied him for a long moment, calculating and silent, then motioned for him to sit.

Tobirama did.

Fukami’s hands didn’t glow. He didn’t draw seals into the air. He simply pressed his fingers to Tobirama’s sternum, and closed his eyes.

There was no outward show of chakra. No dramatic flare or visible reaction. Only the faint tightening of Fukami’s brow as he traced the edges of the seal, sensing its construct layer by recursive layer. Time passed in seconds that felt like minutes. Tobirama remained still beneath the inspection. He didn’t flinch, but the effort of stillness had a cost. His shoulders sat rigid; his hands, resting on his thighs, remained curled.

Then, finally, Fukami stepped back.

“It’s holding,” he said. “Impressively complex. Dense layering. Chakra suppression is total. He couldn’t lift a leaf if he tried.”

Madara’s eyes didn’t leave Tobirama. “Can it be bypassed?”

“Not easily,” Fukami replied. “It’s keyed to external stabilization. Any attempt to break it without the matching signature will collapse the internal lattice and scramble his flow completely. He’d lose consciousness before he could spark a technique.”

Madara nodded once, crisp and final.

“Heal him. Fully.”

The medics moved immediately. One approached with chakra already pooling in her palms, pale light blooming at her fingertips. The other retrieved salves and clean cloths from the cabinet, efficient and wordless. They didn’t ask where to start. Tobirama’s injuries spoke for themselves.

He remained seated, silent, his gaze fixed on a middle point between the floor and the wall. His breath caught, just slightly, as chakra soaked into the bruising beneath his ribs. One of the medics pressed a palm lightly to his back to steady him as she worked, and he didn’t flinch, but the tension in his shoulders shifted—rigid still, but no longer brittle.

Madara turned to Hikaku. 

“Guards by the door. Until I return.”

Hikaku gave a short, dry breath through his nose. “Already done.”

Madara didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched, barely perceptible.

His gaze slid back to Tobirama—one final glance, lingering just long enough to be noticed.

Tobirama met it with the same expression he’d worn since entering the room. No tension in his jaw. No anger in his eyes. Just blank stillness, cool and controlled, like water settled in a deep well.  

Madara studied him for a beat longer. Perhaps waiting for a flicker of reaction, a crack in that carved-stone poise. When none came, he exhaled and let his voice drop to something almost conversational.

“Behave.”

Tobirama blinked—once. Then again, slower, like he was recalibrating his patience. The stillness returned to his features just a second later. 

Madara’s mouth twitched again—too fleeting to call a smile, too deliberate to be anything but intentional. He turned and walked towards the exit. 

Madara stepped out without ceremony, the sound of his footsteps fading into the corridor beyond. Hikaku followed close behind, casting a final glance at the cot before slipping out after him.

He didn’t speak, but the pace of his steps behind Madara’s was just a shade too quick. As if the words were already stacking on his tongue, waiting for the right threshold to be crossed.

The door to Madara’s office shut behind them with a soft click , sealing the quiet behind its lacquered wood.

Izuna was already there.

He stood just off-center, arms crossed, eyes like flint. As Madara entered, he straightened slightly, but didn’t wait.

“What was that?” he said at once.

Hikaku, half a step behind Madara, spoke over him. “Those weren’t the terms we agreed on—”

They both paused, glancing at each other.

“You said reasonable demands—”

“We planned leverage, not lunacy—”

Madara held up a hand. “ One at a time. ”

Silence lanced through the room for a beat. Then Hikaku stepped forward, shoulders squared but voice tight.

“We agreed we’d push the borderlands. A foothold near the river. A share of neutral contracts at most. But you just asked for a quarter of their front, direct mission control, and their winter stores. ” His mouth pressed into a hard line. “That’s not pressure. That’s provocation.”

Izuna cut in, arms folded tighter. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but they came to negotiate, and we basically spat in their face. What happened to tact? What happened to not demanding the impossible?”

Madara moved past them both, cloak whispering as he stepped to the tall window at the far end of the room. Snow had begun to collect on the panes, soft and slow. His reflection stared back at him—sharp-eyed, impassive.

Then he spoke, cold and certain.

“You don’t demand what you want.”

He turned, gaze level.

“You demand more than they can stomach. You demand what hurts. What sounds impossible. Then you let them talk you down.”

He crossed to the low table at the center of the room and drew a line across the map spread there—his finger tracing the western edge of Senju territory.

“If we start by asking for what we actually need, they’ll chip away at it until we’re left with scraps. This way, when they argue it down to half that land and one season’s contracts, we’ve still gained. We don’t give ground in negotiations—we trade it.”

Hikaku exhaled sharply, still tense. “And the food stores?”

Madara’s expression didn’t shift. “A test.”

Izuna arched a brow. “Of what?”

Madara met his gaze. “Their tolerance. Their desperation. Hashirama's line was peace at any cost. I wanted to see how far he’d go. Whether the Senju would bend—or break.”

He stepped back from the map, hands folding behind his back.

“We couldn’t show weakness. Not with Tobirama chained in front of them. Not with him bruised and quiet and still theirs no matter where he stood.” His voice lowered a fraction. “They needed to see that his capture didn’t make us merciful. It made us stronger.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quite agreement, but it wasn’t opposition either.

Izuna’s jaw worked. “And if Hashirama hadn’t refused?”

Madara gave a thin, humorless smile.

“He did.”

Izuna made a sharp sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a growl.

“And you couldn’t tell us all of this beforehand?”

His tone wasn’t disrespectful—but it was edged. Frustrated. Not by the logic, Madara’s logic always held in his eyes, but by the lack of warning. The sheer scale of it.

“We stood there,” he went on, “stone-faced while you went against everything we talked about. I didn’t complain before because I couldn’t . ” His arms unfolded, hands gesturing toward the map. “Not in front of the Senju, or the other clan members. Not in front of him. ”

Beside him, Hikaku gave a slow shake of his head. 

Madara regarded them both evenly. “You didn’t challenge me.”

Izuna rolled his jaw. “Of course we didn’t. I know better than to hand the Senju an opening. But I also expect to know what the hell we’re walking into.”

Hikaku crossed his arms, more composed now, but his voice still carried the bite of unease. “We’re not questioning your strategy. Just your silence.”

Madara’s gaze lingered on the table a moment longer. Then he stepped back from it and turned fully to face them—still calm, still unreadable.

“I needed your reactions real,” he said. “So did they.”

That landed heavier than expected. Hikaku blinked. Izuna’s brow twitched. Madara continued.

“The Senju, Hashirama, could have seen it for a play.” His voice dropped a shade. “But he didn’t. He believed it was real. Because you did. ”

He let that settle. Neither of them spoke.

Snow tapped gently at the window behind him, the quiet rhythm a soft contrast to the tension still coiled in the room.

Finally, Izuna looked away, the last of his protest draining into a sigh. “Next time, just say you’re going to manipulate us too.”

Madara smiled finally, a twisted taunting thing. “Only when it serves the clan.”

Neither man pushed further. Madara turned back to the window, the ghost of his reflection framed in frost.

“Hashirama will come back with counteroffers,” he said quietly. “He always does. When he does, we meet him again—same ground. We keep the momentum.”

Izuna’s gaze narrowed “And Tobirama?”

Madara didn’t answer right away.

He stood motionless, the window’s pale light carving sharp edges into his reflection. Then, with quiet deliberation, he turned back toward the map, his voice low but final.

“He’ll be moved to the annex.”

The room shifted—just slightly. Hikaku’s brows drew together, his stance still but attentive. Izuna, however, didn’t mask his reaction. His expression twisted, incredulous.

“The annex?” he said, voice edged with disbelief. “You mean our annex? The one that shares a wall with the main house?”

Madara didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Izuna scoffed—a short, sharp breath like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “That’s not secure. That’s not—” he gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the compound beyond it, “—not what you do with high-value prisoners. That’s a place for favored guests. Family. Not the Senju.”

Madara stepped closer to the table, placing both hands flat against the edge as he spoke.

“The annex is isolated. Reinforced. Easily guarded.” He looked up, gaze pinning Izuna. “I want him where I can see him.”

Hikaku shifted then, finally speaking. “You think he’ll try something?”

Madara’s answer came without hesitation. “No.”

That brought a new tension to the silence. Hikaku stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Then why—”

“Because he won’t try anything,” Madara cut in. “Not because of the seal. Not because of the guards. He won’t risk the talks. Not when Hashirama’s holding onto the idea that this ends in peace.”

He straightened, gaze flicking between them.

“But just in case I’m wrong, I want him close. I want to be the first to know if he shifts, if he flinches, if he as much as breathes wrong.” His voice didn’t rise, but something in it vibrated with coiled control. “We agreed that he wouldn’t be treated like a prisoner or chained. This is the best solution.”

The silence that followed was taut, drawn like a bowstring between them.

Izuna didn’t speak, but his jaw flexed, and the tension in his frame didn’t ease. He looked like he wanted to argue. Again. Push one more time. But something in Madara’s stance—measured, resolute—cut the protest short before it could rise.

Finally, Izuna exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t come to me when someone starts whispering about why the Senju got a private room and not a cell.”

“They’ll whisper anyway,” Madara said, turning back to the window. “Let them. What matters is what he sees. What he feels. And right now, Tobirama Senju needs to know exactly how visible he is.”

Hikaku nodded once, slower this time. The sharp edge had dulled to something cooler, more thoughtful. “I’ll have the perimeter doubled. Two guards posted outside the annex at all hours. Rotated every six.”

Madara didn’t look at him, but the flicker of approval was there in the slight incline of his head.

“Do it.”

There was nothing more to say. Not in this room.

Madara stepped away from the window, the quiet scrape of his sandals on stone the only sound. As he crossed the threshold, his voice floated back calm and decisive.

“I’ll move him myself.”

---

The annex hallway was quiet.

Quieter than the main compound, even, as if the walls themselves knew what kind of silence was expected here—controlled, dignified, and absolute. The snow had stopped, but the frost clung to the corners of the windows in fine filigree, catching the low light like glass threads.

Madara walked ahead at first. But Tobirama, no longer slowed by pain or unsteadiness, closed the distance without effort. 

The door to the main bedroom  slid open with a soft wooden hush, revealing a room wrapped in clean stillness. Everything inside was orderly, a futon laid out with precision, a single low table, an empty alcove where a scroll might have hung but didn’t. No writing implements. No books. No distractions.

The windows were sealed, panels locked into place beneath their frames.  One wall, Tobirama noted, ran flush with the east wing of the main house. The joining was seamless, intentional. He didn’t need to ask whose room sat on the other side of it.

Madara stopped just inside the threshold. His gaze swept the room once before he turned to Tobirama.

“You’ll stay here.” His tone left no space for ambiguity. “There are guards posted at both ends of the annex. You’re permitted access to the courtyard. Nowhere else without escort.”

Tobirama said nothing. He was still near the door, eyes trailing over the angles of the space—the corners where shadows gathered, the height of the ceiling, the cool polish of the wood beneath his feet. Nothing to invite comfort, but nothing overtly cruel.

Madara waited a moment, then added, “This wall shares with the east wing of the main house. Mine.”

Tobirama’s gaze returned to him at that. “I’d guessed.”

Something flickered in Madara’s expression, edging between approval and irritation. Tobirama stepped further into the room. His movements had regained their usual efficiency, but he didn’t bother to mask the caution still beneath them. The seal thrummed faintly, low and distant. He stopped near the wall opposite the door and rested his hand lightly against the frame—testing its grain, its temperature, its strength.

“You’ll find it difficult to hear anything through these walls,” Madara said. “But you’ll know who’s listening.”

Tobirama didn’t look at him. “Do I strike you as someone who talks to himself?”

Madara gave a short breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. “No. But you strike me as someone who plans.”

Tobirama hummed faintly in response.He moved away from the wall and knelt beside the futon with quiet efficiency, fingers adjusting the corner of the blanket not because it needed fixing, but because it gave his hands something to do.

He didn’t ask why the room was so bare. He didn’t ask for more. He was, after all, the last person alive to complain.

Madara watched him for a long moment, arms loosely folded. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Any objections?”

Tobirama blinked once, slow. “Would they matter?”

Madara’s brow lifted a fraction. “Not especially.”

“Then no,” Tobirama responded, tone characteristically stern. “No objections.”

The silence between them settled again. Madara’s attention lingered a moment longer, as if gauging something he couldn’t quite measure from across the room.

“If you need anything,” he said at last, “speak to the guards. They’ll relay it.”

Tobirama inclined his head—not a nod, exactly, but enough.

Madara turned. The door slid open at his touch with that same soft hush. This time, he didn’t look back.

Tobirama remained kneeling beside the futon, eyes on the far wall. His shoulders eased—not in comfort, but in acceptance. The seal still pulsed faintly in his chest, dull and constant, like a heartbeat just out of rhythm.

He let out a slow breath, shifted his weight, and began to unpack the moment in the only way he knew how.

By enduring it.

Chapter Text

The council chamber was steeped in the scent of aged cedar and the faint musk of parchment. Tall windows, latticed with intricate woodwork, allowed slivers of the overcast sky to cast muted light upon the polished floor. 

Hashirama stood in the center, arms folded within his sleeves. The long table stretched out before him, carved from wood older than any living Senju, its surface worn smooth by generations of debate. On either side, the clan elders sat in stiff rows. Mito stood just behind him, her presence quiet but commanding. Tōka leaned in the far corner, arms crossed, sharp-eyed as ever

Across the table, Elder Taneda spoke first. His voice was clipped, the edge of disbelief still audible. “A quarter of our frontier.”

Hashirama said nothing.

“He wants half our contracts,” added Elder Odamaki, leaning forward. “And our stores. Twenty percent, immediate. We’ve barely begun winter.”

More silence. Then Tōka let out a breath like steel on stone. “You didn’t let me gut him for this.”

“No,” Hashirama said calmly. “I didn’t.”

“Should’ve.”

Mito shifted slightly. “This isn’t about what’s fair,” she said. “It’s about what’s possible.”

Tōka’s brows snapped together. “Then what was the point?”

Mito looked at her. “He wants to see what we’ll give, and what we won’t.”

Hashirama moved to the edge of the map table, the same one that had once charted battlefronts now littered with parchment and ink. He placed one hand lightly on the western border line, fingers brushing the forested curve near the river.

“We give them the river routes,” he said evenly. “The stretch north of Matsu, and nothing beyond the ridge. No foothold into the inner forests.”

Taneda bristled. “That leaves the outer flank open.”

“Then we strengthen it,” Hashirama replied. “Quietly. They get the land, not the advantage.”

He moved his hand to another mark—farther east, across fertile lines drawn in pale ink.

“No food. Not a bushel. We’ve had two bad harvests. Giving them a tenth of our stores weakens us more than losing ground.”

A murmur of agreement circled the room. Mito’s nod was barely perceptible, but Tōka’s approval was more pointed—a quick tilt of her chin, sharp and precise.

“And the missions?” said Odamaki.

“We counter with a third,” Hashirama said. “Shared through neutral channels. No clan symbols. Just names and skill. If they want parity, they’ll accept that.”

He stepped back, letting the proposals sit like stones on still water. But he wasn’t finished.

“And we add one more condition.”

The elders looked up.

“No engagements,” he said. “No skirmishes, no border testing, no retaliatory strikes. For the next five years. If they want Tobirama’s captivity to mean anything—if they want to use it as proof of Senju restraint—then they agree to match it.”

There was a pause. Tōka blinked, brows lifting.

“You’re pushing for a ceasefire.”

“I’m pushing for peace,” Hashirama said, voice steady. “One that lasts long enough to reshape what we’ve been. These talks can’t just be about ransom. They need to be about what comes next.”

He looked across the room—at the map, at the old blood-stained lines they’d redrawn too many times.

“This is how it starts. Land, contracts, silence. Then stability. Then structure. If they agree to this, we begin laying the foundation for something that isn’t war.”

No one spoke. For once, even Tōka said nothing. Mito’s gaze shifted slowly from her husband to the council, her expression unreadable—but resolute.

Hashirama met the silence with calm finality. “Tobirama gave us that chance. We don’t waste it.”

The weight of the room shifted. Weariness drawn taut over old pride. The kind of silence born not from unity, but exhaustion. No one moved to challenge him, but neither did they lean forward. The air held still, like the pause before a reluctant nod.

Taneda exhaled slowly, fingers steepled before him. “It’s a risk,” he said at last. “A long one. And we’ve paid dearly for long risks before.”

Odamaki gave a tight nod. “Madara may accept the land. He may even accept the silence. But peace?” He shook his head. “You’re asking us to trust what we’ve never been given.”

“I’m not asking you to trust them,” Hashirama said quietly. “I’m asking you to prepare for the world that comes after this one.”

Elder Mori, who had said nothing until now, let out a slow breath. “It’s not the path I would’ve chosen.” His voice was hoarse with age, but steady. “But we have not seen any progress in years. Maybe it’s time we try something else.”

Some of the elders looked down, eyes tracing old scuffs in the table’s grain. Others watched Hashirama without speaking, as if waiting for the part of him that had once long ago demanded victory to reemerge. But it didn’t. He remained where he stood, steady and undeniable. 

Mito straightened from her place at Hashirama’s side, her voice cool. “I’ll draft the counterproposal.”

Hashirama nodded without looking at her, his gaze still pinned to the map like he could will it into something gentler. He turned back toward the council table, meeting each elder’s eyes in turn. 

“We’ll reconvene after the next meeting. Until then, prepare for border reinforcement. Quietly. No rumors. No fear.”

There were murmurs of assent. Robes rustled. Chairs creaked. One by one, the elders rose and filed from the room, boots thudding against the polished floor, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, final thud.

Tōka was the last to go. She paused at the threshold, studying him from beneath the edge of her hood. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said. “Even if I hate it.”

Hashirama didn’t reply. He only gave her a tired, grateful glance, and she nodded once before disappearing into the corridor. Only Mito remained, her hands folded lightly in front of her, watching him.

He exhaled, long and slow, and leaned both palms against the edge of the map table. For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at the lines, the names, the etched scars in the wood where past conflicts had gouged deep.

“I gave him up,” he said softly.

Mito tilted her head. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he said, more firmly now. “I stood there and let them take him. I offered myself, and he—he stopped me. I should’ve insisted. I should’ve done more.”

His hands curled into fists against the table’s surface. “Every instinct in me screamed to get him back. But I couldn’t. I didn’t.”

“You chose the path he would have,” Mito said, quiet but unwavering. “And he knew it.”

Hashirama shook his head, throat tight. “He looked at me like he’d already made peace with it. Like he expected me to fail him. Again.”

Mito didn’t answer right away. Her thumb brushed his wrist, grounding.

“He knew what giving himself would buy us. A chance. You’re making use of that chance. That’s the most anyone could do.”

He finally looked at her, and something in his eyes wavered. That bright, boundless strength, dimmed at the edges by fear he hadn’t let show.

“I’m scared,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “So am I.”

His shoulders sank then, his head bowing as the burden pressed in from every side—brother, leader, diplomat, dreamer. He let out a breath that trembled at the end.  

“I just want it to be over.”

She didn’t try to tell him it would be soon. Or easy. Or painless. Instead, she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. 

And he let her.

---

The light had changed twice before Madara returned.

Morning had come and gone without movement. Now, late afternoon filtered dimly through the sealed window panels, the gray of the winter sky bleeding across the floorboards. Inside, the air remained still. Untouched. As though time itself had paused to match its guest.

Tobirama was in place by the futon. There were no signs of rest, no rumpled bedding or eased tension. He simply sat, spine straight, hands loose over his knees, eyes closed in meditation. His posture held the unsettling precision of something carved rather than born. 

Madara slid the door open with one hand, then stopped in the threshold, brow lifting at the sight before him.

“Do you intend to sit there until spring?”

Tobirama didn’t look up. “Unlikely. I imagine the negotiations will break down long before then.”

A beat. Madara exhaled, stepping inside. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud.

“You’ve been awake since dawn?”

Tobirama didn’t answer immediately, but the glance he gave was enough—dry, cool, and unmistakably pointed.

“I assumed,” Madara said, arms folding loosely across his chest, “when you missed breakfast, that you were still asleep.”

“I never sleep in.”

“You were injured. You walked half-frozen through the forest. Your chakra is sealed.”

“I’m aware.”

Madara stared at him for a moment longer, trying to puzzle out what, exactly, he’d expected. Not comfort—Tobirama was not a man shaped by ease. But he’d thought perhaps the Senju would pace, test the limits of his confinement, snap back with something sharp to prove the seal hadn’t dulled his instincts. Not… this.

“You don’t have to pretend to be a monument.”

Tobirama’s brow arched, just slightly. “And what would you suggest instead? I have no charka, no weapons, no scrolls, no work. You’ve taken what I am. I’ve adjusted accordingly.”

The words weren’t bitter, but they struck something nonetheless. An unnerving matter-of-factness that Madara couldn’t quite shrug off.

“I didn’t take what you are,” he said after a pause. “Only what you can do. There’s a difference.”

Tobirama met his gaze, level and unyielding. “Is there?”

Madara sighed. He stepped further into the room, his presence dragging in a faint edge of warmth against the cold-laced air.

“Come eat.”

Tobirama didn’t move.

Madara’s voice dropped half a shade. “You’ve had nothing since yesterday. I will not be accused of starving you.”

A long weighted beat past. Tobirama unfolded from the floor with the same economy of motion he applied to every other act of his life. Madara stepped aside without needing to be asked. He didn’t look at Tobirama as he slid the door open again and led the way through the short inner corridor. The annex kitchen lay just beyond—a narrow, self-contained space with clean counters and a square table set against the window. A hearth burned low in the far corner. The light through the frosted pane had thinned further, evening approaching like a held breath.

Someone had been there earlier. A pot still sat over the hearth, faintly warm. Two dishes had been arranged on the table—miso, rice, a small portion of simmered root vegetables. Nothing extravagant, but not neglectful. 

Madara gestured toward it. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s your concern.”

Tobirama didn’t dignify that with an answer. He sat and began to eat without comment, as if nourishment were simply another task to be completed.

Madara lingered near the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed—not quite pacing, not quite still. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It was a silence that hummed, like wires pulled too tight. He watched Tobirama eat with the same sharp attention he gave to battlefield reports or unfamiliar jutsu. After a few minutes, he turned, half toward the door. 

“I’ll have them bring tea next time. You look like you’re trying to chew tree bark.”

Tobirama didn’t look up. “If they bring tea, make sure they bring two cups.”

Madara paused. The comment had landed like a stone in still water. He looked over his shoulder. “Expecting company?”

“You keep hovering like one.”

That made Madara snort—short, sharp, unguarded. He shook his head, but instead of leaving, he shifted his weight and leaned against the doorframe.

“I suppose if I were you, I’d find that suspicious.”

“You’re not me,” Tobirama said, reaching for the miso. “We’re not particularly alike.”

“No,” Madara agreed. “You’re quieter and worse at pretending you don’t care.”

Tobirama’s chopsticks paused, just a fraction. “And you’re better at pretending you do.”

Madara’s expression didn’t change, but something under it tightened. He crossed the space between them slowly and pulled out the opposite chair. The legs scraped faintly against the wooden floor.

He sat.

Tobirama didn’t react, though his glance flicked toward him with something between curiosity and suspicion. Madara reached for the second dish without asking. He turned the bowl slowly in his hands.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “You think I enjoy this?”

“Being obeyed?” Tobirama asked, dry. “Yes.”

Madara huffed through his nose. “I meant this situation. Holding you. Forcing your brother’s hand.”

Tobirama finally looked at him—sharp, assessing. “I don’t think you enjoy it,” he said, tone even. “I think you consider it necessary. And my brother informs me you’ve always had a high tolerance for doing what you think must be done.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “And what is it you think I’m doing, exactly?”

Tobirama returned to his food, though his focus had shifted. His movements slowed. “That depends. You asked for land you know we won’t give. Resources we can’t afford. Terms that can’t be accepted. Either you’re baiting us into refusal… or you’re waiting for a counteroffer.”

Madara said nothing. Not a blink. Not a breath.

Which was its own answer.

Tobirama continued, voice calm as if discussing weather patterns. “You push high. Force us to bargain down. Create the illusion of compromise. And when we concede half of what you asked, you get exactly what you wanted from the start. It’s crude. But effective.”

Madara’s mouth twitched—just barely. “If you already understand it, I fail to see the issue.”

“The issue,” Tobirama said, setting his bowl down with quiet finality, “is that it risks collapsing everything.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. It was there in the precision of his words, in the steel behind them.

“You don’t trust that peace can stand on its own, so you start by fracturing it. Demand until it breaks, then call the shards a foundation.”

Madara studied him. “And what would you do differently?”

Tobirama’s reply was immediate. “Lay terms you intend to keep. Call for a ceasefire, not a contest. Treat your opponent like a future ally—not a threat waiting to resurface.”

Madara tilted his head. “And if they betray you?”

“Then you fight,” Tobirama said. “But you don’t begin there.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other—two men forged in mirrored fires, both too intelligent, too proud, too deeply rooted in opposite truths. Madara leaned back slightly in his chair, the edge of something unreadable ghosting across his face.

“You think like an architect.”

“And you think like a weapon,” Tobirama said, without malice. “It’s why you can’t put yours down.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something older. Wariness, maybe. A sharpness honed too long on politics and loss.

“You think lecturing me is how peace is made?”

“I think peace is made,” Tobirama said, “by the one who has the power to refuse to strike first.”

Madara’s jaw shifted. He stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping faintly against the floor. His hands braced on the edge of the table for a breath—white-knuckled—but he didn’t speak. Just stared down at Tobirama, who looked back with infuriating calm, like a man already ten steps past the argument.

The silence coiled tight. Madara straightened.

He took one step back, toward the door. Then paused. Something sharp flickered behind his eyes—exhaustion, defiance, something else unnamed. He turned around sharply. 

“You know what, Senju—”

---

“—and the original scroll misidentifies the glyph entirely,” Tobirama was saying, voice clipped but intent, hands moving faintly as he spoke. “It’s not a binding mark—it’s a siphon seal disguised with recursive loops. The compression ratio alone should’ve made that obvious, but no one questioned it because the ink hadn’t bled.”

It was well past dark.

The kitchen had grown dim around them, the oil lamp on the counter flickering low, casting long shadows against the walls. The food was gone, bowls stacked neatly in the corner of the table. Neither of them had moved from their seats.

Tobirama was leaning forward now, all posture forgotten, his sleeves pushed back to his elbows as he gestured in short, sharp strokes. There was color in his face for the first time in days—not from anger, not from cold, but from genuine momentum. He didn’t seem to notice that he was talking more than he had in weeks. 

Madara had a hand braced beneath his chin, eyes narrowed—not with disapproval, but focus. Thought. His own plate sat untouched. Somewhere between the explanation of recursive sealing matrices and historical precedent for elemental overlays, he’d stopped trying to argue and started listening.

“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that the entire Capital archive has misattributed the root structure of chakra flow for four decades?”

“Yes,” Tobirama said immediately. “And before you try to defend them, don’t. It’s not a theory—it’s observable in the way the flow responds to interference. I replicated it once—twice—and the signature decay was identical. They copied an error and never checked the base.”

Madara’s brow furrowed. “You replicated an ancient seal that nearly destabilized a whole defensive line. Twice?”

“I was careful.”

“That is not the word I would’ve used.”

Tobirama huffed—not quite a laugh, but close—and leaned back again, the sleeves of his robe rumpled, a faint sheen of heat clinging to the back of his neck.  He reached for the teapot between them and poured what remained of the lukewarm tea into his cup without comment. The quiet was no longer strained. It was something else now—thick with thought. 

A sharp knock at the frame disturbed the atmosphere. The door slid open without waiting for permission.

Izuna stepped inside, expression halfway to incredulous. Madara turned his head—slowly.

“There you are,” Izuna said. “We’ve been looking for—”

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking between the two of them, to the teacups, to the flickering lamplight, to Tobirama’s sleeves still shoved halfway up his arms. His gaze narrowed.

“…Is this where you’ve been the whole time?”

Madara blinked. Tobirama straightened instinctively, the faintest wince ghosting through his expression. As though remembering all at once that he was supposed to be unreadable, restrained, removed. His hands dropped to his lap.

Madara’s jaw flexed.

“Yes,” he said, tone flat.

Izuna’s eyebrows rose. “Well. Good to know we’ve redefined hostage protocol.”

“I was keeping him occupied.” Madara replied coolly. “He’s talkative when he’s criticizing the dead.”

Tobirama’s glare could have stripped bark.

Izuna raised both hands. “Right. As you were, then. But you’re needed. Hirota’s unit just returned—there’s something in the northern reports you’ll want to see.”

Madara stood, slow and deliberate, as if peeling himself out of something deeper than posture. He didn’t glance back, but Tobirama saw it—the shift in his expression, the way his mouth was a fraction too tight.

Tobirama reached for his own sleeves, pulling them down methodically.

“Don’t wait up,” Izuna added, glancing one last time at the half-empty cups and the lingering quiet that filled the space behind them. “Or do. Whatever this is.”

The door slid shut behind them with a finality that echoed longer than it should have. Tobirama stared at it for a beat, his shoulders stiff, jaw locked tight. The silence that remained felt sharper now—not the contemplative quiet of discussion, but the kind that followed a misstep. The kind that hung like smoke after flame.

He exhaled through his nose, low and sharp.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

Not at Madara. Not at Izuna. At himself.

It hadn’t been a mistake, exactly, he hadn’t said anything dangerous. But he’d let himself fall into rhythm. Into momentum. Into speaking like he wasn’t confined and sealed and being used as leverage against his clan. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the familiar motion grounding. There was no use in regretting it now. It was done.

Still. He needed something to do.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small. 

Tobirama pushed away from the table and moved back into the hall, steps silent against the polished wood. The annex, modest as it was, unfolded in quiet symmetry: three rooms total, each spaced with deliberate precision. His had been the last on the right. The others opened toward the interior—the first likely meant as another bedroom, the second once an office or study, now emptied for caution’s sake.

He slid the first door open with care. The room beyond was clean, minimal, stripped of everything but the essentials—a futon rolled tight in the corner, the faint scent of tatami, a window sealed like all the rest. The second room was the same. No ink. No tools. Just quiet bareness. He didn’t know why he was still checking.

Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was the lingering edge of irritation coiling under his skin, too small to name but too persistent to ignore. Or maybe it was the same instinct that always drove him toward information—toward detail, toward edges and errors.

The final cabinet in the second room was built low into the wall, its doors simple slats of pale wood, flush with the grain. He pulled them open.

Nothing inside. Until the very last one.

Tucked near the back, flattened beneath a folded cloth. Not a scroll or journal. Just a sheaf of thick, quality paper. Five pages, maybe six, preserved from dust by sheer accident.

Tobirama stilled. It could have been left behind by a previous occupant. Or it could’ve been overlooked—an old supply cached before the annex had been repurposed. It didn’t matter. The result was the same.

They’d missed something. He took it.

His gaze lingered on the paper—not with relief, not even with satisfaction, but with the clinical clarity that always followed a problem worth solving.

Ink. That was the next question.

He turned on his heel and made his way back toward the kitchen, thoughts moving faster than his steps. Soot from the oil lamp—too inconsistent. Charring some of the remaining vegetables over a flame and mixing it with water to form a paste—possible, but slow. Concentrated tea would stain well enough if boiled down to tar, but the effort-to-yield ratio was inefficient. All viable. All insufficient.

He set the paper on the kitchen table and stared at the empty bowls still drying by the sink.

Then, with something between disdain and resolve, he exhaled. Fine.

A sharp breath through his nose. The flick of canines against the side of his thumb—familiar, unhesitating.

Blood welled instantly, a slow bead rising beneath the skin, dark and steady. He pressed it to the paper.

Not a flourish. No dramatic sealwork or symbols of identity. Just motion—measured and spare, like all his movements. A few strokes to test the weight, the drag of dried blood over parchment. He could work with it.

He reached for a utensil—chopstick, smooth and narrow—and dipped it into the next drop, drawing it out like the stem of a brush. His fingers adjusted for pressure, wrist angling into muscle memory. It wasn’t perfect. But he didn’t need perfect.

He needed function.

He began with structure theory—chakra conductivity in recursive seals, modulation, strain ratios under interrupted flow. Not his own work, not entirely. Just the general frameworks. The kind of things discussed in passing between shinobi too clever to leave their curiosity behind. 

Worth marking down, because conversation had sharpened the lines. Because Madara had challenged him. Because for the first time in days, something in his mind had moved.

The blood dried fast, so he worked faster.

This was not defiance, he told himself. It wasn’t even rebellion. It was preservation. Extraction of utility from a rare exchange.  He paused only when the paper curled slightly at the edge and the bleeding stopped.

Then he pressed his thumb again, harder this time, without hesitation.

Because what were they going to do? Punish him for writing down theory? For having a mind too restless to sit in stillness?

The silence was unbearable now, and he couldn’t afford to let clarity rot into regret. He kept writing. 

This, this thinking, was the only freedom left to him. And if he couldn’t be whole, then he would be sharp.

Chapter Text

Madara saw the blood before he saw the words.

A dull crimson, staining the sheets. It wasn’t fresh but it was unmistakable.

Five pages were spread across the kitchen table, the handwriting precise, sharp lines and clean edges. Too exact. Too Senju. 

Madara didn’t stop to read. He didn’t need to. The shape of the thing was enough—the paper, the seal-script edges, the faint metallic tang of blood that hung like a whisper above them. 

He snatched them up in one fluid motion, fingers tightening around the top sheet hard enough to wrinkle the margin. The edges rasped together as he turned and strode from the room, papers in hand, jaw locked tight.

The walk from the kitchen to the annex bedroom was silent. Not the calm kind. The storm-building kind. Madara didn’t call for guards. Didn’t pause to weigh the optics. His anger was already shaped, channeled, sharpened into the hallway air.

The door slid open with a crack .

Tobirama looked up from where he sat beside the futon, blank expression settling in place. Madara crossed the room in three clipped steps, paper clutched in his hand like a weapon.

“What the hell is this?”

Tobirama didn’t flinch. He made eye contact with Madara, gaze even. Like the Uchiha clan head had just asked him about the weather.

“Paper,” he said dryly. “Presumably you’ve seen it before.”

Madara advanced another step, closing the space between them. The papers, still curled in his grip, hovered just inches from Tobirama’s chest.

“You think this is a joke?” Madara snapped “Who told you this was acceptable?!”

Tobirama’s tone stayed maddeningly level “No one.” 

“You used blood.”

“I had no ink.”

Madara’s shadow spilled over him, posture rigid with the barely-leashed instinct to pace or strike or do something that might cut through the cool deflection in front of him.

“You used blood to write seals in my home, under my guards, under my name —”

“They’re not seals,” Tobirama cut in, crisp and unbothered. “They’re models. Flow maps. Theoretical constructs.”

Madara’s jaw clenched. The muscle jumped just beneath the skin as he leaned forward, the heat of his presence bristling between them. “Do you think I care about the distinction?”

“No,” Tobirama said. His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the wrinkled paper in Madara’s grip.  “You clearly didn’t even read it.”

Madara didn’t speak.  His eyes flicked down, finally, to the blood-dark script in his hands. His grip loosened slightly. The paper crinkled in his palm.

“It’s what we discussed yesterday,” Tobirama said, his voice quiet but firm.  “You asked how recursive containment interacts with interrupted chakra flow. I outlined it. In the only medium I had.”

He rose smoothly to his feet, no sudden movements, no defiance—just composure honed to something too steady to be passivity. 

“It’s not a weapon. It’s a record. Because you asked.”

Madara’s jaw worked once, tension slipping along the line of his throat. His fingers curled reflexively against his palm.  Nothing dangerous. Just theory. Unthreatening in every way except who had written it.

His voice was clipped when it came.

“You are not to write again.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift. But something cold threaded into his tone.

“Then what would you have me do?” he asked. “Sit in silence? Stare at the floor? Pretend the days are passing any differently in here than in a cell?”

Madara’s mouth opened—then shut. His posture held firm, but his breath came slower now. 

The question sat heavy in the room.

He stared at Tobirama. There was no real venom in the Senju’s tone—just resignation. The kind that came from a man who’d been cornered by duty one too many times and learned to stand still when caged. Something in Madara’s shoulders eased. Barely enough to notice, but the shift was there.

“…Would some reading material suffice?”

Tobirama blinked once. Not in surprise—he was far past being surprised by anything Madara did—but in calculation. The offer hung in the air. He weighed it without speaking, the lines of his face still.

“It would,” he said finally. “Provided you don’t hand me fiction.”

Madara exhaled, short and dry. “You don’t seem like someone who appreciates fiction.”

“I appreciate accuracy,” Tobirama replied. “I have very little tolerance for metaphor masquerading as insight.”

“I’ll see what can be spared,” Madara muttered. He set the pages down on the low table near them, smoothing one corner with the flat of his palm. It was a subtle motion—unthinking—but Tobirama noted it all the same. A gesture that acknowledged the paper’s existence beyond the anger it had caused.

Tobirama didn’t sit back down. He remained standing, arms at his sides, tension still wound in his spine like a drawn wire. “I wasn’t attempting to provoke you.”

Madara glanced up. “Then you succeeded entirely by accident.”

Tobirama’s mouth twitched—whether in faint annoyance or faint amusement, even he wasn’t sure. His gaze drifted down to the table, to the corner of the paper Madara had smoothed, now darkened by the press of his palm.

“Noted,” he said simply.

Madara didn’t move. The distance between them had shrunk to nothing, but neither made an effort to bridge or widen it. The air between them held, still bristling. Sharpened by pride and restraint and too many years of carrying their names like shields.

For a moment longer, it seemed like Madara might say something else. A warning, maybe. A dismissal. Another rule to tighten the line Tobirama was meant to walk. But it didn’t come. Instead, he drew back a step, cloak rustling faintly with the movement. His expression remained composed, but no longer edged in heat.

“I’ll have something sent up by nightfall,” he said. “No blood this time.”

Tobirama inclined his head. “That depends on the quality of the writing.”

That earned him a look. A sharp flick of dark eyes, narrowed just enough to suggest that Madara hadn’t decided whether to be irritated or impressed. He turned on his heel, footsteps soft but unhurried as he crossed through the door. 

Tobirama stood there for a moment, alone once more in the stillness of the room. The scent of iron still lingered faintly on the air. 

He lowered himself back onto the futon slowly, hands bracing on his knees. The pages sat neatly on the table across from him—quiet now, harmless. But his name had shaped them, and Madara had seen.

Not destroyed.

He let out a breath, then leaned forward to shift the pages slightly straighter on the table.

For now, that was enough.

---

The library was quiet.

Rows upon rows of old tomes, the hush of aged parchment, the faint, dry scent of polished shelves and time. The hearth at the far end had long since burned down to embers, casting the stone floor in amber flicker and shadow.

Madara stood with one hand braced against a high shelf, the other holding a leather-bound volume open halfway. His brow was furrowed, not in irritation but in thought. Deep, methodical thought. His eyes scanned the pages without haste, lips pressed in a faint line. From the stack beside him, it was not the first book he’d opened tonight.

It was the fourth.

The titles were not light reading. One on refined chakra applications in long-term stabilization fields. Another on foundational theory of elemental chakra natures, scrawled in the dense shorthand of an eastern scholar long-dead. A third was half-sealed in fūinjutsu script, requiring chakra to unlock the diagrams within —inapplicable. 

His fingers skimmed the shelf again, trailing along the worn edges of history and memory. 

“What are you doing.”

Madara didn’t startle. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. He recognized Izuna’s voice by the disbelief alone.

Behind him, in the doorway, Izuna stood with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, tension already coiling in the tight angle of his jaw.

Madara closed the book in his hands with careful precision and finally looked up. “Research.”

Izuna’s expression didn’t shift. Not at first. But the pause between Madara’s answer and his response stretched a fraction too long.

“On what?” he asked, flat.

Madara replaced the book on the shelf without turning. “Theory.”

“Whose?”

Madara didn’t answer. He moved along the row instead, trailing a finger down the spines of volumes that had not been touched in years—some still marked with clan glyphs, others borrowed from Fire Country collections long since absorbed into the compound. His hand hovered over one that bore no title, just a single pressed sigil etched into cracked leather.

Izuna stepped further into the room.

“Madara.”

The silence between them narrowed.

Madara’s fingers paused.

Izuna’s voice dropped, low with the edge of something colder. “You’re giving him books?”

Madara didn’t answer. He pulled a scroll from the upper shelf, unrolled it partway to check its contents, then dismissed it with a flick of his fingers and replaced it neatly.

Izuna continued “You’re giving Tobirama Senju access to chakra theory, Uchiha-authored texts, our internal annotations—what, hoping he’ll be so grateful he teaches us how to subdue his clan faster?”

Madara’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a flicker of heat behind his eyes now. He turned, slow and deliberate, to face his brother.

“He is not being given access to Uchiha techniques. Or anything classified. I’m not an idiot.”

“Then what are you giving him?” Izuna asked. “Because I just watched you debate between first-editions like it was a diplomatic gift basket.”

Madara’s jaw tightened. “Something to keep him occupied.”

“Occupied?” Izuna echoed, incredulous. “Aniki—he’s a Senju. He’s not some bored prisoner who needs entertainment. You think he won’t turn every scrap of information into a weapon the moment it benefits him?”

Madara didn’t look away. “He already could.”

That gave Izuna pause. A beat passed. Madara stepped past him, returning to the smaller desk at the far end where a half-stack of selections waited. He picked up one volume—titled Interference Mapping in Dual-Channel Constructs —and flipped through the opening chapter.

“He doesn’t need our texts to be dangerous. He already is.” Madara closed the book again. “I would rather he be engaged with that than inventing new ways to dismantle things from boredom.”

“And your solution is to give him literature?” Izuna snapped. “What next—let him teach a seminar?” 

Madara didn’t answer. Not right away. He set the book down with quiet finality, the weight of it landing like a closing thought. His gaze was sharp, but no longer defensive. Only precise.

“It serves as a distraction."

Izuna exhaled—half frustration, half reluctant understanding. “He’s still the enemy.”

“I’m aware.” Madara said. 

It was silent again. Then Izuna muttered under his breath, spun on his heel, and began walking toward the door. 

Madara was already thumbing through the next book, measuring content, tone, complexity—searching for something balanced enough to offer and exacting enough to satisfy.

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I’ve regretted worse.” 

The flicker of embers behind him crackled faintly in the quiet.

---

The sound was faint—barely more than a rustle of cloth and the muted clink of ceramic. Not the tread of a guard, too light for armor. Something softer. Intentional.

Tobirama rose from the futon in silence.

He didn’t mask his steps as he crossed the short hall. Whoever had entered likely already knew he was here—still, his presence wasn’t meant to be casual. He reached the edge of the kitchen and stopped just short of the threshold.

The woman startled.

Not overtly. She didn’t cry out or flinch backward, but her shoulders lifted, her hands froze mid-motion, and her breath caught sharp in her throat.

Tobirama watched her with calm precision.

She was setting a tray down on the low table. Simple fare—steamed rice, pickled daikon, miso in a pale ceramic bowl still venting a soft ribbon of steam. A second wooden dish held something grilled and lightly glazed, maybe sweet root or salted tofu. She straightened slowly, smoothing her hands on her apron.

“Apologies,” she said after a moment. Her voice was low and even, but not fearful. Just carefully respectful. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was not,” Tobirama said. He didn’t step fully into the room, but didn’t leave either. His posture was still  “And you are?”

“Akame,” she said, bowing lightly. “House staff. I tend the annex. Meals. Cleaning. The fire.”

He nodded once, a movement more acknowledgment than greeting. Her eyes didn’t linger long on him—she didn’t stare the way some did. Not at the white hair, not at the red eyes. She took him in and moved on, the way professionals did. Tobirama could appreciate that.

“You weren’t here this morning,” he said.

“I was,” she said, adjusting the ceramic bowl slightly on the tray. “But you and Madara-sama seemed preoccupied.”

Her words were careful, evenly spaced, like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was trespassing by mentioning it.

“So,” she added, with a faint tilt of her head, “I left the food on the table.”

He glanced past her at the hearth, embers shifting as the faint edge of cold crept back into the stone corners. She moved toward it, crouching beside the low grate with a small bundle of split wood in one hand.

“I can tend to it,” he said, almost out of habit.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” she replied, glancing back with a hint of a smile. “The last shinobi who tried cracked the bricks. The chief of staff wasn’t pleased.”

That almost earned a smile from him. 

Akame stirred the coals with deft, economical movements, stacking wood in tight crosswise layers. Her sleeves were folded back, her posture low but practiced. She had dark hair that was pulled neatly at the nape, not a strand out of place. Her eyes matched, a shade just shy of black, steady but unremarkable in the way people trained not to be noticed often were. Early thirties, perhaps. Uchiha, unmistakably. 

A thin line of warmth began to stretch back into the room.

“The seals,” Tobirama said after a moment, “aren’t sufficient for warming the house in themselves. I saw the matrix on the hallway threshold. Whoever designed them used a mismatched intake and poor anchoring glyphs. You’re compensating with coal.”

Akame looked up, brow lifting slightly. “That obvious?”

“To anyone who knows what they’re looking at,” he said. “It holds, but barely.”

She sat back on her heels and exhaled through her nose. “We requested an update last year. They said the compound’s inner rings had priority.”

Tobirama hummed faintly, more thought than sound. His eyes drifted back toward the hearth, tracking the way the new wood caught and curled with heat. A kettle had been set just above the flames, nestled on a raised iron trivet—no boil yet, but close.  

Tobirama made a quiet noise of acknowledgment. “I assume the primary purpose is cooking. Most of your kin wouldn’t notice a cold draft.”

“No,” she agreed, a wry flicker in her tone. “Most of them wouldn’t. Fire-natured chakra covers a multitude of flaws.”

He glanced at her. “You’re not shinobi.”

A shake of the head. “My mother was. I was not. I do other things.”

Akame stood, brushing the soot from her knees. She turned to the small cupboard tucked beside the hearth. The iron latch clicked faintly as she opened it. Inside were stacks of spare dishes, clean but slightly mismatched. As she began pulling them out, she stood on the balls of her feet, reaching for the higher shelves.

Tobirama watched her for a moment, then stepped forward.

"Let me."

She blinked. "You don’t have to."

"You can’t reach," he said bluntly.

"And you’re very direct," she muttered, stepping aside.

"That tends to happen when the truth is obvious."

He reached up and pulled down a stack of wooden plates without ceremony, setting them gently on the table near the tray. His height made the motion effortless. Akame gave him a glance—assessing, perhaps faintly amused.

"You know," she said, turning back to gather the next set of utensils, "if this hostage thing doesn’t work out, you could probably earn a living as house staff."

Tobirama tilted his head. "Unlikely. I’d be fired within the week."

"For what?"

"Fixing the foundation, reorganizing the storage, and reworking the kitchen seals without permission."

That drew a laugh from her. A quiet one, but genuine.

Tobirama reached for another stack without being asked, placing it in clean, measured lines along the shelf she pointed to. He moved with the same quiet precision he used for fieldwork—efficient, economical, entirely without fuss. If Akame noticed the way his fingers avoided the splinters along the wood grain or how he corrected the slight tilt in the stack she’d set crooked, she didn’t mention it.

They settled into a rhythm with surprising ease—her gesturing, him reaching; her wiping surfaces, him adjusting the higher wall hooks quietly. Not a word passed between them for several minutes, but the silence was companionable.

In the days of monotony that had preceded this, at least it was something to do. The hearth behind them gave off a low, steady heat, the kettle now beginning to hiss faintly as steam curled through the lip.

Tobirama handed her a tin of dried herbs without looking. “This one’s improperly sealed. You’ll lose freshness before the end of the month.”

Akame gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you critique all storage methods this thoroughly?”

“Yes.”

He set the last bowl into place and stepped back as she returned a brush and cloth to a basket she had carried with her. He didn’t speak again, but his hands remained loose at his sides, not quite retreating. He hadn’t meant to linger. He simply hadn’t noticed that he was.

Which was exactly when Madara walked in.

The door slid open without warning, the movement sharp but not loud. Madara’s silhouette filled the entry—one hand resting on the edge of the frame, the other holding a trio of books wrapped in cloth. His gaze landed first on Tobirama, then on Akame, then on the open cupboard and the faint scent of cedar polish still clinging to the air.

His expression didn’t shift immediately. But his eyes did. Once. Slowly. From the hearth to Tobirama’s hands to the shelves.

Tobirama met his gaze with flat composure. Not defensive. But decidedly not guilty.

Madara’s voice broke the quiet. Low. Measured.

“…Am I interrupting something?”

Akame straightened with a start, clearly only now realizing how the moment might look. She dipped into a half-bow, hands brushing over her apron. “Madara-sama. No—nothing at all. I was just—”

“Having a lesson in spatial optimization,” Tobirama said dryly.

Madara arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Akame blinked. Tobirama didn’t so much as blink.

Madara exhaled, stepping farther inside. He set the wrapped books down on the table with more force than necessary—though not enough to be aggressive. Just enough to make the wood knock.

“For you,” he said. “Nonfiction, as requested.”

Tobirama’s gaze flicked to the bundle, then back to Madara. “Appreciated.”

Akame nodded quickly, already stepping back. “I’ll let you both—discuss.”

She moved quietly, slipping toward the far wall where a folded linen basket rested near the cabinet. Her hands didn’t fumble, but her pace edged toward brisk as she gathered a half-folded cloth and a pair of laundered tunics from the side shelf. One last nod, sharp and polite.

“Madara-sama. Senju-san.”

And then she was gone, footsteps soft against the floorboards, the door whispering shut behind her. The scent of woodsmoke and herbal polish lingered in her absence.

Madara didn’t speak immediately. He turned back toward the books instead, unwrapping the cloth with methodical precision. The top volume was clean but well-worn, its corners softened from years of use. The second was a thinner collection—notes and essays compiled by one of the Fire Daimyō’s court scholars, its binding repaired more than once. The last was a manual on different Kunai holds. Dense. Functional.

“I wasn’t sure what flavor of nonfiction you preferred,” Madara said, voice even as he arranged the volumes side by side. “So I chose three. Arrogant, academic, and aggressively dry.”

Tobirama stepped forward, surveying them with a faint furrow between his brows. He picked up the second book, flipping briefly through the preface. “This one’s misattributed. Shibue didn’t write these entries. He compiled them. There’s a difference.”

Madara gave him a look. Dry. Unimpressed. “And here I thought you’d be grateful.”

“I am,” Tobirama replied, tone even.

Madara watched him for a moment longer, arms folding loosely across his chest. His gaze drifted—not to the books now, but to the lingering lines of the room. The straightened shelf. The shifted bowl. The faint soot-smudge on Tobirama’s sleeve.

“Is this what you do when left unsupervised?” he asked, tone mild in the way only deliberate things were, “Organize my annex?”

Tobirama didn’t look up from the book. “Would you prefer I dismantle it?”

Madara stepped to the table, tapping the corner of one book to square the stack. The motion was idle, almost careless.

“I’d prefer you act like a hostage” he said at last. “But you’ve never been particularly good at following expectations.”

Tobirama closed the book with one hand, spine snapping gently shut. “That makes two of us.”

There was a pause. Not quite silence—just the faint, residual press of heat from the hearth and the soft whistle of the kettle beginning to boil. Madara didn’t move. Neither did Tobirama. The room felt still in the way that came just before movement.

Eventually, Madara’s gaze flicked to the floor, where a bit of stray lint clung to the hem of the tablecloth. His voice, when it came again, was almost wry.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t rearrange the floorplan in my absence.”

Tobirama made a soft, almost absent sound—half acknowledgment, half thought—his attention already drifting back to the book in his hands. Madara watched him a beat longer.

The hearthlight caught at an angle now, striking across the side of Tobirama’s face, the pale sweep of his hair, the slight curve of his shoulder where soot still dusted the fabric. For a moment, the shadows made him look less like a prisoner and more like a fixture of the room itself. Something settled, studied

Madara turned without another word.The door slid open again, quieter this time, and closed behind him with a muted click.

Tobirama didn’t look up.

The kettle hissed softly. The hearth crackled.

Chapter Text

Routine settled over the annex like snowfall: soft at first, then suffocating. Every hour accounted for, every action predictable. Six days had passed since the meeting with Hashirama in a blur of repetition. 

Madara returned each evening, a different book in hand. Sometimes two. Occasionally with a quiet remark about the author’s ego or the quality of Fire Country scholarship. Never fiction. Always theory. Chakra constructs. Historical critique. Political treatises annotated in someone else’s tidy, acidic script. 

Tobirama read them. Cover to cover. Sometimes aloud, quietly, to test the cadence of another scholar’s language against his own. He offered commentary whenever Madara lingered with the same tone he used on battlefield plans: detached, incisive, relentless. And Madara listened. Sometimes leaning, arms crossed, against the frame of the door. Sometimes seated across from him, silent but intent, as though still trying to decide whether Tobirama’s thoughts were insight or weapon.

They did not argue. Not often. But they disagreed, which was worse. Disagreement with Madara was not a clash. It was a war of glances, pauses, and words with too many layers. Tobirama matched him in silence when he could not match him in force. The seal still pulsed faintly beneath his ribs—distant, dull, ever present—but he had stopped noticing it in daylight. Like the ache of an old wound that only twinged when the wind shifted.

The guards outside the door changed every six hours, as promised. Their footsteps became familiar. Tobirama did not press against the boundary of his permitted space, but he memorized its shape. The courtyard’s cold geometry. The scuff marks where boots had turned too sharply. The scent of ash where the hearth flared.  Even the echo of patrol calls—low, clipped murmurs traded between shifts—became markers in his internal ledger.

From the annex’s narrow corridor, one of the windows offered an oblique view of the courtyard’s edge. Just enough, if he angled correctly, to see the shadowed outline of the night posts. He never lingered long. But he observed.

It began with a stillness that was too complete.

The guard on the western side—the taller of the two—had a habit of leaning against the wall just after the third bell. At first it seemed calculated: a shift of weight, a redistribution of armor. But on the third night, his head dipped. Barely. Like a bow too slow to be deliberate. A moment passed—then another. No reaction. No movement. His posture didn’t reset.

He was asleep.

Tobirama said nothing.

He marked the time.

And the next night, when it happened again—later this time, closer to the edge of dawn—he noted the pattern. The man blinked too slowly. Shoulders slackened incrementally. The posture of a sentry unraveling by degrees.

If this was a different compound. If he was held in a different time with different things at stake Tobirama would have killed him. Now, he only watched.

The rhythm of the annex continued its slow march. Meals arrived and were cleared without comment. Laundry taken care of before he could ask. The hearth never fully died, though it coughed against the cold some mornings. These small refinements were not the work of guards.

She always returned. Quietly. Predictably.

Akame came twice a day—sometimes thrice, depending on the state of the weather or the contents of the hearth. She did not speak unless addressed, and when she did, it was only to clarify a task or ask after an arrangement. Her presence was like fine dust swept in with the wind—soft-footed, unobtrusive, methodical.

Now, just after midday, she arrived again. The door slid open with a sound so slight it barely broke the stillness. She carried a stack of folded linen against one hip and a small brush tucked beneath one arm. Her sleeves were rolled, and a faint thread of hearthsmoke clung to her hair.

Tobirama didn’t lift his eyes from the scroll open in front of him, but his senses adjusted automatically—registering weight, movement, the exact moment she exhaled after stepping inside.

“You’re late,” he said.

Akame raised a brow without looking up from the basket she set down. “Am I?”

“You always come before the midday bell. Today, you came after.”

She began sorting the linen into neat piles along the bench. “A hawk arrived at the compound. Message from the border patrol. They’re saying snowfall collapsed the east road near Karasuma.”

Tobirama’s gaze flicked up at that. “Any damage?”

“None reported. One courier bruised, and a patrol team delayed. But word travels faster than people do, apparently.” She paused. “Half the main house was out trying to see for themselves. I waited.”

“Prudent,” Tobirama murmured. He let his focus return to the page—but only for a moment. “They’re nervous.”

“They’re curious,” she corrected gently. “Fear doesn’t make people stare like that. Hope does. They want good news.”

Tobirama didn’t reply right away. His fingers traced the edge of the scroll, but the words blurred slightly at the edges, his attention slipping.

She glanced over. “You don’t agree.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that when people look to the horizon for good news, it means they no longer trust what’s in front of them.”

Akame folded the last cloth. “Is that a philosophy?”

“It’s a fact.”

“Hm.” She didn’t challenge it. Just stored it, the way she stored everything. “You sound like a man who doesn’t often look up.”

“I used to,” he said, and was surprised by how honest it sounded.

She turned at that, brush still in hand, but paused before moving to the hearth.

“I need to check the outer wall,”  she said. “The warming seal’s condensation glyph is leaking through the basin again.”

Tobirama looked up at once, attention narrowing. “And you're doing that alone?”

Akame shrugged, tucking the brush into her sash with the quiet resignation of someone used to temporary fixes. “Not the first time. Unless you’d like to watch someone swear at bad sealing work while trying not to lose a knuckle to frostbite?”

She didn’t mean it as an invitation. Not exactly. But she left the door open behind her when she stepped into the corridor.

Tobirama followed a moment later, wordless.

The courtyard met them in quiet chill, its flagstones rimmed in pale frost. A thin haze drifted from the corners where the cold clung hardest, the air sharp with the scent of snow-damp stone. The annex’s outer edge sloped slightly downward, guiding runoff toward a carved channel that disappeared beneath a narrow wall grate—meant to catch excess condensation from the annex’s insulation seal.

It wasn’t doing its job.

Akame crouched near the trough that lined the base of the eastern wall, where meltwater had already crusted in uneven ridges along the rim. She shoved her sleeves back with quick, practiced fingers and brushed away a thin crust of ice from the etched glyphwork above the basin—a small, inset drain carved directly into the stone. It was meant to redirect condensation runoff that built up behind the warmth seal. Instead, the moisture had overflowed, frozen, and begun to seep along the grout between stones.

Tobirama stopped a few paces behind her.

“You won’t fix it like that,” he said after a beat, voice even.

Akame didn’t look up. “I won’t fix it at all,” she replied, scraping at the glyph with a flat edge of wood. “I’ll stop it from leaking. For a day. Maybe two. Until someone with clearance or chakra decides it’s worth more than patchwork.”

He studied the seal from where he stood, head tilting slightly. “The glyph’s anchoring line is skewed. Whoever carved it inverted the flow root—your seal field is pushing condensation outward, but the runoff array is drawn to pull inward. You’re getting backflow under the insulation layer. That’s why it pools.”

Akame exhaled through her nose. “You’re not even close, and you still saw that.”

“I was trained to identify critical structural failures before they collapse into fatalities,” he said mildly. Then added, tone flat, “I’m also extremely bored.”

That earned him a quiet huff. Not derision—amusement, if reluctant. She sat back on her heels and stared at the glyph with renewed irritation, brow furrowing.

“And here I was hoping the famed Tobirama Senju would fix it out of sheer spite.”

“I could,” Tobirama said dryly, “if I had chakra. Or ink. Or any of the tools one typically uses to manipulate fūinjutsu”

That silenced her briefly. Not with discomfort, but shared pragmatism.

“You shouldn’t be talking to me about seals,” she said, not unkindly. “It’ll get both of us scolded.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Are you concerned about propriety or perception?”

“Perception,” Akame answered, standing slowly. “Propriety died the day they moved you into the annex.”

Tobirama let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. 

The wind moved through the courtyard again, sharp and dry. It pulled at the edge of her braid. He didn’t step closer. She didn’t ask for help. The stone basin sat between them, scored and chilled, ringed with a delicate frost-glint where the ice had begun to crawl up the lip.

He didn’t offer to fix it again. And she didn’t pretend it could be.

---

The morning light lay flat across the Senju compound, the sky stretched thin and colorless over frost-laced rooftops. Cold had settled into the bones of the buildings—quiet, clean, unshaken. Inside the council wing, fire crackled low in a brazier set near the scroll racks, its warmth too narrow to fill the room.

Hashirama stood near the map table, one hand braced on its edge, the other holding a folded letter that had already been read twice. The wax seal was already cracked, the message inside unremarkable—routine military confirmations, courier arrivals, nothing urgent.

Nothing from Madara.

Mito watched him from across the room, silent, her gaze sharp with thought. She sat in the alcove beside the window, where the winter light glanced off her shoulders and turned the red of her robes to something darker. The scrolls at her side were untouched.

“You haven’t moved in ten minutes,” she said finally.

Hashirama made a sound—low, something between a sigh and a breath. “I’m wondering how many ways they’ll try to say no.”

“To the proposal?” she asked, though she already knew. 

He didn’t answer. He unfolded the letter again. A report. Patrol confirmations. A schedule. Still nothing new.

Tōka entered then, without knocking. She never did. Her steps were brisk, boots clicking faintly against the polished wood, a sheaf of new documents tucked under one arm.

“They’ve accepted the time,” she said, without preamble. “Tomorrow at noon. Same neutral site. No changes.”

Mito tilted her head slightly.  “No additions?”

“None.” Tōka dropped the scrolls onto the table beside Hashirama. “No mention of the counteroffer. Not a word about the amended land terms or the mission restructuring. Just time, date, location.”

Hashirama finally looked up, brow furrowing. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” she confirmed. “Which is exactly why I don’t like it. They’re being too quiet.”

Hashirama’s gaze drifted toward the map again, fingers tightening faintly on the table’s edge. “Madara has always been quiet before he decides something irreversible.”

“Then maybe don’t give him the opportunity,” Tōka snapped.

Her tone was short. Tension, not cruelty. The kind that came from sleepless nights and old fear wearing a new face. Hashirama didn’t rise to meet it. He never did. But he felt it, all the same.

Mito spoke before the silence could deepen. “You’re still certain about the land terms?”

“I am,” Hashirama said.

“And the missions?”

“They’ll bend there,” he said, voice flat. “They need the contracts.”

Tōka scoffed. “And Tobirama?”

The question hung like a blade suspended mid-fall. Not sharp for its edge, but for the inevitability behind it. She didn’t look away from Hashirama, didn’t soften the line of her voice.

“Are you asking for him back?” she pressed. “Or not?”

Hashirama didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the map, the sweep of terrain between river and ridge. The lines blurred, if only for a moment.

 “I made the offer once.”

Tōka’s mouth drew into a line. “And you think that was enough?”

“I think it had to be,” he said, still not looking at her. “Anything more, and it stops being negotiation. It becomes begging.”

“Then what is his role?”

Hashirama’s jaw tightened. A muscle moved just beneath his temple. He didn’t speak, not right away, but Mito stirred in the silence, her voice quieter than before—less cutting, more precise.

“He’s the proof,” she said. “That we’re willing to hold the line. That we’re not making decisions based on grief or guilt.”

Tōka shook her head, exasperated. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” Mito said evenly. “But it’s the answer.”

Hashirama exhaled slowly, his shoulders rounding slightly as though the weight of that truth had just settled in again.

“I won’t ask for his return, not at this stage.” he said, more to the table than to them. “Not unless Madara gives me cause.”

Tōka’s expression soured. “So we go in blind. Again. With our best strategist behind their walls, our enemies holding their silence, and no real read on what we’ll walk into tomorrow.”

Hashirama didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.

His hand lifted, palm brushing the edge of the map like he could press meaning into the old lines. His voice was steadier now. “He would not accept us trading for him. Not with land. Not with lives. I know my brother, his position is clear.”

“And what if he’s changed his mind?” Tōka asked, softer now. “What if he’s tired, or bleeding, or done waiting?”

Hashirama didn’t flinch—but his grip on the table tightened. The wood creaked softly beneath his hand.

Mito spoke again, gentle but firm. “Then we trust he’d tell us. And we trust he’d endure until we make the right offer, not the desperate one.”

Tōka turned toward the door, footsteps heavy now, less sharp. She didn’t look back as she pushed the panel open. 

“I hope you’re right,”

She left them. The door clicked shut. The fire crackled. Outside, snow had begun to fall again—light as ash, slow and certain.

---

The frost hadn’t lifted by late afternoon. It clung to the stone like a memory unwilling to fade, thin and silver, veining the courtyard in quiet defiance of the weak sun. The air bit without wind—still and sharp, the kind of cold that pressed close rather than passed through.

Tobirama stood at the eastern edge of the courtyard, the hem of his indoor robes brushing the flagstones. The fabric was soft, well-worn, meant for warmth and quiet work, not for exposure. But he hadn’t bothered to change. He hadn’t expected to linger. His sleeves were pushed to the elbow, loosely cuffed.

He wasn’t watching the basin. Not exactly. His attention had wandered beyond it, past the low rim of the annex wall to where the pale sky dipped behind the treeline. His breath left him in shallow, visible drifts. 

Behind him, Akame adjusted the brush tucked into her belt, straightening from where she’d crouched to assess the basin’s rim. Her hands were damp. The cold had turned her knuckles red.

“Seal’s holding,” she said, mostly for form. “Not well, but well enough.”

Tobirama didn’t look at her. “You’ll have to scrape it again before dusk.”

She exhaled. “I know.”

Somewhere behind them the sound of a door opening and the faintest crunch of footsteps over frost-hardened stone echoed.  Not the dull rhythm of guards. Not the skip-and-slide pattern of runners. These were weight-balanced, even. Deliberate.

Madara stepped into the courtyard without ceremony.

He wasn’t armored, but his presence was no less formal for it. The lines of his cloak were unbroken, the clasp at his throat gleaming faintly. His hair was tied back, just enough to signify he’d been somewhere with purpose. There was snow in the folds of his sleeves, melting at the hem.

He stopped a short distance from them, gaze flicking first to Akame, then to Tobirama. His eyes didn’t linger on the sealwork or the frost. Only on the loose drape of Tobirama’s robe. The exposed collarbone. The threadbare softness at the shoulder.

“You’re underdressed,” he said.

Tobirama turned toward him slowly. “Then look somewhere else.”

Madara didn’t. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You look cold.”

“That’s your problem.”

Akame, who had remained respectfully quiet through worse, now pressed her lips together—part sigh, part unwilling amusement. She wiped her palms against her apron and gave Madara a brief, respectful nod.

“I’ll bring in the salt bucket,” she said. “Before it turns slick.”

Madara didn’t comment on Akame’s departure. He only watched her go—silent, unreadable—until the door slid shut behind her and the faint echo of her steps vanished into the annex.

Then, with no shift in tone, he said, “Come inside.”

Tobirama didn’t move.

The pause was subtle. Barely enough to call refusal. He turned slightly, angling away, his gaze drifting back toward the sky like he hadn’t heard. Like the suggestion hadn’t earned his attention.

Madara waited. Then said, evenly, “You’ve proven your resistance to frostbite. I’m not impressed.”

Tobirama’s jaw ticked. “You assume this is for your benefit.”

Madara stepped closer, the wind catching the edge of his cloak. “It’s not for yours.”

That earned a flicker of a glance. Sharp. Irritated. Still, Tobirama didn’t move.

“The seal doesn’t prevent pneumonia,” Madara added, voice dry.

Tobirama didn’t respond—not at first. He stood there, spine rigid, breath misting faintly in the cold. Then, with a sound too sharp to be a sigh, he turned and strode toward the annex.

Madara followed at a measured pace.

Inside, the warmth wasn’t generous, but it was immediate. The hearth hadn’t been stoked since morning, but the walls retained just enough heat to ease the bite from fingers and bone. Tobirama moved wordlessly to the low bench near the brazier, tugging the sleeves of his robe down, slow and irritable, as if regretting ever having pushed them up. He didn’t sit.

Madara shed his cloak and hung it beside the door. His hair was damp at the ends from melted snow. He crossed the room without ceremony, stopping near the hearth where a half-read scroll still lay open on the table.

“I have a meeting tomorrow. ” Madara said, casually enough that the weight of the words arrived a breath late. He sat down. 

Tobirama’s gaze didn’t shift, but his breath did—just barely, caught at the end of a slow exhale. He waited, still as kindling.

“With your clan,” Madara added after a beat.

Still no name. No subject beyond the impersonal. A meeting. Not we. Not they. I have a meeting. The shape of the words slotted into place too cleanly. A familiar structure, absent the usual bait. Tobirama’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He didn’t speak yet. Let Madara move first.

“Hashirama will bring his revised terms,” Madara went on, exhaling through his nose as he leaned back against one palm, gaze cast lazily toward the ceiling. “He doesn’t wait long when he thinks silence might cost him.”

Tobirama’s mouth pulled into a thin line.

And still—nothing said of him. Of return. Of escort. Not even the illusion of inclusion. A meeting, with the Senju, about treaties, on neutral ground—without him.

The realization landed cold, not like a slap but like falling through ice

“You’re not taking me,” Tobirama said.

Madara turned towards him. “No.”

No hesitation. No elaboration. The tightness beneath Tobirama’s sternum sharpened.

“And when,” he said slowly, “were you planning to inform me?”

Madara met his gaze with unreadable calm. “Now.”

Tobirama’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “You’re not even pretending this is a strategic choice.”

“It is a strategic choice,” Madara replied. “Your presence wasn’t included in the terms of the next meeting. Neither side stipulated it. I’m honoring that omission.”

“Honoring?” The word snapped sharper than he meant it to. “You’re exploiting it.”

Tobirama’s jaw flexed, breath pulling thin. His hands—one still damp from courtyard frost—remained at his sides, but his shoulders had gone taut. Not combative. Not yet. But near the edge.

“You think this is clever,” he said, voice low. “Calculated. It isn’t. You’re just toying with him.”

Madara didn’t flinch. “Hashirama is a leader. If seeing you—or not seeing you—undoes his focus, then I’ve already won the negotiation.”

Tobirama stepped forward once, slow and deliberate, like the weight of what he didn’t say could break the room in half. “This isn't a test of leadership. This is a personal cruelty masked as diplomacy.”

“Cruelty?” Madara echoed, brow arching. “You’re still alive. You’re fed. You’re not shackled. You’re given books, not chains. And your brother—he’s the one who outlined the terms of your captivity. ‘No harm. Full medical care. No chains’” His voice dipped, mocking faintly. “That’s what he said.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift, but something cold lit in his eyes. “And you’re taking him at his word now ? How convenient.”

Madara looked at him fully then, gaze narrowed, the line of his mouth tight with something too close to temper. “You seem to be under the impression that your presence is the hinge on which this peace swings.”

“I’m not naive enough to think that,” Tobirama said tightly. “But I know my brother. I know how long he can go without knowing whether I’m—” He broke off, jaw locking.

Alive. Safe. Free. None of the words landed cleanly.

Madara tilted his head slightly. “He knows you’re alive.”

“That’s not the same.”

Madara studied him for a long moment—long enough that Tobirama began to feel the weight of it, like scrutiny pressed just behind the ribs. Evaluation, the kind that came from someone used to controlling the pieces. But there was something else in it now too—slighter, quieter. A faint crease between Madara’s brow. Thought. Hesitation.

Then, with deliberate calm, Madara said, “Would you like to write something?”

Tobirama’s head turned, slow and sharp. “I thought I wasn’t meant to write.”

Madara didn’t blink. “You aren’t.”

There was no immediate offer of paper. No ink. Just the words. Tobirama frowned.

“You’ll write it in front of me,” Madara said, smooth as a seal line. “And I’ll read anything you commit to page.”

The silence stretched, brittle.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What is this?” he asked, voice lower. “An act of mercy? Or a well-disguised threat?”

Madara’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Call it insurance.”

“For what?”

“For your brother,” he said simply. “He’ll expect to see you. When he doesn’t, he’ll assume something’s gone wrong. I’d rather not spend the opening hour of diplomacy explaining that you’re still breathing. A message avoids theatrics.”

He paused then—barely long enough to notice, except it came too late to be part of the strategy.

“And…” Madara added, slower now, “It’s better if he hears your voice. Not just my version of it.”

That landed oddly. Not defensive. Not calculated. Just a flicker of something more personal, too quiet to be a ploy.

Tobirama stared at him for a moment—long enough to see that Madara wasn’t joking, and wasn’t pleased about saying it. Tobirama’s gaze flicked to the bare corners of the room—no ink, no parchment, nothing waiting.

“And you’re just volunteering this now,” he said, dry. “No ulterior motive at all.”

Madara leaned back slightly, one knee drawn up, the firelight catching on the edge of his sleeve. “You’re difficult enough in person. I don’t need your brother turning into you by proxy.”

Tobirama stared at him for a beat longer, trying to read what sat beneath the words. The exact tilt of calculation. The precise angle of the offer. But there was nothing overt. Just the cool practicality that came when Madara had already made a decision and had no interest in defending it.

He exhaled slowly. “Fine.”

Madara inclined his head slightly, as though finalizing something that had never been up for debate.

“I’ll bring what you need shortly,” he said. “Ink, paper.”

Tobirama didn’t answer. He only shifted his weight slightly, the fabric of his sleeves settling against his wrists with a soft, rasping sound. The moment felt strangely suspended—like he’d agreed to more than what had been asked.

Madara rose fluidly, brushing a bit of ash from the knee of his trousers as he stood. He turned halfway toward the door but paused, gaze still faintly distant.

“Izuna will remain behind,” he said. “In my stead.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift right away, but there was a discernible pause in the set of his shoulders. A slow blink. A glance sharp enough to be audible.

“Of course he will,” he said flatly.

Madara’s brow quirked. “You disapprove.”

Tobirama didn’t bother hiding it. “I question the wisdom of leaving a man with a grudge in charge of your political asset.”

Madara gave a faint hum. “He doesn’t have a grudge. He has an excellent memory.”

“That’s not the defense you think it is.”

Madara let the retort pass, unreadable. “He won’t interfere. Not seriously.  He knows what’s at stake.”

Tobirama made a low, noncommittal sound—somewhere between doubt and distaste. He turned back toward the hearth, rubbing one chilled hand across the surface of another. 

Madara lingered for a breath longer. Not watching, exactly, but caught by something he hadn't meant to notice. Tobirama’s posture hadn’t changed, but his hands had crept partway into his sleeves, fingers flushed at the knuckles with cold. Not shivering, but enduring.

The hearth crackled faintly behind them, its coals dulled to ash-edged red. The warmth it offered was thin, barely reaching past the stone lip.

Madara’s gaze lingered a moment more. Then, without speaking, he stepped toward the brazier.

He knelt with unhurried purpose, one hand braced against the floor. A breath drawn in, slow and quiet, a single hand sign. A flash of chakra passed through him like a held thought—and then he leaned in, exhaling low and controlled.

A thin ribbon of flame spilled from his lips, not loud or showy, but precise—a focused, tempered heat, catching along the embers and coaxing them alive again. The fire responded instantly. Coals shifted, deepened. Light bled into the room in steady waves, the air turning warmer by slow degrees.

Tobirama watched him, his expression held in practiced neutrality—the quiet, unyielding composure of a man who didn’t know how to receive something that felt like consideration.

Madara stood without comment, brushing ash from his sleeve. The fire hissed softly behind him, full again, its glow catching the side of Tobirama’s face in steady amber.

Then he turned toward the door.  His movements were smooth, almost meditative—the sort of composure born from decades of controlling his exit before anyone could dictate it. Madara took his cloak from the hook with one hand, shook the edge clean of melt, and fastened it with a practiced flick at his throat. No wasted effort. No last glance.

The door slid open with a hush of wood against frame. A wash of colder air spilled briefly into the room, brushing against the backs of Tobirama’s knees. He didn’t flinch from it. Behind him, the fire hissed once and settled. The door slit shud. 

Tobirama didn’t move for a long time. Just stood near the hearth, hands loose at his sides. When he finally moved, it was only to sit. Not heavily. Not in defeat. Just a gradual sinking into place—like settling in for something long.

He watched the fire. Waiting. For ink. For paper. For a message to sharpen in his mind.

For the next move, now that the board had shifted.

Chapter Text

Madara had left that morning, just past six. The frost hadn't yet burned off the ridgelines when the escort departed—five shinobi, no banners, cloaks drawn close to obscure clan markings. They wouldn’t arrive until midday, but that was the point. The meeting had been set for noon at the old shrine on the riverbank, the same ruined place where the last round of negotiations had clawed itself into stalemate. Neutral ground in name only.

Tobirama had given him a message. Written with deliberate brevity in front of Madara and handed over without ceremony. No embellishment. Just a few clipped lines and his name at the bottom, as though even that might be too much.

They were expected back the next day. Enough time to negotiate, camp, and travel back under the cover of early morning. Unless things soured. Unless something shifted. Unless Madara changed the rules mid-match, as he so often did.

Tobirama didn’t expect word before then. The compound had quieted with the morning’s departure, the usual echo of bootfalls and couriers thinned to a slower rhythm. But the annex remained unchanged. The hearth still hissed faintly, its coals tucked low. The frost still rimmed the outer walk. And Tobirama, now seated at the table in the kitchen, still read with the same controlled disinterest.

He was not surprised when the door opened without warning.

Izuna didn’t knock. He stepped inside like the room owed him something, sharp-eyed and dry from the wind. His cloak was unfastened, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a fine dusting of frost clinging to the edges of his boots.

“Well,” Izuna said, gaze flicking across the room like he might be taking inventory. “Looks exactly as I left it. Still upright. Still miserable.”

Tobirama didn’t look up. “I see Madara left you nothing to do.”

Izuna shut the door behind him with a definitive snap. “He left me you.”

Tobirama didn’t shift from his place at the table. He turned a page with deliberate calm, the rustle of parchment a quiet retort in itself.

“I don’t need managing,” he said flatly. “Least of all by someone with your temperament.”

Izuna snorted, stepping further inside. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, flicked to the open scroll, then back to Tobirama like he didn’t quite believe either of them needed to be here.

“No,” he said. “You just need a full-time warden, a chakra seal, and a daily audience with the head of my clan. Really screams ‘self-sufficient.’”

Tobirama glanced up at that, slow and precise. “If I’m such a burden, I imagine you’re thrilled to have inherited the privilege.”

Izuna grinned, all teeth and no warmth. “Thrilled is generous. But I am curious.”

“Dangerous habit.”

He ignored that. “If you don’t need managing, then how come my brother spends more time in this annex than he does in his own study?”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t change, but the silence between them shifted—thinned, edged. “Ask him,” he said. “He’s the one who keeps coming back.”

Izuna leaned against the doorframe now, arms folding across his chest, the ease in his posture a foil to the sharpness in his voice. “Oh, I have. But he doesn’t answer questions anymore. He just quotes strategy manuals and changes the subject.”

“How tragic,” Tobirama said dryly. “He must be learning from you.”

That earned a laugh—short, pointed, and very nearly genuine. “Funny,” Izuna said. “For someone who’s spent the last seven days behind a locked gate, you’re still convinced you have the high ground.”

“I have a seat and silence,” Tobirama said, returning to the page. “Compared to most things I’ve dealt with, that’s practically luxury.”

Izuna took a step forward, his shadow brushing over the edge of the table. “You call this luxury?”

“I call it tolerable. Until now.”

There was a pause, just long enough to register the weight behind it, the kind that settles before a shift in tone, a change in the weather.

“I think you enjoy it,” Izuna said suddenly, voice lower now. “The games. The verbal sparring. The power plays. You wouldn’t know what to do with peace if someone handed it to you.”

Tobirama didn’t look up. Not right away. He turned another page instead, slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t heard. When he did speak, it was quiet. 

“And you would?”

The words landed flat. A blade laid on the table rather than drawn.

Izuna’s expression flickered, just briefly, something tightening at the corners of his mouth. But he recovered quickly—too quickly—and shrugged, all bravado again.

“Peace is my brother’s hobby,” he said. “I just clean up after it.”

Tobirama gave a soft, humorless breath.

“They’re both the same,” he said. “Still convinced the world bends if they press hard enough. That everything is just a matter of will.”

Izuna didn’t argue. Not immediately. He drifted further into the room instead, steps slow but not aimless, like someone circling a known fault line.

“They’re wrong?”

“My brother is an idealist,” Tobirama said, voice sharp as glass. “And I’m the one who has to make that palatable to the people who’ve bled too much to believe it.”

Izuna stopped near the hearth, letting the silence press in for a beat.

“You think you’re the only one who’s had to make that translation?” he asked, softer now. Less bait, more bone.

Tobirama glanced up at last. Their eyes locked, neither of them flinching.

“No,” he said. “I think we’re both becoming too fluent in it.”

Neither man moved. The hearth cracked once—low and dry.

Izuna clicked his tongue, breaking whatever passed between them. “Well,” he said. “This has been touching. And depressing.”

Tobirama looked back at the scroll. “Then leave.”

“I will.” A pause, and then, with a smirk curling the edge of his voice: “Eventually. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of all this meaningful Uchiha company you've come to favor.”

Tobirama's eye twitched.

Izuna lingered near the hearth, letting the silence stretch just a hair too long—enough to suggest unfinished business, or the kind of satisfaction that came from leaving knives just barely sheathed. When he spoke again it was with another biting comment. Mean to hurt. Meant to lodge under Tobirama’s skin.

Their argument dragged on—less like a battle, more like an old injury being poked for sport. Eventually, even that grew tiresome, though not enough to stop.

---

The shrine had not changed.

Its roof still sagged in the middle, bowed under years of weather and disuse. The river murmured nearby, cold and fast, carving a silver edge through the worn banks. A scattering of fallen leaves pressed themselves against the stones like offerings, brittle with frost. The space was open, but the air felt close—sealed tight by history.

Hashirama arrived just before noon, the low winter sun tracing pale arcs through the branches overhead. He stepped forward first, his presence undeniable even in silence, cloak dark with melt from the journey. Mito followed a half-step behind, her eyes sharp, the tilt of her head already reading the ground like a story written in footprints and shadow. Tōka came last, flanked by two more shinobi. They fanned out without being told.

Madara was already there.

He stood near the collapsed archway, arms folded, cloak rippling faintly in the wind. His hair had dried since morning, but the ends still held a memory of frost.

Behind him, four Uchiha shinobi in loose formation, arrayed like a second line of defense—no banners, no fan crests, but unmistakable in bearing. Their cloaks hung still, weapons hidden but known. 

A fifth Uchiha lingered closer to Madara’s right, eyes half-lidded but alert. Hikaku —straight-backed, unflinching, the slight tilt of his head suggesting quiet calculation. 

No Tobirama.

Hashirama felt it before he saw it—that absence, specific and cold. His step slowed. The distance between them was not large, but it felt like a gulf. He crossed it anyway.

“Where is my brother?” Hashirama asked, before any pleasantries could take root.

Madara’s expression didn’t shift. “At the Uchiha compound.”

The word landed with the kind of deliberate weight only Madara could give to something so simple.

Hashirama’s brows knit. “You said this was to be a full council. All invested parties present.”

“I said no such thing,” Madara said, calm and clipped. “I said we would meet. You assumed he would be with me.”

“He was with you last time.”

“By your explicit request. The terms of our current meeting were never outlined to include him.”

Hashirama’s jaw tightened. “You knew I would expect him.”

“And yet, You chose not to stipulate,” Madara said, voice too even. “That was your mistake. Not mine.”

Mito stepped closer, a hand light at Hashirama’s back. “This feels like another provocation,” she said coolly, her gaze trained on Madara.

Madara’s eyes flicked to Mito—sharp, assessing, not dismissive, but far from deferential.

“A provocation would require theatrics,” he said, voice low and dry. “This is a decision. A calculated one. If that offends your expectations, perhaps the issue lies with them.”

Mito’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not my expectations you’ve tampered with.”

Madara’s eyes lingered on Mito a beat longer, unreadable.

“And yet it’s always your voice that answers,” he said, tone razor-thin. “Curious, how often you speak in his stead.”

Tōka shifted at that—just enough to register as a warning. Her posture stiffened, chin lifting, the line of her jaw taut with the effort of restraint. Mito didn’t react, not visibly, but the air between them cooled another degree.

Tōka stepped forward.

“Careful, Uchiha,” she said, voice low and edged.

“Watch your tone,” Hikaku said, calm but unmistakably firm.

He hadn’t moved from his place beside Madara, but the shift in his voice carried—a boundary drawn without raising his volume. “We came here to speak, not to posture.”

Madara turned his head slightly, not flinching, not rising to it—just watching her like someone noting wind direction before a storm.  Tōka’s hand twitched near her side, the gesture small but sharp, like the urge to draw something back and cut.

Before she could speak again, Madara lifted one hand—slow, deliberate—and reached inside his cloak.

“I expected this,” He withdrew a scroll, bound tight with a plain black seal, and tossed it toward Hashirama with a flick of the wrist—controlled but careless, like casting a stone into water. “Here, your brother’s message. So we can all stop pretending this is about principle.”

Hashirama caught it with one hand. The scroll was cold from Madara’s robes, the seal unbroken. He held it for a moment, thumb pressed lightly to the edge, as though weighing more than the parchment.

He broke the seal. The paper unrolled with a faint rasp. Tōka and Mito leaned in slightly, but did not read over his shoulder. They watched him instead.

Hashirama’s eyes traced the lines slowly—once, then again. His expression didn’t shift, but something inside him clearly did. Not outward, not obvious—but a narrowing of breath, the silent recalibration of someone tightening the reins around a deeper instinct.

The message was short. Characteristically precise. His brother’s voice rendered in ink.

I remain at the Uchiha compound. I am alive. I am unharmed. I have not been mistreated.

Negotiations should continue. 

I trust your judgement. 

—Senju Tobirama 

Hashirama stared at the last line for a moment longer than necessary. The letters were clean, deliberate—Tobirama’s script unmistakable. No flourish, no wasted space. But something in the final line pressed like a thumbprint over old bruises.

I trust your judgment.

A quiet admission, and yet it held the force of a command.

Hashirama drew a breath through his nose, steady and low, and let the scroll roll itself back into his palm. The cold had sunk into the parchment, or maybe it was his fingers that had gone numb.

He turned without speaking and handed the scroll to Mito. She took it without question, her hand brushing his in passing—brief, grounding. Her eyes flicked across his face, reading something beneath the surface. He gave her a slight nod.

She turned slightly, just enough to meet Tōka’s eye. “He’s leveraging the absence. Don’t give him more than that.”

Tōka’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. 

Hashirama straightened fully and turned back to Madara, expression composed.

“Very well,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Let’s proceed. I trust you’ve reviewed the revised terms?”

Madara’s arms folded, posture loose but unwavering. “We’ve seen them.”

A pause.

“We disagree. We have our counteroffers.”

Hashirama’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Then we begin there.”

He turned slightly, voice shifting—less edge, more command. “Mito, would you bring something for us to sit on? I suspect we’ll be here for a while.”

She inclined her head and stepped back, already moving with the precision of someone who had anticipated this from the moment she saw Madara standing alone.

Hashirama turned back to the center of the ruined shrine, surveying it briefly—the worn flagstones, the faint outline where a ceremonial dais had once stood, long since reclaimed by moss and frost. This place had held prayer once. Now it would hold something else.

He stepped forward and unfastened the clasp of his cloak, shaking off a dusting of melt and draping it over one folded arm. No sudden movements, no fanfare. Just the quiet finality of a man preparing to work.

“Let’s begin, then,” he said, voice steady. “We’ll sort what can be salvaged from what must be burned.”

Madara gave a faint hum at that, like amusement dulled to ash. But he said nothing yet. Not immediately.

Behind them, the Senju began preparing the space—shifting packs, summoning equipment, stacking parcels meant for long sessions in cold places. There would be tea, if only to keep the silence at bay between negotiations.

The true heat would come from elsewhere. From the men who sat across from each other, once again ready to shape the bones of peace with hands still familiar with war.

The meeting began without ceremony.

Scrolls were unrolled, names recited, terms reiterated that none of them truly entirely believed in. Hashirama spoke first—measured, deliberate, his voice pitched not for persuasion but for patience. Madara listened, silent as ice forming. Mito countered. Tōka flanked. Hikaku noted it all down. No ground was taken.

They circled old arguments like wolves worn thin by winter, too tired to bite but not yet willing to retreat. When they adjourned, it was without a complete resolution. Only a date. Another meeting. Another shrine.

Peace, it seemed, would need more time. And time always cost.

---

Night settled over the Uchiha compound like a slow-falling shroud. The outer walls were hushed under frost, the courtyards empty, paved in silence. A thin line of smoke still curled from the annex chimney—evidence of the banked coals left to burn down.

The annex itself lay quiet. 

Tobirama lay on the futon in his room, one arm draped over his eyes. Sleep hadn’t come easily. The weight of stillness felt heavier than usual, pressing in at the seams of the night. The coals in the hearth in the kitchen were low, casting a faint amber glow under the door across the wooden floor. Wind crept under the eaves, soft and intermittent.

The room had begun to cool.

He didn’t hear the intruders until they were already inside. A door slid open behind him—too fast, too clean.

He turned, already rising.

Three shapes. No hesitation. They moved like Uchiha—deadly, heated, brutal.

He didn’t have chakra. His seal burned low at the base of his spine, a quiet, constant absence. No jutsu. No sensory edge. Just a dull ache where power used to live. The first attacker lunged.

Tobirama dodged sideways, low and fast. His shoulder slammed into the edge of the table, knocking it over with a sharp crack. He spun with the momentum, catching the assailant’s wrist and twisting it hard. There was a crunch—bone or joint, he didn’t know—and the kunai clattered to the floor.

He swept a leg out. The shinobi went down.

The others surged forward. One to his left moved to meet his eyes, Sharingan flickering to life. Tobirama turned his head sharply, gaze angled to the floor. He’d trained for this. Fought their kind for years

The second moved fast from the right, a blur of motion.  A burst of heat grazed his side—a fire jutsu, small and sharp, meant for control, not killing. The flames licked at his sleeve before he rolled clear, the hem smoldering.  

He landed hard—but the floor shifted.

The shinobi he’d dropped—the first one, wrist still limp from the break—had already recovered, crouched low with his uninjured hand pressed to the floor.

An Earth technique. Subtle. Quick.

The ground seized Tobirama’s ankle mid-step, locking it in place. Earth breaking through the wood. He staggered, balance lost. The next blow took him in the ribs.

Tobirama reeled. Caught himself on the wall. A thin ridge of earth curled up and around his legs like a snare. Another jolt of chakra—not much, but enough to hold him there.

He managed to elbow one attacker in the throat—just enough force to stagger him back—but the other grabbed him from behind, arms locking around his torso, dragging him upright but immobile.

The third shinobi, the earth user, stepped forward.

"I watched you kill my father," he hissed.

There was no mask. Young. Eyes sharp with hate.

"You don’t remember, do you?" he spat. "One of a dozen. Nameless. That’s what we were to you."

Tobirama’s lip split on the next punch. He didn’t fall. Couldn’t. Not yet.

The blade came next. He didn’t see it—only felt the heat of it, sudden and wrong, slicing across his side just above the hip. Shallow, but deliberate. Not meant to kill.

The next cut would be.

The pain flared bright. His knees buckled slightly, and the grip holding him tightened. A second knife gleamed.

The door slammed open again.

Light exploded across the room, harsh and sudden. No words. No warning. Izuna entered like a blade drawn mid-swing.

The nearest attacker turned, startled—too slow. Izuna’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling across the floor. He didn’t rise.

The others barely had time to pivot.

Izuna was already moving—fast, vicious, merciless. The man holding Tobirama let go, turning to meet the threat, but caught a heel to the ribs and a knee to the temple in rapid succession.

The third tried to stab him. Izuna caught the wrist and snapped it. The knife dropped.

The room trembled in the aftermath.

Tobirama was slumped near the wall, one hand pressed hard to his bleeding side, breath sharp and shallow. His eyes flicked to the fallen bodies, then to Izuna—brow drawn, jaw clenched.

He was stood over the last attacker, chest heaving. The silence in the room was thicker now—blood and smoke and the scorched bite of burnt fabric clinging to the air. Izuna didn’t speak at first. Just turned, eyes narrowing as they settled on Tobirama slumped by the wall.

For a breath, neither of them moved.

Then Izuna crossed the space between them in three strides, dropping to a crouch. His hands were rough but efficient, tugging aside fabric, fingers pressing around the edges of the wound without ceremony. Blood slicked Tobirama’s side—bright, sharp, still seeping.

“You're lucky it was shallow,” Izuna muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was tight, clipped at the edges. “Idiots were too green to know where to aim”

Tobirama didn’t bother correcting him. He was pretty sure that cut had been purposeful. Meant to maim, meant to scar, meant to hurt.

He flinched slightly when Izuna’s palm found bruised ribs. Tobirama didn’t make a sound, but Izuna noticed. His mouth tightened. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’re bleeding too much to posture.”

He rose, grabbing Tobirama under the arm and hauling him upright in one smooth motion. Tobirama’s balance faltered—just slightly, but enough for Izuna to adjust his grip, anchoring an arm around his waist with more force than gentleness.

“You're going to the medical ward,” he said, like it was a sentence already passed. “Don’t argue.”

Tobirama's head turned, breath still uneven. “The guards—?”

“Weren’t there,” Izuna said, voice low, clipped with fury. “They were supposed to be. I’ll deal with it.” His grip tightened slightly. “Later.”

Izuna didn’t wait for confirmation. He turned them toward the door, the fallen bodies behind them forgotten for now, the broken silence replaced by the sound of retreating footfalls—swift, purposeful, unrelenting. 

Blood dried fast in winter. Memory, it seemed, did not.

Chapter Text

The sun had only just broken above the ridgelines when Madara returned to the compound. His cloak still bore the marks of travel—dust from the shrine, flecks of half-melted snow, the stiff scent of cold stone and campfire clinging to the folds. His steps were sharp, deliberate. The gates creaked shut behind him with a low groan, sealing the cold out behind him.

Izuna was waiting at the entrance.

He stood just inside the main gate, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, the other shoved deep into the folds of his coat. His stance was too casual to be natural. Too still. The slight set of his jaw gave him away.

Madara slowed the moment he saw him. His shoulders rolled back with unconscious precision, and his steps fell quiet, weight redistributing as though instinct had already prepared for something worse than words.

Izuna straightened.

“Don’t freak out,”

Madara stopped completely.

He didn’t speak. The look he gave Izuna wasn’t a question. It was a demand—cold and silent. Go on.

Izuna’s mouth twitched at the corner. “There was an attack. Last night.”

He let the words hang, heavy.

“Three shinobi. Ours. Tobirama’s fine—he’s in the medical wing under observation. Superficial wounds. The medics—”

But Madara was already moving.

He turned so fast his cloak snapped behind him, wind curling off its edge. His chakra spiked—not loud, but heavy, pulled tight beneath the skin like steel held just below a boil. He surged forward with the kind of momentum that cleared hallways before he even arrived.

Izuna watched him go, exhaling once through his nose. Quiet. Tense.

Behind him, footsteps approached—soft, unhurried, but weighted with purpose. Hikaku came to stand at his side, cloak trailing faintly along the stone. He didn’t look at Izuna at first. Just followed the direction Madara had vanished with a long, unreadable gaze.

“Are the assailants detained?” Hikaku asked, voice low.

Izuna nodded once. “Secured before dawn. I had them bound and sealed in the holding cells.”

Hikaku’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Does he know that?”

“No,” Izuna said. “Didn’t get that far.”

Silence followed, short but weighted. Hikaku glanced down the path where Madara had vanished again.

“You think he’ll kill them?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Izuna didn’t answer immediately. He adjusted his stance, the set of his jaw hardening.

“If they’d killed him,” he said at last, voice low, “they would’ve sunk the treaty in one stroke.”

Hikaku didn’t move.

Izuna went on. “They’re Uchiha. He’s Senju. What Madara does next will tell everyone where he stands. Whether peace is worth more than blood.”

His gaze stayed fixed on the path ahead, unreadable.

“Even when it’s our blood.”

---

Madara cut through the compound like a storm through dead brush—nothing in his way, no one bold enough to stop him. Guards pivoted aside without being told. A servant carrying a tray fumbled it against the wall to avoid his path. He didn’t look at them. His focus tunneled to a single point, feet hitting stone in precise steps that echoed down the hall.

The medical wing loomed ahead, lanterns still dim from the nightshift, the scent of antiseptic and smoke hanging sterile in the air.

He didn’t slow.

The doors parted without resistance. Madara moved through the corridor like a blade unsheathed—every step carried too much momentum, too much heat held just beneath the skin.  He reached Tobirama’s room and stopped.

The threshold wasn’t guarded. It didn’t need to be. The silence inside was complete—soft, insulated. Madara pushed the door open with a measured hand, expecting the worst.

He hadn’t expected stillness.

Tobirama lay on the futon near the far wall, half-shrouded in low light and the remains of sleep. His hair was loose, pale strands fanned across the pillow, and one arm rested above the blanket as though he’d only just pushed it back. His breathing was steady. His posture—languid. Entirely, maddeningly unconcerned.

Madara’s breath caught, just slightly. Not in relief. Not quite. It hit somewhere else—lower, sharper.  One of Tobirama’s eyes cracked open. He blinked once, slowly, as though this were any other morning.

“Oh,” he said, voice hoarse but dry, “you’re back. How were the negotiations?”

Madara stared at him.

The words didn’t land so much as slide sideways, like a blade striking stone. The sheer irrelevance of them. The tone. The audacity.

“How were the negotiations?” he echoed, voice low. Disbelieving.

Madara crossed the room in three long strides. His cloak rustled sharply as he dropped to one knee beside the futon. Without warning, he reached for the blanket and yanked it aside.

Tobirama made a sharp sound—half-protest, half-grunt—as the thin hospital covering was pulled from him.

“Madara—”

Madara ignored him.

The bandages around Tobirama’s waist were clean, professionally wrapped. No blood, no leakage. A medic’s precise work. But the bruising still bloomed along his ribs in muted violets and sickled grays. A reminder of where fists had landed. 

Madara’s jaw tightened. His eyes lingered too long on the curve of a rib, the place where the wrappings pulled slightly with each breath.

“Izuna said the wounds were superficial.”

Tobirama exhaled through his nose—soft, annoyed. “They are. Mostly. One of them had a chakra-infused blade. Unstable. It didn’t cut deep, but it burned.” His hand ghosted over the bandages, not touching, but a flicker of acknowledgment. “The medics said it stopped short of the kidney.”

Madara didn’t answer.

Tobirama went on, like he hadn’t noticed. “It wasn’t meant to kill. Not that strike. One of them used Earth Release. Not too common among the Uchiha I imagine—”

He was speaking evenly. As if dictating a report instead of recounting an attempted assassination. 

Madara wasn’t listening. Not anymore.

His mind had slipped sideways, lost in the precision of the facts—chakra-infused, earth-style, sloppy timing—and how they stacked up against the singular truth beneath them.

It happened here . In his compound. Under his watch.

The weight of it pressed like a fault line through his spine. It hadn’t been an outsider. Not a rogue element. It had been his own men —his own clan. And they’d crossed the line like it meant nothing. No fear. No discipline. No loyalty to the command that had kept everything from unraveling between their teeth.

He should’ve seen it coming. 

Madara’s eyes stayed locked on the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Tobirama’s bandaged side. That’s what stopped him. Not the wound itself—but the proof that someone had done it with purpose. The soft place between armor and breath. The space where a single miscalculation would have undone any hope of diplomacy and driven steel into the throat of the only thing resembling progress.

What would he have done if they'd succeeded?

Would he have told Hashirama? Would he have buried the bodies and sealed the gates before the word could travel?

Would he have mourned?

His throat felt too tight. His skin too warm.

And why did it matter—why—that it was Tobirama?

The loss of a bargaining chip. A disruption to fragile equilibrium. A fracture in the balance he and Hashirama were starting to build, blade by blade, word by word.

But it wasn’t that. 

The idea of Tobirama’s absence didn’t sit cleanly in his chest. It pressed there—wrong, unmanageable. Not like a threat to the treaty. Not even because it would’ve broken the only person Madara had once called a best friend. It was something quieter. The realization that somewhere along the way, Madara had stopped seeing Tobirama only as a placeholder for diplomacy.

Madara’s stomach turned.

The worst was the part of him that felt shame—not for the failure of security or leadership, but for caring at all. For being rattled. For standing here, in a sterile room full of bandages and breath, and realizing that he had no idea when he'd started wanting Tobirama to stay alive for reasons that didn’t belong to the war, or the peace, or even to Hashirama.

A man who, right now, wanted to break something—not out of vengeance, but to bleed off whatever was clawing at the back of his throat.

“Madara.”

The sound of his name cut through the haze, sudden and direct.

He blinked.

Tobirama was looking at him with something between confusion and concern.

“Madara,” he said again, more pointed this time. “Are you even listening?”

His gaze snapped upward. Tobirama was still watching him—not alarmed, but focused. Direct. The kind of gaze one used to pull someone back from a cliff without ever raising their voice.

“You’re staring,” Tobirama said. “And you’re doing that annoying thing.”

Madara blinked. “What thing.”

“The thing where you vanish into your own head and come back angrier.”

Madara’s jaw ticked. “I’m not angry.”

Tobirama gave him a flat look. The kind that wasn’t quite exasperated, but hovered near it. “So are we going to talk about what happened during the negotiations, or are we pretending they didn’t happen at all?”

Madara’s gaze flicked to the side, brief and sharp. “Later.”

“Of course,” Tobirama muttered, settling back against the pillow with a grimace. “Later. The most sacred of timekeeping rituals.”

Madara didn’t rise to it. Not this time. His arms folded, the line of his mouth set.

Tobirama shifted again, clearly testing the limits of the gauze and bruising “Then can I at least go back to my room? I’m not dying. I don’t need to be here.”

“You’re under observation,” Madara replied, voice flat.

“For what? A bruised rib and a shallow cut?”

“For being attacked by people who were supposed to be under my command,” Madara said, sharper now.

Tobirama didn’t respond right away. He studied Madara instead—openly now, gaze narrowed in thought. Quiet assessment, the way one might consider a crack in the foundation that hadn’t quite spread yet.

“What are you going to do with them?” he asked at last.

Madara’s eyes flicked to his. Cold. Guarded. “That isn’t your concern.”

Tobirama’s jaw tightened. “None of my concern?

Madara’s silence was answer enough.

Tobirama let out a dry, incredulous breath. “They tried to kill me and I’m not allowed to ask what comes next?”

“It will be handled.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

The tone was final. And deliberate. But it landed like a backhand.

Tobirama’s breath caught, just slightly. His eyes narrowed, heat flashing sharp behind them. He shifted—sat up further than he had since the attack, jaw clenched, hands bracing on the futon.

“Is this what it’s going to be now?” he asked, voice low. “Selective justice? I bleed and you posture, and then what—pretend it didn’t happen because it’s politically inconvenient?”

Madara’s expression didn’t change, but something about his posture did. His arms unfolded. His stance shifted just slightly—more defensive than confrontational, but not by much.

“You were attacked by a handful of cowards acting on their own,” he said tightly. “They’ll be punished.”

“Then say that,” Tobirama snapped. “Say it plainly. Not whatever hollow leadership theater you’re playing at now.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the futon, breath flaring with effort. Pain flashed across his face—sharp, involuntary—but he kept going, pushing to his feet with stiff defiance.

Madara moved before he could think.

He caught Tobirama’s shoulder—not roughly, but firmly, grounding him mid-rise. Tobirama hissed and wavered for half a second, weight tipping unevenly.

“You should be resting,” Madara said, voice lower now.

Tobirama exhaled, slow but clipped. “I want to go back to the annex.”

Madara’s hand didn’t move. His grip stayed firm, grounding. Obstructing.

“I’m sure the medics have their reasons for keeping you here,” he said. “You can barely stand.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. “I’m standing now.”

“Barely,” Madara snapped.

Tobirama didn’t flinch. “What does it matter where I stay? A wall and a futon are all the same when you’re healing.”

Madara’s jaw worked once, like he meant to say something and thought better of it. But the edge in his voice returned a beat later, thin and sharp.

“It makes a difference because I say it does.”

Tobirama gave a breath that was almost a laugh, though it held no humor. “Of course. That’s your favorite answer, isn’t it?”

Madara’s brow creased. “You were attacked.”

“And I lived, again.” Tobirama shot back. “I don’t need coddling.”

Madara didn’t answer. They stood there in silence, air thick with the kind of restraint that always came before something cracked. Tobirama didn’t press further. He only turned slightly—winced, caught himself—and then looked back with something steadier than challenge. Something resigned.

“Just let me go back to my room. I am taking up unnecessary space here.”

Madara’s shoulders rose with a breath, long and tight through his nose. He looked at Tobirama—really looked this time. Not at the bandages. Not at the bruises. But at the man beneath them, pale and drawn and upright, still insisting on movement as if anything less would concede too much.

He didn’t want to say yes. But he stepped back.

“Fine,” Madara said, voice rough around the edges. “You’re stubborn enough to crawl if I say no.”

Tobirama didn’t bother arguing. 

They made it as far as the door before Madara stopped again. His hand went to the clasp at his shoulder, movements precise and fast. He pulled his cloak free in one smooth gesture and held it out—not ceremoniously, not gently, but with the same determination he gave orders.

Tobirama blinked at it. Then at him.

Madara’s mouth twitched, flat and unamused. “It’s cold,” he muttered. “You’re slow. I’m not dragging your frozen corpse back here.”

Tobirama raised a brow, but he accepted the cloak without comment. It was still warm from Madara’s body, and heavier than it looked. When he draped it over his shoulders, it sat awkwardly against the shape of his taller frame—but he didn’t adjust it.

They stepped out into the corridor without another word. Madara didn’t offer support. Tobirama didn’t ask for it. But their steps matched after a few paces, side by side, the quiet between them heavy and unfinished—like something sharp left cooling on the forge.

---

The holding cells beneath the Uchiha compound hadn’t seen use in weeks. Not since Tobirama.

Still quiet, spare, built into the stone with more intention than comfort. No windows. Just the steady drip of condensation, the low echo of footsteps, and the weight of silence carved into every seam of the walls.

Madara stood in the center of the corridor, breath coiled like smoke in the chill. His hair was still damp from the cold outside, edges clinging to the line of his jaw, and his gloves were gone. His hands—bare, deliberate—hung loose at his sides. Chakra pulsed off him in faint, precise waves, like a distant blade grinding its teeth.

Three shinobi knelt before him. Bound. Bruised. Their faces were bloodless, their eyes sunken with fatigue or regret—it was difficult to tell which. Beside them, two more—guards. Or what had passed for them. Their arms were bound the same way, and the mark of shame hung heavier on them than rope ever could. None of them spoke first.

Madara took a slow step forward. The soles of his boots rasped against the stone—quiet, measured, terrible.

“Names.” 

The kneeling shinobi looked at each other—brief, nervous glances shared like a breath passed between drowning men.

Madara’s eyes narrowed. “Now. The names of everyone involved.”

One of the shinobi—Tajima—lifted his head first. His lip was split, a crust of dried blood across his chin. There was defiance in the angle of his jaw, but his voice trembled when he spoke.

“We acted alone,” he said. “No orders. No instructions. Just us.”

Madara said nothing. The air did the speaking for him—thick with tension, the subtle hum of curling off his shoulders like smoke.

Tajima went on, fast now, like the only path was through it.

“We didn’t come for politics. We came for justice.”

The second shinobi—Minari—nodded quickly. “You were there.” he said. “ My brother died with a water lance through his chest. His jutsu. Left in the mud.”

“You think putting a seal on him erases that?” Tajima spat. “You think just because he sits in your annex, we forget what he is ?”

The words rang out. Ugly. Raw.

Madara's jaw clenched. His chakra shifted, coiling in tighter arcs beneath the skin. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. When he finally moved, it was slow—one step forward, then another. Deliberate in its execution.

Tajima’s gaze wavered.

“You think you understand justice,” Madara said, voice stripped of all pretense. “But what you wanted wasn’t justice. It was revenge. Crude. Personal. Small.”

The third shinobi—silent until now—lifted his head, eyes sharp with a hatred that burned cold. His voice was quieter, but no less venomous.

“He doesn’t belong in our house.”

The words landed like a crack splitting the stone beneath them. Madara’s gaze shifted. He looked at the speaker as if seeing him for the first time.

“Neither”  he responded, voice low. “do traitors .”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Minari snapped, the words tumbling out faster than he could think about them “You weren’t the one kneeling over your brother’s body. You weren’t the one who—”

Madara was in front of him before the last word finished.

His hand closed around Minari’s throat with terrifying speed—no fanfare, no windup, just raw movement born of fury honed too fine to contain.

Minari choked. His knees scrambled against the stone, air catching in his throat as Madara’s fingers pressed in with surgical precision. The kind that knew exactly how long it would take to crush something without killing it.

“You think I didn’t bury brothers?” Madara hissed. “You think he didn’t?”

Minari’s face was turning red, hands flexing uselessly behind his back. His breath came in tight, panicked bursts, then not at all. Madara’s grip didn’t waver.

“I would give you peace ,” Madara said, the words a rasp against the walls. “Stability. Order. You swore yourselves to me. To me. And this is how you repay it?”

His chakra surged again—cold and crackling now, curling through the stone underfoot like heat through bone.

“You think your grief gives you permission to disobey me?” Madara’s voice frayed now, splintering under the weight of restraint. “To ruin any chance the rest of your brothers may have to die off the battlefield? I am the head of this clan.”

His grip didn’t ease.

“You are my men,” he ground out, each word harder than the last. “And you nearly destroyed everything.”

Minari’s eyes rolled back slightly. His legs kicked once, feebly.

“You wanted revenge? You wanted to bleed out a ghost from the war?” Madara’s voice rose now, not in volume but in pressure, dense and suffocating. “Then you should have done it on your own time. Not under my roof. Not on my name.”

Behind him, Izuna moved.

He took a step forward. The sound of his boots on stone cracked the tension like thunder in still air.

“Aniki.” His voice was low, steady. “You need to let go.”

Madara didn’t turn. His hand didn’t move. The tendons in his forearm stood out like braided wire.

“Aniki.”

Izuna’s hand landed on Madara’s shoulder. Not hard. But firm. Anchoring.

Madara didn’t look at him. But the tightness in his posture deepened—like steel drawn past its yield.

“Madara,” Izuna said again, quieter this time, though the edge in his voice was unmistakable. “He can’t breathe.”

From the other side of the corridor, Hikaku spoke. No urgency. No alarm. Just the same calm, clear weight in his voice.

“If you want answers,” he said evenly, “you’ll need him conscious.”

Madara’s grip held for one more breath—one more brittle heartbeat of silence—and then, abruptly, he let go.

Minari collapsed.

He hit the stone hard, shoulder first, before curling in on himself with a guttural gasp, the sound raw and wet like someone dredged up from deep water. He coughed once, then again—violently—shoulders shuddering as air tore back into his lungs in ragged, uneven pulls. Spit gleamed at the corner of his mouth, mixing with the blood.

Madara didn’t watch him fall. He turned.

His gaze landed squarely on Izuna and Hikaku.

“Find out if they’re lying,” he said, voice low and flint-sharp. “Dig. I want names. I want timing. I want every whispered conversation that led to this.”

Hikaku gave a nod, precise and immediate. “Understood.”

Izuna hesitated for a beat. His eyes flicked to the five kneeling men—bruised, shamed, and gasping—and then back to his brother.

“And after?” he asked. “What do we do with them?”

Madara didn’t blink.

“Strip them,” he said. “Of rank. Of title. Of the right to wear the fan. Effective immediately.”

Silence folded in like a second skin.

“They’ll be kept here. Under watch. No contact. No privileges.”

Izuna didn’t argue. But he didn’t look away, either. “And when the clan starts asking questions?”

Madara’s jaw clenched. “Tell them the truth.”

He took a step forward, voice steady and cold enough to settle into the stone itself.

“They’re traitors. Not martyrs. Make sure everyone knows that.”

His words hung in the air, final and unshakable. Behind him, the five prisoners remained motionless, barely breathing. 

Izuna exhaled, low and even. “I’ll see it done.”

Hikaku stepped forward, already crouching beside Minari, who still wheezed on the floor. 

“I’ll start with him.” 

Madara gave a curt nod.

Without another glance, he turned and walked away—boots echoing down the corridor, each step a retreat from the moment before it could pull more from him than fury already had.

---

The door slid open with the soft scrape of wood against frame, breaking the hush that had settled over the room.

Akame stepped inside.

She carried a folded bundle of linens against one hip, her sleeves cuffed, a faint smear of ash at her wrist. The smell of wool and dried herbs clung to her as it always did—quiet proof of work done without fanfare. She crossed the threshold, but her steps slowed when she caught sight of the room’s condition.

The low table had been moved slightly—skewed just enough to imply someone had tried to make space but didn’t have the balance to manage it properly. The futon lay undisturbed save for its occupant.

Tobirama remained where Madara had left him. Reclined but not asleep, the line of his body stiff with refusal rather than rest. One hand rested over the edge of the blanket, fingers curled loose against the woven cotton, while the other braced against his ribs, careful and constant. He was watching the door—sharp-eyed.

Akame’s gaze swept over him, then flicked to the edge of the room where a dark shape slouched across the chair’s back—Madara’s cloak, unmistakable in cut and weight, still dusted faintly with the scent of travel and frost.

Her eyes lingered on it for the briefest of moments. Then she looked back at Tobirama, who hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, but hadn’t looked away either.

“Well,” she said lightly, her voice curling with dry humor, “I imagine I’m not the person you were hoping to see.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift, but something about the stillness in him deepened. His gaze stayed level, unreadable.

“I’m not sure what you mean to imply,” he said, voice cool. Controlled. “But I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

Akame didn’t press him. She set the linens down atop the table , fingers brushing over the wood in a habitual, grounding gesture. The faint clink of ceramic followed as she uncovered a small tin and pulled free a clean cloth, dabbing it in something faintly medicinal. The sharp scent of camphor bled into the air.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she said at last, not unkindly.

Tobirama’s brow edged upward. “I’m horizontal,” 

Akame snorted under her breath. 

She crossed the room and crouched beside the futon, careful not to crowd him. When she reached toward his side, her movements were practiced—gentle, efficient, utterly unruffled. Tobirama tensed anyway, but not from pain. He simply didn’t like being tended to. 

He didn’t stop her, though. That, too, she noted.

She peeled back the edge of the blanket and loosened the bandages just enough to inspect the wound beneath—faintly raw, the skin around it mottled with dull bruising and the sharp edges of a healing burn. Her fingers ghosted lightly across the skin—checking for inflammation, for heat, for anything that might hint at worse beneath the surface.

Tobirama endured it in silence, jaw clenched, breath thin

“The medics told me you insisted on returning here,” she said, not as a question. “They weren’t pleased.”

Tobirama didn’t respond. His gaze drifted toward the window—its screen still dusted faintly with frost at the corners, the light tracing thin veins of brightness through its frame.

“I didn’t want to stay there,” he said finally.

Akame hummed. Not disapproving—just resigned.

“You should let yourself be human once in a while,” she said. “The rest of us manage it.”

She worked in silence for a moment,  hands steady. When she rewrapped the gauze, her fingers moved carefully. Not precious—but precise. As if this, too, was a language.

When she finished, she sat back on her heels. Tobirama shifted slightly against the futon, gaze still angled toward the window.

“I wasn’t aware household servants received medical training,” he said, voice neutral. Too neutral. The pivot was clear, an effort to reroute the conversation, or maybe just reclaim control of it.

Akame didn’t react immediately. She tucked the tin away slowly, then looked back at him, one brow lifting.

“We wear many faces in this house,” she said, tone mild. “Healers are busy. They don’t need to spend time changing bandages when I’ve got two hands and enough sense to follow instructions.”

She stood, smoothing her sleeves as she did. “You’d be surprised how many things don’t require rank to be done well.”

Tobirama’s mouth pressed into a faint line. He waited until she was halfway to the door before speaking again.

“Have you heard what happened to the attackers?”

Akame paused, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. 

“There’s talk,” she said. “Enough to piece together the shape of it.”

Tobirama watched her closely now. “And?”

Her shoulders rose in a faint shrug. “Madara was seen heading toward the cells not long after Izuna came back from the gates.” She paused. “He didn’t come back for a while.”

Tobirama didn’t respond. His eyes drifted once more to the cloak slouched over the chair, still undisturbed. Akame studied him for a beat longer, then spoke again—softer this time.

“They’re still alive, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That wasn’t.” Tobirama said. But something in his posture tensed a fraction.

Akame didn’t push. She only nodded once and turned to slide the door open again. The wooden frame whispered over the track. She stepped through, pausing just long enough to glance back over her shoulder.

“Try not to undo my work before morning,” 

The door closed behind her with a soft click. The room settled into quiet once more.

Tobirama remained where he was, propped carefully against the futon, breath steady. The scent of camphor still lingered faintly in the air.

Chapter Text

The office was warm, but only barely. Heat from the fire clung low to the floor, thick as smoke and slower to rise. Outside, wind dragged its claws across the compound walls, rattling loose flakes of frost from the eaves. The walls shuddered, wood and stone murmuring faintly with every gust.

Madara stood behind the low desk, one hand braced on the edge, eyes fixed on the scroll lying open before him. The parchment was weighted at the corners by stone markers, the Senju crest stamped in brown near the top. A souvenir from the meeting that was held only four days ago but felt like a lifetime. Across the room, Hikaku worked in silence, a sheaf of reports open in front of him, head bent with the quiet diligence that had always made him indispensable.

The door opened, Izuna stepped through. Sharp and trailing wind like a second cloak. He didn’t bother brushing snow from his sleeves. It melted in uneven streaks down his arms as he crossed the room, expression already dark with impatience.

"So they’re stalling," he said, before Madara could speak. "You knew they would."

Madara didn’t look up immediately. His gaze lingered on the scroll, the precise wording of the offer replaying in his mind.

"They are cautious," he said. "Caution is not the same as refusal."

Izuna huffed, a sound edged more with irritation than true disagreement. He came to stand opposite the desk, hands braced on the back of the nearest chair but not sitting, not yet.

"I was told Hashirama offered us half a stretch of the river, none of the farmland, and a joke of a contract arrangement."

"A third of mission commissions for the next three seasons," Hikaku said, glancing up. "Neutralized through unmarked names. No clan affiliation."

"Which means no prestige," Izuna snapped. "No visible power."

"But consistent coin," Hikaku countered, voice calm. "And consistency is how power roots."

Madara raised a hand, cutting off the spiral before it began. His voice was low.

"The terms were not insufficient," he said. "They were not dismissive. The offer was just high enough to feign generosity, just low enough to test our resolve."

Izuna’s eyes narrowed. "And will we concede?"

Madara looked up then, gaze dark and direct.

"No."

Silence folded in for a beat, broken only by the whisper of Hikaku turning another page.

"They gave us the river routes north of Matsu," Madara continued. "We countered by demanding access further west—not permanent occupation, but patrol rights. Seasonal garrisoning. A foothold without the illusion of conquest."

Izuna tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. "And the farmland? Did they budge?"

"They still denied it outright. We pressed elsewhere. If not grain, then logistics. They send us monthly supply convoys for treaty duration—tools, textiles, steel. Goods we can store long term."

Hikaku gave a small nod. "Material agreements are easier to renegotiate than food. Less emotionally charged."

"Exactly," Madara said. "And the mission contracts—we demand clause transparency. Neutral names or not, we require oversight. No Senju shinobi sent to missions that might undermine us. No embedded sabotage."

He let the words settle, his attention flicking briefly toward the window where frost bloomed like pale veins across the glass.

"Hashirama and I agreed," he said at last. "All further proposals must be exchanged and countered in writing. Two weeks from now, we reconvene. Everything outlined. Nothing vague."

Izuna’s brows rose. A cleaner process meant fewer surprises. Fewer openings for sentiment or spectacle.

Madara said nothing more for a moment, but his mind stayed moving. He knew what it looked like from the outside: the Uchiha holding Tobirama, bargaining from behind iron gates. The Senju might frame it as diplomacy, but at its heart, they were negotiating from loss. The weight of Tobirama’s absence bent everything they offered. Every clause, every compromise, was shaped around one truth: they wanted him back.

And Madara would not let them forget it. But peace earned by force didn’t have to be illegitimate—only precise. Balanced and undeniable.

To offer a ceasefire was not a weakness. But to accept it without leverage was surrender.

Madara would not surrender. Not for Tobirama. Not even for Hashirama. The clan came first. Always the clan.

He turned back to the desk and tapped a fresh scroll forward. The ink pot beside it gleamed darkly, half-shadowed in the flickering firelight.

"We’ll draft our formal reply tonight, though most of the counteroffers have already been discussed with the Senju." he said. "Hikaku, note every deviation. Izuna, have a hawk readied by morning."

Hikaku paused mid-line, the brush hovering just above the parchment. “And the peace clause?” he asked, tone even. “Hashirama’s proposal—five years, no skirmishes, no retaliations. No engagements. Do we respond?

Madara’s hand stilled over the scroll. The flickering light from the hearth caught the curve of his jaw, but his expression didn’t shift.

“We agree.”

Izuna didn’t move. He lingered by the chair, eyes still fixed on Madara, sharp beneath the damp fall of his hair. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gave a small grunt—quiet, indeterminate—something between acknowledgment and resignation. 

“That it?” he asked, voice dry. “Nothing else you want to include in the scroll? Maybe consult the elders?”

Madara’s gaze stayed fixed on the scroll.

“No,” he said. “That’s everything.”

Izuna’s mouth twisted. He let it go. Turned toward the door with slow, deliberate steps, shrugging tension off his shoulders like a coat that wouldn’t quite come loose.

One hand reached for the latch, but paused.

"You gonna check on Tobirama?" he asked, voice easy on the surface, but just a little too precise. Not a question, more like a probe slipped beneath the skin to see what twitched.

Something in Madara shifted—small, but unmistakable.. A breath held too long. A flex of the knuckles just before contact.

"No," he said, clipped and without inflection. "I have work to finish."

The silence that followed stretched thinner than parchment.

Izuna’s brow lifted, slow and dry. He didn’t push—didn’t need to. The air did it for him. 

Across the room, Hikaku turned a page too quietly. His eyes stayed on the reports, but his focus had tilted, just slightly, toward the tension building behind the desk. Izuna glanced back over his shoulder, gaze drifting from Madara’s hunched form to the low-burning fire at his back His eyes were pointed, understanding sharpened by familiarity.

"Right," he said, voice neutral now. “Work.”

He stepped out into the corridor and let the door swing closed behind him with a soft, deliberate click. For a long moment, the only sound was the low groan of wind at the shutters and the scratch of ink beneath Hikaku’s hand.

Then Hikaku spoke, quiet and dry as flint.

"He’s healing well, I heard."

Madara didn’t answer. Hikaku turned another page.

---

Steam curled softly from the kettle over the hearth, drifting in slow ribbons through the still air. The annex kitchen was narrow and quiet, light filtering through the small window, catching on the edges of ceramic and the faint sheen of water on the counter.

Tobirama sat at the low table, a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, one hand curled around a warm cup. His posture was straight, as always, but there was a stillness to it, something held just beneath the surface.

Three days had passed since Madara had walked him back from the infirmary. They hadn’t spoken since.

Before that—before the ambush, the wound, the negotiation— Madara had come every evening. Always with a book or two under one arm. Scrolls, essays, sometimes obscure texts in half-decayed binding. They spoke. Briefly or at length, about the readings, the theory, the world as it was or might be. Not always easily. Not always kindly. But always, without fail, words were exchanged.

Now the silence sat in the space like a second shadow. 

Tobirama’s gaze drifted toward the door just as it slid open with a soft clack of wood on frame.

Akame entered with a bundle of books tucked beneath one arm and a wooden tray balanced in her hands. She moved with quiet ease, sleeves rolled and hair tied back, the scent of rice and dried herbs following in her wake.

“You’re not where you’re supposed to be,” she said, setting the tray down. “Again.”

“I needed tea,” Tobirama replied, tone mild. 

“If you had waited a bit I would’ve brought it to you,” she muttered, but didn’t argue further. Instead, she turned back to the books and set them down beside the tray in a neat stack, the top one clearly older, spine softened from handling.

Tobirama’s eyes lingered on the titles.

Akame’s attention shifted to him, then to the books, and back again. 

“Madara-sama’s been… preoccupied,” she said after a beat, tone light, almost offhand—as though saying it gently would dull the shape of it.

Tobirama didn’t lift his gaze.

“He is the clan head,” he said. “No obligation rests with him here.”

Akame didn’t reply.

She turned her attention back to the tray, unwrapping its contents with quiet precision. A bowl of rice. Miso with slivered greens. Thin slices of fish, still glistening with a soy reduction. Each dish arranged neatly. Then, last, she untied a smaller bundle—wrapped in waxed paper and bound with a length of twine. She set it at the edge of the tray, slightly apart from the rest.

Tobirama’s eyes flicked to it, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“What is that?”

“Preserved plum,” Akame said. “The good kind—soaked in sake and salted twice.”

She didn’t elaborate on how it had arrived or why it was included today, only reached for a small dish and placed one of the plums in it with care, setting it beside the rice.

Tobirama stayed quiet. Focused on the plum for a moment, before shifting back to the books—then to the tray—then nowhere at all. The warmth from his cup had begun to fade.

“You’ll have more with your next meal,” Akame added, as if he had asked. “I’ll bring it.”

He didn’t thank her. He rarely did. But the silence between them softened, just slightly. Enough to be felt. Akame stepped back, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her gaze swept over him.

“I’ll come by at sundown,” she said. “Eat what you can.”

He gave a faint nod, the kind that acknowledged more than just her words. Akame turned, sliding the door open again. The light from the hall pooled briefly at her feet, then receded as the door shut behind her.

Tobirama remained where he was, still wrapped in the quiet. The steam from the kettle had thinned to nothing.

The bundle on the tray caught a slant of late sunlight, twine pulled taut across the paper, holding everything in place.

---

Frost crept in thin webs across the edges of the Senju estate, threading the windows and paling the shoji frames. The hawk arrived just after dusk, its wings slicing through the dusk-gray sky, a sharp silhouette against the muted glow of lanterns beginning to stir behind paper walls. Inside the main house, Hashirama sat in silence with Mito. Her hair was drawn back in a loose braid, her legs folded neatly beneath her, one sleeve resting lightly against the rim of her teacup. Between them lay a thin stack of correspondence, untouched.

They hadn’t moved until the scroll arrived.

Hashirama didn’t break the seal immediately. He turned the parchment over once, then again—the crimson mark of the Uchiha pressed stark against the pale surface. Mito said nothing, only watched as he studied it, expression unreadable in the lantern light.

At last, with deliberate fingers, he cracked the wax.

The terms inside were clear. Unflinchingly so. He read them more than once

"They accepted the ceasefire," he said, not quite aloud. It wasn’t relief in his voice. It sounded empty. 

Mito reached for the scroll as he passed it to her. She scanned it quickly, her brow furrowing. 

“This…” she murmured. “This is what he wanted in the beginning.”

Hashirama didn’t answer.

Mito’s gaze sharpened. “Not all of it. But close enough. Territory west of the river. Garrison rights. Control of the contracts, phrased differently. And instead of food, long-term supply. He didn’t concede anything, Hashirama. He restructured.” She looked over at the paper once more “There are clauses in here we never even discussed.” 

Hashirama’s hand shifted—curling loosely against his knee. His gaze drifted past the paper, past the low flicker of lantern light, to the faint outline of frost feathering the edge of the window

"At least now it’s written down," he said quietly. "No more guesswork."

Mito looked up. “A threat in writing is still a threat.”

Hashirama’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at the scroll again. He didn’t need to.

“They know what they’re doing,” Mito continued. “What they’ve asked for is not just leverage. It’s a slow drain. Resources. Autonomy. Pride. The kind of terms that don’t cause immediate collapse — but will leave us hollowed out by the time the ink dries.”

She reached for her cup, found it cold, and set it back down without drinking.

“Madara is not bluffing,” she said. “He doesn’t have to be. Not while Tobirama remains their prisoner”

Hashirama flinched at the word. She saw it. Didn’t apologize for it.

“He’s not a prisoner,” he said, too quickly. “He’s—”

“What they’re using,” Mito said, cutting gently through the denial. 

Hashirama sighed “I know the terms he's named are still too grave. If I take this to the council now, half of them will call it a trap. The other half will call it surrender."

“And you,” Mito asked, watching him carefully, “what would you do?”

Hashirama didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the window, where frost crawled in thin veins along the glass, blooming outward like cracks in ice.

“I want Tobirama back,” he said at last, voice quiet and edged with something hoarse. “But I also want to be able to look our people in the eye when I do it. And I don’t know if both are possible.”

The fire hissed in the hearth. The silence between them stretched, the truth weighing in every corner. 

Mito leaned forward, her fingers brushing the edge of the scroll. Not to move it — just to feel it. As if contact alone might reveal some hidden softness in the words it bore.

“They’ll call it weakness,” she said. “Even if it buys peace. Even if it saves lives. We can’t agree to this, we have to counter.”

Hashirama was quiet for a moment longer. Then he stood. His movements were slow, deliberate. He stepped past the table and walked to the cabinet near the hearth — an old thing, lacquered black and iron-latched, etched with seals worn faint from years of use. He opened it and drew out a fresh scroll, a brush, a small jar of ink.

No fanfare. Just the sound of bristles catching against ceramic and the soft snap of parchment unfurling across the table.

He sat again, opposite Mito. The fire cast a dim wash of amber across his face, catching in the deep furrow of his brow as he dipped the brush in ink.

“What do we hold?” he asked, voice low.

Mito’s reply came without hesitation.

“Position,” she said. “The high ridge east of the river still belongs to us. We never named it during the last proposal. That becomes the line we don’t cross.”

Hashirama nodded. “They keep patrol rights near the river. But not in the woods beyond it. No outposts. No anchors. Seasonal access only. We write it that way, clearly.”

He wrote, the brush gliding in practiced strokes. One line. Then another.

“And the contracts?” he asked.

“We meet them halfway. Half the commissions, as they asked originally — but we bind them by value, not volume,” Mito said. “Mission worth. Not number. A sliding scale based on coin paid. That way, we control the weight of what they receive. We push back on the transparency clause.”

Hashirama’s pen paused briefly, but then moved again. “It will take time to calculate.”

“Then we take the time,” Mito said. “Or make it their burden to track. Either way, the framework favors us.”

She reached for the older scroll again, scanning the existing wording.

“The supply clause stays,” she murmured. “We can’t keep refusing everything. But we define it now — nothing strategic. No timber. No medicinal stores. Just crafted goods. Textiles. Iron tools. Lumber only in reclaimed form. Finished materials. Not raw.”

Hashirama hummed low in his throat. Not disagreement. Something like relief.

“And in return,” he said, “we request restitution. A mirrored exchange. Their supplies for ours. Not equal in amount — just in principle. Reciprocity, even symbolic, reframes the imbalance.”

He wrote again, the ink sinking into the parchment like a wound clotting shut.

“And we add,” Mito said softly, “a clause on captives.”

Hashirama stilled.

Her voice did not waver. “Future ones. If they want to turn Tobirama into precedent, then we set the limits. Immediate notification. Proof of life. You want peace, Hashirama? Then bind it in writing. Protect the next generation from this.”

He nodded once, sharply. The brush moved.

“Captives will be returned under neutral supervision within fourteen days of ceasefire violation,” he murmured, transcribing as he spoke. “If not, the agreement dissolves.”

The final stroke dried slowly.

Hashirama set the brush down and leaned back, his shoulders stiff with the stillness of too-long restraint. The scroll lay open between them, the ink dark and deliberate. Mito didn’t speak at first. Her gaze moved over the draft, reading and rereading the lines they had shaped together. Each clause was a compromise carved to the root, but not a surrender. The kind of offer that let you keep your spine straight when you brought it to a room of tired elders and worn fighters who still remembered how the war bled.

She nodded once, short and precise. “This we can try and carry forward.”

Hashirama reached for the blotting cloth, folded the scroll with practiced care, and sealed it with a clean strip of silk-threaded paper. The mark he pressed into the wax was the clan’s—not his own. That mattered.

“I’ll call the council at first light,” he said. “Better they see it as strategy before it’s seen as desperation.”

“And if they reject it?”

His hand paused mid-air, hovering over the edge of the table.

“Then we push again,” he said. “And again. Until something gives.”

Mito held his gaze. There was no pride in her expression—only precision. The same look she wore when reading battlefield reports, or performing seals that couldn’t afford to fail. She reached for the scroll and tucked it beneath one arm.

“I’ll speak first,” she said. “They’ll shout less if I do.”

Hashirama’s lips curved faintly—just barely—but it was gone as quickly as it came. Outside, the wind pressed harder against the shoji. The frost along the window had crept to the corners now, turning the glass to lace. Mito stood, her shadow cutting long across the tatami. She waited until Hashirama rose to join her, then moved toward the door without ceremony.

At the threshold, Hashirama paused. “We should have a hawk ready by sundown,” he said. “If the council agrees, we don’t wait. A hawk flies tonight.”

Mito nodded. She slid the door open. The cold met her first—clean and biting—but she didn’t flinch. Just behind her, Hashirama stood with the fire still warming his back, the scent of ink and cedar thick in the air.

He turned once more to the writing table. The used brush, the empty ink dish, the ghost of a half-drunk cup.

There was nothing left to add.

Chapter Text

The library was quiet this early, still clinging to the hush of undisturbed shelves and the fine dust that rose only when the sun angled through the slats just so. Madara stood near the long sorting table by the eastern wall, where a stack of books lay neatly aligned: three volumes on chakra theory, one codex of historical treaties, and a slim, leather-bound ledger of border agreements whose corners had been reinforced with silver thread.

He thumbed absently through the codex, more to confirm its condition than its contents. Satisfied, Madara set it aside and reached for the next book—an older volume on inter-clan resource delegation, its spine worn, its theories naïvely idealistic. Tobirama had once dismissed it outright, calling it “optimistic fantasy” during one of their sharper debates. Madara added it anyway.

The sound of approaching footsteps cut through the stillness—two sets, quick but unhurried. A moment later, the door slid open on a curl of cold air. Candle flames wavered.

Izuna stepped in first, shaking frost from his sleeves, followed closely by Hikaku, who carried a wrapped bundle of scrolls beneath one arm. Both men paused upon seeing Madara at the sorting table, surrounded by carefully chosen texts and the quiet air of intent.

Izuna's gaze swept over the books, then landed on his brother. His mouth curved, faintly amused. "Let me guess," he said. "You’re assembling another syllabus for the hostage?"

Madara didn’t look up. "I’m making use of the library."

"Right," Izuna drawled, drifting closer. He tapped the corner of the codex with one gloved finger. "And did Tobirama specifically requested a comprehensive refresher on border treaties and chakra modulation? Would be strange considering you haven't spoken to him."

Hikaku, silent until now, set the scroll bundle down on a nearby bench with practiced care. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t need to.

Madara slid the last book into place with a quiet finality. "Did you need something?"

Izuna gave a soft snort. “You could just bring the books yourself, you know. The annex isn’t cursed. Unless I missed a memo.”

Madara turned to face him then, expression unreadable. “I have other obligations.”

"Of course," Izuna said dryly, “What has it been? Six days now?”

Madara didn’t rise to the jab. Instead, his attention shifted—to Hikaku.

“Anything further from the cells?” he asked, voice flat but pointed. “Any signs they were working under instruction?”

Hikaku straightened slightly. “Nothing concrete. They’re still claiming it was personal. No names offered. No wider threads—at least none they’re willing to give up.”

Madara’s jaw worked once. He crossed his arms, weight shifting as he leaned back against the edge of the table.

“And the others?” he asked. “Any echo beyond the five?”

Hikaku hesitated, just enough to answer the question before he spoke. “There’s tension. Quiet. But present. Whispers about honor. About blood. Nothing actionable yet. But it’s brewing.”

Madara’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The chill in the room seemed sharper now—less the winter air than the weight of what hovered beneath it.

Izuna stepped closer, folding his arms as he watched his brother. “You can’t put it all down with fear,” he said, tone even. “Not forever.”

Madara glanced at him. “If they’re afraid of betraying their oath, good. It means they still recognize what it costs.”

“And if they’re afraid of you?” Izuna asked, quiet now.

Madara didn’t answer.

Izuna exhaled, shaking his head once. “Look, I’m not saying let them off. I was the first to lock the bastards up. But if you want the rest of the clan to believe in this peace—believe it’s worth protecting—you need more than punishment. You need to show them why .”

He stepped around the table, hand brushing the edge of the ledger Madara had just selected.

“They see Tobirama as a threat,” Izuna said. “Or a symbol of something we haven’t earned. And right now, they’re not wrong. He’s Senju. He’s here under guard. No real explanation.”

Madara’s brow tightened. “He’s alive. The clan knows we are conducting negotiations. That’s explanation enough.”

“To you,” Izuna said. “But not to the ones who buried their brothers in the last skirmish.”

A silence settled—heavy, but not cold.

“You want the tension to ease?” Izuna continued, more gently now. “Then stop letting the clan fill in the blanks themselves.”

Madara’s gaze dropped to the books again—the carefully chosen volumes, the precise stack, the one he knew Tobirama would read even if he scowled through half of them. 

“It’s not his job to prove himself,” Madara said at last.

Izuna didn’t flinch. “No,” he said. “But it might be yours.”

Hikaku, still standing near the bench, adjusted the edge of the scroll bundle with a precise flick of his fingers. He spoke without lifting his gaze.

“You could show him the compound,” he said evenly. “Let him walk it. Let people see him without chains or shadow. If they meet the man, they might stop inventing a myth.”

Madara’s eyes lifted, flat and sharp. “A tour?”

“Call it what you like,” Hikaku replied, voice steady. “Let him move through the grounds. Let him be seen as something other than a threat behind a sealed door. You don’t have to parade him. Just… stop hiding him.”

Madara’s expression didn’t shift, but his silence said enough. 

Izuna gave a low, sardonic hum. “Of course,” he said, tone lighter now. “That would also mean you’d have to speak to him.” He leaned against the table, one brow raised. “Maybe even make eye contact.”

Madara’s glare was immediate, if brief. But it lacked heat.

Izuna smiled, all sharp corners. “Six days, aniki. You’d think you were the one who got stabbed.”

Madara didn’t respond at first. His fingers rested near the edge of the topmost book, unmoving. The weight of the suggestion settled around them—not wholly unwelcome, but not comfortable either. Hikaku didn’t fill the silence. He rarely did. He only watched, the way he always did, waiting to see which way the wind would shift before stepping into it.

Eventually, Madara spoke—quiet, clipped. “He won’t want it.”

“Probably not,” Izuna agreed. “But that’s not the point, is it? And that makes it twice as fun.”

Madara’s hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing the worn edge of the table. He didn’t look at either of them.

“I’ll speak to him.” 

---

The courtyard at the heart of the annex was still rimmed in frost, its stones pale with early cold and the weak light that filtered through the narrow archways above. Morning hadn’t quite burned off the haze yet—it lingered like a veil in the corners, clinging to the troughs and gutters where water had frozen overnight and now cracked underfoot in uneven lines. The air carried that bracing sharpness of snow-damp stone and old mineral.

Tobirama moved through it like it didn’t touch him.

He was shirtless in the cold, skin flushed at the shoulders and drawn tight with chill, but his rhythm didn’t falter. Frost glinted faintly in his hair where it had begun to collect at the ends. White on white, indistinguishable until the light caught it. His palms pressed flat to the stone beneath him, fingers splayed for balance as he dipped into another slow, controlled push-up—his hundredth, at least. Breath came evenly through his nose, no chakra to reinforce his stamina, only muscle and will. And irritation.

The kind of irritation born of confinement.

He had been sealed and benched and caged in careful, clinical ways. As though bandages alone could explain the restraint drawn across his tenketsu like invisible thread. As though being upright and lucid meant he couldn’t feel the dull buzz of motionlessness grinding against his bones.

So he moved.

Push-ups, lunges, stretches. Anything to keep the blood circulating. Anything to drag focus back from the claustrophobic edges of stillness. The courtyard offered the only reprieve—a little open sky, hard stone underfoot, and the illusion of solitude.

He didn’t hear the door open. Not over the steady cadence of his own breath. But he felt the shift. Tobirama's gaze flicked sideways, sharp and certain. A figure stood just inside the archway, framed by stone and morning haze.

Madara.

Tobirama pushed through another rep without comment, letting the silence stretch long enough to become deliberate. He didn’t rise. Didn’t slow. Tobirama’s muscles flexed and shifted beneath pale skin as he moved through the motions, the cold air steaming faintly at his back. 

Madara said nothing. He stood , still half in shadow, gaze fixed. His arms remained at his sides. Eyes tracking each movement with a focus that was too direct to be idle.

Tobirama didn’t miss it. Just as he hadn’t missed the absence that had preceded it. Madara had vanished behind meetings and messages, behind duty and distance, and left nothing in his place but silence and the dry scrape of turning pages.

And Tobirama had noticed. Had noticed, and resented it. So he let Madara watch. Let him take in the raw edge of exertion, the quiet burn beneath skin flushed from cold and repetition. Let him feel the accusation of those unspoken hours sharpened into movement.

He dipped down again—slow, deliberate—and exhaled through his nose. “I assume this is a wellness check,” he said dryly, voice low but unmistakably clear, “or have you taken up silent observation as a pastime?”

Madara’s expression didn’t shift, but his throat worked once in a quiet swallow. He cleared it a moment later, short and almost sharp in the cold air, like the sound had startled even him.

“You’re not exactly following orders,” he said, tone thinner than usual.

Tobirama lifted his gaze just enough to glance at him, still mid-motion, face blank but not unreadable.

“I wasn’t aware the recovery orders included complete muscular atrophy.”

Madara didn’t answer. Tobirama exhaled again and pushed into a final rep, then rocked back onto his heels in a smooth movement, rising in one breath. He rolled his shoulders once, a faint crack of joints releasing tension. Frost clung faintly at the curve of his collarbone.

“Well?” he said, straightening to his full height. “Was that your entire inspection, or did you come to supervise my lunges as well?”

Madara’s eyes didn’t flick away. But his voice was steadier now. Measured.

“I came to speak with you.”

Tobirama tilted his head, the faintest trace of wariness slipping into the arch of his brow.

“Then speak.”

Madara didn’t move from the archway, but something in his stance shifted, less guarded, more resolved.

“I’ll be accompanying you,” he said, “on a walk through the compound. A brief one.”

Tobirama blinked once. “A walk.”

“A tour,” Madara amended, jaw tight. “You’ll see the grounds. The outer gardens. The lower corridors. Nothing strategic.”

Silence followed. Tobirama studied Madara’s face like a text he hadn’t decided how to deconstruct—brows faintly drawn, the wariness still there, tempered now by a sharper intelligence at work behind his eyes.

“Why?” he asked at last.

Madara’s gaze didn’t waver. “To be seen. By the clan. So they understand you’re not hidden, not dangerous, not some weapon kept leashed behind a door. It was suggested that a degree of visibility would help. I agreed.”

Tobirama’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “So this is for their comfort.”

“For stability,” Madara corrected. “The clan’s unease is not without cause. This helps contain it.”

Tobirama rolled one shoulder again, loosening the joint. He didn’t disagree—but he didn’t agree either. His gaze narrowed slightly.

“And in exchange?” he asked. “What do I receive for playing escort and spectacle?”

Madara hesitated. Only slightly. “Nothing is required of you.”

Tobirama snorted. “Everything here is required of me.” Then, sharper: “You said you would speak with me after your meeting with Hashirama. You said we would discuss the terms.”

Madara’s jaw worked, but he didn’t look away. “We will.”

“Then that’s the price,” Tobirama said. “I’ll walk your halls. Let your people look. But you’ll tell me what happened. All of it. Every word that matters.”

A faint gust cut through the courtyard. The frost at the edges of the stones shivered but held.

Madara gave a single nod. “Fine.”

Tobirama didn’t smile. He only reached for the towel draped over the low railing beside him, wiped his hands clean of frost and stone dust, and draped it over his shoulders like a mantle. He stepped past Madara without waiting for permission, bare feet soundless on the stone as he crossed to the inner corridor. The heat inside would hit harder after the cold, but Tobirama didn’t flinch. He moved—measured, composed, as if every motion were its own kind of answer.

Madara turned slowly to follow.

---

The hall that led out from the annex stretched, its long curve lined with broad windows and narrow alcoves. Morning light angled through the upper panes in long, golden strips. Madara walked a pace ahead, saying little, but not unaware. Tobirama followed without resistance, eyes roving with something far colder than curiosity.

He had changed before they left. Clean lines, high collar, dark robes suited for movement but sharp at the cuffs. His hair had been finger-combed back, damp still from the basin, and his expression carried the disciplined calm of someone who had chosen presentation over comfort.

The compound unfolded around them—courtyards swept clean, guards posted with deliberate looseness, civilians and shinobi alike moving through the periphery with careful neutrality. None approached, but many looked. They didn’t bow. They didn’t speak. But they watched. And that, Tobirama knew, had been the point.

Each step of the tour became a quiet reaffirmation: here is where the Uchiha train, where they convene, where they raise their children. Here is where peace might take root, if only the right people were buried to feed it.

Madara had spoken as they crossed the threshold—flat, unsentimental updates from the latest meeting with Hashirama. The revised clauses. The conditional offers. Tobirama had listened in silence, every word driving another splinter beneath the surface.

They were giving ground. More than they could afford. And he was the cost that had been paid up front.

Somewhere between the clan hall and the upper corridor, Tobirama stopped hearing Madara’s voice. Not because the man had fallen silent, but because the words were now background to the slow unfurling dread in his own mind. He saw it—how each concession laid out in those negotiations leaned toward appeasement, not balance. How trust wasn’t being built, only bartered. And how his continued presence here wasn’t a strategy, but a tether. A quiet, bloodless surrender wearing the mask of diplomacy.

He was dooming them. One clause at a time.

They turned another corner. 

The stone underfoot gave way to a warmer tile, worn in places where the path saw more foot traffic. The scent of woodsmoke drifted faintly from somewhere nearby, softened by the hint of starch and lavender. The hum of the compound changed here, quieter but no less alive.

Akame rounded the bend with a satchel slung across one shoulder and a basket balanced against her hip, her sleeves cuffed and a streak of soot brushed faintly across one cheekbone. Her pace slowed when she saw them. 

A young boy accompanied her. Wide-eyed, mop-haired, dark features. He walked slightly behind her, small hands curled into the folds of her outer robe, but his attention flicked immediately to the two men ahead. To Madara first, then Tobirama.

Tobirama blinked once, stalled by the sight. 

Akame bowed her head, not low, but respectfully—her eyes flicking from Madara to Tobirama and back again with practiced care.

“Uchiha-sama,” she said, voice even. Then, after a fractional pause, “Tobirama-san.”

Madara inclined his head faintly.

“Akame,” he said. “You’re off-duty?”

“I’m between tasks,” she replied. “Returning from the laundry storage.” Her hand shifted slightly, as if to steady the basket. The boy stayed close, half-shielded by the drape of her clothing, but curious.

Madara’s gaze flicked to the child again, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “Kagami,” he said at last, low but clear. “Is that right?”

The boy blinked, then nodded. His voice, when it came, was soft but certain. “Yes, Madara-sama.”.

Tobirama’s attention had settled squarely now, red eyes flicking from the boy to Akame, then back. Kagami. Five, maybe six. Young enough to still cling, old enough to recognize the weight of titles.

He hadn’t known she had a child. Hadn’t considered it. And somehow, that fact needled—because she came every day. Because she never spoke of anything beyond the task. Because she had folded herself into silence with him so completely, and yet somewhere behind all of that, there was this.

Tobirama inclined his head a fraction, something stiff in the motion. “I didn’t realize,” he said, voice quiet. “You were a mother.”

“I didn’t realize you assumed I wasn’t,” she replied gently.

Kagami’s gaze had not left Tobirama. His brow furrowed faintly, as if piecing something together behind those too-dark eyes. Then, with the unfiltered clarity only a child could manage, he turned to Akame and tugged lightly at her sleeve.

“Mama,” he whispered—whispered, but not quietly—“is that the man from the annex? The one you said never eats all his rice and makes faces at the salve even though he’s very brave ?”

The hallway stilled. Akame’s expression froze for a half second, mouth parting as if to intercept the words midair—but it was far, far too late. A flicker of dismay crossed her face, chased swiftly by resignation. She closed her eyes, just once, very briefly.

Tobirama stared. Then his brows drew together with exquisite precision. “Faces at the salve?”

Akame didn’t look at him. She adjusted the basket on her hip with surgical care, cleared her throat lightly, and said, “I may have… paraphrased.”

Kagami, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered by the tension he had conjured. He stepped a little farther out from behind his mother’s robe and tilted his head at Tobirama with childlike frankness. “You don’t look scary,” he announced.

Tobirama blinked again.

“That’s fortunate,” he replied dryly, though his voice was softer than before.

Kagami beamed, clearly taking this as a sign of approval. “Mama says sometimes scary people just need some kindness and someone to remind them to drink water.”

Akame, eyes lifted to the ceiling as if searching for divine assistance, muttered, “I really need to stop talking around you.”

Madara gave a faint, almost imperceptible snort. Tobirama’s gaze lingered on the child. He didn’t know what to do with the warmth curling under his ribs, or the sharp edge of some unnamed ache just beside it. But he inclined his head again, this time with more ease.

“A wise assessment,” he said, to Kagami.

Kagami nodded solemnly, as if he’d just passed an important test.

Akame gave a low sigh. “Come on,” she said gently, laying a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Let’s let them finish their business.”

Kagami obeyed, though not without a last, curious glance over his shoulder at Tobirama. Then they were gone, steps fading down the corridor in a rhythm that suddenly felt far too quiet. Madara waited a beat longer, as if to make sure they were fully out of earshot, then turned slightly, one brow arched with deliberate gravity.

“Never eats all his rice?” he said, tone deceptively mild.

Tobirama exhaled through his nose. “I’ve had multiple meals under her supervision where everything was finished, that assessment is statistically unfounded.”

“Ah,” Madara said. “So your rebuttal is a technicality. Very Senju of you.”

Tobirama cast him a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth twitching—but not quite upward. “And what would an Uchiha rebuttal be? Fire?”

Madara didn’t dignify that with an answer. But his silence carried the distinct weight of amusement. They walked on.

The corridor opened gradually into a wider promenade, where the outer path gave way to the main courtyard—expansive, walled in smooth stone, its entrance framed by a high gate carved with the Uchiha crest. Raised walkways flanked each side. The early frost was thinner here, already broken by the day’s motion. It glittered faintly along the edges of the carved drain paths and pooled low where shadow still clung.

Tobirama’s steps slowed, just slightly, his gaze passing over the open space, the strategic lines of sight, the memory of where barriers would go if he were still drawing defense maps.

More people watched them here.

From the far side of the courtyard, a cluster of younger shinobi paused mid-conversation, their laughter tapering into silence as they turned. Two elders stood beneath the shadow of a columned overhang, eyes sharp above folded arms. A pair of children sat near the steps, pretending to tie their sandals while sneaking glances—bold, curious, untrained in subtlety. A woman arranging dried herbs along a window sill looked up and did not look away.

Still no one bowed. No one smiled. But their attention sharpened.

Tobirama registered every gaze, the weight of each one folding in over the next like pressure against his spine. None of it touched Madara—not visibly. The Uchiha clan head walked with the ease of a man accustomed to scrutiny, unreadable as granite. But Tobirama saw the set of his shoulders. The calculation behind every unhurried step.

“They expect you to leash me,” Tobirama murmured. His voice was low, pitched to not carry.

“They expect me to remind them who I trust,” Madara replied, just as quiet. “And who I don’t fear.”

Tobirama huffed softly, not quite disbelief. “They mistake not killing me for trust.”

“No,” Madara said. “They mistake my silence for permission.”

That earned him a glance—not biting, but sharp. “And what do you take permission for?”

“Intent,” Madara said simply. “Yours. Theirs. Mine.”

They reached the edge of the courtyard where a low stone bench flanked a crooked plum tree, its leaves already stripped bare by frost. A sudden gust of wind pulled through the open space, scattering a few curled petals left from the last stubborn bloom.

Above them, a flicker of motion cleaved the sky. The hawk came in fast—too fast for anything routine. Its cry split the stillness before its shadow fell across the courtyard, talons outstretched as it dropped with precision toward Madara.

Tobirama turned his head sharply as it landed.

The bird struck the bench’s stone lip and flared its wings once before folding them tight, chest heaving. Its leg bore a pale wax-sealed scroll, bound in thread the color of deep forest pine—Senju green.

Madara’s hand moved immediately, unfastening the scroll with calm, practiced fingers. The seal snapped clean under his thumb.

Tobirama’s breath thinned.

Madara unrolled the message. His eyes moved once down the page, the lines drawn tight across his face, unreadable save for the faintest narrowing at the brow.

“Well?” Tobirama asked.

Madara didn’t answer immediately. He read the message again, slower this time, then passed it to Tobirama. Tobirama accepted it without a word. 

He unrolled the scroll slowly. The paper was thick, the ink still faintly fresh—each character drawn with care. He read it, start to finish. 

Clause by clause, line by line, the weight of it unfolded: compromises wrapped in compromise, clever phrasing that sounded like stability but reeked of loss. Half-rations disguised as balance. Patrol limitations rewritten as generosity. Concessions that bent so far, they would eventually break. Hashirama’s hand was in this—he could see it in the kindness of the phrasing, the gentleness meant to dull the blade.

But the blade was still there.

By the time he finished reading, Tobirama’s jaw had gone tight. His hands did not shake, but only because he would not allow them to. The wind caught the edge of the scroll, but he did not release it. He stood there, motionless, while the blood roared in his ears.

He barely registered Hikaku’s approach.

“The scroll?” Hikaku asked, his voice low, glancing toward Madara, who had already straightened.

They spoke—quietly, efficiently, like men accustomed to strategy. Tobirama heard none of it. The sound dimmed around him, dulled by the growing realization blooming dark across his mind like ink in water.

This was the counteroffer. This—this stripped-down, knotted, half-starved thing—was what they had sent back in return. A desperate reshaping of failure, meant to salvage pride while swallowing slow surrender. And it still wouldn’t be enough.

The Uchiha would accept these terms. Or worse—negotiate again. Bleed the Senju a little more. Force them to give ground they couldn’t afford. Hashirama would allow it for peace. Mito would allow it for him. And Tobirama—Tobirama had already paid the opening bid in his own freedom.

He couldn’t let it go further. He couldn’t be the reason his clan hollowed out to nothing.

The voices beside him faded entirely. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t speak. His gaze stayed locked on the scroll in his hands as though it might burst into flame. Something in his chest burned to match it.

They had started to build something. He had seen it: in the language of the treaties, however flawed. In the fact that negotiations were still happening at all. In the stubborn refusal to raise arms where once, insult alone would have drawn blood. It wasn’t enough. But it was movement.

Hashirama believed in peace. Madara wanted it. Even now, Tobirama could admit: the man wanted something more than conquest. He wanted prosperity. Legacy. Stability built in stone.

And Hashirama—Hashirama would carry the rest. He always had. So maybe, if Tobirama removed himself—if the last unignorable shadow disappeared—then the foundation might hold. Wobble, bend, but not break.

In the worst case they would grieve. Call it a casualty of diplomacy, or an accident, or betrayal. It didn’t matter. So long as they kept going. So long as they stopped using him to anchor the bleeding edge of compromise.

And if he succeeded—if he escaped—yes, it would shake the table. Talks would falter. Accusations would fly. But they would resume. They had come too far. There was too much blood behind them and too much hope ahead.

With him gone, in whatever way, the Senju would not have to keep negotiating through clenched teeth and held breath. 

He didn’t know when the decision solidified—only that it had. An edge honed against the knowledge that if he remained here, if he let them use him to barter weakness into permanence, then he was already dead.

His grip tightened on the scroll, knuckles white.

If the only move left was to take the piece off the board—then so be it.

He would escape. Or die trying.

Chapter Text

The path back to the annex curved beneath the wash of afternoon light, sharp where it caught on frost-laced eaves, diffused where it pressed through the high stone archways. Madara walked just ahead, footsteps slow enough not to be commanding, but steady enough to leave no room for dawdling.

Tobirama followed.

He was composed, on the surface. His posture precise, each step placed with consistent deliberation. But something about the way he moved didn’t fit. It wasn’t limp or stiff or conspicuously wrong. But his shoulders were a fraction too high. His focus, too sharp. Like his body had braced for something and never been told to stand down.

Madara noticed it by degrees, the way one notices weather changing: a shift in air pressure, the light going flat. He didn’t speak at first, but the feeling grew. Something coiled and brittle trailing Tobirama’s heels like shadow.

They turned another corner, boots passing over the thin grit of salt laid to cut the ice. When Madara finally glanced back, Tobirama wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon beyond the wall, past the rooftops, jaw tight as if to lock something in place.

“You’re quiet,” Madara said at last, voice low, but not soft.

Tobirama didn’t answer. He held a stillness about him. A kind of brittle inward coil, like a thought had turned so tightly in on itself it no longer recognized the sound of another voice.

Madara didn’t press. They were nearly to the annex now—the wing just visible through the frost-silvered trees, its tiled roof dark against the pale slant of afternoon sky. Another fifty paces. Maybe less.

But the silence dragged. Madara exhaled slowly through his nose. 

“Something on your mind?”

Tobirama blinked as if startled back into himself—only barely—and then turned to look at Madara with a sharp, flat glance.

“Do you really want to ask me that?” he said, voice edged and too calm. “Now?”

Madara stopped walking.

Tobirama stopped a breath later, turning fully to face him. There was no preamble in his stance, no preparation for civility. Only the clean, clipped posture of someone done holding their tongue.

“What would you like to hear?” Tobirama asked, arms loose at his sides, but voice tight with precision. “That I think the Senju counteroffer is cowardice masquerading as strategy? That they’re bleeding out clause by clause and you’re still pulling at the thread?”

Madara’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him did. He straightened, just slightly, like someone adjusting the weight of armor. “This is the same conversation we’ve had before. We’re negotiating,” he said. “They know what’s at stake. So do you.”

“And now what?” Tobirama snapped, voice rising just enough to fracture the quiet. “You’ll test how much more they’ll give before they break completely? And what happens when they do?”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. “You think I want them to break?”

“I think you want to win.” Tobirama’s words cut sharp, fast, like reflex. “Even if you won’t name it that way.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Frost creaked faintly beneath their feet. A breeze stirred the edge of Tobirama’s sleeve.

Madara’s voice, when it came, was low. “I’ve given you space. I’ve kept the clan from turning that annex into a prison cell. I’ve carried the negotiations, structured the counterterms—”

“Structured me,” Tobirama said, stepping in now, a hair closer. “You’ve structured everything around me, Madara. This deal, this theater, this… illusion of peace that costs everything but looks neat on paper.”

His voice cracked—not loudly, but enough. Stretched thin at the edges, worn raw by the balance he’d been forced to hold.

Madara’s eyes locked onto his, unreadable but fierce. “I’m doing what’s necessary to keep my clan alive. If that offends you, I don’t know what you expected from me.”

Tobirama let out a breath, long and cold, like the last of something spilling from a cracked seal.

“Too much,” he said. “And none of it matters now.”

Madara didn’t speak again.

He held Tobirama’s gaze for a long moment—dark eyes flat, mouth a firm line—but whatever words hovered behind his silence, he didn’t give them shape. Eventually, he turned. 

His footsteps echoed once on the frost-rimmed stone, then faded into the corridor’s long hush.

Tobirama didn’t watch him go.

Only after the last sound of retreat had gone still did he move—shoulders slackening, jaw unclenching, breath exhaling like something too long braced finally letting go. He stood for a moment just inside the threshold, gaze unfocused, the pale winter light dragging thin shadows across the floor.

Then he turned inward.

The annex was quiet, almost too much so. The fire had gone cold. The kettle on the hearth had not been set. No tray waited on the low table. Akame had not yet come by—or perhaps she wouldn’t.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, slow and deliberate. The latch clicked with a sound that felt louder than it should have. 

---

Tobirama did not get much rest that night. Or the one after.

Sleep had become a shallow thing. Thin and unreliable, a surface broken too easily by every gust of wind, every shift in the annex walls, every remembered line from negotiations he had not been present to argue. When it did come, it brought little ease. Uneasy dreams threaded through him instead, indistinct but needling, shadows where thoughts should have been.

Once, near dawn, he found himself wondering whether the Yamanaka clan’s mind transfer technique could take hold if the target was already asleep. Could dreams be entered the same way? Infiltrated? Ir struck him as something the Sharingan might already allow — or would, soon enough. Another field to secure. Another vulnerability to guard against.

The thought didn’t frighten him. But it lingered. What lingered longer was the weight of calculation.

He had spent the last forty-eight hours measuring every seam of his confinement — not with tape or tool, but with memory. He knew the shift changes. Knew the angle of light through the frost-glass just before dawn, the interval between the guard’s rounds outside the annex door, the sound of Akame’s steps. He knew when the outer corridor quieted. When the fire sank low. 

But knowledge alone wouldn’t carry him clear.

He would need a diversion. Not a footfall or a window crack, but something loud. Immediate. Irreversible.

A fire, maybe. Brief, but alarming enough to empty the walkways. Draw the guards inward, toward threat instead of away from it. He didn’t want casualties. Just distance. The idea came in fragments at first — stray flickers of memory from old fieldwork, broken-off designs for slow-burn traps and emergency signaling. Nothing elegant. Nothing chakra-reliant. Just friction and timing, heat and fuel.

It would have to be timed precisely. Triggered remotely. Built from nothing.

Tobirama stared at the hearth. The decision sparked and caught, slow as kindling, but certain as flame.

When the door slid open, it did so with only the faintest sound. Akame stepped in, a stack of laundered linens balanced over one arm and a tray in her other hand. Her sleeves were rolled past the elbow, fingers faintly red from cold water. She didn’t startle, and she didn’t speak immediately.

Tobirama inclined his head slightly. She responded in kind before moving toward the low table and setting the tray down with practiced care. The cloth-covered lid gave off a faint scent of miso, seaweed, and something gently bitter. Chrysanthemum, perhaps.

“You didn’t eat much yesterday,” she said, not looking at him.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“It wasn’t the food?”

Tobirama almost smiled. “No.”

Akame said nothing more for a moment, just began unpacking the tray—rice, soup, pickles, a small dish of simmered greens. The same bundle of pickled plums that have accompanied all of his meals. Quiet sounds: ceramic against wood, the soft fold of linen as she adjusted a towel beside the hearth. This was their rhythm. Sparse words. Intentional ones. 

Tobirama watched her for a moment longer, then shifted his gaze back to the fire. The light from it etched fine lines along the edge of his cheekbone. When he spoke again, his tone was mild.

“If there’s still some of that fatty mackerel left—the one you grilled two nights ago—I’d like that for supper.”

Akame glanced at him sidelong. “With the soy glaze?”

“That one,” he said.

“It's very oily,” she said, with a faint hint of something that might’ve been teasing.

“I know.”

Akame glanced at him again, more directly this time, as if weighing whether to ask the reason behind the request. But she didn’t. She only gave a small nod and turned back to her work, rearranging the tray until everything was aligned.

Tobirama watched her a moment longer, then spoke again — quieter, but not uncertain.

“Your son,” he said. “Kagami. He seemed… bright.”

Akame’s hands paused briefly over the cloth she was folding, then resumed. “He is. Sharp. Doesn’t miss much.”

Tobirama gave a faint hum of agreement. “He was… forthright.”

“That’s generous,” she said dryly. “I’d say indiscreet.”

Tobirama allowed the corner of his mouth to pull “I’ve been called worse.”

Akame folded the towel in thirds, fingers smoothing each edge before tucking it into the crook of her arm. The movement was habitual, but there was something more careful about it this time.

“He doesn’t meet many outsiders,” she said after a moment. “And when he does, they’re rarely... quiet ones.”

Tobirama’s brow lifted just faintly. “You think I’m quiet?”

Akame tilted her head. “You think you’re not?”

Tobirama exhaled through his nose. The silence that followed was easy. The towel she’d folded rested neatly against the crook of her elbow, and the linen in the basket had settled with its usual order — nothing out of place, nothing ever out of place.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next.

“I’ll bring the mackerel this evening,” she said, tone even. “If it’s still good.”

Tobirama nodded once. “It will be appreciated.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the corner, where the folded laundry sat in its usual stack.

“I’ll take the rest when I come by.”

“It’ll be ready.”

Akame gave a small sound in acknowledgment, more breath than voice. Then she shifted the weight of her basket, turned, and stepped toward the door.

At the threshold, she paused. Just enough to catch his eye again over her shoulder.

“Kagami asked if you’d be amicable to a visit tomorrow.”

Tobirama met her gaze, expression unreadable. By tomorrow, he would either be gone or ash. There would be no visit. No morning tea. No gentle ribbing over old books or unfinished meals. But his voice, when it came, was even.

“I suppose so.”

Akame nodded once. “I’ll tell him.”

She slid the door open. It closed behind her with the soft finality of a habit well-practiced. The wind outside picked up faintly, dragging a dry breath across the walls. The fire popped once, low and tired. Tobirama reached for the plum bundle, unwound the length of clean twine, and slipped it into his sleeve.

He stood, and began to prepare.

---

By the time the last of the Uchiha elders had gone, the sun was beginning to set. Footsteps faded from the outer halls. The sliding doors no longer murmured open and closed. The council had taken their leave with nods of approval and cautious satisfaction. The revisions were complete. The next move belonged to the Senju.

Yet Madara remained in the room, standing beside the table rather than seated behind it, one hand resting idle near the untouched inkstone. Across from him, Hikaku had resumed his seat, the last of the reports still spread in neat layers before him. He hadn’t spoken since the elders departed. Neither had Madara.

Madara studied him for a moment—not the posture or the movements, but the steadiness. The absence of ripple where strain might otherwise surface. Hikaku had always carried the burden of expectation with a kind of quiet precision, never indulging it, never rejecting it. And yet, even now, there was no question in his manner. 

It made the contrast sharper. Tobirama’s outburst earlier still echoed. The clean, measured man unraveling at the edge. As if something had been drawn too tight for too long and was finally beginning to cut.

Madara had seen it, and recognized it for what it was.

"Tell me," Madara finally spoke. "What happens after this?"

Hikaku glanced up. “After?”

Madara hesitated. The pause in his voice had been deliberate—too heavy to mean simply: after the next counter, after the next draft.

“Say the Senju sign,” He continued. “Say we hold the line on the river, the contracts stabilize, the supplies run without tampering. What do we become?”

Hikaku didn’t answer immediately. He set down the brush he’d been using, fingers brushing the rim of the ink pot clean. Then he leaned back slightly, gaze narrowing.

“That depends,” he said. “On what we rebuild.”

Madara’s eyes stayed fixed ahead. “You think they’ll let us?”

“If the terms hold, they won’t have a choice.”

Madara gave a faint sound—noncommittal. He moved toward the hearth, prodded the coals once with the iron hook, watching the ash collapse inward.

“And us?” he asked. “What do we become when we’re not fighting?”

Hikaku studied him. “The clan has never had time to learn what it means to endure without war. We’ve only known survival as bloodwork.”

“And without it?”

“We’ll need to define strength in other terms.”

Madara said nothing. The fire shifted. One coal split with a dry pop, spilling its glow across the basin floor.

“Some won’t want to,” Hikaku added after a moment. “They’ll think peace is rot. The beginning of softening.”

“They’ll be wrong.”

“Yes. But not all of them will be convinced by proof alone.”

Madara’s jaw shifted—just slightly. He folded his arms across his chest, weight settled evenly through both feet, as if grounding something invisible.

“There’s a difference,” he said, “between forcing a treaty and living inside one.”

“Then we prepare for that, too.”

Madara turned back toward the table. The blank scroll still sat there—unused. Its edge curled faintly in the warmth, waiting.

“I don’t want to build something they resent the first time it demands discipline,” he said. “Or the first time it tells them to share.”

“Then we build slowly,” Hikaku said. “And visibly. It’ll require patience. A kind we’ve never had to practice before.”

The air in the room felt thinner now. The kind of clarity that didn’t always arrive with answers, only with direction.

Madara rested his hand on the back of the chair beside him. His thumb brushed the worn edge of the wood, a surface smoothed by decades of weight. He thought, briefly, of what it would take to lead the clan into something quiet. Something that didn’t draw steel every season.

He thought of how many would follow, and how many might not. He thought of how costly the first misstep would be.

Madara’s gaze drifted back to the table. To the sealed scroll beside the inkstone. To the final draft of the revised counterterms, still bearing the faint gloss of fresh wax. He had read them more times than necessary.

A few concessions reshaped. A clause softened, another one tightened. Nothing drastic. Nothing that would invite mockery. The kind of leverage a victor might wield.

And yet—something in it sat wrong. Not in the language. Not in the balance of gain and loss. But in the weight of it. The feel of a line pulled taut enough to hum. They had forced peace into shape. Held it over flame, hammered it flat, bent it until the edges met. And it held—for now. But how long could something endure if it had been shaped only by pressure?

He thought again of Tobirama’s voice—too sharp, too even, cut not with fury but fatigue. And of Hashirama, folding gentleness into strategy like it might blunt the blade. He wondered, not for the first time, whether this was what peace was meant to feel like: a victory that tasted like ash.

He exhaled once through his nose.

“Hikaku,” he said, turning back toward the hearth. “Go over the draft again.”

Hikaku looked up, expression unreadable. But he didn’t ask why.

He reached for the scroll and unsealed it. Madara stood silent, watching the flames draw low.

---

The annex darkened by slow degrees, edges softening to blue. Wind curled low against the walls, and somewhere across the compound, a chime rang once,  the evening bell.

Tobirama sat still, hands folded, gaze fixed on the thin smoke coiling upward. The fire had burned low again, the last of the morning ash forming a shallow bed beneath the embers. It was quiet. Sharply so. As though the building itself had stilled to listen.

He didn’t look toward the door, but he felt it. The rhythm of the day shifting. The click of inevitability finding its hinge.

It had to be tonight.

The night-shift guard, the one with the careless posture and the weak attention span, had rotated back onto duty. He’d seen him outside an hour earlier, yawning behind his sleeve, leaning too long against the east wall. Another few nights might pass before that pattern came back around. And Tobirama couldn’t wait that long.

Wouldn’t.

He had counted everything: the hours, the guards, the burn rate of oiled paper, the delay between ember and flame. It would be tight — brutally so — but the variables balanced, if only just.

He turned slightly, reached behind the low table, and pulled free the thin, bound volume that had been left with the others. A copy of Clans and Codes: Political Treaties of the Second Age. Sent by Madara, of course.

Tobirama stared at the book for a long moment.

With great reluctance, he thumbed to a middle section and tore two narrow pages from the chapter on early Wind Country border treaties. The sound of the paper ripping made his eye twitch. He folded them neatly, tucking them behind the hearth stones to dry slightly. They’d be used as the burn fuse.

The rest, he could not prepare in advance. All of it had to be fresh, and fast.

The knock was quiet. Then the door slid open.

Akame stepped in with her usual economy of motion, carrying a tray in one hand. The scent hit him almost instantly, grilled fish, sweet soy, and the faint edge of charred skin.

“Evening,” she said, setting the tray down. “Mackerel. Nearly fought me on the skewer.”

“You won, I assume.”

Akame huffed softly, then pulled back the lid. The fillet sat glossy with glaze, oil pooling at the bottom in rich amber swirls. Tobirama didn’t reach for it, but his eyes tracked the way it shimmered.

Akame followed his gaze. “I told you. This thing is basically soup.”

Tobirama gave a vague hum in response. 

She glanced at him, squinting just slightly. “You always this picky or is today special?”

“I’m particular,” he said. “Not indulgent.”

“Hm.”

Tobirama reached as if to adjust the tray, brushing one hand lightly along the edge — just enough to tip a pair of pickled plums toward the side, the wax paper and thread wrapped around them coming half loose.

Akame gave him a look. “If you don’t want those, just say so.”

“I thought the wrap might be different today,” he replied.

She huffed. “It’s been the same since the siege of Moriyama.”

“An event I recall poorly.”

Akame rose with a soft exhale and turned to the laundry. Her fingers closed around the stack of used linens in the corner.

Tobirama moved.

His hand slid quickly to the plate, thumb dipping into the edge of pooled oil. He dragged it along the folded treaty paper, coating it once, then a second time. One page. Two. He set them aside and reached into his pocket for the herbs. A pinch of dried wormwood and mugwort — brittle, sharp-scented. He did warn Akame that improper sealing would make them lose its freshness. He sprinkled it over a twist of old frayed twine he’d saved from the previous plum bundle. The fibers caught the dust easily. It would catch quickly when the paper gave way.

The ceramic bowl sat already beside the hearth — borrowed, chipped, forgotten. The ash scoop lay next to it.

Behind him, Akame muttered something under her breath about folding patterns.

“Could you check the cabinets by the bath?” he asked, lightly. “I think a smaller tray cloth got pushed behind the stacks.”

Akame gave a low groan. “You and your phantom linen.”

“It’s not imaginary.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Still, she set the basket down with a soft thump and moved off toward the rear corridor, muttering as her footsteps faded behind the partition screen. Tobirama worked fast.

His fingers skimmed the edge of the hearth, coaxing free some coal and settled it into the waiting bowl. The ember pulsed faintly, red and sure.

He added a layer of ash next, spooned with practiced care, until the glow dulled beneath a shallow, insulating veil. Then came the oiled treaty page. folded precisely, laid flat atop the ash. The frayed twist of twine followed, brittle and dusted in herb fragments. He arranged it gently, watching the powder catch in the creases.

A warped wooden lid fit neatly over the bowl’s mouth, held in place with the clean hemp twine he’d taken from that evening’s plum bundle — looped twice, knotted fast but loose enough to give. The oil on his fingers made the fibers slick, but the tie held.

He wrapped the bowl in a linen napkin, tucking the ends under as if it were nothing more than folded dishware, and slipped it smoothly into the bottom of the laundry stack. Buried beneath three folded towels, weight balanced to avoid suspicion.

By the time Akame returned, his hands were folded once more in his lap.

“No tray cloth,” she said, with the satisfaction of a long-settled score.

“Then perhaps I misremembered.”

She gave him a slow, narrow look, head tilted just enough to imply skepticism. Then she exhaled through her nose and shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she bent to retrieve the basket. The towels shifted slightly with the movement, soft folds absorbing the weight of what now lay buried beneath them. She lifted it easily to her hip.

“Anything else before I go?” she asked.

Tobirama met her gaze.

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

Akame hummed, and turned toward the door. Just before stepping out, she adjusted her grip on the basket, settling the weight against her hip. Her silhouette caught briefly in the frame, haloed faintly by the shifting light.

Tobirama watched the motion in silence. He didn’t speak—only followed the line of her departure with a kind of distant attentiveness, the way one might mark a habit soon to vanish. The door slid closed.

The minutes passed with the slow, unnatural drag of tension held too long. Tobirama sat still.

He counted in his head, not seconds, but heartbeats. A metronome formed of muscle memory and discipline, worn into him from years of mission timing and battlefield math. Thirty minutes. Maybe a margin of error—five, ten at most. But he hadn’t made mistakes.

The ember would hold. The oil would catch. The paper would burn through, so would the wood. And the linen, tucked deep in the basket, dry and ready, would go fast.

He let his breath slow, his body loosen. Stillness was key now. Stillness until the moment came.

A sound cracked the silence—sharp, splitting, unmistakable. Somewhere distant, a tray dropped, followed by a shout. Then the wind shifted.

Smoke.

Faint at first, but growing. Acrid, seeping through the wooden slats and creeping beneath the door. The chime of the evening bell had long since gone silent, but now the compound was alive with motion. A door slammed open. Footsteps pounded against the walkways. Shouts rang out.

Tobirama stood. No urgency touched his movements. His hand slid beneath the cushion at his side, drawing out the cloak folded tight beneath it: warm, weighty, lined in uchiha colors. Madara’s colors. He drew it around his shoulders, securing it high and close, the fabric long enough to cast his silhouette in unfamiliar shape.

He slid open the door and stepped out.

The corridor beyond was veiled in smoke already, rising faintly, curling around the beams as distant voices echoed—orders shouted, doors flung wide. The fire had taken. More than that: it had grown. Much of the compound, including the laundry storage was timber. Even the Uchiha weren’t immune to structural oversight.

He turned left, toward the outer path.

The first guard he passed was slouched against the beam just beyond the threshold, half-lidded eyes barely tracking movement. Sleep clung to him like a second layer—shoulders slack, head tilted slightly forward. He blinked once, slow and unfocused, then turned instinctively toward the sound of shouting in the far wing. Tobirama’s footsteps didn’t falter. The cloak concealed most of his figure; the face he kept low, turned just enough to deflect attention. He walked like he belonged.

At the rear corridor, he rounded the corner. The next guard stood just paces away. Older. Sharper. Too close to miss the tension in Tobirama’s frame. He frowned, opening his mouth. Tobirama struck before sound could follow.

His elbow connected cleanly with the man’s throat. Not enough to crush, but enough to silence. He pivoted, caught the shinobi’s arm, twisted, brought the heel of his hand down at the wrist. The body folded inward, reflex overriding strategy. Tobirama drove a knee into the solar plexus, caught him on the way down, and lowered the weight to the floor with minimal sound.

He stepped over the body and kept moving.

Outside, the compound had turned frantic. Smoke curled in thick sweeps along the rooftops now, backlit by the rising flames. The laundry storage—small, wooden, dry—was already engulfed. A dozen shinobi moved in coordinated arcs across the central court, issuing orders, dragging water buckets, summoning water release where they could. But most of the Uchiha were fire-aligned, an incredibly offensive nature to have. Manipulating fires was one thing, defending yourself against them was another. It would not be put out quickly. And that was the plan.

Tobirama kept to the shadows, weaving through the gaps between buildings, ducking beneath covered walkways, scaling a low garden wall to avoid a cluster of shinobi rushing by. He dropped into a courtyard, turned—and found himself face to face with three more.

Shinobi. Their posture told him that before their eyes did.

“Who—?”

He moved. Even without chakra, his body was a weapon. He ducked low beneath the first strike, caught the attacker’s shin, and swept the leg hard. The second came in faster—kunai drawn—but Tobirama caught the wrist, drove it against the edge of the wooden post, and felt the blade drop as fingers spasmed. He twisted into a tight pivot and drove his shoulder into the third’s chest, using the man’s own momentum to throw him backwards.

No killing blows. But decisive ones. They’d recover—eventually. He didn’t wait to see it.

The outer gate stood just ahead, its low arch catching the edge of moonlight, the stones silvered and still. It was unguarded. Deserted in the scramble, just as he had counted on. Beyond it, the trees stretched dark and wide, the forest floor fading into shadow. 

The fire still raged. The smoke, thick now with resin and char, curled high into the sky. Voices echoed in scattered bursts, calls of coordination and confusion. But they were distant. Focused inward. He had slipped past the noise. Past the reach. The cloak still held its shape around his shoulders, concealing his form and the rhythm of his breath. His steps made no sound.

No alarms followed. No warning came.

Tobirama crossed the threshold of the gate.

The forest opened. Frost-veined trees stretched overhead, their branches motionless in the still air. Underfoot, the ground crackled faintly with ice. He didn’t stop. The cloak shifted around his ankles, brushing dried leaves. He let his breath even out. Let his senses stretch thin through the quiet.

Twenty meters. Twenty five.

A whistle sliced the air.

Tobirama turned instinctively as a kunai tore past him. It struck the trunk of a tree just ahead with a sound like a bell being struck too close. Solid and final, humming through the bark.

He stared at the blade. The angle. The precision. A throw meant to warn, not miss.

His spine locked. He turned.

A gloved hand was already on his shoulder.