Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hoary clouds easily reflected Madara's sulled mood, water gushing against the wooden keel of the ship, rocking it in a nausea-inducing pattern. If the current weather was anything to follow, a storm was in tow. Madara's crew seemed to either be unaware of the fact or simply care not for it.

Hunched over the edge of the ship, Madara's subordinates reeled down large nets into the moving waters. They waited patiently for the tug of the weight of fish to swim into said nets, yet the tug never came. The lucky few that managed to pull in fish were left with nowhere near enough to fully feed even the young children of the Uchiha. Still, the meager amount of fish was still a large improvement from the lack of fish prior.

That is how things had been as of late, the sea dry of fish and the Uchiha left on the brink of starvation. Desperate as things had become, Madara's father, Tajima, sent handfuls of Uchiha out to the neighboring sea to attempt to collect as much as food as possible. Living on an island as they were, fish and plants had been their only food source–one of which was quickly depleting.

Madara had argued that they needed to relocate — to find anew. However, Madara's pleas had fallen on deaf ears. In the long run, that would've been smarter, seeing as the entire Uchiha had descended to being on the brink of starvation. Still, Tajima remained adamant on his former standing.

“Madara!” A voice some distance away from Madara's right called.

Upon hearing the voice, Madara slowly rose from his slouched position against the ship's railing and turned to smile at his younger brother, Kuro.

Kuro, along with Izuna, were the last of Madara's remaining brothers. Madara cherished them both deeply. The boy in question grinned at him, Madara failed to conceal the tiny grin that smothered itself across his face.

“This part seems to have more fish than the others!” He held up a net, two suffocating fish flopping against the netting.

Kuro was slightly younger than Izuna, although not by much. Kuro had been far too young to remember the deaths of any of his former brothers and Madara found solace in the fact. Solace in knowing that Kuro's cheery demeanor would not be lost. Instead, it would work as an anchor for Madara, something to what he'd witnessed at bay.

Albeit, Madara would be lying if he said he truly remembered the events of his former brother's deaths. It was quite the opposite, Madara could barely recall the moments of their deaths beneath the fog of his own remembrance. It was as if his mind had sealed off all possible paths to it, much to his growing frustration.

Still, despite the jumbled mess of the events leading up, their faces had permanently burned their depiction into Madara's very being. The shock, the look of pure horror, and the fleeting look of acceptance at the realization that their death was inevitable. The shared look among all of them. It haunted Madara's sleep, the quiet moments spent in shadow when the world was the quietest and Madara's thoughts rang loudest.

“Hey, looks like a storm.” Kuro muttered both to himself and Madara, snapping the latter from his headache-inducing thoughts.

Head lifted to gaze at the graying clouds, Kuro pointed up and Madara followed his gaze. The sky had darkened, the fact of the approaching storm now undeniable as the clouds seemed to have lowered, casting the sun imperceptible.

“Don't you think we should get going before we get caught up in it?” Kuro asked.

Madara nodded in agreement. “Indeed, but this place seems to be a good place for fish, or compared to all other fishing-spots so far.” Madara then turned to jab his head in the direction of the men still reeling nets. “Besides, I doubt they want to leave without at least one net-full of fish.”

There was much truth behind Madara's statement, the men brought along this voyage for fish had much too great of a weight on their shoulders to come back empty handed. Most had wives, children, siblings all in need of food. As the head of the Uchiha, Madara had never truly known of starvation. He'd known hunger, but never starvation.

Due to this, he was one of the most skilled in his clan–both in hunting skill and intellectual skill. Without the gnawing and looming threat of malnourishment, Madara's body prevailed superior to his subordinates. Some detested him and his higher-ranked kin, though even at fourteen most adults looked up to him.

Kuro's face devolved into a deep frown, his eyes darting to the rocking waves in perturbed squint. Then, his eyes widened and excitement returned to his features.

“Madara! You should join us, I'm sure with your help we could bring in so much fish we could drown in it!” His voice had risen to an astounding level, causing a few heads to turn in their direction.

“Pass.” Madara said without a moment of consideration. When Kuro's face fell, Madara sighed and added: “I've already done my part.”

Which, by all means, was completely true. Madara had gone on the last fishing trip as well, and was supposed to stay and rest for this one. However, Izuna had complained of sickness and fatigue. Sadly, if Izuna was anything, it was a shockingly good liar. Tajima had believed his son without question, deciding to send his eldest son in his place.

“Is it that, or are you simply lazy?” A voice came from beside them, leaning against the railing left of Madara. Madara narrowed his eyes, snapping his head to face his cousin, Shinya. The boy in question leaned against the ship similarly to Madara, head resting on the palm of hand. “Seriously, more than half the clan is starving and you couldn't care less. That doesn't paint a very flattering picture, Madara.”

Immediately, Kuro perked up.

“You know it's useless, Shinya. It's also not that he doesn't care it's —”

“Fine. If it'll keep both of you quiet,”

Madara said with much more exasperation than he truly felt. Rising to full stature, Madara removed himself to join his kin, Kuro following behind shortly after him along with Shinya.

By the time Madara had finished proving himself to Shinya, the sky had darkened to a husky, dark gray, almost black. A deep low rumbling could be heard somewhere in the distance. The other fishermen aboard the ship had finally noticed the deep sky and harsh waves. Although, much too late. They had ventured quite far out to sea, thus no matter how fast they could attempt to sail the ship away, a collision with the storm was inevitable.

A flash—bright and powerful rocked the waves, pushing the ship to an angle. Madara gripped the railing, holding on so as to not fall over. Behind him Kuro held him tightly on his shoulder, his face deep in worry. His body seemed to buzz, his eyes darting around. Madara hadn't been aware of the wind's loud whistle until Kuro attempted to speak to him, his ears unable to pick up on the sound the first time.

Madara's hair moved in patterns with the wind, swaying and moving against his face harshly. His clothes followed suit, as well, moving compliantly with the gale. Around him, Madara's kin ran across the ship in an attempt to control it, to steady it against the rocking waves.

Madara had never been a huge fan of the sea's waves, certainly not like this. He wasn't as prone to seasickness as some other members of his clan, though it still didn't evade him. Especially now as the waves clashed and argued amongst themselves, forcing the ship into a stomach churning dance that tumbled any loose item over. Over in the distance, a rumbling sound shook the sky and setting sun.

“Madar —” Kuro's voice was a loud shout as he attempted to be heard over the blowing winds. Though, not much of a difference was made as suddenly, a great flash exploded over their sights, the action closely followed by a deafening roar.

Madara was momentarily blinded, his vision panning to a blinding white, his ears deaf to nothing but the unyielding, constant ringing thumping his eardrum.

In that came a state of emptiness, confusion, and yet a strange sense of acceptance. As if Madara had been given a higher power, as if he no longer belonged to his body. His thoughts either ran too quickly for deciphering, or were simply non-existent. Regardless, he stayed as such for a while, possibly an eternity. He floated in a vacant-like state, content to stay so until his bodily functions slowly became his own again, his soul dragging itself back from the void.

The first thing Madara felt upon his re-arrival to the present was the passion of cold, rough water against his face. He was moving, rocking in an odd back and forth manner as though fate couldn't decide the direction it wanted him to push towards.

It wasn't until Madara felt the sudden change in the atmosphere, warmth clashing with the freezing state his body lay in, that he truly awoke.

His eyes blurred upon opening, yet even despite the blur they wouldn't have been able to miss the bright colors of yellow, orange, and red fighting with the darker shades of dusk.

Madara quickly became aware of the burning mass before him, the salty sea water unable to extinguish it. Even quicker however, he became aware that this object burning before him was oddly strange, as though he should be seeing something in it that he wasn't. Blinking twice, Madara's heart sank as familiarity rang through him.

The ship.

Immediately, Madara felt himself immersed back in reality. He became painfully aware of just where he was, floating above the water's surface. The winds still blew harsh, pushing against Madara and, if not for the indecisive waves, would've blown him further at sea. Said waves often hit against his neck, otherwise allowing his upper-body free to the cooling night. The water was cold, extremely so that he couldn't help the shiver that rang through his body.

The fire burned bright and tall, unwavering in its fury of destruction. It chipped at burnt pieces of wood, eventually sending them plummeting into a deep, almost black, blue. Madara watched, eyes unconsciously fleeing to a certain part of the ship, the deck he had stood less than five minutes ago. Although, as he came to remember, he had not been alone on that deck when it turned to flame.

Just as Madara had finally begun to calm himself, panic filled his being once more. Less for himself or the ship, but for the missing weight behind him, the one once gripping his shoulder tightly. Along with this realization was also the realization that it wasn't just Kuro that was nowhere in sight, but all of his clan members aboard the ship. The possibility of Madara being the only survivor was slim, very slim. Yet, as Madara's eyes scanned the vast area, lightened by the fire and setting sun, he came to see no one.

Madara should've been frightened for his own safety, alone in the vast ocean. Logically, that made sense. Yet despite the logic, Madara's mind could only filter one word through the haze—Kuro. Last he'd seen of him, Kuro had been gripping his shoulder for support.

Madara's hand shot up to his shoulder, instinctively, feeling for the spot where Kuro's warmth had been earlier. Madara decided for himself to pretend not to notice the slight rip of the cloth, as though having been pulled back in an fruitless attempt to hold onto him.

Instead, Madara turned his attention away from the burning ship. He pushed himself forward, noting the lack of energy and ache in his limbs he hadn't felt before. His legs burned as he tried to swim, fatigued and weak. He did not let himself be deterred.

All his body could will itself to do was float, which he thus did. His arms took the brunt of the exertion, reaching outward to drag him across the water similarly to the young children of the Uchiha, just learning to swim.

Madara focused himself to that, to searching for Kuro. His brother, one of his only left. His head still held a throbbing sensation, now accompanied with the burn of his legs and arms, while his eyes drooped and blurred with fast-moving black dots. Still, he dragged on.

Madara neared the burning ship, the fire having spread to litter the entirety of the ship, wooden pieces falling like lukewarm raindrops in the youth of Spring. They hit the water harshly, splashes of blue flying high in the air. The wind was also ruthless, blowing opposite to Madara, making his struggle forward only even more difficult. The heat finally became plausible, though it did nothing to warm the cold panic running through Madara's body.

Madara lurched himself forward, as close to the ship as he could possibly have gotten without burns. Madara held onto the keel of the ship, the section submerged in deep sea water and free of flames. It was crisp and cool, a vast difference from the passion of heat above, burning its warmth in Madara's scalp. Madara let his finger curl against it, an anchor against the changing waves and brustling wind.

Using it as a holding point, he slid himself around the ship, searching the waters around for any sign of life. A crackle could be heard above, Madara immediately snapping his head to the sound. Above him, another piece of the ship had been burnt to its limit, slowly cracking off the ship's edge.

Madara narrowly managed to dodged it before it fell, landing directly where he'd been. Madara mentally reminded himself to watch for the falling pieces. Being crushed to death wasn't something he wanted, both currently and hopefully forever.

As Madara's hand touched the surface of the boat again, he tensed at the feeling of someone, something, watching him. It burned into the back of his neck. Turning his head back, he saw nothing but the vast expanse of ocean. Even as he watched the moving waves for the slighest disturbance, none came. The weight of time pressed on and despite the eerie feeling, Madara became impatient.

Eventually, left with nothing but blowing winds, passion fueled fire, and a sense of urgency to find Kuro, Madara begrudgingly moved on. Although being who he was, that didn't stop him from watching his back as he did.

After the tiresome effort of dragging himself along the ship's lining, Madara reached the otherside of the ship. Here, Madara noted a giant hole in the ship, of which water rushed in to fill the open wound. Around the lining was a ring of ash, the hole itself an odd asymmetrical shape. It must've been the initial point of contact, Madara thought. He studied the waters near this new side of the ship, for the most part empty.

Then, Madara saw him. Floating steadily on the water, riding the waves lay Kuro. Madara didn't hesitate, his body surged forward with a new found set of strength. The former ache in his body became nonexistent, or more so being ignored in place of relief.

Kuro's body floated not too far from where Madara had been, only on the opposing side of the ship. As Madara reached Kuro, he reached his arms out, pulling him close. He watched the rise and fall of his brother's chest with rising exhilaration. Kuro's head held a slight cut above it near his temple, gushing blood that mixed with cold water, running down his face. Otherwise, he remained the same as before the strike.

A crack, cacophonous and violent noise sounded above. Madara had almost completely forgotten of the ship, finally finishing the last of its fiery descent into the deep waters. By now, dusk had deepened to night, casting the sea in a gloomy darkness. The only true light source resided in the extinguishing flames. Madara didn't have much of a moment to react, as the second the noise had sounded and Madara had looked up, a large piece of the ship's raining debris tumbled itself down on him.

Madara attempted to move, lunging himself forward in a futile effort to dodge it. The weight in his hands was coddled to his chest, a weak form of protection. The debris fell, hard and rough on Madara's head. It sent him plummeting into turning waves, black specks making their return. He wasn't exactly sure of it, but he felt as though he were underwater.

His body moved in languish movements, limbs moving in ways that weren't his own. In a state of lightheadedness, Madara sank deeper. He wasn't sure where he was, almost not sure even who he truly was. Instead, his mind thought back on differing moments of his life. Although, that only served to frustrate him, seeing as he could not recall what he was remembering. Pictures flashed in his mind, moments that seemed foreign, as though he was being shown a life which did not belong to him.

Madara's body ran cold. His entire body felt numb and heavy, yet weightless all together. The only feeling of reality that truly remained to him was the fast beat of his heart, the only plausible sound in its solidarity with the ringing around him.  His fingers and toes held a numbness as well, different from that of the rest of his body. It was sharper, more refined, and a detailed sort of feeling.

Time lost all meaning to Madara, as did any worldly qualms. He took on the feeling of a higher power, unaffected by any of their problems. A nagging feeling clawed at his consciousness behind the fog of his brain, like it often did when he was attempting to sleep but was unable due to forgetting something important. A part of Madara wanted to chase the feeling, to find out what was so bothersome he couldn't be put to rest. He wanted to know what was keeping him bound to the floating body in the sea.

As he searched, racking his uncooperative brain — of which continued to display him memories, unhelpful in their birth— he felt himself be grazed by something. The feeling mashed all around him, leaving discerning the source of impact implausible.

The touch imploded in differing areas of his body, unfamiliar and odd. It held a soft tenderness, light and probing against his skin as though curious and afraid. Tension released itself from Madara's being in light air bubbles, reaching up for their place above water, joining their own.

The probing stopped, suddenly as if frightened and confused. The state Madara was in didn't change, only deepened. The lack of air pushed his lungs into a panic, yet his body could do not about it. The numbness of his body kept him calm, leaving the pounding of his chest to another. His thoughts had long since stopped flowing, leaving him in a silence that only wished for that alone. Still, Madara's body clung to feeling.

Slowly, the touch came back. Madara was able to discern that it came from his cheek. It was a soft poke, light at first. However, with the lack of reaction it became harder and poked deeper into his cheek. It pressed until his cheek sunk into his cheek to which it then removed itself. Then the touch came to just above his breastbone. It lingered above the spot of his heart, moving around the area in search of something.

Madara half-mindedly felt his leg be lifted, moved by what couldn't have been the water's current. The movement was far too erratic and quick to be such. The poking returned, now at his legs and quite adamant, his legs being bended and twisted in odd directions.

The sensations didn't last much longer as the beating of his lungs gave in, choking down a breathful of water that burned his body as touching a hot fire often did. The water did nothing to aid his body, sending a sense of panic into him that caused his still limbs to jerk.

The persistent poking stopped, Madara observed before all senses were lost to him and darkness completely engulfed him in its cold void. If time had no meaning before, it now was never a thing beyond one's imagination. Dead or alive, Madara couldn't tell. The feeling of highness was lost as was any other. Cold, unforgiving darkness remained and ruled in solitude.

Madara held no thoughts, no grudges, nothing. Not his mind nor his body were his, returned to their creator instead. He was there, at least he believed himself to be there. Although, he had no acknowledgment as to where there was exactly. There was no state of contentment or understanding, silence and darkness was all.

There was a cut in the silence. It felt as if a candle had suddenly been lit, energy exploded amongst Madara's body. Senses returned to him at full intensity, mind-splitting pounding against his skull, loud ringings spilling into his ears, only broken by the pulse of rapid heartbeats. His eyesight had not yet returned to him, leaving him reeling from lightheadedness and blind to his surroundings. He heaved, coughing aggressively into whatever lay below.

Madara was barely able to register that his head had resurfaced above water, barely able to form a coherent thought before he was suddenly engulfed in cold, dragged forward by his leg. Upon re-submergence, Madara gasped, causing water to find itself inside his lungs once more, burning against it in that familiar way as it had before.

Madara's barely conscious brain reeled, information and sensation, aware of the pain in each section of his body. Water felt a genuine danger to him, whilst before it had been nothing but a means to an end. Now, the feeling sent shockwaves of adrenaline through him. The state he had been before caused his body , despite current lack of understanding of it. Death was a way to put it, though to Madara it felt more liberated, transcending the simple word ‘death’.

Water rushed against his body, leaving his mind little chance to truly think of anything but thrashing around, attempting a fruitless endeavor to break the surface again. Madara wasn't sure what — or possibly who — was keeping below the water, and due to the lack of sunlight identifying the thing was unquestionably impossible. It held him by the ankle, dragging him across the sea fast enough for water to drag his hair back behind him.

Madara continued thrashing indefinitely once the burn of his lung's reached their limit, mouth involuntarily opening to swallow nothing but salt. Once more, darkness clouded his vision. The cycle had grown tiring, the repetition making Madara almost wish for it. The constant lack of air before a sudden unprecedented return of it had tired him. Thus, as darkness took him he felt nothing more than exasperation.

The next feeling that overcame him was not of water, though his clothes and self remained soaked, the weight of poundage liquid pressing around him had disappeared. In its absence, rushing bats of cold swung around him and below him the weight of tiny rocks.

Madara's eyes blinked open, thankful for the little light to blind their sensitive self. They burned upon opening and Madara's hand shot up to cradle them. Pain erupted in his arm, though he swiftly ignored it in place of stinging. His hand felt the pressure of jagged dots on them, falling slowly as he raised them, leaving their dent regardless.

He remained still even as water gurgled up his throat, turning his head to the side and coughing it out rather than moving his body. Everything ached, holding much more passionate pains than before. His throat and lungs raw and dry, his eyes stinging with demands to be cleansed of what held them shut, his head throbbing in correspondence with his thick heartbeat and singing ears. Every muscle screamed with even the tiniest taunt or thought of movement.

The ringing in his left ear stopped eventually, his right adamant on continuing its repetitive rhythm. Even when hearing returned to him, there was not much to listen to. The night created a barrier of quiet, any sound considered a disturbance to its effect. This left the melodic sound that rang through the air abrupt and out of place.

The sound was nothing short of heavenly, sung by voice alone and alluring within its own right. Madara felt himself drawn by it, its closeness and beauty. Each note fell perfectly into one another. A melody without words that surpassed and brought shame to any song ever heard before it.

Enchanted by the song, Madara almost didn't notice the poke that felt familiar in its soft, gentle, yet firm manner. It came from his cheek again, pressing its indent into the skin. He couldn't recall where the familiarity came from, like a dream so close that he couldn't place. Without thinking, he blinked the eye not covered with his hand open, locking them with the deep brown of a figure above. It stung, twitching before finally cooperating.

As his vision finally unburdened itself of their blurred, darkened specks, Madara's eyes first perceived the unfamiliar boy hovering over him with pure astonishment.

Chapter Text

The moon cast its shadow like gloom against anything that lay below itself, full and bright, undeterred by the misty clouds endeavoring to conceal its glory. Deep in autumn, the breeze held a chilling bite that creeped at open skin left by torn clothes.

Madara's body was nowhere near full alertness, his head still foggy, his limbs and their aching pain overwhelming his nerves, his lungs burning and raw. The smell of the sea sickened him, as well as the dizziness that overcame him when he moved his eyes too quickly. His mind was stuck in its foggy confusion, attempting to gauge if what he was truly seeing was a hallucination or not.

Above him, the face of a boy, sharp prick-like points glinting in the moon's shade. The lips that held the said teeth were curled in a snarl, threatening in appearance, yet oddly not in feeling. Skin smooth and sun kissed, chestnut in color. The smoothness of skin only being interrupted by blue-green tinted ridges poking from his neck.

He was oddly human, save the few quirks setting him apart. In Madara's dazed and shaken state, he would've easily confused the boy for a normal town kid. His hair was deep and brown, cut to an unflattering bowl shape around his head. His hair was short and flat enough for Madara to see pointed ears sticking out.

At first, he hadn't noticed the unnatural brightness of the space around him, confusing it for the moon's light, yet as his eyes and brain recollected themselves, he realized the surrounding sand was illuminated in a white glow. The source was a small, bead shaped light hanging from the boy's head and disappearing into the front fringe of his hair.

Even so, that wasn't the biggest tell of his non-humanness. Behind him, in place of legs was a large almost serpent tail, scaled with edges shining to match his teeth. There were fins both in the middle of this tail, matching in turn with those at the end, a lighter green to the dark moss green of the full tail. The fins fluttered, the movement reminding Madara of those butterflies that always hung around the clan's grounds.

As a boy who often went out at sea, Madara had been told many times of the legend of 'sirens'. Women who sang beautiful melodies in order to lure men from their ships and to their untimely deaths was a common folktale told to any Uchiha child sent for the seas. Yet, Madara was hesitant to call the boy above him a siren. His appearance matched that of what he'd been told a siren was supposed to look. Though, as far as Madara was aware, sirens were meant to be adult women, not young boys.

It was almost instinctive as Madara raised his aching arm, reaching for the boy above. Whether it was to touch him or attack, Madara wasn't sure.

As Madara's hand moved to be an inch away, seconds from touching, there was a sudden bristle. A flurry of colors spun around him. The light the boy had been radiating disappearing with haste. Madara's head pounded vigorously as his eyes flung to make sense of it, a headache following suit.

Though Madara himself hadn't realized, he was lunging forward, arm outstretched to grab the fleeing boy. The boy was fast, much too fast for Madara to even comprehend as his hand met to grab the cool breeze, falling forward on his knees. His hands collided with sand as splashes echoed above from the water.

Madara made another move to look up, though this one was met with much more reluctance from his body. A shock rang through him that stilled his body in pain, all thoughts seized along with his movements. All he could manage was the hand that shot up to clutch his throbbing head and beating eyes, groaning in pain. His head dipped and with little warning, he began heaving, water and bits of seaweed erupting from his lungs in harsh coughs. He dug his free hand to the sand, steadying himself as it died down.

At the water's shore, Madara felt himself being studied. The siren-boy had yet to leave, Madara concluded. The water had a slight disturbance to it, something moving against it to keep afloat. Madara was aware of the boy watching, but he himself too weak to do anything.

Staring out the fringes of his hair to the shoreline, glinting with the moon's shining light. With his lack of strength and agility, Madara's eyes began to droop. He pried them open, refusing to be taken by sleep within his predicament, the boy before a threat waiting for a moment to act.

Kuro's face resurfaced in Madara's mind, causing a sting to overcome his heart, more painful than any of the aching muscles screaming for rest. Madara's brother was nowhere to be found, Madara's memory not much more reliable when it came to tracking him down. His head throbbed. Last he'd seen of the boy, he was clutching him close to protect him. Yet, somewhere along the line of being hit, Madara must've let him go.

Gulit surged up his chest, blocking the burn of cough. Madara silently hoped that the boy had woken up, had guided himself to safety. It fell flat, however, even to his own ears. Unconscious as he was, Kuro leading himself to safety was unlikely. Madara could only pray otherwise.

Willing his eyes to gaze upwards again, Madara realized he was alone. The water now undisturbed, dark in an indigo that flowed and crashed against sand in high waves. Taking solace in his solitude, Madara allowed himself to fall forward. His face indented itself in the sand beneath as his eyes fluttered, the world growing dark.

“Madara!” A voice was muffled, far away as if being spoken from yards away. “Madara!” The voice repeated, louder and closer than the last.

Exhaustion riddled every part of his body as he slowly began to pry his eyes open, confused. Light blinded his sensitive eyes, warmth overcoming his face. It was then he realized he was being rattled as well. Scrunching his face, he turned to face the sound, squinting his eyes assaulted with beams of yellow.

In turn, his eyes met with Shinya's. His face was soaked, dirt lining his cheeks in smudges. His hair that had once been smothered down was now up and wild. His figure was drenched with drying water, puttering onto sand. His face was filled with concern, yet upon seeing Madara's alive form seemed to fill with relief.

“Shinya?” The voice that came out was hardly his own, hoarse and raspy. The words burned through his lungs, uncomfortably, gasping in pain. The man in question seemed to deflate, tension easing through his dirt-covered face.

“Oh, thank the gods.” Shinya breathed, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a sigh filled with unrest. Similar to Madara himself, the boy's voice was hoarse, tired, and strung. Shinya's eyes shot to examine Madara's face, taking in the drenched boy. His eyes lingered long at Madara's temple, of which Madara knew to be most-likely drenched in dried blood.

“Are you well? Can you stand?” Shinya moved his hand to touch Madara's face, aiming for the throbbing temple. Raising an aching hand, Madara grabbed Shinya's hand, stopping and settling it inches apart from his face.

“Forget me.” Madara shook his head, wincing at the pain that followed. Ignoring it, he rose from his elbows to a sitting position, holding his head as the throb deepened with movement. Looking behind Shinya, Madara's worries only deepened in his core, swirling in a sickening pattern.

“You're alone. What of the rest of our clan?”Madara's tone held a hint of involuntary accusation.

Shinya's eyes turned downcast, the guilt behind his eyes portraying that of Madara's buried deep in his heart. Sighing, Shinya let go of Madara's body and sat back, his legs pulled close to his chest.

“I'm not sure. I don't remember much.” The admission seemed to trouble him more, as he clasped his hands together in a way Madara had learnt overtime meant unfounded culpability.

“A thunderbolt hit our ship, that I know. It was a part of the storm. After that, though, I can't recall anything but waking up on some rock a bit away from shore. Then, I found you.”

Madara hummed along, clenching his jaw until both his ears tingled and the distress in his temple became too much. His eyes mounted back to the shoreline, lingering where the presence of the boy had been the night before.

In that, held yet another one of Madara's growing list of problems: the boy. In the state he had been, Madara questioned if what he had seen was truly a part of reality, or merely an illusion founded in stupefied incoherence.

“Madara.” Shinya spoke again.

Shinya's eyes seemed to pierce Madara, searching for something. Shinya had always been much too good at reading Madara, much better than the latter wished he was. Yet, this time Shinya seemed to find nothing of what he'd been looking for. Looking away from the beachside, Shinya began to rise.

“We ought to head back to the clan, we can check if anyone else has made it back.” He said.

The image of Kuro slapped itself hard into Madara's already throbbing head, making the world spin in dizzying circles as guilt bubbled violently in his gut. Kuro's unconscious body floating at sea, bruised and beat worse than Madara himself. The thought or returning home sickened him beyond even the unsettling nausea in his throat.

“We can't leave—not yet!” His face contorted as he spoke to Shinya, voice boarding a shout that rang his head angrily. A part of him didn't even notice the words flowing from his mouth if not for his moving lips. Deep down, he knew his current state was nothing to simply dismiss, yet his guilt clouded any sense of logical thinking.

“You can't be serious. Look at us!” Shinya's face scrunched as well, as if he could not understand Madara's standing. He gestured between them, between their bruised and bloodied bodies. “We're barely in shape to head home let alone anywhere else.”

Gritting his teeth, Madara sought for an argument, some disagreement to bubble out of his lips. Instead his lungs were met with another set of burning coughs, gagging out his throat. This time it was much less liquidity, dry similar to the sand beneath them as his lungs coughed up nothing but salty sea air. The motion only further proved Shinya's point.

“Madara, we need to head back, now.”

“I can't. Kuro's —” Madara's coughing fit resurfaced if only at the worst time, his nails roughly dug into the sand as the other clutched his chest. Each cough seemed to ring a pain deep in his head.

“Madara.” Shinya said again, rougher and without room for disagreement. He placed his hands on Madara's shoulders, helping the begrudging boy up.

***

The crunching leaves of fall had become buried beneath layers of deep snow. Food had become more of a problem and many more Uchiha began to starve, even with the increase of men going out for food. The winter was harsh and unforgiving, despite not even being in its heart yet.

It'd been months since Kuro's disappearance and the declaration of his death, as well as the demise of everyone aboard the ship. The funeral had been held shortly after, somber and a day of mourning for the loss of yet another of Tajima's children. Madara hadn't forgive himself for the moment, Kuro only being added as yet another addition to the nightmares that haunted his sleep.

Madara sat outside, staring deep at a shallow river, indifferent to the frost and snow banks piling around it, running much too fast to be frozen over. Despite being in his warmest clothes, the bite of chill still nipped away at body.

Hearing to his right had yet to return, muffled sounds and thumping left in its wake. A slight scar had been visible on his forehead, though mostly concealed with his hair. His injuries were minor, healing swiftly and quickly without much difficulty.

As he watched the water, his mind returned to the boy that had yet to leave his thoughts. His own doubts surrounding his memories were still lingering, yet deep down a part of him knew that it had been no hallucination, regardless of his mind at the moment. The image of the boy had begun to fade as the days had passed into weeks, months, yet Madara's curiosity hadn't.

The song he'd sung was nothing short of angelic, beautiful, and despite having no remembrance of the boy's face, Madara could still perfectly hear the song , each syllable kissing his ears with delicacy and a heavenly touch. Madara often found himself humming to it, unconsciously and without realization until one of his peers pointed it out.

Now was no different, though this time it was more of a meticulous effort, an attempt to capture the song's essence. Unfortunately, no matter how much he tried, Madara couldn't recreate the way the song had been, always falling short by something he couldn't place.

Annoyed, Madara picked one of the snow covered stones, tossing it into the river and watching as it skittered across the river and died somewhere inches away from the other side. After a quick kick to another rock out of frustration, Madara sat back down with a huff.

He had yet to head back to the beach where he'd last seen the boy. Fact, he'd barely been sent on expectations outside the clan at all. He'd been grateful for them at first, though now they served to irk him. It felt as though he was being contained, trapped within the lands of his clan.

He'd never exactly been a rule follower, but not a direct ruler breaker either. Thoughts of sneaking a ship and searching for the boy, as well as what had become of Kuro, had been with him since he'd recovered enough to stand. One was founded in guilt, the other in an itching need to cease his curiosity. Though, Madara had never acted on them.

Tonight being the peak of his curiosity, months of thoughts and questions revolving that night, reaching heights well beyond the sky's domain, the itch returned to pester Madara. Eyes peering upwards, he watched the sun as it began to set, casting an array of orange-pink lights across the horizon. The ether was cloudless and free, deep purple twinging just below the orange, awaiting its return to night. The moon already present, full and bright.

As he stared into the sky, Madara made his resolve. If only to dampen his curiosity, he'd indulge. Rising to his feet, he gave one last look to the rushing river before spiriting back towards his village with haste. He'd managed to walk quite a distance from it, the river being on the furthest outskirts of his clan, almost clashing with another. By the time he would make his return, twilight would be in its full effect.

As he ran, only a blur of ivory could be made out by his eyes. His sandaled shoes crunched into shallow and deep snow alike, the path originally set to follow buried deep beneath it. Luckily, Madara had grown to memorize the surrounding forest despite it's seasonal changes.

As he had thought, darkness had taken up the night by the time the clan became near enough to see. The lights that had been lit made it easy to see from a distance. He snuck back through the gates, watching closely to make sure no had perceived him. Noting the few of his clan members that still dwell behind, Madara made a point to properly avoid each.

Sneaking behind the house that held his own room, Madara made for the beach behind the clan. Earlier that day, another haul of clan members had returned for their expedition for food, mostly empty-handed. The meager amount of food they had collected was brought away to be counted and added to the supply for rationing. The ship that had been used was a different story, instead they left it at harbor to be dealt with the following day.

This would be to his utmost advantage.

Madara's suspicions were greatly rewarded as when he approached the beachfront, his eyes caught onto the small sized ship that stood positioned loosely to the dock by rope. The ship was a smaller one, one not meant for the larger expeditions that exceeded too far and made to house fifteen men at most. This only served to aid Madara even more greatly, as a ship of any larger size would only make the task more difficult. The ship was barren of items, only an oar and a large, vacant net discarded amongst the wooden flooring.

Despite the decreasing temperature, the waters were swiftly unaffected in its reign. They reached and retracted with the slight amount of extra force, seemingly bolded by the enlarged, full moon. The sand suffered a much different fate, however. In lieu of warm, canary-colored sands, the ground was deepened with snow as well, giving only near the shore where water picked away at it.

Approaching the ship, Madara observed the indents left in the snow by shoes, meticulously following as to not create his own incriminations. Once his feet made steady with the dark wood of the dock, his hands began to undo the coarse rope binding the ship, pulling at it and untying the rushed design with ease.

Having been made on nothing but a fleeting whim, Madara's plan had not been crafted to account for the lack of breeze. The ship rocked slightly, moving at pace with the waves, though nowhere near enough to truly sail him any further than the dock he already stood.

Gritting his teeth, Madara grabbed the oar with his arm, delegating all his strength to moving the ship in a direction most profitable.The ship abided to his steering, moving forward and away from the dock. Madara grunted as he pulled the oar, muscles tensing and tightening with a virtually painful tug. Sweat beads accumulated above his brow, pushing to fall from his forehead despite the chill dusting the deepened gloaming.

Once Madara lost sight of the clan's shore, time lost itself to him as well. The sky stayed dark and illuminated by a blazen body in the darkness. Stars sparkled above, though each paled to the moon's glory. Having no true clue for the time, Madara watched the waters, unsure of what he had been looking for. Truly, his idea had been a foolish one, founded only in a fleeting impulsiveness. The fact made itself transpicuous the longer he spent floating about.

Staring into the translucent blue, Madara's stomach churned and twisted in a sickening manner. His throat felt far too tight and his senses became overrun with every slight movement surrounding him, both tuning it out and enhancing it all the same.

The feeling reminded him of the sickness he had felt not all that long ago, his temple throbbed at a pain that had long since subsided. A feeling of trepidation overtook him. Beneath him, Madara's legs fell weak, trembling slightly before buckling in a pathetic manner. The calloused hands that held the oar loosed, all that left a limp boy floating aboard a ship. He was clutching his head, feeling for a wound that no longer existed. Madara had never been afraid of the water, even now he didn't wish to call this a fear so much as an apprehensiveness.

Amidst the clutching of his head, somewhere in the water came a movement. A ripple in the water that raised Madara's head and body in alertness. The object in the water moved swiftly, almost as though knowing it had been spotted. A glimpse was all he had gotten, but even so his mind immediately familiarized the green, forest colored tail that sprung out before disappearing in shades of blue.

Instantly and without thought, Madara's hand grabbed for the roped net laying in tangles at his feet, tossing it into the water with precision. All sickness was lost as it was replaced with the beating of his heart, less in panic and more in excitement.

To say he had expected nothing to have come of him throwing the net would be a lie, though saying he had expected something was a lie all the same.

The creature in the net tugged back, attempting an escape. It moved fast, fast enough that Madara became dragged forward as he held onto the net. It thrashed around, attempting to swim away. With a great extension of strength, he reeled the net back, causing a stalemate of no movement. A slight breakage in movement, the smallest of rests, was enough for the net to jerked onto the ship in a force that knocked back. Madara landed somewhere on his back, colliding with the ship's rail. Along with him came the creature-filled net.

The net brought a considerable amount of water to the ship, a puddle pooling in the net's landing space. Splashing the water about, tangled and trapped between the net was a figure, one which held a great sense of familiarity.

The ship was lit up by the small bulb atop the boy's head, casting both him and everything around it much more visible. The boy's face was scowled in something unlike fear, much more similar to bemusement. This only served to unsettle Madara. Looking at the net, Madara immediately began to regret his own thoughtless decision.

Quickly, Madara reached down for the discarded oar, raising it in front of him in a weapon-like manner.

“Stay back!” He shouted to the creature. He'd said it on impulse, only realizing just how foolish he sounded when remembering the restraints that held it back.

As if to vex him, the boy flicked his fins outward, shuffling slightly forward in the net. Its face did a grimace of sorts to reveal a row of knife-like teeth and its eyes held a shine of amusement. Madara rose the oar higher.

“I'll attack — Don't!”

The thing moved again, shaking against the net. A more calculated motion, one that targeted the lesser tied ends of the net in an effort to undo it. It was all in vain, however, as it did not free it. The boy seemed to realize this as well, lifting his head up to stare at Madara. Around the boy's neck was a set of pearls, glittering in the light he gave off from his head. To get its point across, the apparent siren hoisted up its tail as far as allowed.

“You want me to free you?” Madara asked, narrowing his eyes and watching as the creature nodded its head vigorously.

The question of how it understood him arose to Madara's mind, though was discarded.

“No, I...I have questions I need you to answer me first.” Madara said, relaxing his grip on the oar upon confirmation the boy couldn't move.

Madara had just untensed himself when a voice spoke, scaring him into a mini-panic.

“I could get you fish!”

The voice that came was foreign and young sounding, similar to Madara's own. At first, he had not processed who had spoken until his eyes landed on the trapped creature. It looked hopefully at him. Madara gaped at it in return. As if taking it as a means to continue, the creature spoke again.

“Well, I mean you're people are struggling right? I know all the best places for food and I could hel —”

“What.”

Madara cut it off, staring concerningly at it as the boy met him with its own confused scrunch. It spoke in a way that shouldn't have made sense, the sounds coming from its lips much more akin to a sea animal than a man's, yet somehow still made perfect sense to Madara's ears.

The boy stared back almost confuzzled, narrowing his eyes.

“...Am I not speaking right?” It questioned, clearing its throat and suddenly developing into a cacophony of sounds, each straying further and further towards dolphin squeals. As it continued to attempt communication, Madara's mind caught up with the words.

“You'll help me get fish.” Madara repeated, staring the boy down. Immediately, it perked up.

“Indeed! Just help me out of this net, and I'll help, I promise!” The boy gave a warm smile, revealing a miniature dimple indented on his cheek. “There's a spot not too far from here, if you'll just...” He trailed off, wiggling his fins towards Madara once more.

Madara glared at the boy, raising his oar once more. It's not as though he actually trusted the thing, seeing as he had no idea to its capability. Though, all the same he did not wish to have a tied up siren, a word Madara still did not enjoy calling it, flopping about his ship. Besides, what if it spoke the truth? Either way, Madara saw a gain of sorts in releasing it.

Keeping up his glare, cautiously, Madara trotted towards it. He stopped inches away, holding the oar that in truth would do nothing if the siren decided to attack. The boy blinked up at him, face contorting to the grimace of teeth and flopping onto his back, revealing the net's core he was wrapped in.

Upon its landing to the ship, the net had become tangled in a heap on the ground, the boy's moving doing nothing to ease it. Kneeling and reaching forward, Madara made to untangle and untie it.

It wasn't too tangled, a relief to Madara as he did not enjoy the proximity nor the blindingly white light that surrounded them. Along the process of  removing one of the miniature green fins along the sides of his tails, Madara felt a presumptuous and familiar prodding sensation at his leg. Immediately, Madara recoiled and leveled a glare at the perpetrator.

The boy was poking Madara's leg with his finger, a questioning look on his face as he did so. The prodding held a weird air of familiarity, as if Madara's body knew something he did not. It was only once he'd noticed Madara had stopped that he finally looked up, immediately retracting his hand. Madara gave the boy another glare before returning to unraveling the net. 

Finally, it came undone enough that Madara retreated back to the furthest corner of the ship, only speaking once far enough away.

“There, you're free.” Madara said, oar back in hand.

Immediately, a spur of colors similar to that night erupted and left Madara blinking to decipher the array of shades. A large splash came from the sea, dumping even more water to collect with the growing amount on the ship's floor. The boy once trapped inside a net was now emerged in water, head just above the surface. He stared up at Madara, pearls jingling across his neck at the movement.

Then, at speed's faster than any windstorm Madara had ever seen, the boy turned and swam away with such haste not even the light brightening his head could keep up. As he did, all that was left was a trail of splashing water in his wake. The waves quickly recovered, returning to their original motion only seconds after.

Madara didn't allow himself to feel disappointed, he didn't truly believe in the boy's words. Although a small part of him said he'd missed something, that he left something unfinished. He brushed it off. Madara's curiosity had been satisfied, that's all he'd come here for and any lingering questions would only be smothered. Sighing, Madara made to return to his clan.

Just as he prepared to place all his strength into steering again, the sound of a wet flop against hardwood alerted him into raising his head.

The night had given into its deepest, star lighting the otherwise dark sky. The water painted a dark navy, everything silent save for the waves overlapping and flopping of fish in an ever-growing puddle aboard the ship. Madara stared at the once empty net, barely avoiding overflowing and loosely tied by a knot.

Madara's eyes immediately moved to the small light source radiating not off a corner of the ship. There, he saw the same siren-boy, resting against the ship, face scrunched in a grimace that revealed prick-like teeth.

As Madara sailed back to his village, now accompanied with an overflowing net of fish, Madara for the first time in months, felt truly at ease. By the time he'd neared it, the sun had begun to rise, signaling a new day and casting everything in an orange gleam. 

Chapter Text

The sun shown well above the horizon as Madara docked, casting the horizon line in a similar orange-pink shade as to when Madara had left mere hours ago. The majority of the sky remained hoary as winter willed upon it it's colorless agenda. A slight drizzle poured down, engraving the snow with its rounded outline.

Partial drowsiness ate away at Madara as he departed the marshy wood of the ship, tying the boat to the dock with nimble, chilling fingers. Each step afterwards became more languid than the last and pressed deeper into snow, deep enough to reach the ground beneath. The indents left by Madara's shoes against the snow, however, were quickly plowed over by the net's, dragging behind Madara as he no longer held the will to lift it. The wild assortment of emotions revolving Madara had worn him, leaving behind exhaustion that begged to be adhered to.

As early as it was, deep into a frosty winter, the majority of his clan still lay fast-asleep, giving Madara the perfect cover to sneak back to his clan unnoticed, unquestioned. His plan was simple enough — to merely drop the net off somewhere it would be easily discovered and rest as long as possible before he was forcibly risen. It was the most his sleep-racked brain could bare to so much as imagine doing.

However, what was the world for if not to spite him? Upon his arrival to the clan's snowy gate, a figure stood against it, waiting. Madara's distaste immediately dissipated as he recognized his younger-brother's stature. The younger boy blinked up at the coming movement ahead, perking up. Izuna's eyesight had always reigned superior to Madara's own, allowing the boy to easily perceive Madara as well as the item dragging behind him. He rushed towards his brother.

“Nii-san!” Izuna's skin lit moderately paler and his nose tinted a rosy red, alluding that he'd been outside quite awhile.

His face held an innocent, childlike gleam to it that unmistakably labeled him a kid, despite their father's insistence that they were as grown as any other member of their clan.

“I noticed you weren't in bed so I went looking for...” His eyes ghosted over Madara before looking back at the net, eyes widening as he gawked at it.

Following Kuro's death, Izuna and Madara became closer than ever before. Being the youngest, Izuna had no true knowledge of his former sibling's, not in the way Madara did. This time, although, it had been much more intimate and tangible. Izuna had talked to Kuro that morning, had laughed with him, and promised to compensate him for slithering out of the expedition. Madara's memory of the day began murky as well, much clearer than most of his other brothers' deaths, yet still slowly escaping him.

Izuna's innocence and guileless determination acted as an anchor for Madara, as Madara's more serious and mature character acted as one for Izuna. Madara felt an emotional and obligational need to protect his brother, to shield him from the world's dark clutches.

“How did you...Where could you even...?”Izuna buffered, lost for words. Madara offered Izuna a smile, raising a free hand to ruffle his brother's hair. He let out a soft laugh.

Madara opted to tell his brother of the siren-boy, of his adventure and how he'd met him in both instances, yet as the words formed, they quickly died on his tongue before he could speak them. Madara had never kept direct secrets from his siblings, whether it be Kuro, Izuna or what he could recall of his two other siblings. There were certain details he didn't inform them of, though never had he blatantly kept quiet. This, however, felt different.

Biting his inner cheek, Madara stayed silent, clearly puzzling Izuna as he'd expected some sort of response. Izuna's usual teasing personality halted, inspecting his brother. The boy clearly wished to question him, both on his absence and the net of fish's origin, as written all across his scrunched face. Madara kept his face natural, throwing his sleepy brother off, clearing the silence and interrupting his brother's scrutiny.

“C'mon, help me bring this over, it's quite heavy. I wouldn't want it to go bad,” Madara grinned, Izuna blinked and rushed to aid his brother. As they moved through the gate, they received many glances from the more early-risers of their clan, curious. Madara chose to ignore them, as did Izuna. During their trot to their father's building, Madara allowed his thoughts to wander.

The boy he'd met barely ranging on hours ago continued to occupy his mind, though less for reasons of who, or what, he truly was, but more for his nature and self. Madara wondered of his family, did he have family, did he too have siblings? All in all, in order for one to be born, a mother and father of sorts were needed, and more children only furthered the chance for one's bloodline's survival, thus answering both questions with a yes. If not already faintly revealing itself, the significance and importance of the boy would only grow for Madara, especially if his thoughts continued to linger as such.

Deep in the depths of his mind, Madara had not yet realized Izuna's stare until it bore into him. Unlike with Shinya, Izuna did not have the same unfounded ability to read Madara so easily, leaving him instead to wonder and stare at his brother for a give of sorts. His eyes held that wonder, open and honestly, childlike. Izuna was sly, however. Just as his innocence was a bid for sympathy, it too was a tactic.

Through his stare, Izuna picked up on Madara's exhaustion, clearly harboring questions yet choosing to shelve them in place of the silence Madara internally prayed for. The gesture was a greatly appreciated and welcome one.

Their walk was a negligible one, the building barely much of a distance away. As they plodded into their father's room, Tajima stood hunched over a drawn out map of their surroundings, each lake and sea either crossed out or circled, face drawn together in deep thought. The black beneath his eyes revealed that of a restless night, one clearly not with as much joy as Madara's had been.

Explaining just how he'd gotten such an immense amount of fish without revealing the existence of the siren-boy was quite a challenge, not to mention his father's distaste at his methods of doing so even with the boy's existence redacted. Madara found himself endlessly grateful he'd chosen to remain quiet on the boy's role.

His father held his own grievances, though they were never noticed easily. They only ever revealed themselves upon close observation of his most intimate moments, those when he believed he was alone before Madara made his presence known. His face held a restless characteristic, one that seemed to deepen with each passing death of his children, despite his insistence that it was all made to be as such. Nevertheless, the slight softening of his otherwise hardened features were enough of a testament to his relief.

It had been Izuna that had convinced their father to release Madara from his questioning, concluding Madara to be much too tired for further investigation. Begrudgingly, Tajima allowed his son to rest, much to Madara's delight as the questions began to stray closer to the realm of those he could not answer.

The sun had risen to brighten the early morning by the time Madara reached his bed, streaks of warmth radiating across the snowy, damp ground. The drizzle had dispersed as quickly as it had arisen, leaving nothing but the icy patches to camaraderie its reality. Despite the hour, Madara dozed off almost as instantly as his body had hit the futon.

For once, Madara's dreams did not haunt him, did not remind him of every misguided decision and lack of memory. His dreams did not detail long, horrific shadows that clawed him back. Quite oppositely, they revolved on a boy he truly knew little of, a boy with a grimace and prick teeth, brightening everywhere he lay. The angelic voice sang its heavenly blessing to his sleeping figure, embodied and louder at the revelation that it'd been true, guiding him deep into restful slumber.

***

The winter's inevitable intensity rose, finally reaching its climatic peak in the form of passionate storms. The days of light frost and sleet dispersed, leaving only layers of white that casted every surface in its freezing purity. The winter did not spare nor give whatsoever, each sunset grew to be more ruthless and relentless than the last, as though one had angered the divine to unleash its fits of rage.

The fish Madara had brought had been a blessing and staggering amount of fish compared to their usual reignings, though the one net still meager in technical standing. They had rationed it, enough so that if fed generously, as well as kept it strung enough to have it survive for as long as it willed without spoiling.

Madara wished to proclaim that his curiosity had been now dampened — finally given in and restful, allowing him to focus on that which needed such attention. The days of wonder should have ended, afterall Madara had met with the boy, concluded his experience reality. However, his curiosity did neither dampen nor rest. Instead, it sprouted and blossomed with its new-found foundation, growing to demand Madara's mind at all hours.

This hour fared no differently, the snow piled, wind whistling and rattling weak, thin trees that without leaves bared no weight. Unlike usual, the wrath of the divine seemed to calm, the snow outside falling in a way much more graceful, light and barely tinting the ground, still showing green littered with frost. Darkness shrouded every corner, lit by stars glinting in the black.

Madara sat in accordance with Izuna, watching the boy smile a grin truly joyful. He spoke on an earlier matter involving a group of young Uchiha children similar in age to himself. Madara appeared to listen intently, yet his eyes remained distant but warm, his thoughts ranging far past the mountain tops.

“Madara-san!” A man ran in, snowflakes littering his dark hair, bowing his head. “Tajima-dono requests and requires your presence.” Madara sighed, rising to his feet with slight annoyance as he turned to Izuna.

“I’ll return shortly, then you can finish your story.” Madara said.

Izuna puffed out his cheeks, crossing his arms but muttered in agreement nonetheless. Madara let out a small laugh, ruffling his brother's hair before following the man outside.

The Uchiha man only departed once Madara stood outside his father's room, bowing before dispersing into the snow-littered cold. Watching the man leave, Madara entered his father's room with a polite bow.

“You asked for me, father?” Tajima peered at his son, face aged with wrinkles and exhaustion. His dark eyes followed Madara's movements, signaling for him to rise with a loose hand.

“Indeed. Sit, Madara.” The man spoke, his demeanor tall and grim. Madara obeyed, sitting before his father who mirrored the action. “We can no longer sit idly, you see, the neighboring clans have become emboldened by our momentary weakness.” Madara clenched his hands at his knees, lifting his chin to speak.

“What clan could be so bold as to dare to attack the Uchiha?” began Madara. “We are by far the strongest — ”

"Don't be ignorant, Madara. It is for that reason alone our demise is so sought upon. Nevertheless, that is being handled, and not the matter I called to speak to you about." Tajima silenced Madara with a simple dismissal, leveling him a harsh look.

“Then what is it, father?” Madara questioned, leaning forward against his knees. Tajima's eyes narrowed, face hardening in a way that showed the stress hidden behind a scowl.

The surrounding room was lit strictly by candlelight, embracing everything in its indecisive glow, flickering long shadows at the furthest edges its light did not reach. Madara tensed, watching his father's face flicker with shadows at the light, searching for so much as a hint towards his inner turmoil, growing ever more frustrated at the lack of such evidence.

The Uchiha clan had been said to have sublime, piercing eyes of which could see the secrets held within one before they themselves could realize it, as was the staple for their people. It had been a legend still greatly believed, similar to the Aburame clan and their apparent friendship with bugs. Madara, however, found himself to not fit the description surrounding his own clan's eyesight. He was by no means blind to emotion or act, however he did not hold such an ability despite insistence it will manifest as an adult.

“Our weakness, as of now, is famine. We are starving and thus becoming weaker as we attempt to recover our losses, placing greater amounts of energy into finding food. This leaves us open and vulnerable.” Tajima continued, eyes flitting away from Madara. "We need food, and thus far our fleets have been unsuccessful in their attempts.”

Then, in a sudden movement the eyes were staring back down at him, piercing and dark.

“You, however, have not. I did not inquire of you much then, but the question of just how you obtained such when no other man could still stands.”

Madara tensed. Looking at his father's gaze, Madara hoped to appear innocent, inconspicuous. His fingernails pressing into his palms, leaving their red dent behind.

Tajima held Madara's gaze, eyes narrowed and all seeing.

“I will not inquire you now either, as however you did it greatly benefited us.”

Despite the words, Madara did not allow himself to feel at ease yet, watching and waiting in silence as he knew of Tajima's mannerisms much better than his inner mind.

“I will provide you with some of our greatest men and you will head out to find fish, wherever you did before, understood?”

Madara clenched his jaw at this, careful to keep his expression neutral as the ringing in his eyes synchronized at the grinding of his teeth. He alone could not reel in such an immense amount — neither could any men their clan had, regardless of how great. However, as quickly as Madara wanted to remove the thought from his father's mind, the siren-boy kept him quiet.

“I will,” Madara said, eyes gazing into his father's with all musings he could muster. “...Only if I can go alone.”

Tajima's eyes narrowed, taking in Madara with calculating eyes.

“And why is that?” Tajima asked.

“..I believe it will be more efficient and I will benefit greatly if I do.” The lies slipped easily from his lips, his back straightened in mock confidence. “It will be much easier for myself if I can go alone, as the distraction and noise will be less.”

Whether or not Tajima actually believed the words flowing from his son's lips, he did not outwardly show his doubt, neither in face and neither in words. With a simple gesture, he urged Madara to rise.

“Very well, you will leave tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

Madara did not wait for further direction, he rose quickly and bowed before rushing from the room, hair rushing against the wind behind him. The cold caressed his skin upon contact, numbing his face in minutes, washing a shiver down his spine. The snow had since pilled enough for small, flaky footprints to be left behind which each step the ground crunched beneath him as the leftover frost below said snow still lingered.

Now, Madara dreaded the morning's sunrise, unsure of just how he'd pull off such a stunt, afterall, it was not he who had been the one to feed his clan with his earnings. Izuna had wished to continue his tale upon his return, however Madara claimed of tiredness and rushed himself to sleep, much to Izuna's disappointment.

The younger Uchiha followed not much later, though he fell asleep much sooner than the restless Madara could. Drumming his fingers against the ground, Madara urged his mind to think, though regrettably allowing sleep to take him, the night cast its soft lullaby of silence that guided one to sleep, much before he could.

The ship set sail at dawn, the sun barely tinting the skin with its warmth before Madara's miniature ship hit the slow moment of the blue waves, rocking at their harmonic will. Whether influenced by the morning hours or not, the day proved to be colder than the last, light flakes dusting the air.

Hours had since passed and the sun beat happily above the sky, shining in its glory of warmth that did not reach the cold mountains, only serving as an observation to the fierce winter. Madara sat at the edge of the boat, the shores of his clan far from sight as he could willingly allow. Now, it floated fleetingly about, free as Madara rummaged his mind for solutions rather than steer it.

As per his father, Madara had been given two large nets, larger in size and much greater strength and craftsmanship than the last had been. Both lay in a discarded heap upon each other on the floor, unused. Looking back towards them, Madara rose and strode to pick one up.

Rather than merely sit here, Madara knew it would be of much more use to attempt to fish, as he already lay trapped behind his own words like an insect struggling its way out a spider's nest.

Tossing the net into the sapphire blue, oddly tranquil, Madara waited for a tug he was unsure would ever come, watching the water's waves carefully. The sea's waters had slowed with the passing months of winter, despite being too salty to freeze over, ice chunks still flowed inward from estuaries nearby, mixing with the deep blue.

Awaiting the tug proved to be a fruitless effort, as nothing came from it but the pull of waves. Madara reeled back an empty net of water, face contorting in frustration as he tossed it back.

“This time, I'll be sure to get something,”Madara muttered to himself, watching the net as it sank below water with knitted brows.

Madara's watchful glare only broke as a loud slap of water sounded behind him, rattling the ship's deck with its sharp landing. Jumping to attention, he immediately snapped to locate the sound's origin. Laying centered in the ship, the second large net rested in a pool against the floor,

“Just aim to throw it as deep as you can, that's the trick,” The smile in the voice was prominent, warm and cheeky. Holding onto the ship by its railing, floating against the persistent waves was the familiar bowl cut hair, bobbing above water.

“You...!” Madara gaped, staring at the boy who's grimace suddenly turned sheepish. He ducked slightly below the water's surface, eyes poking out from beneath, a deep brown with a vertical pupil Madara had failed to notice.

“Am I not welcome?” The thing's tail flicked from underneath the water.

Madara cleared his throat, glaring at the thing he now knew would do him no harm.

“That depends, who are you?”

Unlike how many clan members shrank at his gaze, it instead immediately perked up at his question, sharp pricks stretching from ear to ear as if awaiting the question.

“It's Hashirama,” He said, his toothy grimance widened impossibly more.

Madara chose to meet Hashirama head on.

“Well, Hashirama, just you watch, this time I'll get something for sure.”

Madara tossed the net back in, dragging it below the waves. He focused his attention to it, remembering the ways Hikaku had taught him. At last, a short, feeble tug came and within seconds Madara pulled the net back at the shift in weight. Flopping about the coarse rope was a single, mere fish, small in size and pathetic. Madara blinked blankly at it.

Instantly, he railed at Hashirama.

“You!” Madara shouted to the waters pointing his finger angrily. “You stood behind me just to distract me, didn't you? I'm very sensitive about that thing, you know!”

Immediately, Hashirama's proud grimace of pointed teeth fell, an aura of gloom overshadowing his figure as he ducked underwater. His tail flickered as he watched Madara from below, his face illuminated even underneath the blue by the bead hanging from his head.

“'m sorry...” Hashirama muttered, eyes peeking above depressingly.

The display made Madara falter, shocked momentarily and plagued with slight guilt. His face softened with embarrassment, pale as the moon's beams with lips a pink similar in shade to the brightest peach, beautiful in ways one could stare endlessly.

“Er, Hey...look, I didn't mean that.” Madara let out a huff of breath, sighing. “I was just making excuses, I’m sorry.”

“I didn't realize you were suffering from such a crippling case of neurosis...” His eyes peered smugly above the surface.

“You know I can't tell if you're a nice guy or just some jerk!” Madara shouted out, any semblance of guilt quickly dispersing.

Hashirama instantly perked up, grinning as though the moment before had not happened. Splashing water about as he emerged fully from the saltwater, his chest vibrated with laughter as pearls jingled across his bare chest.

“Hah! Well one thing is for sure, I'm better at catching fish than you!” Hashirama chucked.

”How ‘bout I fish you instead!” Madara growled back.

Hashirama's cheery demeanor fell once more, the very same cloud of depression wallowing over him as he ducked into the cold waves.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. As punishment, you can catch me in your net...Go ahead, do it.”

”Hmph. Have you realized your own crippling case of neurosis?” Madara rolled his eyes, glaring downwards.

A slow prickly grimace crept to Hashirama's sullen figure.

“I just hope...that you can actually catch me...”

In a similar pattern, Madara raged, baring teeth at him.

“You're so obnoxious! Just get lost, will you!” Madara enraged back, everything around him disappearing as his senses honed to Hashirama alone. The smile on his face did not disappear, Hashirama simply shrugging.

“Oh, well. Bye!” Hashirama rose once more, his tail flicking as he turned to swim away upper body diving to leave only the fish-half above land. The movement was done within seconds, leaving Madara barely time to regret his decision.

At the sight, the mere thought of Hashirama leaving, Madara became stricken with an almost panic, jumping up.

“No, hold it!” Madara called back, leaning against the ship's edge to shout into the disturbed sea.

Immediately, Hashirama reappeared from beneath the water, eyes narrowed, beads illuminating his face.

“Hm? Can't you make up your mind?”

Madara's face burned at that, yet before he could formulate a reply Hashirama blinked and froze. The pointed, fin-like greenish ears hidden behind Hashirama's hair moved, stirring like a cat's would at a sound. His pupils widened, black enveloping chestnut brown. Hashirama stared at something behind Madara, something that even once Madara himself looked back, he could not see. Concern wiped his features and Hashirama spoke lowly as his eyes met not with Madara’s, but with the thing so captivating behind him it held his attention.

“I’m sorry but I have to go.” Hashirama muttered, demeanor much more serious and solemn. “You should as well, it’s no longer safe here.”

Any of his playful demeanor had been lost to the waves below, moving far with the ice chunks as it floated far from Hashirama where it had originally stood.

“Wait!”

Hashirama, increasingly more reluctant than before, stopped. Madara's ears were alight with heat, his saliva too thick to swallow.

“I...thank you! Please, meet me here tonight!” Hashirama blinked, bemused. A moment of flickering consideration before meeting Madara's gaze.

Although not explicitly said, Hashirama’s response was evident. His tail flicked in the water and within moments, the same flurry of color distracted Madara's eyes and Hashirama was gone, a trail of disturbance all that had been left behind.

Chapter Text

The moon, halved and thin dragged the water across the shoreline, slow and timid as though it wished to not disturb the silence of night around it. They soothed over the wet sand in silence, muffled and painting a beautiful array of glittering blue.

Frost bit at the air, snow smushed together with sand in muted gray that hid the usual yellow of the beach.

The moon, selfless, glowed along with the twinkles of burning stars high above. Madara had been taught their names even if he was unable to remember them, their presence brought memories of a simpler time.

Pebbles lined the shore of the beach, slightly off from the main docks and closer to the beach-side hidden by branches unable to bear the weight of winter. Fallen together in a tangled mess they floated stuck in the water.

The day had passed in a blur; chores and teachings Madara attended buzzed like background noise while his eyes lingered on the sun's descent.

The same place Madara had been the night of shipwreck was a few steps away, as was the waters Hashirama had hid in. His heart leapt, emotions so vast and far-darting it left an aching sensation to fill his heart.

Madara wished he didn't remember it, that it was not so prominent and profound in his mind. Often, he still felt the tug and rip of the cloth from his shirt, haunting and floating about.

Madara didn't want to wait by the shore much longer, apprehension to stay overcame him and he stood. Madara wanted to hold onto the fleeting restiveness.

The sand still held the property of summer and the sun's rays, deep under layers of mush.

The anger of winter began to die down, choosing instead to argue between itself with days of everlasting snow and those of the crisp change signaling spring. The dice thrown by the divine had chosen a night of chill and of frost, soft yet cold winds blowing and ruffling trees, proving that winter had not yet unleashed its tight grip.

Madara moved from the lowly lit area of the beach-side and closer to the docks near a collected amount of canoes. The canoes were small enough that a large number of them were able to sit comfortably by the docks.

Madara took his pick of the smallest, barest one, empty of items. It stood to fit only one person, even so it perched at a position with its slim size not quite long enough and barely meeting the proper length width wise. Madara's fingers worked to untie the knot holding it to the dock, tied too roughly and fast to be proper.

He boarded it slowly, long lengths cramped and bent as he managed to sit in it. The oars were built into the sides, similar to larger ships accompanied with oar men. The oars limited Madara spaced scarcely small, barely able to fit if he wasn't scrunched awkwardly in a ball.

He shuffled until he was as comfortable as he could manage, the excitement nipping below his skin just enough to dismiss the odd boat. Madara did not allow his mind to linger and question his excitement.

His hands pulled at the oars, pushing the boat slightly out from shore while the water gave little resistance to his movement; a mother's arms open wide for her child, enclosing them in her warmth. He moved out at sea with no issue, waves splashing behind the canoe.

The sea swooshed over itself, rocking his boat back and forth indecisively. With each look into the sea, Madara's stomach churned at the sight, reminders swirling along with the waves.

He rowed the boat forward with ease. The waves became less open to his canoe the further Madara went out at sea, pushing harder against his boat.

The seas around their island were vast, yet Hashirama had been able to find Madara twice, enough so that once he deemed himself far enough out at sea, he allowed the boat to mellow with the waters.

It floated back and force rhythmically, occasionally splashing a large mess of blue when it slammed into the waves that had just tossed it slightly in the air.

He looked back to the sky, black and shrouded in clouds that covered the slim moon's surface to darkness. He had to be patient. Hashirama and his onset of blinding quickness would arrive soon, a grimace of pricks and rounded hair.

His fingers drummed at the oars of the canoe, numb with the chill of frost biting at their tips. Each glance at the waters brought a mix of emotions and a rise of bile that arose each time he looked towards the waves.

Izuna had been gone during the day. He left without warning to negotiate in a foreign land. Or so Madara had heard. Izuna and his interactions grew shorter, Izuna involved himself further in the politics of their clan Madara dared not to enter into.

Izuna never trusted outside the clan, took Tajima's words to the very letter. Kuro's death changed something between him and Madara, something unspoken and unknown.

Kuro's body had never been found. A proper burial was never to be in place for him. Madara had held Kuro's body. Alive. Even if he hadn't survived and died in Madara's soaked arms, at least he'd be given a grave and not lost to the oceans being eaten away by the creatures that lurked below.

The blackness of night with a barely brightened moonlight made the shadows stand tall, emboldened and creeping. The shadows moved the light against the waves, jagged as glass broken in thick shards.

Each one created a horrid illusion caught only in the corners of the eye, fleeting as the wind's direction. Izuna's face flashed in his mind, Kuro's body flicked in the corners of his eyes, in the shadow of the moon's light. A tail flickered in the water.

Madara's head snapped to his left, tired eyes staring at a gleam of light reflecting off the sea.

He had no feelings if not ambivalence for Hashirama. Confusing as the fish-boy was, his motives and self were as well.

Myths detailed sirens to eat men, although Madara could not fathom a boy as wide-eyed and guileless as Hashirama being tactful enough for that. Similarly, sirens were depicted as women, which Hashirama wasn't. The credibility of the folktales were murky at best, as Madara had come to realize.

Madara did not know much of Hashirama, but something of him drew Madara in, his curiosity not yet dampened since their first meeting. Hashirama didn't seem like a danger, and that eased his worry.

Despite Madara's ever thinning patience, a line of warmth began to taint the horizon, the freezing touch of the night warmed with the slow arrival of the bright sun. His eyes stung with the need for sleep, the buzz having kept him awake fading to disappointment.

Slowly, the morning began to wake. Stirs of noises, birds chirping away happily, movements among the island as the first Uchiha woke to do their tasks.

The water still moved slowly, the moon outlined in the sky faintly as it fell to the sun's rise. No flickers of color in the water, broad grimaces.

Madara rowed his canoe back out, the burn of disappointment sparking like embers in his heart. His eyes watched the waters, ignoring the flashes of danger, of his latest brother's death.

Madara walked towards his village through the snow covered beach, staring at his late footprints still uncovered and prominent in the snow. Silence followed his descent home. Madara swallowed the disappointment down. Perhaps something had happened, Hashirama indeed left panicked last time. Madara let that thought repeat in his mind, ringing through on his way home.

The morning sun brightened everything, making his way home much easier than the way there had been. The sun outshined the lamps on the road, enough that their light was barely discernible through Madara's sunken eyes. Not even the clouds could overshadow the sun, instead seeming to expand and greaten its rays in an ethereal sense.

Izuna was still fast asleep, snoring with bits of drool staining the pillow below him. Madara went to lay beside his brother, watching the rise and fall of his chest and black curls sprawled messily across the futon.

The waves slowed with the morning as well, gently pushing against the shore, softened without the moon's high presence. The waves could disturb the silent morning, nor could the chirps of birds singing as a part of the day's appeal. The sounds washed each other out, an argument between nature in the brightness of the morning.

***

“Rinse it, Madara.” Tajima ordered.

Madara's hands moved about the body of the fish, delicately rinsing the slime of the sea from its body. Fingers keen with dexterity, he washed it thoroughly with water melted from snow outside for a third time.

The fish gaped at him, grey and eyes void of life staring deep into him as he handled its corpse. He rubbed at its scales; his hands were drenched in the mucus coating its body.

A fortnight had passed since the night Hashirama didn't show. Madara went each day afterwards, waiting patiently by the beach and not daring to test the water's patience and anger. Each day, he left sorely disappointed with the embers of simmering rage blooming.

After the fourteenth night, Madara relented. He didn't allow himself the luxury of disappointment. Neither for Hashirama, someone he knew little to nothing about, or for the emotion that brushed beneath it.

“Enough. Dry it now.” Tajima's gruff voice was enough to return him to his task.

Madara obeyed, raising the fish from the bucket and reaching for the cloth that sat beside his thigh in one fluid motion. He dried off the fish until any remaining moisture was removed and placed it down on a table covered with cloth in front of him.

Reaching for a small knife, Madara held the fish down with his right hand and raised the knife with his left.

“Madara.” Tajima's eyes pierced into him.

He held the fish down with his left and raised the knife with his right. Turning the knife to its blunt edge, he began to remove the softened scales.

The fish scales had been softened when melted in the soaking water, allowing for the knife's blade to swiftly and smoothly cut through the scales that fell on the cloth table in sparkling pieces.

Near its neck was a small incision, cut to drain the blood from it after it'd been caught. It laid organless on the cloth table, a mess of scales fell around and littered the table, leaving the underneath of the fish a fleshy pink. His unskilled hand tripped, stabbing a new cut in its guts.

“Be more gentle,” Tajima growled. “Madara, it's — ”

“Tajima-dono!” The clamor of armor filled the room, three figures entering the room through ruckus. A red faced man huffed, bowed to Tajima and spoke through rushed breaths. “We need to speak with you urgently,” he rose and motioned towards the two kunoichi bowed by his side, equally sweat-covered and out of breath.

Madara recognized one of the three that had rushed into the room. She was similar in age to him and much younger than the other two next to her. Hideko was her name, if Madara remembered correctly. Her face, out of all of them, appeared the most frightened.

“Very well, speak.” Tajima crossed his arms.

“Sir, we believe it's better if we do so with an audience.” The woman left of the man spoke, bowed. “It is regarding the Aburame clan.”

Tajima's eyes darkened and he stood taller.

“The Aburame clan?” Madara asked. “What do they have to do with anything — ”

“Get the council and report to the quarters.” Tajima interrupted him, giving him a chastising glance.

“Sir!” They all bowed and ran off, headed for the building not too far from where Madara and Tajima stood, already preparing an audience with the Uchiha elders.

Madara looked down as Tajima's gaze returned to him, already moving to continue descaling the fish.

“Madara,” Tajima's voice was noticeably softer. “Come with me. If you are ever going to be clanhead, you must know how discussions take place. Leave the fish for now.”

“Yes, father.” Madara trailed behind him without a second thought.

The man and women already kelt before an incline in the flooring, heads bowed as Tajima entered with Madara behind him. Soon after, the clan elders surrounded as well, only three, Madara noted. Tajima then sat down and Madara knelt beside him.

“Well?” Tajima said. From here, the lines denting his face were almost indiscernible.

The walls of the room were large, tall in ways unnecessary for a building without a second story. Paintings covered the walls, gifts from allies as a show of peace, and other creations of skilled Uchiha painters. Behind Madara was a window slammed tightly shut, not a crevice open to peek through.

“Sir, when we were attempting to ratify the dispute of land between the Hagoromo clan and ourselves, we learned of something they had known of regarding the Aburame.” The other woman said.

At that, she stopped and looked uncomfortably at her teammates. Madara ignored the fact he had not been told of a feud between the Hagoromo.

“Apparently, the Aburame have found a new food source, and risen above the famine.” The man chimed in.

“A new food source?” Spat one of the elders, slamming a wooden staff he held in his hands hard on the ground. “Impossible, the seas are dry regardless of how far we stretch outwards. Hiroto, what is this nonsense?”

“Their claims match with the reports from our patrols and scouts of the sudden boost in their presence and movements around other clans.” The man, Hiroto, responded. The elder council member glowered.

“Hn. Did the Hagoromo tell you what new food source they've acquired that allows them to ‘rise above’?” Tajima asked.

The three shared a look between themselves, grimacing. Their eyes stayed pinned to the floor. Hiroto and the woman looked towards Hideko, nodding.

“They said that they've found...” Hideko swallowed hard and trailed off. Her voice came out small and tiny, shrinking into herself as the eyes of the room filtered to her. “Sirens…” Her voice had dropped to a low whisper as if she didn't believe her own voice.

Silence followed the confession. The room dissected her words, faces of confusion and dismissal written across the room. All three of them lowered their heads to the floor, Hideko the lowest.

Madara's heart stopped. His throat dried and his attention was caught on the reactions of the room.

“Sirens?” Laughed another elder, humorlessly. “You expect us to believe these insane ramblings? These jokes are a brazen display of disrespect, especially coming from you two. For all your sakes such things should cease immediately.” Her voice turned bitter, glaring at them.

“I assure you, this is no lie or joke,” Hiroto spoke up, meeting the eyes of the elder. “In fact, we would not have believed the claims ourselves if we weren't offered some sort of evidence.”

Madara's fingers clenched and unclenched, writhing in on themselves as he studied his father's face. Impenetrable, serious and impossible to read.

“Then show us,” Tajima's voice came out steady.

The man nodded in agreement, swiftly rising and leaving the room quickly.

Silence befell the room once more and Madara's ear rang with the sound of his own thumping heart. Hashirama. Where had he been?

Hiroto returned not minutes later, lugging a large net behind him with the help of another man. He dropped it on the floor in front of Tajima. It landed with a wet splat against the wooden floors, seeping its watery contents to the floor.

“Sir, this was given to us by the Hagoromo, taken from the Aburame.” Hiroto knelt back down.

The air in the room shifted, black irises fell. A large green tail laid motionless, scales pricking at the net that confined it. It had no upper-half, cut smoothly through the stomach.

The mucus of it gave the scales a shining texture, gleaming against the lamps twitching light against the walls. The fins in the middle of this tail matched with the large one at the end, a shade lighter than the rest. The vivid imagery brought back memories of fins that flapped like butterflies. Blood tainted the soft green, a giant gash across its left fin.

Madara's body swayed like the waters deep in the middle of the ocean, undisturbed, high. He stared at the tail, eyes locked on it, so familiar yet so different. It was slightly smaller. Black blood clotted the wound, leaving the inside undistinguished from the out.

Tajima was the first to speak.

“And this tail, you're sure it belongs to ‘sirens’? Not simply some other fish creature?”

“No, sir, we are not. As far as we are aware, neither is the Hagoromo.” The woman said, eyes downcast. “However, the Hagoromo have no reason to lie, especially after the newly made peace.”

The room was full of skepticism. Madara himself would be as well if he did not recognize the tail shape. Even when seen only through flickers and slight flurring glances, it appeared the same, still though it was. Madara's ears filled with blood, hot and blocking any sound but his heartbeat. Angry red indents labeled his palm.

“Hn. Very well.” Tajima said. “Chihiro, gather Obara, Noda, Miyasato, and Shinya, they will head out for scouting before nightfall.” The third knelt woman nodded, rushing to complete her order.

“But father!” Madara's voice sprawled out from his throat, raw cracked. “We are stronger than the Aburame, we could very well just — ”

“There are too many opposing variables, for now, if these children's fables proved to be fact, we must watch from a distance. We are fragile and morals are low. A conflict is something we cannot risk,” Tajima's voice held a level of finality.

“Father, we could rid ourselves of a threat up north, why allow them to continue to grow when we could take them before they had the chance?” Madara's mouth was moving without him, his concentration still glued to the siren's tail.

“Intel is a great asset to have.” Replied an elder, an old woman who had been sitting silently among the rest. Her black eyes watched him. Madara bit back a sharp reply, anger swirling in his gut.

Hiroto and Hideko left to file the reports, Tajima spoke briefly with the team he planned to send out, and the elders spoke quietly among themselves. The audience concluded.

The tail had been picked off the floor by a clansman, only a heaping wet blanket on the wooden floor its corpse laid on.

Madara left the room, running into the embrace of a cold winter, hair bellowing past his figure as he ran through the clan grounds. Snow kissed the ground softly, thick blankets with pressed steps. Cold brushed past his skin and his breath was visible in front of his every step.

Flashes of a siren's tail replayed in his mind, green, cut so smoothly through with crimson spilling from it. His mind haunted his every step with a bowl-cut boy's body clutching a tail being ripped from him. Sickness did not stop Madara's sprint, anger stirring his legs, carrying him further than his mind could keep pace with.

Nails dug into the flesh of his palms, calloused with thick yellow bumps and peeling skin.

The dead tail flashed in his mind. Sirens. Did Tajima believe it to be true? Madara had no way of outwardly knowing, his father concealed himself too well. The questions that arose alone with the tail were too wide, open, and raw for Madara to answer. He could make no sense of it, if the Aburame served such issues, why shouldn't they remove the threat before it grew?

Through his sprint, Madara's head had been reeling. Each building in his clan was a blur, the path he took unconsciously had been nothing but harsh footsteps against sand and jumps down jagged rocks. He hadn't realized he'd run himself to the beach until it surrounded the air all around him.

Madara was surrounded by the constant swish of the beach, gray as was everything in the rough of winter. It was bare of people, mushed sand stretching on without disturbance.

The waves hissed against shore, reflecting his inner turmoil with each white crash against wet sand. Madara watched the waves, doing nothing to calm his nerves, only serving to sicken him further as the slosh repeated and rang throughout his head.

His body forced itself to stop, chest heaving out of breath. Each suction of salted winter air burned his lungs, clawing inside them. His hair stood high and ruffled, his cheeks blushed with cold and exhaustion. The sun gleamed against soft-kissed snow, radiating everything a glimmering ivory.

Madara began to walk along the beach's shore, trying to use the surrounding emptiness to clear his rushing mind. To his left were the large docks, harboring ships that bounced in the water. The boat Madara had ridden out to sea floated among them.

The snow atop the dock was clean and untouched, perfect in a thin sheet covering the former footprints. Beyond it, the gray paste of the sand stretched on and on, far into the corners of the Uchiha territory.

To the right was thick dense forest, twisting upwards into steep mountains marking the beginning to the Hyūga clan's land. The sand ended as it faded to forest, climbing up. Here, there was a slight incline towards the forest, edging above the waves in a steep jagged rock. The branches were still tangled below, still floating stuck in a heap of its own mass, unmoving.

Nothing much had changed over the span of the following weeks, snow piled slightly higher or an increase in footprints.

Madara's eyes caught something. A split second of movement that stood out. Among the floating branches, green flickered. It was brief, an involuntary twitch maybe. Either way, Madara had seen it. A thought flashed in his mind. A name he'd learned two weeks ago rang in his mind.

There was a figure below the waters, unmistakably out of place with the muted colors surrounding. Madara fit in well enough with them, pale milky skin, dark ebony eyes and unruly hair. The shadow in the water did not.

He kept his eyes pinned to it, too far away for him to make out whether it was a trick of the light, or something else entirely. It was most likely a quick movement that caught his eye, yet the smallest moronic hope clawed at him. Madara crept towards the incline, halting his breaths all in one with the sudden sensation overcoming him. The short cliffside drew him in and he made no moves to fight the impulse.

The sand below his feet turned to snowy mud, the sky above him became covered with the loom over of trees. The underside of the cliff became indiscernible as Madara strode it. He stood at its edge, breathing shallowly. He peeked over the edge, the waters were murky and half-frozen, covered by a pile of branches. A shadow remained, a shadow of the overpiled dead weight. The branches had created a small shadow below the water, a trick of the sun's everlasting shine.

Madara allowed the conformation to sink in, to prove to himself that his dreams should stay deep in the slumber of night where they sing alone, away from words of truth.

The cliff-side was covered in mud, a much less refined place to rest compared to the lost warmth of the beach. With a stinging heart, Madara began to step back. His foot hit something hard, a loud crunch was heard from the pressure of his body pressing on it.

A swirl of colors blinded his eyes before Madara registered anything else, the shadow below the water jumped, startled. Madara's eyes blurred to follow it, everything happening in a moment of rush. Green flashed all across his eyes, water splashed up with the suddenness, branches were bragged apart with the force of something below them moving. Seconds after it had begun, the beach was motionless again.

The waves in the middle of the sea held a level disturbance, bobbing back as something moving against them. With the sun gleaming on the waters, the vibrant green stuck out among the deep blue. Madara felt himself being studied, watched through the lens of the thickening sea. A small bit of illumination brightened the waters.

He stepped back to the edge of the cliff, staring at the barely discernible flick in the water.

Hashirama. Madara didn't dare to believe his eyes, sure they were lying to him simply to calm the swirling nerves inside him.

His heart quickened, his breathing jumped, Madara knew who it had to be, the possibility of anything else was too low. The day was gloomy, darkened and cold. Madara hadn't been expecting anyone to be at the beach, let alone the figure of a boy he'd spent days waiting for.

Madara's suspicions were confirmed as he locked eyes with deep forest brown, chestnut skin dipping down below. Hashirama seemed to recognize him, his head bobbed back above the water and his hidden shadow was exposed.

Hashirama was too far for Madara to discern his expression, but their eyes stayed locked on one another. Madara walked down the cliff as Hashirama ducked underneath the water simultaneously. They both met at the shore, Hashirama's face much clearer now.

“Hey,” Madara said as camly as he could manage, staring at Hashirama.

Hashirama didn't respond. He started at Madara before his eyes set slightly downcast at the receding waves.

“It's been a while, Ha — ” Madara stopped himself, deciding instead to feign ignorance. Hashirama didn't need to know he'd been the very thing looming over his mind for weeks. Madara titled his head, squinting his eyes in mock confusion. “Ah...”

“Hashirama.” He supplied, voice dark.

“Right,” Madara muttered. His eyes were reddened around the corners, puffing out and held no flickering amusement or bright emotion as they had before. “Is everything alright, Hashirama?”

Madara expected Hashirama to bounce up, for the depressed mood to be a ploy for Madara's sympathy and Hashirama's amusement as it had been. Hashirama did rebound, a grimace spreading across his cheeks and his voice lifting easily through the air.

“Don't know what you mean, ‘m fine!” Hashirama's voice was slightly too high pitched, the point of his teeth didn't reach his eyes.

“Yeah right,” Madara huffed. “'m here y'know, you can tell me anything.”

“No, no. It's nothing.” Hashirama deflated again.

“Just tell me,” Madara insisted. He could see the smallest hint of a crack in Hashirama's defense. He stepped closer to the waves. “I'm good at listening.”

“Like I said, I'm fine.” Hashirama looked away.

“You don't look fine.” Madara offered, he stepped closer.

“I am, seriously.” Hashirama stared at waves that dragged against the shore. “You don't need to — ”

“ — Just spit it out already!” Madara shouted, his foot slammed into wet sand and the water splashed up.

Hashirama's eyes widened and he forced himself to look up. Madara was only a few feet in front of him now, having slowly inched his way closer. The water he had been staring at was overtaken with Madara's form. Hashirama watched Madara and any remaining defense broke.

Hashirama wasn't able to delay his tears any longer. Streams of tears dripped down his cheeks, salted like the ocean they plopped into. Madara's heart ached, temper vanishing along with the tears in the vast depths.

“What's wrong?” He repeated, softly.

There was a brief silence with Hashirama's sniffling and the rock of wind around them. When Hashirama's voice came, it was quiet, delicate as glass.

“My younger brother,” he paused to breathe in. “He's dead.”

Madara paused. The instinct to comfort Hashirama overcame him, to send soft-spoken words in a form of condolence to Hashirama. The sight of quiet tears reminded Madara too much of himself, solace in the silence that no one was looking. Perhaps, Hashirama had been searching for the silence that Madara now intruded on. His voice grew raw in his throat and stayed. Kuro's fading face, the roots of its smile and joy being slowly forgotten from Madara's memory, his voice barely a whisper of itself if not whispered at his lowest moments, danced behind his eyes. The sound of the sea set a paralyzing fear through him. It had been this very sea.

“I see...” Madara said, voice low. The water dampened his pant leg, submerged in the retreat and advance of the waves.

Silence rang around them again. It was open, quiet in understanding and succor. Hashirama raised up his wet, clawed hand to smear the tears from his eyes. Hashirama made a soft, shrill noise.

“I often come to this spot when I'm feeling down. It's really beautiful, the gracefulness of the waves fill me with calm. Your name was Madara, right? I wonder if you too understand, if you're like me. Do you have siblings?”

Madara saw an opening, a moment to be who he wished he'd been to his siblings, the older brother who soothed the wounds left in moments of sorrow. His mother's death, Togakushi's death, Kou's, and Kuro's, he never knew how to be that pillar of alleviation. Madara could be an anchor, but only ever that.

“I..understand. I'm the eldest of five,” he paused. “Or, at least there were five of us.”

“Were?” Hashirama questioned.

“Death is all around us. It's how we were born to live.”

Another second of silence filtered between them. A moment of perception and condolence. Hashirama's shrill noise started again, a bitter laugh, breaking the quiet.

“I was praying for a sign of sorts.” Hashirama began, his eyes followed the expense up Madara's leg, sunken into the sand, until he met his eyes. “I guess I found it.”

Hashirama's eyes held a property of something, gleaming and glossy from tears. Madara forced himself to look away, slowly retreating from the cold water clawing up his leg. The sand was marked with droplets where his pants dripped dry. He cleared his throat.

“You said this place is ‘beautiful’?” The sky was a deep pearl, light flakes falling with the sun insertable. The water held less of a blue property as it did a lifeless gray. “I don't see it.” Madara muttered.

“Maybe not on land,” Hashirama murmured. “But below the seas, it's gorgeous.”

“Huh, I don't know how I didn't notice it before.”

“Really?” Hashirama blinked wide-eyed at Madara.

“Well, how couldn't I have noticed how much of a loser you are? I mean, that haircut really should've said it all.” Madara smirked, watching as Hashirama's mouth flew open.

A depressive aura lifted the air around him, an improvement from the soaking tears crusting around his eyes. Hashirama buried his head in his arms, gloom radiating.

“I'm serious!” Hashirama whined, pouting. He had jumped back to his usual self in moments, his eyes shined and his sorrows were momentarily forgotten. “It's so close! How have you never seen it?”

“It's not like I go underwater often,” Madara huffed.

Did Hashirama live under the water? Madara wondered. It seemed apparent he did, and not alone either. Still, his face shone against the sun as though it were always meant to, he stood out among the gray world with each muted color highlighting his features. He looked too mystical to walk land, yet his glory was born to thrive in the sun.

“Hmph.” Hashirama crossed his arms and stared back at Madara. He grumbled, tilting his head slightly.

Madara wasn't able to respond before Hashirama shifted to crawl forward on his stomach, a burst of movement. Little rocks of sand stuck to his chest as he moved to the shallow water of the shore, an uproar of waves disturbed by the sudden, quick stir.

Hashirama stopped close enough to grab Madara's leg, the lower half of his body stayed submerged in water. Slowly, Hashirama extended out his hand.

“Then let me show you.”

“Huh?” Madara stared at the clawed hand, fingers webbed together with boneless green flaps.

“Let me show you what's under the water. Trust me it's better than what you'd think.” He reached his arm slightly closer.

A sense of danger gutted Madara.

Sirens, mythological creatures who lured men into waters with broken promises of whatever they desired. Using the word for siren on Hashirama still felt wrong, more so as he grew to learn more of him. Hashirama was far too human to call him that.

The truth was still undeniable. A bead of light radiated above his head, his eyes were slightly too slimy in coating, his teeth pointed and glinted sharply in the light, his ears connected with his head by even more translucent green flaps of skin.

When the waves behind him receded, a long green tail stretched across the sand. Flashes of another green tail, halved and bloodied on the floor of the meeting quarters, rang in Madara's mind. Hashirama wasn't human.

Another revelation came to Madara; Hashirama had siblings. There were multiple sirens similar to him swimming about in the waters. Hashirama appeared alone, though maybe they hid nearby, waiting for Madara to fall for sweet-coated lies.

If Hashirama was lying, using the ability stated in the fables, Madara would be left for dead. He would be eaten and left to rot among the sea which couldn't be devoured. Hashirama was too similar to him, a thing he'd unknowingly been longing for. Perhaps, that too was a means of deception.

“Trust me, I don't bite, Madara.” Hashirama said, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

Madara's skepticism hadn't washed away, but it cracked. The way his name left Hashirama's lips so melodically softened Madara's resolve, he worded every syllable, accent pressing delicate kisses to his name. Hashirama's eyes were childish and sincere. They were void of any guile or trickery.

Madara swallowed thickly, glancing one last time back at the Uchiha camp, hidden by the uphill leading to the beach.

Reluctantly, he grabbed Hashirama's hand. Hashirama's hand was warm, soft unlike the ridges of skin broken yellow that bumped Madara's finger-tips. He caught the faintest grin plastering across Hashirama's sharp pricks before he was pulled harshly by his hand.

Instantly, air bursted around them, the world became a blur of scenery blended together, Madara's hair dragged back with the force of wind tunneling against it. Tears corned his eyes with the bedlam of sand rising around him. Clouds of soft tan dusted the air.

Madara gasped as his face was smacked against something cold, rough, that he easily broke through, surrounding him in its clawing grip. Goosebumps littered his skin, bumping at the sudden rush of cold. The sand below his feet sunk deeper to the sea floor until it was completely out of sight. Sea currents pulled back on Madara, tugging against Hashirama's figure that pulled him quickly forward.

Adrenaline filled Madara, instincts causing him to thrash and fight towards the current, against Hashirama. His strong tail and back were the only things decipherable among the murky waters blurring into one. They didn't struggle against Madara's kicks, barely phased as they flexed to swim them forward.

A noise left Hashirama, a wounded noise that halted Madara's struggling kicks. Hashirama turned his head and mouthed something, shrill and dolphin sounding. His hand clenched Madara's own, warmth radiating even under the icy waters. He pulled Madara slightly closer.

“Hold on to me,” Hashirama's voice was clear despite the water. Madara obeyed, wrapping his own arms around Hashirama's, holding tightly onto him.

His heart beat fast in his chest, the adrenaline that pumped through him gradually decreased at the lack of danger. Still it remained under his skin, prepared. Hashirama began to snicker, which Madara shut down with as rough of a kick as the sea would allow.

Madara watched the change of Hashirama's back, the stroke of his tail hitting Madara's leg, the tense of his back muscles carrying the weight of his movement. His bowl cut hair lifted around him, swaying with his tail. Madara silently wished to watch Hashirama's body stir daily, perfectly and precise.

Through his staring, a slight burn began to poke Madara's lungs, insistent and pestering. It bit at his lungs and begged for air. Madara could feel the pressure of water propelling against him extremely fast. His body's begs for air were met with reluctance to let go of Hashirama, navigating easily.

He tried to refocus on Hashirama to distract himself, but black spots littered his vision soon enough, the persistent presence became too much to handle. He thought of that night, the feeling of emptiness and peace, of falling deep below without memories to recall. Madara's arms moved to untangle themselves from Hashirama.

Before Madara could fully let go of Hashirama, the pressure pulling him back ceased, the blur of sea around him became clear. Hashirama had stopped, head turning back and forth, looking for something.

Immediately, he let go of Hashirama and swam for the surface. Two glossy eyes watched him, burning similarly to the attack of his lungs.

Madara's head broke the surface, sun blinding his eyes as a deep inhale forced through his lungs at the very moment. He gasped for air, choking. Madara's chest heaved as he kept himself above water despite the rising tide trying to swallow him back in.

Hashirama's head resurfaced moments after.

“We're here!” He grinned.

The waters were still gray, tougher and higher here then they had been at shore. The sun moved higher into the sky, reigning its light all across the land. Still, the clouds overtook most and everything appeared as hoary as it had at the beach.

“I thought you said it was close and beautiful.” Madara coughed. A headache began to form on the side of his head.

“It is! Both of those!” Hashirama swam closer to Madara, floating effortlessly.

They couldn't have been underwater for less than Madara could hold his breath, a strong five minutes Tajima insisted could be exceeded. Although, as Madara looked about, all his eyes were able to see were vast seas all arguing amongst themselves. Where were they? No land was in sight for as far as the horizon line.

“Hashirama, where are we?” Madara question.

“We're in the — er...Well, I'm not what you call it, but the nearest island is this one with these huge mountains, no people on it I'm pretty sure and there's this nice river that leads to — ”

“Huh?!” Madara interrupted. “Hashirama, that island is a fourteen day boat-trip from our clan how — what?” 

“Fourteen? It's so close it's on top of it!” Hashirama exclaimed.

“It's not close and there's nothing here!” Madara gestured towards the water overreaching, waves and waves of nothing.

“You'll see,” Hashirama grinned. He grabbed Madara's hand, pulling them both back under.

The rush of water startled Madara less. He held his breath as Hashirama dragged them both down, Madara clutching his warm hand. His eyes searched around, vast blue filling every bit of his vision.

The sun's clouded light became less as they slowly descended, still reflecting but diminishing in way for the rock's shadow. A light, familiar tap knocked at his knee.

“Look,” Hashirama pointed down. Madara followed the clawed finger, eyes widening.

Rocks surrounded a large opening, covered in mossy vines, the opening basked in the little light still breaking through the deep, while the rocks hid and coveted shadow. Plants proudly sprouted all around, little flower vines twisting among the rock.

Small fish gilded all around, undisturbed by Madara and Hashirama's presence.

“It's gorgeous, right?” Hashirama tugged Madara's hand before he could respond, dragging him further into the sea cave. Fish easily moved aside for Hashirama, watching him closely and comfortably. They stopped at the height of one of the rocks, floating just above it.

From here, everything about it glowed.

“I found this spot when I was younger, me and my brother had just gotten into a fight and I needed to clear my head.” Hashirama grabbed a small leaf from the vine, perfect and bright in color, his webbed hand swirling it in his hand.

“I've gone here ever since, every time I need a moment alone. It's also fun to explore the surrounding areas.” Hashirama's smile broadened, only to falter slightly.

Madara nodded along, watching the beauty of the unperturbed sea. A low burn poked at him, enough to ignore in place of Hashirama’s words.

Fish so easily swam around, unaffected by the issues on land. They spun and hid between rocks, passing and circling curiously around the two boys.

“It’s weird seeing you move,” Hashirama said after a short pause. “You have no tail and your positioning is so weird, hardly effective.”

Madara turned to him, glaring at Hashirama who simply cocked his head and smiled. 

The movement revealed something behind his head, something that caught Madara's eye.

In the middle of the rock formation a glint, hidden half in the shadow of the opening, sent an odd sensation through him.

For a moment, Madara paid no mind to it. He floated above the rocks with Hashirama, listening to the other point out different fish among the school of them.

It wasn’t until the object glinted again that Madara looked at it. Something of it drew him near. He knew better than to follow it, but his impulse proved his downfall. 

“See that grey fish right there? It’s a —where are you going?” Madara held his index finger up, nodding down to Hashirama. He let go of his hand, swimming downward before Hashirama could protest.

He'd underestimated the distance between the high rock and the bottom sand, further than he’d anticipated with specks already kissing at his vision.

Madara finally reached the bottom, one of his feet pressing against softened sand. He felt Hashirama’s eyes above him, the flick of his tail whooshing against water. 

A small bracelet, made of tied rope laid under a thick shell, black with indented lines spinning to left. He reached for the bracelet, memories swirling. 

“Wait!”

His finger intertwined with the rope just as a something wrapped itself around his pants, harsh enough to startle a gasp of flaming water into his lungs. The rock moved to reveal a tentacles, transparent black dragging him down. Madara struggled against it, grip unyielding even with the kicks he sent against its body.

“Madara!” Hashirama remotely called.

The cloth of his pant ripped off with the struggle, sending Madara floating up right as Hashirama appeared to shoo the creature away. It scattered at Hashirama’s presence, alarmed. 

The bracelet below still glittered, the creature having been concealed above it as cover. The rope had a gem in the middle, tied by hand under warm candle light unskillfully.

Madara reached for it again, halted only by his own inability to breathe. His fingers were mere inches away before the dots overclouded every inch of his sight. 

Madara's brain was fogged with unconsciousness, pain-splitting as the attack on his chest, heaving for air that didn't exist, salt drying his throat. 

He felt himself be dragged by his arm, moving speedily among fast-tide waters without the rush from before. Hashirama spoke to him, possibly, but the sounds were inhuman.

With each rushing tide Madara felt the water grow shallower around him and the pull of the currents grew less. He was unsure how long it'd taken, but the feeling of nothing more than moments passed before he heard the wet slap of water on land, his back hitting sand. The sun shone brightly even behind grey clouds, the wind blew and ruffled trees all around.

Madara forced through a deep inhale, gleeful at the taste of air filling him rather than cold, uncaring navy. Each breath brought relief and sharp pain all in one.

Madara winced and turned to his side to cough out water, warm and bubbling up his throat. He opened his eyes to find himself back on the shore of his clan, laid flat against the sand sticking into his fingernails. Hashirama too was rested on the sand, gills fluttering on his neck. They stood on the other side of the cliff, away from where any Uchiha could come stumbling by to find them.

“Are you okay?” Hashirama's voice rang in his ear, close and loud. His hand still rested on Madara's arm, scanning him.

“Hn,” Madara coughed, breathless. A slight wind brushed at his ankle, reminding him of the ripped cloth at his pant leg. He looked up, only to realize Hashirama held the ripped piece in his hand. “Why do you have that?”

“Doesn't it hurt?” Hashirama stared down at his leg.

He rose from the sand, dusting it out from where it stuck to his hands. He checked his leg where Hashirama's gaze lingered, only slightly colored from where the creature had grabbed him. He looked back at Hashirama.

“Does what hurt? I'm perfectly fine.” Madara questioned, rubbing his temple.

“You ripped your skin off shouldn't that hurt?” Hashirama held up the strip of cloth, pointing at Madara's ripped pants. His voice held a breath of concern and wonder.

Madara looked dumbfounded at him.

“You mean my pants?” Madara muttered slowly. “That isn't my skin, Hashirama.”

“Your...pants?” Hashirama moved forward, grabbing the ripped corner of the wool. “Is that what this is?” He pulled on it, moving it in all directions, grabbing Madara's ankle to pinch the skin there. 

”Yeah, it’s an extra layer for warmth.” Madara watched Hashirama examine his leg with rigor. “You didn’t know that?”

“No…” Hashirama rose, still clutching Madara's pant leg.

Silence filled the space around them, Hashirama's eyes burning a hole into the cloth. Then, he snorted, divulging into full laughter. He doubled over, choking on his own laughs. Madara blinked. He began to chuckle, hand covering his mouth as he joined Hashirama.

“You — Be quiet!” Madara laughed, bending over his stomach.

The birds nearby jumped up, startled. Their laughs carried over the entirety of the day until the sun deemed its hours done, setting below the horizon. Madara had not thought of the siren’s tail, Tajima’s plans, or yet of his brother. 

Hashirama retreated back below the water's surface, swimming among the tides while Madara walked the hill to his clan, both their chests light with blithe smiles.

That night, the moon shone high in the sky, complete, full and gleaming its unsheltered light upon the ground below, glittering across the waters. 

Chapter Text

Soon, pearl-colored snow melted and gave way to blooming roots arising after a long, bitter cold. Deep blizzards were steadily replaced with warm rain, dripping early dewdrops on the green leaves of growing plants. Animals awoke from deep burrows, scurrying across muddy fields.

As winter faded out and spring blossomed, Madara and Hashirama met frequently. Each day, they met behind a large cliff, concealed from curious eyes. Each day they spent exploring islands nearby, wandering about the shore, and learning about new underwater creatures.

Hashirama was what Madara had spent nights wishing for, someone who could decipher him, his views, someone to share the feelings he couldn't express with even Izuna. They met under a mutual understanding that they'd both show. Neither of them had broken it yet. A small part of Madara still held Hahirama's trustworthiness in doubt. However, with the distrust came a sense of larger trust he could not fully grasp yet.

A week prior, Tajima had sent out a team to investigate the Aburame in their main town, Minamata. They had received no definitive reports aside from ones detailing status, raising anxiety. The new affairs brought on acted as a burden upon Tajima's shoulder, becoming clearer despite his claims of responsibility over them. Famine and dispute threatened eradication.

They had survived a long winter ongoing, but as spring inched closer, so did the possibility of war. Those who rise above the rest tend to squash those they don't see as equals.

The meeting still stood prominently in Madara's head, something he could not leave untouched. Madara wondered if any of them truly believed it, for he himself couldn't, despite having met one. Tajima kept his opinions on the existence of sirens silent and to himself, as did all other senior members of the audience. Hideko had not spoken to him or her teammates since, even pleasant greetings had ceased. Perhaps they attempted to rationalize it, leaving the words unspoken in hopes it had been only stupefied worries outwardly blooming like he had.

Each reminder of the dead siren's tail brought images of Hashirama swirling in his head, a pounding heart marking worries Madara didn't want to dwell on. Hashirama was fast, quick, and observant. He was unlikely to be caught, though that didn't soothe any doubtful emotions Madara felt.

Shortly after he'd returned from the beach's shore, Tajima had called Madara to his room. Winter had withered away the final rations the Uchiha had, and doom settled over them quickly. With that, the overall unstoppable title they had earned over the years came into question. Other clans began to turn their sights towards them, eyeing them like ferocious wolves, baring their teeth at prey.

Every year, to mark the end of a long winter, a festival would be held in the neutral land Kochi. Kochi was settled near the Yamanaka clan, up in the endless mountains, not far from the Uchiha. The mountains provided security, and rode into clouds with heaven as their cover. It had started small, though over time amounted to much wealth. It became most known for an affluent trade market of rare jewels and artifacts.

During its festivals, sights of flourishing Sakura trees, vendors, and entertainment drew people from across nations to the miniature town. Among leaders, its festival served as a way to prove to others that they had not only survived a harsh winter, but that they prospered enough to spare valiant members attending the event.

Tajima elected to send Madara and Izuna, as the two sons of the clan's leader, their appearance would silence the whispers circling and thoughts that they were lacking. The next morning, they set out on the dirt road leading to Kochi, robed in their finest kimonos with the Uchiha crest embroidered proudly on their backs.

Madara and Izuna arrived in the afternoon, the town already bustling with the hum of people scurrying around its streets. The sun stood unadulterated in the sky, glinting in puddles formed from the midnight sprinkles of rain. Behind the town's borders, climbing around the mountains and into valleys was a single interlocking cross-section of rivers, all connecting to the seas. From there came the majority of their trade through Western countries of foreign tongues.

“How odd,” Izuna commented on their walk through the streets. “The weather is so warm for how early into spring it is.”

He wore the usual muted colors of the Uchiha, a dark blue suited for his dark hair and eyes, mixed with the moon-touched, pale skin. Attached to his side was a pouch that jingled with each step.

“A hot spring usually means a colder winter,” Madara responded. His eyes lifted to the sky, where the sun beat over them unceremoniously. Its heat showed no mercy, sweat already dampening their skin.

“As though last winter wasn't ruthless enough.” Izuna huffed.

“If we had better rations, it wouldn't feel as ruthless.” Madara chimed.

“Exactly! Which is why I believe you are best suited to be clan head, Nii-san.” Izuna began.

“Father is cautious when in disputes. However, blind to natural irascible scenarios. You were first to notice the signs of the drought that sparked the famine. If Father had listened earlier, this predicament wouldn't have spiraled so quickly.” 

“I suppose, but I'm still lacking in many things.” Madara replied, unable to cover the fond grin spreading across his face.

“As if! I've never seen such things you're ‘lacking’ at, Nii-san. Even now, you continue to bring food that saves the clan better than father could,” Izuna said. Madara looked away guiltily.

Before the famine began, a summer-time drought hit the land. Their crops died before they could fully harvest them, water to drink was scarce, and their livestock suffered in their final moments. The first signs of rain were a blessing they wept over. Though not retaining many, the crops strong enough to survive the drought didn't last. A disease spread in the plants only weeks after the first rain, killing what remained.

The Uchiha and any clans neighboring fought in competition for the only remaining food supply, swimming about the sea. The need to return to their former abundance for security quickly dried the sea of its plentiful fish. The ocean still harbored many, but the amount decreased to only those who stayed hidden far from the shores.

Their walk continued, a show above all else, ensuring that someone would note their presence. They walked along the main roads of the festival, bunched with people. Each step was deliberate, slow, and not without meaning. Eyes lifted towards them, watching with a hawk's precision. Madara smirked, standing taller. Izuna looked around with a small grin.

“Where do we head first?” Izuna asked loudly. The pouch jingled at his side, rhythmic with his steps.

“Hm. I'm unsure.” Madara said, eyes flicking to the people watching. Their gazes jumped away from his.

Izuna's grin widened. “Follow me.”

Plenty of people had seen them, ready to spread the rumor of their arrival among others. Their major reason for showing had been completed; now they needed only to solidify it. Izuna's hand grabbed Madara's, tugging him along with quick-paced steps.

Gravel floundered under their feet, streets blurred together as Izuna took a skillful set of turns, memorized. The large festival crowd dispersed the further in they went, behind bathhouses and inns, more communal. They ran behind alleys, easier than following the usual traffic. Izuna dragged Madara back to the main string of people, a large market.

Madara recalled the place, having visited it much younger. The stands for the market rarely changed, always sitting in their same spots each year. Izuna let go of Madara's hand, headed straight for a vendor selling thick, rich paper from lands above. Madara watched with fond eyes as Izuna spoke with the man selling.

Madara looked about the festival, unneeded, considering he already knew where his feet wished to take him.

The sun pressed against his neck, warm and rigid. Feet dug into a dirt path, slightly mushy. Eyes still lingered on him, whispers circling with each movement. The line of vendors was large, all wishing to monetize the large festival in full bloom. A lack of something was very evident. The year prior, the festival overflowed with people. Now it only holds large groups traveling as one. The markets selling food had diminished severely as well, only a few with meager portions.

Scurrying fast rows of people, around the corner and to the end of the large line, the path continuing further down to the beach, Madara found what he'd been searching for. Situated near the back string of stands, shaded from warm rays with a cloth fluttering overhead, was a man selling food. Standing behind said stall, cross-armed and scanning with old, knowing eyes was a man. His eyes glowed with recognition upon seeing Madara.

“Ah, Madara-kun.” The old man's yellowed teeth smiled, wrinkles pushing on his eyes.

“Tsuyoshi-san,” Madara replied back in greeting. He stepped under the shade of the tent.

“Not many people believed any of the Uchiha would show,” Tsuyoshi said, eyes an unnaturally deep black, gray hair thin and wild with a head gleaming of sweat.

“Did you?” Madara asked.

“Heavens no. Even at my age, I am not so senseless.” He laughed, though his eyes watched Madara carefully, noting something that made him hum beneath his breath. “How are your siblings?”

“Izuna is well.” Madara replied. The switch in the air was palpable. The man smiled despite it, switching the subject with ease.

“I see you've grown quite a bit since I last saw you. Any woman catch your fancy, yet?”

“Ah – No, sir.” Madara blinked, and an unmistakable redness crept behind his ears and face. Tsuyoshi laughed again, shaking his head.

“Very well. You’re here for what I assume you are, right?” He asked.

Madara nodded. “Yes, the inarizushi.”

“Of course,” Tsuyoshi laughed. “The famine spreading through the land is really doing a number on us, huh? Even I had to switch from gathering my own fish to trading.”

He handed Madara a neatly wrapped box, the smell hitting Madara's nose enough to make his mouth water. Madara regarded the box with careful, light hands as he reached into the pouch at his side.

“Oh no, no.” Tsuyoshi shook his head, pushing Madara's outstretched hand away with a heartfelt laugh. “Consider it a gift, one to share with your lady friend.”

Madara looked between the man and the box, face burning with blazing red cheeks. “Thank you, Tsuyoshi-san.” Madara finally said, hiding beneath his hair.

“Come back anytime, Madara-kun.” Tsuyoshi chuckled, waving him off.

Madara returned to scanning the market, jumping in between anything that caught his eye. The sun had reached its afternoon height, reigning below with only short gusts of gale to hinder it from fully exposing its heat. Madara clutched the box at his side, holding it against him.

Madara's feet pressed into the sand piling beneath his feet, cool and crisp with the night's sea breeze flowing through it. Madara held the box of Inarizushi in his hands, close to his chest. Madara beelined straight for the rocks hidden by the cliff's side. There, the ocean waves rocked slightly below and crashed into deep, jagged rocks.

He sat on the edge, opening the wrapped food with delicate hands. The scent that'd been trapped within the box lifted out along with the cover, circling the air and colliding with the smell of sea salt.

Madara bit into the sweet, salty pouch, allowing the flavor to melt along his taste buds, warm and well. As Madara's chopsticks reached for a second, a jump in the water slightly out from shore caught his eye.

He stared out at the sea expectantly, grinning softly to himself when a flare of color moving too fast to discern stirred the waves before him. A soft, illuminating white glow brightened the darkness of the late hour.

Hashirama lay on the rock beside Madara, stretched to allow his fins to dabble in the water below. His hair ruffled in the wind of his movements, reflecting the moon's glow in its unnatural shine. The pearl necklace glinted in its light, slapping against his chest with each movement.

“What's that?” Hashirama's eyes flitted down to the box resting on Madara's lap, pointing a clawed finger at it.

Madara bit into another, speaking with his mouth slightly full. “The best food in the world.”

“Really?” Hashirama blinked, intrigued as he leaned closer.

Madara hummed, pulling another from the box with his chopsticks. He placed it before Hashirama's mouth, pressing it lightly against his lips. For a moment, Hashirama stared at him, then at the Inarizushi. In one large bite, he ate it.

Giddy, Madara leaned forward. He watched with close interest at each slight twitch of Hashirama's face, gauging his reaction. The siren's face turned from thoughtful to a hint of surprise, then questioning. A thick anticipation settled through Madara's chest.
“I never took you as one to like sweet things,” Hashirama finally said, staring puzzledly at Madara.

“Oh, well.” Madara shrugged. “Inarizushi is the best.”

“I wouldn't call it 'the best', but definitely still good.” Hashirama licked his teeth, savoring the flavor.

“You just have no taste.” Madara huffed, snatching the box from his lap and throwing his head away from Hashirama. He didn't need to look back to envision the gloomy aura that had plagued his friend. Sighing, he regarded Hashirama.

“Y'know, there's no reason to get so depressive for everything I say. It's a really bad habit,” Madara muttered.

“You're bad habit is always assuming it's genuine.” Hashirama grinned through his hair.

“Wha — ” A similar flurry of color blinded Madara, splashing water, wetting the rock beneath his feet. When Madara finally blinked away the confusion from his eyes, the box from his hands had been taken.

There, snickering from his spot a few feet from shore, was Hashirama. His hands were lifted above his head mockingly, carrying the remains of Madara's food.

“You!” Madara raged. He jumped from the edge of the rock with ease, sending a similar uproar of water slamming on land. “Don't you dare get it wet, Hashirama!”

Hashirama laughed, distracted long enough for Madara to swim his way over and tackle Hashirama. Only Hashirama's hand holding the box remained above the deep navy as they wrestled below.

Hashirama held the larger advantage in the water. His movements were precise and quick. He thrashed his tail against Madara's torso with no real force to it, trying to pull him off. Madara, however, refused to relent. He gripped Hashirama by his biceps to hold on while he kicked at his attacking tail.

The thrashing stopped, allowing Madara an opening to gain headway over Hashirama. He moved to climb up Hashirama, reaching for his arm. Before he could, Hashirama spun his body and tail, slapping it against Madara and successfully throwing him off. Madara flung backwards, breathing in a gasp full of water, enough to disorient him.

Madara swam up and resurfaced, choking in air before diving back down to Hashirama with more vigor than before. This time, he dove at him and wrapped his legs around Hashirama's waist, tight enough to halt his tail's thrusts. Hashirama clamped his hands down on his shoulders to steady himself.

Hashirama's free hand pushed the middle of Madara's chest, fighting the effort Madara put to cling to his shoulders. But before he could pull away, Madara boosted himself with Hashirama's shoulders and jumped above the water.

He tugged down Hashirama's lifted arm and snatched the box from his hands. He barely managed to keep it above his head as he splashed back down eye-level to Hashirama.

The water around them, dark with the highlights of broken moon fragments reflecting, slowly recovered from their previous moments, returning to its usual crash and pull of waves as Hashirama stared at Madara.

A grin twitched across Hashirama's face, mirroring Madara's. Then, Hashirama leapt forward, snatching the box from Madara's hands and swimming in a blur of lights and shadows onto shore. Madara gaped at him, quickly recovering and yelling as he followed Hashirama and swam to shore, albeit much slower.

They fell back onto the dark-grey rocks, side by side. Their feet dangled from the edge and patted just above calm, overlapping waves. The moon hid behind a scatter of thick clouds, barely managing to shine its shadowed light through fragments across the ground. Up in the indigo skies, painted against shimmering stars and swishing clouds, the moon's full body stunned those who watched it.

Madara and Hashirama finished the last of the Inarizushi with quick hands, the box left empty between them. Hashirama's breathing fell in sync with Madara's. Silence had overcome the two, leaving only the sound of sputtering water and whistling wind in its wake.

Through the cut, a voice beside Hashirama began to hum. The sound was an odd, familiar, off-beat. Madara's hair blew with the nighttime wind, skin so delicately cut, smooth yet cut roughly.

It was as though he didn't know Hashirama was there, quietly humming unconsciously to himself. Hashirama listened. Slightly off-beat, wrong in odd ways, Hashirama recognized the song Madara sang just as his quiet hum finally ceased.

“Where did you learn that?” Hashirama asked.

“Learn what, exactly?” Madara stretched against the rock. In front of him, the waves seemed so endless, falling over the horizon where the sun hid.

“That song.” Hashirama sat up on his elbows, looking directly at Madara with sharp, thin pupils.

“I'm not sure,” Madara said eventually. “It just one day popped in my head one day. I can never get it right, though.” He shrugged.

“But you remember it?” Hashirama question. Madara nodded.

The silent air of the night filled the quiet following Madara's response. Hashirama looked at him as though he was debating something, unsure with quick glances at Madara and long glances behind him. Hashirama looked over at him, dark hair blending in with the sharp, uneven sides of the rock. Even the moon struggled to outdo his beauty. Eventually, Hashirama spoke up.

“...Like this?” He asked.

Hashirama opened his mouth, and from it came a warm, gentle voice. It sang a long, continuous note, thick with something akin to the warmth of autumn.

The scent of wet, rotten wood and huge pines filled Madara's nose, despite his distance from the forest. A sense of fear and unease ran through him. Madara was captivated, stuck to the music, but Hashirama so easily sprang. When Hashirama finished, Madara was left dazed.

He hadn't noticed Hashirama moving closer, the box pushed to the side, or the way the waves and night itself halted, holding its breath. Madara blinked away a fog he hadn't realized had set over his head. When he looked around, Hashirama was no longer in front of him.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and Madara snapped his head back to see Hashirama standing directly behind him. Madara jumped, rolling backwards. His heart raced and his hand shook as he raised it to point at Hashirama. The shock was quickly replaced with anger.

“I told you not to stand behind me!” Madara growled.

“You really were being serious about freezing up when people stand behind you!” Hashirama doubled over with laughter.

“I'll throw you in the jagged rocks, I swear!” Madara shouted.

The night exhaled, resuming the loud crashes of water against shores and hustling wind. In that moment, Madara completely forgot about the song, about Hashirama's unsettling pace, the imminent danger he'd been too dazed to consider fully.

Chapter Text

A heat clung to the surrounding air, dripping with humidity. The sun heightened unbothered in the sky and unwilling to part even at the darkest hours. Nights grew hotter, skin sticking to itself with moist sweat. Finally, any lingering touches of winter melted away to nothing but a warm, blistering heat only summer could adorn without loath.

Madara's bare feet rested against the sand wet from retreating waves, digging into the softness below with his toes. The tides came, pushing up to Madara's ankles. With it, a light breeze swept from across the vast ocean, billowing Madara's hair back with it.

Hashirama lay in front of him, flat on his stomach with his tail lifted behind him. His weight rested on his elbows as he absentmindedly poked at Madara's legs, pressing his nails into the skin with curiosity rather than fervor.

Madara leaned over, resting on his back. His eyes squinted to look at the sky, too bright and cloudless for the early afternoon. Sweat lingered on his body, sending shivers of heat throughout him.

Hashirama, beside him, yawned, tossing his head beneath a coming wave with a large splash of water.

“Madara,” He said, sounding out each syllable. “Have you ever seen a whale?”

The sun brought a sense of laze through Madara, wishing to stay lying under its heat. Sand mixed with his hair, intertwining with curls deep next to his scalp. Hashirama's question barely passed through him, the sound of his name so bland, turning into something he wished he could hear Hashirama say forever.

Madara thought back to all his days at sea, hours and days spent on ships rocking with the will of the waves.

“No, actually. I doubt they even live around here,”Madara lifted his head, turning to look Hashirama in the eye.

Hashirama sat up, quick enough to leave a trail of splashes roaring behind him. He stared at Madara, mouth slightly agape.

“That's impossible, there's a spot with a whole group of them close by!” Hashirama cried.

“When you say ‘close by’...” Madara narrowed his eyes, unimpressed.

Hashirama deflated immediately.

“Still, they're so cool, big, and friendly!” He threw his hands up and fell back below the water. “Whales are the friendliest thing you'll find swimming that low.”

Madara was intrigued now, sitting up and looking at Hashirama's submerged figure.

“You've seen one before?” He asked.

“Many! They swim around you, blow smoke out of their heads, and make noises at you!” Hashirama grinned.

His hair blew in the wind, swaying as he spoke. Sharp teeth glowed under sunlight as he grinned. Hashirama's skin has become darker over the course of summer, tanning more vibrant as if to match the unfurling joy summer directed so easily. Despite the rambling words quickly spurring out of him, Madara's attention was fixated.

“Will you bring me to one?” Madara asked, leaning forward. He had never seen a whale, and the prospect of one filled him with curiosity.

A huge grin spread across Hashirama's face, lighting his eyes with a sparkling brightness.

“I'll bet they're right over there.” Hashirama pointed East, jumping with giddiness. He reached a clawed hand for Madara's leg, startled when the other jumped back.

“No, no. I'm taking a boat this time.” Madara shook his head, scurrying further up the heated sand.

Hashirama sank, eyes barely reaching above the shore as he pouted. “You don't trust me?” He muttered, staring teary-eyed at Madara.

“'M not falling for that,” Madara deadpanned. “You're just going to end up dragging me at impossible speeds over the ocean.”

“Your ships are way too slow, that's why.” Hashirama huffed.

Madara sat up, reaching for his sandals abandoned up shore. The sand caved under him, each step leaving a trail of falling footprints. Hashirama disappeared below the water as Madara made to the docks.

The walk was short and calm, the heaviness of the sun beating down their necks causing a slight laze to render over them

The trees surrounding had regrown their leaves to the fullest, swinging forests of green riding the hill back to the Uchiha compound, Ishiyama.

Madara stepped up on the dock, wooden planks creaking with the added weight. All the boats bobbed with the will of the sea, tied roughly by rope to ensure they didn't fully drift.

Madara had begun to untie a small sailboat when Hashirama reappeared next to it, splashing out from the sea.

“Idea!” Hashirama leaned against the edge of the boat. “You can sit on my back and I'll carry you with my arms so you don't fall!” He said, his voice cheery.

“Like a horse?” Madara asked. “I mean, how are you going to hold me? Are your arms even bendable that way?” He continued to untie the rope, watching it fall at his feet in a tangled heap.

“Ah...” Hashirama hung his head. He drummed his fingers against the boat, pouting.

Madaras stretched a final time and steadied himself by the edge of the dock, slowly sliding into the floating sailboat, rising with each wave.

Just then, Hashirama jumped, a wide grin spreading across his face. He slammed his webbed hands against the boat with enough force to shake it. Madara startled back, grabbing the rope to raise the sail to steady himself.

“What if I push the boat? We can get there faster, and you won't be underwater!” Hashirama grinned, throwing his arms up. For a moment, Madara considered it. Staring at Hashirama's black pools of eyes, he reluctantly nodded. Hashirama didn't wait for a second response.

Sliding below and behind the boat, Hashirama used his arms to push it forward and sent it dashing across the water. The dock was fading and out of sight within seconds. Madara quickly regretted his decision.

The boat flew across the sea, quick and light enough it seemed to hover over the water. Madara grabbed the wooden mast, clinging to it as wind and salt-smelling sprays danced past him. Wind threw his hair behind him, pulling at his clothes with the force to send him flying back.

There was no rush of water slapping against his face, though this was arguably worse. Madara pressed himself against the mast, holding tightly on to the only thing preventing him from fully falling off. The wood dug splinters in his palm, red and raw. With a substantial effort, Madara turned his head to glare at Hashirama.

The other swam effortlessly, dark sea shielding him from being fully seen, only the steady appearance of his tail flicking above water and the gentle, tan hands on the stern. Madara shut his eyes, feeling the attack of black curls whipping behind him.

Even with his eyes clamped shut, his nose reddened from cold winds, and his hair blowing past him, Madara appeared god-like. He stood so tall against the harsh winds, wearing a dark blue that highlighted him so perfectly against the warm sun. Hashirama watched from below, mystified.

Madara felt the dizzying pass of wind, dazed. When the boat eventually came to a halting stop, Madara peeled himself away from the mast. His hair frazzled and upturned, nose red, and eyes dusted with tears at their corners, he pointed roughly at Hashirama.

“Never again.” Madara growled.

Hashirama fully resurfaced, an innocent smile not matching the smug glint in his eyes.

“We're here!” He said, too cheerfully. Madara spared a glance around.

Mountains of waves, spreading far out with slight blurs of land far off into the horizon. The sun reflected brightly across the water and became blinding to look at. A trail had been left in the direction they came, a long stream of white, bubbling foam stretching beyond. Madara's eyes focused below the water, grey-blue and bland in color.

“Do we have to wait for whales to show?” Madara asked, shaking the hair sticking to his neck, slicked with prior sweat and ruffled with wind.

Hashirama nodded. He disappeared below the boat, reappearing by the steer, resting his elbow on the boat.

“They usually show here, but they could be further out.” Hashirama held his head in his hand, looking up at Madara.

“So you have no clue.” Madara narrowed his eyes, sitting on the edge next to Hashirama.

“I have somewhat of an idea,” Hashirama pouted. “You really have no faith in me...” He hung his head, blinking tearfully at Madara.

The silence of a summer afternoon overcame them, lost in the beauty of the music of the sea. Madara looked down at the waves, calm and relaxed. Gradually, they lost the fearful grip they had over him. The waves acted as reminder of placent days with Hashirama, rather than the night that still burned healed wounds and muffled noises in his right ear.

“She’s gorgeous, right?” Hashirama muttered, barely audible.

“She?” Madara’s eyes lowered to Hashirama.

“The sea, she’s beautiful.” Hashirama’s eyes retained a far away look, black pupils reflecting the wash of waves in a way more marvelous than the sight itself. “Do you still think there’s nothing pretty to find here?”

Madara thought about the question. Every day, a place secluded from his worldy problems. The sea was more than simply the sea, it was a symbol of his longing.

“No,” Madara replied. “I see it.”

Hashirama turned to him and smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. Madara returned the gesture, a proud grin pulling at his cheeks.

“Wouldn’t you like to live here?” Hashirama asked.

“Here?” Madara raised his brows, scanning the boat.

“I mean, living at sea. You could drift across the water, visit islands and explore. Wouldn’t that be nice? Living in a place without worry?” Hashirama gestured around with finned hands.

His words reinforced Madara’s belief that someone out there was truly like him, truly thought like he did. Madara stared down at the water once more, mulling it over.

“Honestly, I don’t care where I end up as long as it’s somewhere where my brother can live peacefully.” Madara finally said, quieter.

Hashirama looked at the boy so similar to himself, repeating words he thought many times before. They were alike in many ways, connected in the words they didn’t say fully.

“Couldn’t that be here? We could all be together, living as one.” Madara caught the look in Hashirama’s eyes, a look he was sure his eyes mirrored. “Then, life would be better. war wouldn’t have to plague us, we’d be free from constraints.”

“…That would be a dream,” Madara murmured.

“A dream you and I could make true,” Hashirama replied.

Madara’s heart jumped.

“Well, I’ve heard stories of a land quite a bit away from here, I heard it’s nice.” Madara said, turning away.

“Then that’ll be the first place we visit!” Hashirama grinned, enthusiasm jumping from the very letters of his words.

A comfortable silence, interrupted only by the sound of rhythmic waves and light ocean breezes, fluttered over them. Hashirama leaned against the boat, tail flapping and turning the water below, Madara sitting, staring up at the hot afternoon. A smile spread across both of their faces, light and gentle.

Like this, he was sure he could spend the rest of his life. Hashirama's words rang in his head, living on the sea with his worries and politics behind. The dream seemed childish, yet with Hashirama beside him, so plausible. A place where he and Izuna could live without fear, where they could travel endlessly for days.

Madara's legs extended, dipping his feet into the cool water beside Hashirama. His eyes had begun to close under the bright sun when Hashirama jerked, perking up. His ears twitched, eyes with thin pupils darting around. Then, with a splash of disturbed water, he pointed behind Madara.

“There!” Hashirama shouted, eyes gleaming with innocent joy. Madara's head swiveled back to see a roar of water and a shadow of a creature diving below.

Hashirama lept forward, swimming to be at the back end of the boat as he peered with a hand over his eyes. Madara followed, walking forward and standing beside Hashirama. He heard the other yell, a shout of excitement as he stirred and pointed back to the waves where the head of a whale peeked out.

The sight was lost to Madara, acting as background chatter to the dangling object glittering against Hashirama's chest. When he had moved, it caught the sun, transfixing Madara's view less on the splashes of the whale and more on the necklace he hadn't paid much attention to. A pearl white, hiding within opal coloring, showing rainbows. The beads were so perfectly strung against a thin, barely visible line of string.

A part of his mind tried to focus on Hashirama's chatter and shouts, clawed fingers pointing to the boring stretch of water. Madara's mind was neither on the strong smell of sea salt, the bright sun, and endless joy of summer, but instead immersed in something else entirely. Naming it felt like a betrayal. To whom? Madara didn't know.

Hashirama's non-humanness stood out the more he stared, the transparent flaps of green, long tail that stretched below the water, barely visible between the darkness. Still, despite sharp claws and prickly teeth, Madara couldn't believe Hashirama to he dangerous; he'd proved that many times. If not fear, Madara didn't want to keep digging at the feeling that made his heart jump.

“You missed it!” Hashirama's loud voice snapped Madara from his daze.

“I saw,” Madara muttered, eyes still glued to the necklace as Hashirama moved about.

“You weren't even looking at it.” Hashirama groaned.

“Yes, I was.” Madara narrowed his eyes.

“No, you weren't.”

“I was.”

“You weren't.”

“Hn.” Madara crossed his arms, looking down at the water

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Hashirama move. A clattering sound snapped Madara's attention back up, just in time to see Hashirama's outstretched hand full with a handful of pearls, falling over his hand and held together only by the string. Hashirama thrust it into his hand.

“What's this for?” Madara asked, turning the gorgeous cloud-colored pearls in his hand, watching them sparkle into rainbows with the sun's joy.

“You were staring at them, weren't you?” Hashirama laughed, a beautiful sound, warm and earthy, blessing Madara's ears. Unsure what to do with them, Madara inspected them once more before reaching down to hand them back.

Hashirama laughed harder, head tilting backwards. The pearls hung forgotten in place of the more cultivating display. Only once Hashirama brought them up again did Madara remember he still held them in his hands.

“It's a gift!” Hashirama pushed them back to him, grinning with wide, prickly teeth. “You clearly wanted them.”

“A gift.” Madara mirrored.

The water crashed and flowed rhythmically around, rocking the sailboat in a gentle pattern. As Madara turned the pearled necklace in his hands, it glittered in the sun's afternoon joy. Bright. Clean. Being pressed against Hashirama's skin as it was, Madara felt the air of warmth Hashirama had given it.

The whale in the distance was forgotten, a background hum to the innocent, open look Hashirama had in his eyes.

“I can keep it?” Madara asked quietly, tightening his hold on the pearls. His hands felt filthy touching something so pure. He wanted to give it back, to give it to someone he knew wouldn't destroy the virtue it held.

Hashirama nodded, his voice even softer. “It's for you.”

A silence overcame them as Madara watched Hashirama closely, noting the nervous twitch of his cheek. Hashirama stared back with an emotion Madara couldn't quite grasp beneath his eyes.

With shaking hands, Madara lifted the necklace over his head and allowed it to fall against his chest with a soft clack.

“...Thank you.” Madara muttered. He felt heat rise to his face, burning hotter than the sun reigning down on them.

Hashirama looked away, intent on watching the water move. The sailboat rocked steadily back and forth, the breeze picked up in force. A disturbance, a large object slamming into blue, sounded to their right, forcing Hashirama out of his silence.

“Another whale!” Hashirama grinned, pointing to the smudge of a movement blending in with the grey sea.

This time, Madara leaned forward undistracted, a jingle of pearls sounding as he did. He squinted to see the large, navy tail of a whale retreating below the surface, splashing a great turbulence of water up into the air.

“Did you see it?” Hashirama shouted, turning to Madara with flaming eyes.

“Yes!” Madara laughed in reply, unable to conceal the pure glee across his face.

“We need to get closer,” Hashirama said, already reaching behind the boat to push it forward. The shock of speed was less this time, more a joyful feeling as wind rushed past him like a blissful embrace rather than a sudden burst.

Madara spent the majority of the afternoon chasing whales with Hashirama, pointing out each one with fervent excitement. Any worries were forsaken under the warmth of summer.

For those few hours, far from the Uchiha compound, Madara felt everything was childishly perfect.

The sky tinged in colors warm, orange, and husky as night took over. Madara was slow in his pace back to Ishiyama, a soft smile still weighing on his lips. He fiddled with the pearls on his neck, intertwining his fingers between to strum the string that held them. If he focused enough, he swore he felt Hashirama's self still inside the necklace.

Despite the afternoon of effortless radiance, Madara felt the shift in the air the closer his strides came to the clan grounds. Unease settled through him, a wary feeling unconsciously straightening his back. Madara tightened his hold on the pearls, pulling the necklace off in a single motion and shoving it deep in his pockets.

The Uchiha clan's flag, tall on both sides of the gate with their symbol centered, mocked him. Madara felt the weight of its stare, as if his ancestors watched and detested him. Standing in front of the gate, blocking the setting sun, was a figure.

“Izuna?” Madara called. The figure stirred slightly, lifting his head to gaze at Madara. “What are you doing out here?” Madara's footsteps rushed faster to the gate. The sun shone behind Izuna, outlining him in a bask of falling sunlight.

The closer Madara got, the clearer Izuna's face, covered in shadow, became. He looked at Madara as if he'd never seen him before, or as if he'd just seen him. His brows furrowed, and his face locked tightly.

Izuna's eyes were glossy and tired. His fingers fiddled with a loose thread of his clothes, worry with each finger. His other hand clenched at his side, fingernails pressing red marks into his palm. Izuna's tense face resembled Tajima's too well.

“Nii-san,” Izuna said once Madara stood before him. His voice was quiet, childlike.

“Father wants to speak with you.”

Chapter Text

The audience room was stuffy, air stale and tense. Madara felt the weight of his father's stare, giving no inch of emotion from his cold black eyes. Izuna bit at the inside of his cheek, knelt next to Madara, and opposite to Tajima's side.

A descending sun of muted indigo and fading pastels dusted in orange hues peaked over the horizon, clinging to the last bit of influence it held over the sky. The window captured its end perfectly, and in it showed the harsh contrast of the inner house. Lingering dust in corners, shadows made angled and rough, cracks chipping away at the wall.

Madara felt the reality of everything hit; the warmth of the day leaving nothing but cold, grasping burning embers. A rotten sense overpowered any lingering sweet sense like a tulip that's bud finally bruised.

Madara's eyes were on his hands. His nails dug into callouses as a way to ground himself. The room was far too silent, too rigid. Every whistle of outdoor noise is blocked by the inner room. He pressed hard into the yellow skin bumps. The pain made him wince.

“Father,” Madara said. “What is this about?”

Tajima's face twitched. His eyes turned momentarily softer, but the hardness that followed could part mountains. His lips spread into a thin line and his eyebrows furrowed slightly. The change was barely noticeable and greatly concealed. There was a wetness to his eyes.

Madara pulled his gaze away and glanced at Izuna, who met his gaze. Madara kept his face a neutral medium he knew Izuna couldn't decipher. When the other found nothing, he looked away to stare at the ground below Tajima's feet. Madara continued to watch him.

Izuna had none of the same perfected grace in hiding emotion as Tajima did. His face displayed each emotion readily. Shame, pity, disgust, grief, all highlighted openly in his downcast eyes. Madara could not gauge the reason behind them and the worry itched below his skin.

“Madara, do not lie to me.” Tajima said. The loud ring of his voice was deep and resigned against the room, adding to the thin air. Madara met his eyes and was chilled by the bitter cold in them. “That strange ‘boy’ you've been leaving early to meet with, how much do you know of him?”

Madara's jaw slackened slightly, his brows furrowed together. “Father — ”

“Izuna has told me all about your meetings, so tread lightly.” Tajima warned.

Madara clamped his mouth shut, lowering his head slightly and sparring a glance at his brother. Izuna did not meet his eyes, head bowed low enough that stray curls covered his expression, leaving only his mouth twisted in shame.

“Tell me, Madara, do you know what that boy is?” Tajima asked again, leveling a cutting glare at him.

“What do you mean?” Madara asked. He pressed his nails deeper into his palm, furrowing his brows further.

Hashirama was a siren, or a creature similar. Madara knew that to be true. Yet, Tajima's tone, Izuna's face contorting to disgust, and the overwhelming feeling of dread circling his gut alluded to much more.

The waves reminded him so clearly of Hashirama, as did the morning sunrises when they would meet quickly. The water no longer sickened him; his brother's bloodied face didn't reflect in the water's light-scattered surface. Madara felt connected deeply to the sea, a sense of calming peace influenced by lazing days rocking against it, Hashirama by his side.

Hashirama was an anchor Madara could detail his thoughts to, which he would mirror. They were similar and bonded in ways that even he and Izuna weren't. Madara found it didn't matter that Hashirama was a siren; he brought him no danger. Hashirama was a boy just like himself, regardless of species. It's as though they were cut from the same cloth, fated to meet.

“I will not dance around this matter any longer,” Tajima sighed, fluttering his eyelids shut to reveal hours of unrest and hidden secrets present in dark, heavy circles. “That boy is a Senju, are you fully aware of that?”

“A Senju?” Madara mirrored, squinting his eyes. The name brought back memories of teachings Madara endured back during classes, learning of the clan's rich history and many enemies. The Senju clan had been one of these formidable enemies long before even Tajima's elders' time. Madara shook his head.

“They were irradiated long ago,” he said, fiddling with his fingers. Against his pants pocket, the weight of beads dug into his knelt thigh.

“That is what the scrolls say, yes,” Tajima replied. “But that is not the whole truth. They were never human. They were beasts, monsters with alluring promises. They were sirens.”

Madara swallowed thickly. “Sirens are myths. Fables they tell to children to scare them,” Madara said. His voice was unbelievable even to his own ears. Tajima glared.

“All myths were cut from a truth,” he said. “Why do you think, Madara, that there were never traces of Kuro's body found? Or any of the men, for that matter.” Tajima's voice was cold, detached.

Madara froze. Izuna hunched into himself.

“He was murdered. Eaten. That is what they do.” Tajima's words wavered. His hands clenched at his sides yet he continued. “Our ancestors set out to appease them. We did not finish them off and conquer their glory. Instead, we made an agreement. They would not kill our men, we would not kill them in return. They still feast on bodies, though not of the living.

“Until now. The members of our clan are efficient swimmers, they would not have drowned so easily.” Madara wanted to cover his ears, a sickness bubbling in his throat. “They killed our men for revenge. We have depleted their habitat of fish, causing damage to their homes. They decreed that they will not sit by.”

The audience room spun. The walls closed in on Madara's lungs, crushing them thin. Madara's nails drew blood. Slimy, thick, in the palm of hands. Little dots ran down between his fingers.

“We received a message from the team I'd sent out,” Tajima continued. “It was as we had assumed. The Abrume clan are hunting those vile creatures back. Their famine problem is quickly becoming resolved. If they can completely return to full strength, they will not hesitate to invade.”

Madara stayed silent, staring at the floor.

“I will need to inform the clan of the dangers hidden in our seas. If you continue to indulge yourself with this creature, you will be deemed a traitor.

“However, there is still much to learn from him. Tomorrow, you will meet with him as usual. Find out as much information from him as you can. If your motives are discovered, kill him.”

“Yes, father.” Madara replied. He bowed his head, and the audience concluded.

Crickets chirped, singing a rhythmic tune throughout the dark skies. No glint of a moon or the bright shadow that it cast remained. Taking its usual glowing space, vast stars all puny in comparison made up the darkness. Madara longed to see the moon — a bright light within the dotted stars. The night was unchanged otherwise and despite the moon's missing presence the music it sang didn't waver.

Madara, in the deeper hour of the night, found himself unwilling to rest. An uneasy, angry buzz slithered through his skin, nervousness clawed at his stomach, a cold sweat and fast beating heart brought along dread and nausea.

Madara lay on his side, back turned to the window. His hair was stuck with warm, moist sweat to his forehead, and his clothes felt like one with his damp skin. Even through the comforting sheet of his futon, Madara still felt the weight of wood against his shoulder, digging in and splintering.

Alone, with his ear drowning out the noises of midnight, Madara was left with the turmoil of his mind. Each memory of the sea was tainted, the joyful hours replaced with horror once more. Hashirama's eyes were an undisturbed pool of color with ardent depth. The deep, cat-like pupil that reflected the world around him differently, openly childishly, without a care, a way Madara wanted to express himself. Was it all fake?

The apprehension he'd had originally fizzled out among their meetings, devolving into a string of complex emotions and feelings he failed to decipher. Hashirama never showed a hand of malice. He'd seemed just like Madara, the sun and moon destined to meet only at dusk and dawn. Perhaps it was all a ploy.

The necklace Hashirama had given him rested on the bedding before him, strung like a circle of beads. Madara reached out, connecting his hands with the chill opal pearls. They'd since lost the warmth they had when it was with Hashirama. Now, they were cold to the touch.

Grabbing them within a fistful, Madara clutched them against his chest. He'd hoped they'd have an effect, a breeze to cool the overlapping thoughts. Instead, they just warmed underneath his palm.

Madara recalled Shinya. He'd been gone months, having left when winter was beginning to slow. Now, in the depths of summer, only a single message had been sent. Madara felt worry chewing at him, even if the other was often a bother, Madara had grown with him and learnt to accept his flaws long ago. His cousin was somewhere high in the ranking for Uchiha heirs, however Shinya never showed aggression or malicious intent. He instead stayed to himself, showed real grief when each of his brothers died, and could read Madara easily.

Shinya had always been intelligent and well rounded, calm even in the worst of things. He'd been the one to drag Madara from the shore that day, level-headed enough to know it was moronic to do anything then. If not for him, Madara would've killed himself with insanity.

Sleep was a constant battle as flashes of Kuro blazed inside his eyelids. The memories he'd since pushed down, almost forgotten, came back with resounding impact. On some days, Madara felt a slap of guilt. Kuro's memory had begun to fade along with the rest of his brothers; a bad fever dream at most. Madara wished it had stayed that way.

Kuro had died with angelic perfection. The only thing amiss with him in his final moments was a deep cut against his head, streaking red across his face. He was soaked, but unharmed. Whatever had killed him, it certainly wasn't his wounds. Madara felt a sick nausea pang in his stomach, praying the images would end.

The moment Madara and he were separated, he could've been torn apart. Limb for limb, inhumanly broken and grasped at. Claws ripping through skin made of porcelain. Thick, heavy red spilling from the wounds and mixing with salted sea. His face Madara shared many laughs with, ripped in two with sharp teeth. All that would be left would be a single bracelet, harboring a glimmering gem; doomed to be forever forgotten under the sea as the animals defiled it.

The throbbing ring that had yet to let up in Madara's ear since that day began to sound. Unbearable, loud. The noise had ceased for a while, but came back in full force recently. Madara recalled the song Hashirama had sung to him. He hadn't put much thought into it then. Under this new moon, Madara was restless in finding out why Hashirama knew the thing constantly humming in his mind. When he did, the world went fuzzy. A warmth resided over Madara. He became oddly calm, and unaware of everything.

The implications bruised his mind. It swelled, feeling too full of words for his head.

Madara took one last glance at the sliver outside, showing from through the window shutters. He rose from his bed, worried the creaking in the wooded floors would give him away. Madara pushed open the shutters, the heated warmth of summer still lingering even in the deep night. Madara looked back, eyes falling to the necklace in his bed. Distinct and out of place. He turned back and climbed out the window.

Shoeless, Madara's feet met with tall, uncut grass. It poked at his ankles, but felt ever so soft against his sole. Each step was a step of soft dirt, connecting his body to the earth below. It was empty, and quiet. The noises of the night filled the gap of silence. The clan's lamps guided him to the outskirts of the clan. Madara paused before two possible paths.

The hill below led from rich dirt to soft sand, and endless trees to endless waves. The beach rested not far outside his clan. Madara's body almost instinctively took him to the shore, nights just like these spent splashing with companionship rather than alone. Madara's heart begged for the sea, yet his feet dragged him to the other path, turned away from the sea. It led to a large forest, behind it the Hagoromo clan's main camp, Kasugayama.

Madara chewed his lip and walked into the forest. The branches resembled tall, skeletal arms reaching to the dark sky. Trees huddled close together with bushes grown in the spaces. A simple road had been laid, following it led an easy way in and out of the forest. Without the moon, this road was dark and barely visible. Madara followed its memory, looking out into darkness.

Vines, trees, and the overgrowth of forests surrounded him. The songs of crickets and owls, rustling of leaves and the sounds of distant animalistic footsteps. Eventually, the noises were replaced with the sound of a rushing river nearby.

Throughout all seasons, the river rushed forward. In summer it thrived with bloomed flowers and green growth all around. Its edges ran forward without disturbance. The trees parted where the river sat. Madara's eyes felt heavy with sleep, deep bags beginning to form. He felt calmer, listening to the water flow.

Madara paused as his eyes caught something. From the opposite side of the river, a dark figure blending seamlessly into the darkness stirred. Madara recognized him instantly.

“Izuna?” Madara called, squinting. Izuna, knelt before the river, flinched into action. His brows furrowed and he looked across the river, making out the rough shape of his brother.

“Nii-san?” Izuna questioned back. He wore his rest clothes, dark blue in color and matching with the night's sky. His eyes were slightly reddened, rounded at the sides. Dark ebony hair stuck up in spiked directions. Madara mused he looked no better.

“It's the middle of the night,” Madara said. “Why are you out so late?”

Izuna's expression turned guilty, eyes casting downward.

“I just came for a quick walk outdoors.” He chewed on his lip, nails digging at the rich soil beside the stream.

Spanning across the river were a group of dark rocks forming a path, dark and glossy in color. Madara carefully crossed their sharp edges and knelt beside his brother. Izuna lowered his head as Madara neared, his eyes locked to the tall grass they sat in. Silence situated over them, disrupted by the sounds of the rushing river and bustling leaves. Izuna tapped his finger against his knee.

“You are brilliant and strong, Nii-san.” Izuna murmured, head lowered. “I can't understand how you fell for that siren's tricks.”

Madara tensed, glancing at Izuna. He met his flat black gaze, narrowed eyes filled bemusement and something Madara couldn't discern.

“I'm not sure,” Madara replied. Hashirama had done no wrong. Madara was sure he wasn't bewitched with its song.

“Do you hate me?” Izuna asked.

Madara startled. His brows furrowed and he bore his gaze in Izuna's downcast head.

“Hate you? What for?” Madara asked. His voice had risen in volume, enough to combat the quiet sanctuary of nature.

“For telling Father. I was sure you were under its influence, yet,” he swallowed thickly. “I'm not sure anymore.”

An overreaching guilt squeezed his heart. In a cruel world that churned out life after life, leaving blood baths behind each of its twisted morals, Madara promised to shield his siblings from any of it. Death proved to be merciless, calculating on what crushed another morale the most. Madara had failed to say the things he'd wanted to many times before. The regret lived below his very skin.

Izuna would not be one of them. If anyone stood in the way of his happiness, his stability, Madara would not fail to rid himself of them. Even if they'd begun to mean something to him.

“Izuna,” Madara said after a pause. “No matter what happens, you're the last person I could ever hate.” He rested a hand on Izuna's shoulder, rocking him gently.

Izuna lifted his head, a shadow of a smile flashing across his face.

“That's oddly sappy for you, Nii-san.” Izuna chuckled as Madara huffed. His tone still held slight uncertainty, though his shoulders and tenseness had eased.

“It's too late to be out in the forest,” Madara said, biting his tongue at the irony. “Let's head back before someone notices.”

Izuna didn't argue and together, they crossed the rocks to the river and headed down the lightless path to the clan. The lamps surrounding Ishiyama became clear once they reached it.

Izuna was soon fast asleep. Madara's eyes hung heavy, yet his mind surged forward. A vile sickness tainted his stomach. Hashirama had caused more hurt than good. Madara curled in his bed, eyes shut tight. In his bed again, the soft snores of Izuna in the opposite room grounded him. Next to him the pearl necklace still lay.

Madara's mind didn't linger on Hashirama. His thoughts were solely on Izuna, his face. Madara promised himself to always be there for his brother. The last remaining and the only thing he still held close to his heart. Perhaps he had been under Hashirama's spell.

Soon, dawn began to stretch itself across the horizon. Light flowed through his window shutters, bright and obnoxious, husky and an orange-grey. It hurt his head, bright against his clammed eyelids. He would need to officially wake soon. He would need to complete what his father had ordered him to do.

Madara was not a rule breaker, but he was no rule follower either. The possible consequences outweighed anything else. A slim orange light outlined the dust beginning to cover Madara's room, settling over the items he'd barely used.

Madara grabbed the pearls, held their weight in his hands and neared a drawer in a corner of the room. Dust settled on its top and the floor beneath it. Madara tugged the final drawer open, dropping the necklace inside. He buried it below a pile of clothes. Grabbing one final thing from the drawer, Madara slammed it shut.

He would be prepared for his and Hashirama's final meeting.

Madara's sandals sunk into heated sand. He squinted at the rising dawn, casting light scattered amongst the sea. Dawn brought along a rainbow of color in the sky, purples and oranges mixed as one with pink lightening their edges. Shining along a blue sea with it's waters crashing along yellowed sand brought a brightness to the morning. It seemed too joyful, too perfect for Madara's paining heart. The world mocked him with its joy.

Behind him, two shadows hid behind the cliff's trees, watching. They were equipped with weapons. Reassurance. The trees and their branches covered any trace of them and the motive. The light reflected off bright green leaves. Madara turned back to the shoreline, fingers twitching.

Every noise stood out to him, the birds awakening with chirps and songs. Trees rustling in an early morning breeze, readying for the heat to come. Madara's eyes sported dark circles beneath them, purple and deep. The restlessness stayed behind his eyes, pounding his head and dulling his senses. Madara knew Izuna and Tajima were close, waiting in anticipation as well.

Madara had been unaware of the walk to the beach. Each step was a moment outside of his own body. The world blurred at the edges and he now stood basking in the morning sunlight.

He didn't allow his mind to wander as he waited. An unmoving force, a tall oak withstanding the wind, such was Madara's conviction. He knew Hashirama would show. Whether it was instinct, or routine he knew.

Suddenly, the wind stopped. The trees froze their leaves, the birds halted their song. Madara's senses quickly alerted. Like a cat preparing to pounce in its prey, the morning held its breath. A wave crashed on shore, large enough to almost splash Madara. He'd kept his distance from the water, standing too close nauseated him.

A large display of movement caught his attention. A bit further out, water splashed up to reveal Hashirama's upper form. He was quite a distance from shore. Enough of a distance that he could fully submerge below the water. Madara was far enough from shore that if needed, the forest was close behind. Hashirama did not move closer. Madara did not either.

“Hey,” Hashirama said.

“Yo,” Madara responded.

“I don't want to go far out today, if that's alright.” Hashirama fiddled with clawed fingers. His eyes didn't meet Madara's. The water was muddled, but Madara could make out the form of his anxious tail gliding back and forth.

“Yeah, that's fine.” Madara nodded. He kept his eyes on Hashirama, not daring to glance behind him. “I...I brought you something.” He said, worried his tone would betray his motives. It sounded odd, loud and awkward even to his own ears. He reached in his pocket, fisting the item. He needed to know it was still there.

Hashirama's face flickered in surprise, then he furrowed his brows. “I brought you something too.” Hashirama almost whispered. There was no radiant joy in his voice, no pipe up about the coincidence. Something was noticeably wrong with Hashirama. The jig was up, childhood memories that would stay forever in the back of Madara's mind.

Madara saw the outline of Hashirama's hand underwater, holding something. He still made no indication to move closer.

“Catch.” Madara reached into his pocket, covering the item in his hand. He balled it tightly together, and tossed it across the painted sea. It carried all remaining pieces of his broken hope.

Hashirama fumbled, but ultimately caught it. He held it in his hand for a moment, still balled together. He looked at it, bemused. Hashirama's remaining hand still hid under the water, holding an intelligible item before he finally threw it to Madara.

“Here,” Hashirama called.

The object he'd thrown was slimy, hard to catch. It slipped through his hands as he barely succeeded in catching it. The fish was dead, though its coat of thickness remained on its skin. The large yellow eye gazed at Madara, glossed over and soulless. Its scales dared to break apart, flaking off its body. Madara paused.

Red claw marks deep enough to hit bone were etched in its skin. The word 'run' had been scratched into the fish's entire side. Large and unmistakable. The inner blood of the fish had been drained, the cut didn't bleed. It wasn't a fresh cut.

Hashirama stared at the balled up cloth Madara had thrown at him. It dampened under his hold, but its message in dark black ink was undeniable. The word 'scram' had been written across the small cut of cloth, a dark navy blue. The ink didn't disappear amongst the water. It wasn't recently written.

Madara looked up at Hashirama. The world held its breath again. The sun was higher in the sky, casting a ray of light against Hashirama's back. The light shone on Madara's face and brought forth the light hidden in black eyes.

Their gazes met, and an understanding past anything verbal ever said translated through them. Hashirama's face showed the same conviction. Their similarities ran deep, it seemed.

Hashirama flicked his tail. Madara stood up straighter.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to stay,”Hashirama said, a nervous smile pressing his lips into a thin line. He fiddled with his fingers again. His body grew taunt.

“Right. I'll see you...” Madara nodded. He moved back, sandals digging in and uprooting thousands of tiny sand grains. He needed to get out of here. Whatever danger was awaiting him and Hashirama, he wouldn't stay to find out. He hoped Hashirama would go. He hoped he'd go far and never return.

Madara dared to glance behind him.

It'd been too late. Two shadows jumped out from the forest, rustling bushes loud enough to startle birds into a screeching set of warning calls. Tajima and Izuna had caught on, and in seconds they held drawn harpoons at Madara's sides. Their faces were stoic. Madara barely had time to worry for Hashirama.

They poised to attack, yet before they could two fast moving splashes erupted from the water. A man, older and worn lines similar to Tajima's and a boy looking to be Izuna's age appeared beside Hashirama. The boy's white was a stark contrast to Hashirama and the man's brown-black hair. Red markings indented his cheeks and chest.

When the sirens revealed themselves, Tajima's face turned bitter. He readjusted the harpoon. The siren licked his teeth. Both sides were seconds away from pouncing and ripping one another apart. Madara and Hashirama stood frozen, backs half turned.

Madara felt the danger radiating off the kin next to Hashirama. Where Hashirama's prickled smile brought remindings of spring, calm warmth after a harsh season, the two beside him brought nothing but cold. The desecrating of any un-harvested crops when the first winter storm hits, the destruction a disease brings, all reflected in their eyes of black pools. Sharp teeth felt truly threatening, the long claws felt like a true show of inhumanity. These were the kind of sirens that killed Kuro, not Hashirama.

Madara spun to face them, watching as Hashirama did the same. His face was one of guilt and horror that Madara's mirrored. Both sides stood ready, one quick but bolted in the water. The other stuck on land for safety. They both held themselves to either attack or defend.

The birds quieted and a breeze picked up, bristling up Hashirama bangs in front of his face. They were growing too long. Madara thought as his clothes swayed in the wind and his hair followed. The waves crashed on shore, gently. They were tranquil, like even they knew bothering the moment would result catastrophically.

The more Madara looked, trying to find differences between Hashirama and the monsters beside him, the less he could. Hashirama's once innocent face began to change. The image of him he'd held in his brain distorted into reality. All of the imperfections he'd had, Madara's mind had concealed. Hashirama looked just like them. Black eyes with a barely visible cat-like pupil, claws, sharp teeth. The gills of Hashirama's neck fluttered. Madara felt sick

Standing with them, there was no difference between Hashirama and the creatures. They didn't know the Hashirama Madara had become accustomed to. Without the full knowledge of memories under the sun, without true experience on how harmless he could be, he looked as vile as the rest of them. Was he like that the entire time? Had Madara truly been bewitched into believing otherwise?

“We meet again, Uchiha Tajima.” The siren's gruff voice sounded from the sea. His teeth glinted dangerously.

“Senju Butsuma,” Tajima all but growled in return. His weapon glinted in the rising sun's light.

Izuna's eyes met with white haired boy across the shore. The two of them squared up to attack.

He looked at his brother. Madara could see the fear on Izuna's face. His hands tightened around the harpoon. He wouldn't show it outright, not in front of father, much less an enemy. Madara looked at Hashirama again, to the sirens beside him. A revelation hit him. They wouldn't back down. Neither would Tajima or Izuna. Madara remembered briefly the day Hashirama sung to him. The song completely disassociated him. He'd been too under its influence to realize anything around him. If they used their voices, Madara knew his brother and father stood no chance.

To Madara's horror, he saw Butsuma's eyes glow dangerously. He opened his mouth, locking eyes with Izuna, and a low note vibrated the air between them. Izuna went stiff, blinking. Tajima realized and in seconds the harpoon in hands went flying. The target was the white haired boy beside Butsuma.

“Stop!” Madara and Hashirama shouted simultaneously.

Madara swerved towards Izuna, his gaze already having glossed over, and slammed his hands over his ears. Hashirama meanwhile, jumped to push his brother out of the way. The harpoon went tumbling to the bottom of the sea and Butsuma snarled but stopped singing.

Madara grabbed the remaining harpoon from Izuna's hands, standing protectively in front of him. Hashirama remerged before his brother, his dumbfounded look was gone. The light remnants of the Hashirama Madara had come to know, vanished under glaring features. Madara held the harpoon higher in return.

“I won't stand for anyone trying to hurt my brother,” Madara shouted to Hashirama. There was something quick, a flash of betrayal and hurt before Hashirama covered it.

“Neither will I!” he responded.

Tajima drew a smaller blade from his pocket. “Do you think we can take them, Madara?”

“No.” Madara shook his head. “Their singing will overpower us.”

Tajima nodded sourly, already pulling back. Izuna seemed to regain himself enough to step back as well.

Madara took a last, long glance at Hashirama. He didn't recognize the boy he saw looking back. For once, Madara understood. He had never had great eyes, could never spot someone's true emotions easily. Yet, now it was as if the world had changed.

He could see Hashirama clearly, every gritty part of him he'd ignored. He could see the anger, betrayal, and sadness so openly. Hashirama had a simmering rage below it all, like he wanted to grab Madara, to rip him apart and eliminate his threat. Madara could also see that he wouldn't. Madara knew Hashirama wouldn't hurt him. He couldn't. None of them could. Not while he was on land.

Madara began to turn away, only to hear Hashirama's voice call out.

“Madara! What about our dream? Are you going to give that up?” Hashirama said, his voice boarding depression.

His eyes tried to look innocent, yet the underlying darkness stopped them. Madara had begun to see Hashirama as human, when he was far from it. Skin too untouched, too unblemished. The perfect porcelain skin made him uncanny, eyes so dark the pupils melted in them. The gills on his neck were a sickly nature green, his ears too pointed. Even the smile Madara had grown accustomed to was barely one. It was a grimace of teeth he'd imagined to be a smile. Hashirama's hands may've been warm, being near him may've felt just right, but it was nothing but delusion.

“That dream is yours, not mine.” Madara replied.

He then turned and left the beach, the final remains of his childhood, and Hashirama behind him.

Chapter Text

Tall trees slowly began to lose their green, turning into vibrant shades of reds and oranges that colored the landscape and winding forests. Morning skies grew more misty and the temperature began to slowly fall as the season of autumn crept closer. Animals trotted across muddy grounds and readied themselves for the long winter. The smell of crisp nature radiated through the air.

Madara rested on the porch below a large tree, leaves reddening and falling slowly to the floor. A scroll rested in his hands, unfinished and unread. A small travel bag was open beside it. Madara was more enclosed in his thoughts, watching nature's final performance stir the world before the dead cycle of snow.

It had been slightly over a year since the day at the beach. After he had left him, Madara became more ingrained in the clan's processes. He worked closely with Tajima and many elders. He focused on border disputes and helping placate wars. He took on missions the Uchiha were hired for with ease. Madara immersed himself in Izuna and kept him well.

Madara began to fix himself into the perfect mold of clan head, letting anything that came between it fall behind. And if silently, when the shadows were long and the owls hummed, Madara thought back to a bright prickly smile and warm summer days, no one would know.

Wind rustled his hair, grown past his chest now, to the side. Despite it already being the afternoon, Madara had not yet changed from his rest clothes. For now, he allowed himself a day of laze. Madara leaned back, laying his back on creaky wood. The scroll rolled off his chest, the rod clattering down beside him. Madara squinted at the large clouds.

The seas were a larger danger than ever before. Any ship that went to sea had to be meticulously planned, stored with many weapons. Many didn't believe the news of such underwater monsters truly existing. Not until the deaths hit. Until many witnessed them with their own eyes. The past year had been chaotic with truths spilling and allies made simply to keep them alive. When the past winter hit, a true death of astounding magnitude forced many clans to work with one another.

The Fūma clan had constructed a set of cannons to be used against them. They weren't effective at hitting such quick moving targets, but the threat they imposed could ward off anything weak. Harpoons and blades were most effective at keeping the more threatening ones at bay.

Madara's eyes fluttered shut as he laid in thought. Soon, the sound of disturbed nature and crunching of boots against leaves altered him. Madara raised his head to see Izuna returning from sea, red nosed with hair ruffled and puffed.

He was fourteen and his face had finally lost the childhood roundness, and it instead changed to sharpen his features. Bags under his eyes grew deeper, and he grew more into Tajima's son as the days passed. Izuna had also grown taller, with his voice deepening and losing the high pitched tone. Madara had apparently grown as well, though the changes he saw in himself were few and far between.

“No issues, I hope?” Madara said once Izuna neared.

“None,” Izuna replied cheerfully. “It was this girl's first time on a larger vessel, and she did get somewhat seasick.” Izuna sat next to Madara, looking up at the tree casting a shadow over them.

“I see,” Madara replied.

“How long have you been out here?” Izuna questioned.

“Not long. I simply felt reading outside would be a better alternative to reading indoors.”

“Yes, what with this chill, it seems the winter won't be much easier.” Izuna said sourly. “We may as well spend the most time we can outside.”

“The winter is never easy,” Madara responded. “We can only hope that with the Fūma and Hogoromao completely by our side it'll be easier to manage."

“We could also possibly gain the Nara soon, I overheard Father mentioning it. Since they are so nicely knit in with the Yamanaka and Akimichi, an alliance with them will basically ensure the others as well.” Izuna leaned back with Madara, staring at the sky.

“Banning together is the best approach in times like these,” Madara said.

A comfortable silence swayed the air between them. Rustling branches and a whistling wind sounded. Izuna's heavy breathing relaxed. Madara's eyes had begun to close when Izuna spoke again.

“I've got nothing to do for the rest of today,”he said. “How about we spar for a bit?”Izuna had already sat up, looking down at Madara through a mischievous grin.

“Unfortunately, I can't.” Madara said. He too sat up, stretching like a cat under the sun. “Father had assigned me to follow up with the Fūma clan. I won't return until late next week.”

To further clarify the promise of a longstanding alliance, Tajima concluded to send over his eldest heir, meanwhile the Fūma clan sent over one of their own. Madara was instructed to walk among them, mix in and preach a full alliance. He would sign the treaty and attend their festivities. Madara was to go alone, as was the Fūma heir.

Izuna slumped but nodded. “It completely slipped my mind. So you will be heading out soon?”

“As soon as the escort arrives,” Madara said. “I've been waiting for him to show.”

As if on command, a man rushed out from the bushes. He wore the emblem of a cutting blade on his back, with light hair reflecting the sun. His face was red and his chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Uchiha-sama,” he said. “I apologize for my tardiness, but we must be headed straight away.”

Madara ignored the rudeness and nodded. He flashed a small smile towards Izuna, before he picked his travel bag, slipped on the cloak from the floor and followed the man.

The Fūma clan had built themselves high in the hills, neighboring the Yamanaka. Their clan was hard to penetrate and hard to find. With the surrounding mountains providing a natural cover the streams, rivers interlacing the main compound, they had a natural defense against all invasions.

Due to that, a specific path was to be followed. A boat was needed, it was to round the side of the island to a more barren part. A path had been laid from there upwards, as it was the safest and least jagged edge of the hillside. It led up to a tip, then was to be followed back down to the side where the clan rested. It was a short trip, but certainly not effortless.

Madara mentally prepared himself as he followed the man to the docks.

The afternoon's warmth ran over the land by the time they'd arrived.

A small ache was in his back and upper calves. The bottoms of his feet were thick and heated from the walk. Each step up steep rock was akin to walking on the sun. Madara's guide seemed to have no problem scaling the hill. Eventually, the large gate came into sight and Madara finally breathed in relief.

The Fūma clan's entrance gate is a large, carved stone structure. The clan's symbol is painted symmetrically on flags hanging over both sides of the wall. The downward slope slanted roof holds many lanterns, all unlit whilst the sun broadcasts and brightens over the land. The entrance doors are swung open, they are wooded and sturdy. Inside, greenery stands out quickly. Many large vines, bushes, and trees grow unbound along the stone path throughout the compound.

The Fūma is known to stay directly in a place. They build their villages longterm, planting seeds in a garen they know their children will be able to reap from. The Uchiha rarely rest their feet. In Madara's lifetime alone, the Uchiha have moved twice. Their clan is constantly on their feet, ready to war yet ready to retreat. The few landmarks they have are easily replaceable. The Uchiha move where their work and livelihood take them.

Madara's escort led him forward into a large building. He slips off his shoes and is taken to a room close to the back of the building. Awaiting him is a tall woman, lavender haired with sunken eyes. She appears similar in age to Tajima, and the lines under her eyes mirror his. Kneeling beside her, a shorter girl fiddles with her clothing. She appears close to Madara's age. Her hair is the same light purple shade, up in two small braids. Her eyes show innocence rather than calculation. Her demeanor is nervous rather than confident. Once Madara enters the room, his escort bows before swiftly exiting the room. He slides the door shut behind him.

“You are Madara-kun, then?” The woman's voice is fragrant and sweet. She speaks with the voice of precision. The hum before her words cut like the blade of their clan emblem.

“I am Kaori Fūma.” She gestures to the woman beside her. “My youngest daughter, Shiori.”

“It is a pleasure,” Madara bowed.

Madara couldn't conceal the tiredness coming off of him. His eyes struggled to focus, while his ears tuned in and out of Kaori's words. His exhaustion seemed to be palpable, as Kaori gave a slight, knowing smile.

“The paper formalities can wait until later. For now, I bid you to enjoy our village and rest from your journey.” She looks down to Shiori. “My daughter will be able to show you around while I attend to other matters.”Her smile brings out a flash of white pearly teeth.

“Very well,” Madara says. A small sense of relief washes through him. The ache in his back seems to lessen at the mention of rest.

Kaori leaves the room swiftly. Long lavender swishes in the buns they're held in as she disappears into the building's many rooms. Madara waits and raises at the same time as Shiori does.

They lock eyes with one another and Shiori squirms slightly. She opts to look over her shoulder as they hunch before she turns back to face him. She smiles awkwardly.

“Follow me,” Shiori says. She leads Madara outside the building, not speaking another word as he guides him out. Her lips are pressed in a thin line and she fiddles with her top.

The sun shines over them once they exist. Madara slides his shoes on and looks over at the village bursting with movement around them. Everywhere is bustling with people, moving about. Orders are yelled, children run and get grim on themselves, elderly women whisper gossip, and men lug tools over their shoulders. Madara is drawn to the simplicity and familiarity of it all when the girl beside him speaks up.

“It is nice to meet you, Madara-san.” Shiori's voice is soft and sweet. It holds no underlying meaning or drawn knives under them.

“Likewise,” Madara replies.

The sun had begun to set by the time Shiori finally left Madara, hurrying to complete duties she claimed needed her. She'd shown him around the entirety of the Fūma compound, dragging him from entertainment theaters in the middle of the city, to small pavilions hidden close to the edges. She introduced him to people whose names had already been swept from his mind and brought him to many stores.

Madara ate supper surrounded by his soon to be allies. He was regarded kindly, and was asked many questions about his clan. If Madara had been tired from the mountain climb, he was now utterly exhausted. His eyes were half lidded like a dead man's, with his movements matching closely in turn.

Once Shiori rushed off, Madara found himself walking the streets again. The Fūma clan was bustling in green flourishes, along with many small animals scurrying around. Everywhere visible was filled with overgrown plants. The nature-filled compound brought a sense of peace to Madara.

He then returned to the room he'd been lent, the very first place Shiori had shown him to. The room wasn't grand, but it was clean. A small bed side stand, a futon rolled against the wall. The wood didn't creak as he stepped on it, and the window shutters opened fully without shaking at each gust of wind. A painting rested against the wall. It depicted a small boat at sea, harsh waters rising and splashing. Two men stood on the boat, their faces drawn in worry. The paint was done excellently, with each stroke having a meaning buried beneath it.

Madara could feel a dampness lingering on the back of his neck, in between his arms and between his feet. Grim had begun to collect under his nails and the smell of sweat stuck to his hair. Madara reached into the small travel bag he'd brought, grabbing his washcloth, soap, and comb. Madara slipped from his room and towards the bathhouse. The walk was short, for the guesthouses were located closeby.

By now, the day's labors were finally over and with that men came from their jobs to bathe. The bathhouse was loud, filled with the sounds of boisterous laughter. Lights surrounded the entire building and lit it up vibrantly.

When he entered, Madara kept to himself in the furthest corner, washing himself quietly. Their conversations ran on and on. He wet his hair, combing through the wild locks that curled against his comb. He scrubbed at his body and dipped the basin over his head.

The trip to the Fūma compound hadn't been long, though still tiring. Water dripped off milky skin, slightly tanned from the fleeting summer. With each bout of water that rinsed down his chest, stomach, and thighs, a relaxation slowly befell him. Once done, he dried the splattering edges of his hair and dripping body. He slipped his change on, brushing the knots from his hair for a final time. Madara left soon after with the smell of oils and lather sticking to body.

Madara walked back to the guesthouse with the sounds of hooting owls and howling wolves distant behind him. By then, the sun was fully below the horizon and darkness of glittering stars expanded over the night sky. He took one last glance at it through the open window shutters before he clamped them shut. He unfurled his futon in the corner and rested his bag beside the bed, while his worn clothes were folded and placed on top of the desk.

Resting against the bed, Madara stared at the ceiling. The night was quiet, tranquil and like a lullaby being sung softly. His clothes hugged his slightly damp skin and the futon warmed his body from the cold wind.

Madara allowed himself to relax. He wondered how Izuna and the other heiress were doing. Most likely Izuna was occupying a similar position to Shiori and now slept soundly in his room.

Madara could already foresee the Fūma clan being a great asset to the Uchiha, and being up in the mountains as they were, they had proper coverage and an easy escape route for emergencies. They seemed kind enough, with their members keeping well to themselves.

Not much could be said for them yet, as Madara had only seen the simple clansmen. Tomorrow, Madara would meet as a representative with the Fūma elders and Kaori. He could only hope that it went well, and that they accepted the Uchiha's full conditions. The celebrations would commence the following day, after word from Uchiha messengers detailing that the same conclusion had been reached and the alliance would be formed.

Madara yawned. He turned to his side, almost falling into the night's melody when a knock ran out. A silhouette stood outside his door, lightened by a small light held in their hand. Madara immediately rose, startled and half awake as the door opened.

The tall, slender figure of a girl stood with her head peeked in. The light shone against her face to show an apologetic smile. Madara recognized Shiori's face against the light. Her clothes had changed to something simpler, while her hair had become undone from its braids and rested against her chest. In her hand a small oil lamp brought a brightness to the dark room.

“I apologize for waking you,” Shiori whispered. Her gaze glanced back down to the lamp. It was as if she was debating something. The light in her eyes flickered and a resolution glinted in them. She swallowed and met Madara's furrowed brows and confused eyes.

“I was simply wondering if you'd like to accompany me to the beach.” She said after a brief moment, fingers fiddling with the hem of her clothes once more.

“At such a late hour?” Madara asked. He watched her face grimace, as if she'd made a mistake. Madara could hear the voice of his father ringing out in his head.

“I'm sorry. I'll be going — “

Madara cut her off. “It's fine, I'll go with you.”

Shiori looked like she wanted to argue, but Madara stood up from his bed and made towards her. She hunched herself smaller, hiding her face as Madara towered over her. He hadn't payed much mind to the height difference, yet now noted the way he was a full head taller.

“Er, follow me.” She mumbled, and ushered herself out of the room. Madara followed the light of her lamp as she quickly hustled out of the guestbuilding.

They exited the town's main square, then the clan's gate, and made there way to the edge of the hill. It was steep, and when looking down Madara couldn't see any lights aside from the one Shiori held.

Slowly, they crept down the side. Shiori's footsteps were practiced and delicate, as if she'd done this many times over. Madara stumbled and struggled to keep his footing. The entirety of the hill was rocky and hard to descend. Climbing had, somehow, been easier. The black void sky only managed to grow darker by the time a small clearing between large rocks could be seen.

The beach was barely a quarter the size of the Uchiha's, with large rocky hills overcasting shadow from all sides but the vast sea. Shiori's light still burned brightly in her hand, even if the wind swished and threatened the flame.

Madara's eyes had been locked on the beach below, mediocre at best, when Shiori cried out and the lamp's light tumbled. The steep rocks were hard to navigate during the hours of sunlight, and they only became more difficult as the sun left. Instinctively, Madara reached out and grabbed her arm. He held her up while she clung to his arm and stabilized.

“Thank you,” Shiori whispered. “It's difficult to see where I'm going.”

Madara nodded in acknowledgment.

When in the huge darkness surrounding the land, the lamp could barely brighten anything and there path was murky at best. Shiori took a deep breath, and began slowly descending the hill again. The way down went without any more hitches, and soon Madara felt the soft touch of sand against his shoes, while the sea's breeze rustled his hair.

Shiori placed the lamp on the sand, digging a small hole to keep it in place. She sat beside it, crossed leg and stared at the water. With rocks clamming in all around them, the waves were violent and harsh on the beach. Each wave tumbled over the other, with white foam splashing everywhere. Shiori seemed used to it, and at peace with them. Her light eyes were stuck on the waves, like she was repeating something in her head. Madara sat next to her.

“Y'know, Madara-san, I originally had no plans of bringing you here. But, for whatever reason, it was like a voice called me, spoke to me. It told me to bring you here, and I was hypnotized enough to do so.” Shiori said. Her eyes watched him, staring at him.

Madara found something in her gaze that kept him silent. She kept talking.

“I’ve found the beach to be the only place I can feel safe. I had a friend once, a while ago. She died from the famine, when sickness took over. The beach reminds me of her. She was like you, in a way. Quiet, I mean. She was observant and...” Shiori trailed off. “Gods, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be rambling so much.”

The light from the moon shone on her lavender hair. She looked up at Madara, who could only stare at her. Her eyes glistened with wetness and Madara felt a pang of sympathy. Below it all, a small pang of déjà vu rang through him as well.

His eyes turned to the waves. He willed himself to give something, some kid of response to soothe her. Madara found none. He could only think of the boy from the beach, and soon found himself gripping handfuls of cold sand.

Shiori, undeterred, spoke again.

“Maybe then, it was my friend who's willing me to do this. She wanted me to bring you here, if only for me to be happy.” She muttered, her voice barely audible.

Madara had not realized it, but Shiori had moved closer. When he finally gazed at her, the lamp was casting a shadow against her back. Madara could feel her breath, her body inches from his. His brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could, Shiori leaned closer, and pressed her lips against his.

Madara froze, the cold air surrounding him was replaced with a surge of heat. She leaned closer, steadying herself with her hand. It dug in the sand, pressed deep enough to uncover its layers. Her eyes were closed, revealing short eyelashes that fluttered, struggling to stay closed. Madara could only stand still. His hands were still at his side, limp on the sand. His eyes were wide and endless.

Shiori soon pulled back, leaving Madara stunned and still. He could see the guilt, and regret forming on her face. She knew whatever she felt wasn't reciprocal.

Shiori brushed the sand off her clothes and began to stand, the tears in her eyes weren't lost to Madara. More than anything, he felt guilty.

Madara knew he should've felt something else. Lust, possibly love. His male cousins had described a feeling like that before, of pure bliss and tingling whenever a girl touched them. Female cousins gushed about love, the way their hearts swelled, falling over themselves, stumbling with words. Madara felt none of that. Not to Shiori, whom he'd barely known for a day, not to any other girl. The only person he'd felt a slice of that feeling with was long gone.

Whether for guilt, or to silence that sudden turn for the worst his thoughts had taken, Madara grabbed Shiori's wrist before she could run off. He pulled her back in and kissed her.

There was a sensation there this time, an instinct more than something conscious. Madara couldn't say what she tasted like, the warmth he was supposed to be feeling, for replacing it all lingered a small sense of longing he had tried so hard to push down. With each thought of the past, Madara found himself leaning closer, closer.

Eventually, Shiori was back sitting on the sand beside him. They parted to breathe, and then reconnected. Whether neither of them knew, or both of them knew, each of the other only used it to cover painful memories of the past.

They pulled away again, staring behind each other rather than at them. To ease the awkwardness, Madara moved to lean in again. His lips were seconds from hers, when a sudden thud sounded to his right. Both of them startled and turned to look at the noise.

Madara, if only to excuse himself, sat up. The noise had come from behind the large, rocky side on the right. Shiori didn't stop him from getting up. Madara stood close to the waters, feeling the incoming waves crash at his ankles.

He peeked behind the rock, both tensed yet too dazed to think. What Madara saw made him pause.

On the other side, another small pocket of a beach sat. It too had the large, rocky cliffs cover the sight from anything but the waters. Sitting in the middle, a large wooden piece had been tossed on the sand. It had hit the large, steep hillside behind it and broken into many, small pieces.

Madara turned his eyes to the sea. In the water, was a small glowing light. It was attached to the head of something, with black eyes that were hardly discernible from the darkness of the water. The thing in the water watched him. It stayed, as if it wanted him to see it. As if it knew it'd been haunting him.

“Is something there?” Shiori's worried, strained voice called from behind him.

“No,” Madara responded without hesitation.

It was then that Madara knew that no matter how much time went on, he'd never truly be able to let go of the past.

Chapter Text

The wind of a cold autumn night brushes trees and their branches, all slowly becoming like the bare arms of skeletons, reaching high into the sky. Madara feels set in place, the sand below his feet gives in a way that swoops his stomach, making him feel as though he's moments from falling. The wind blows his hair into his face, obscuring half of his vision. Madara doesn't seem to notice.

He is locked in a trance, staring at the glowing bulb of the creature in the water. From a distance, it's difficult to make out the changes. It had been so long since he'd last seen the siren boy. In the darkness of the night, the moon hidden behind the large rocky walls, seeing became a rigorous effort. Although, Madara didn't need to see to know who's eyes he was locked in gaze with.

An odd feeling puddled in his stomach, building over the heat that had risen in his gut from before. The urge to sprint towards the sea and jump in, to be close rounded his mind, as well as to run as far as possible. Madara was stuck between the two minds.

Through his squinting, Madara was able to determine that the thing in the water carried an enormous grin. The eyes were narrowed, challenging with a hint of what appeared to be envy sidelined below it.

Madara couldn't move. Whether it was for the reason he didn't want to, or for not being able to was not easily shown. Perhaps, Madara would have stood still in the parting sand imprinted with his footprints for eternity had it not been for something grabbing him from behind.

Madara tensed and immediately swiveled his head. His wild, startled eyes met with the concern reflected in Shiori's. Her light eyes blinked at him. The dark pupil was blown large, and her lips were slightly red. Her hand rested on Madara's shoulder, tapping him gently with the precision of hands taught to be light and submissive.

“Are you okay? You've been...standing here for a while.” Shiori said.

Madara didn't miss the croak in her voice that hadn't been there before and a light flush not from the cold. Rather than pride, Madara felt a twinge of disgust, knowing he'd done it. Maybe, Madara was thankful they had been interrupted.

“I believe I saw a siren,” Madara said. He noted that his voice too, sounded odd.

Shiori immediately stiffened. Her hand on Madara's shoulder retreated and she looked behind him, to the glittering waves with hardened eyes.

“Where?” Her voice had turned almost sharp.

“Right...there,” Madara faltered. He turned to look where the figure had been moments ago.

The water was empty. The shadow it cast among the broken shards of moonlight had disappeared. Madara's eyes hardened. He could almost convince himself it had been a trick of the light, a hallucination among the darkness, had it not been for the unnatural splash of the water. The sea recovered quickly, but the indent of presence of something still held an impact on the waves. Shiori seemed to notice this too, as her eyes lingered where Madara's did.

“That is terrible news,” she said. “The Fūma have had no reports of those creatures coming so close to shore ever.”

Madara didn't respond. He flexed his fingers and cleared his throat.

“Wherever it went, it's hiding. It would be best that we don't stay much longer,” He said.

“Of course,” Shiori agreed. Her eyes were locked murderously on the sea.

The flame to the lamp they'd brought was dangerously low, flickering with each gust of wind. Shiori grabbed it and shielded it against her body, keeping the flame from fully snuffing out.

Neither of them mentioned what had occurred moments earlier. They did not mention their red lips, strained voices, and the dying heat in their cores.

Shiori, knowing the route to her home best, began to climb the hillside again with Madara following behind. They soon reached a peak where the sea was last visible before they headed opposite and back up. Madara, against his better judgement, took a glance at the sea.

It was beautiful, with light scattering among its constantly moving self. The clouds were soft and high in the sky, rounded near the moon to bring out its full sized body. The sea's water was a dark indigo that matched the skies. And If Madara had noticed somewhere in the water that the shadow had reappeared, smiling with sharp teeth and glowing eyes, he did not mention it. Rather, he turned to look back at Shiori and pretended to not feel the prickling stare rising the hairs on his neck.

Madara departed the Fūma clan the following week. As expected, the diplomacy went smoothly. The Fūma and Uchiha had officially become allies. Word from an Uchiha messenger came a few days after, detailing the same. Madara spent the final few days getting more acquainted with their new allies.

Returning home felt shorter than coming. They travelled as soon as dawn spread light across the land and hit the Uchiha shore when the sun was at its height in the sky. His escort left soon after and Madara was left to return to his clan alone.

He felt slightly sluggish as he dragged himself to the forest leading into the clan. Madara had gotten used to waking early, but his eyes still hung with tiredness. He followed memory more so than sight, pressing his feet into the hardened dirt and fluttering his eyes shut.

The Uchiha gate came into view soon enough. The clan's flag was a welcome, warm sight. Madara noticed movement nearby. Awaiting him at the gate, two boyish figures stood huddled against its side. Madara smiled at Izuna and nodded at Shinya.

Shinya had come back a few weeks after Madara left Hashirama. The team he'd been sent with was no more, and he himself came bloodied and at the door of death. He'd barely survived, with days of uncertainty leading. Poison had almost been his doom.

On his face, a large scar was embedded in his skin. Raw, and still pinkish. He didn't talk about what happened, and Madara never pressed him for it. The loss of lives were a hurt for their clan, and in any other scenario they'd have entered a war with the Aburame. Their situation held them back. Madara thought, just maybe, that Shinya hated them for that.

“Nii-san!” Izuna called excitedly once Madara came closer. Madara quickened his pace to stand with them.

“How was it?” Shinya asked.

“Very well. The clan is small and secluded. The second daughter was quite kind to me.”Madara debated whether to mention anymore. Izuna was blissfully unaware, and continued on.

“The heiress was very pleasant to have around and she even taught me how to weave a thicker net.” Izuna said. “She also showed me a better way to balance on boats.”

Shinya raised a brow. “Was that before or after you fell off a boat trying to impress her?” A small, devilish smile passed his lips.

Izuna spluttered and squawked. “You said you wouldn't mention that!”

Madara held back a laugh, shaking his head.

Madara had become content with his life, it followed a usual pattern and he found solace in that. Izuna would always be by his side, and Shinya too. His cousin and brother could be much, but they were still his closest friends. Madara would spent the rest of his life like this, and he was fine with that. If a part of him longed for some childhood dream a long time ago, that hope had been mushed. Madara didn't dream of that insanity anymore, and relishing in the world he did have was better. Madara found the things he'd said then to be immature — but one thing would always be true. As long as Izuna was beside him, Madara was okay.

That evening, Madara joined his clansman in the mess hall. There were loud chatters around them, young children giggling while older men huffed. Madara sat surrounded by his cousins and brother, eating a meager meal of fish chopped into white rice. Around him, the sound of voices rang off of every wall.

He and Izuna checked in with his father and told him all about his stay, including the beach and possible siren in the water. His father had no comments, while Izuna was most interested in what occurred with Shiori. Once he was dismissed, he continued on with the day's chores. He cleaned and washed his clothes, supervised a boy slightly younger than him in swim training, attended his late afternoon studies, and then bathed before proceeding to the hall.

Around him, conversation strung from topic to topic. Madara was not an active talker, though he imputed whenever it called for it. His mind was blank and while his eyes seemed to look down at the food before him, his gaze was far from it all. Madara wished for an excuse to leave. He loved his clansman, but the afternoon of labor and travel scrambled his mind.

It has become a common occurrence lately. Madara felt almost disconnected from his brethren. It was as though he wasn't in control of the words coming from him, the practiced and often predictable tone of the day. On one hand, Madara preferred it. He wasn't one to live on edge or to do things irrationally, but maybe he wanted to change that.

Seeing the siren in the water brought back unnecessary memories he usually only allowed to haunt him at night. Throughout their day, they had lingered secondary to every thought he mused. Madara picked at his food, his appetite suddenly lost.

“I’m telling you, I have no clue where it went.” One of Madara's cousins, Tamaki, loudly complained.

“You're sure you didn't leave it at the bathhouse?” Izuna asked. He was halfway done with his food, chewing as he spoke and spitting across the table.

“Yes, the bracelet was already missing by then.” Tamaki said. He ran a hand through his short black hair, while his leg bounced under the table. He was the youngest son of Tajima's cousin.

“Could you have left it at the beach? I'm pretty sure you took it off because it kept getting in the way of the net.” Shinya said. He was completely finished with his food.

“That's where it is.” Tamaki groaned. “But It's too late for me to head over there now.”He let his face fall in the palm of his hand, pouting.

Izuna pipped up through his mouthful of food. “Well, it's not like you need it now anyway,” Izuna said through a mouthful of food. Shinya gave him a chastising glare and Tamaki grimaced.

Madara looked back down at his food, and before he could think better of it stood.

“I'll go look for it. Where'd you leave it?”

“Uh, somewhere on the floor of the boat, I think.” Tamaki replied, slightly startled.

Izuna swallowed and spoke. “Wouldn't it be dangerous to go to the beach at this time?”

“The sun hasn't fully set,” Madara responded.

“Nii-san, how about I go with you?” Izuna asked, already preparing to stand. Madara only shook his head.

“No, no. I'll be fine. What does it look like?”Madara said.

“It's a small thing, black thread with a few beads threaded in.” Tamaki said.

“Wait,” Shinya said. Madara paused and watched as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small blade. “Take it with you, only the divine know what you might find.”

“And that's exactly why he shouldn't go alone!” Izuna muttered, though his words were ignored.

Madara took the knife, slipping it into the pocket of his clothes. He quickly finished his food, shoving spoonfuls of rice and fish in his mouth. He was thankful for the excuse to leave, despite the small guilt that came with leaving Izuna behind. Though, it wasn't as if Izuna allowed him to leave without complaint. With each spoonful Madara ate, a dozen objections came from Izuna. The plate was soon empty and he rushed out of the dining hall. Izuna didn't follow him.

The air outside was crisp, wind fluttering the stray ends of his bangs into his eyes. Madara shivered slightly, but continued on. Compared to the colder nights he'd experienced in the Fūma clan, Madara decreed that he could handle this. A small sliver of the sun still shined behind the horizon and past the tall sea, casting the sky in a muted indigo. The sun still rose early and fell late, as it would until the full grip of the cold season began.

This time, Madara felt much more confident in the winter. During the trade that eventually led to an alliance, the Uchiha had been given a new variant of the rice crop. This one was more structured and better adapted to lower fresh water, and could withstand colder climates. The effects of the drought were slowly reducing, and it seems the gods took pity and decided to answer their many prayers.

The Aburame would not be as foolish as to launch and attack during the winter. So long as the Uchiha could fix themselves before Spring and reclaim their vicious title, things could return to normal.

Madara followed the lamps leading outside of Ishiyama and out to the beach, grateful for the small slope down rather than a steep hill. The stone and dirt under his feet turned to a sparkling gravel, then to a mush, soft sand. The sand was slightly warm. As Madara looked to the sky he could see the moon and sun shining together, the sun slowly descending as the moon rose opposite.

The quicker he found his clansman's bracelet, the quicker Madara would be able to go and occupy the night with himself and his mind. He debated simply saying he couldn't find it, and retreating to his room. Perhaps Madara would've usually done that, if something hadn't called him to the beach instead. Madara had no particular reason, but a strong urge guided him. Madara was slightly wary, anxious and brimming with anticipation. For, what? He couldn't tell.

Madara walked towards the docks, all boats tied roughly to the pegs. The wood creaked when he stepped onto it, years of use catching up. Madara knew the wood would need to be changed soon, as the board underneath was growing with algae.

A small ladder led off the high dock and into the water. The once strong metal it had been made of rusted and felt jagged under his fingers. Madara sat on the highest peg and inspected the boats bobbing in the waves. There weren't many at this dock, and the ones that stayed were old as well.

During the warmth of summer they had built a new dock further out when they'd expanded further into Hogoramo territory soon after their alliance. This dock held the much smaller canoe boats.

The setting sun didn't offer much light, and the flame of the lamp hung above the dock flickered and expelled black smoke.

It would burn through soon. Madara thought.

He squinted and reached into the bottom inner of the canoe, feeling around. The first boat was empty, as was the second. Inside the boats were only the splash of leftover water, pooling in the innards of the boat, and the nets. Madara reached into the third. He felt the cold touch of the water, and in the corner his hand met with the feeling of a small string. He reached to pull it out. A small, black beaded bracelet strung on worn string.

Sickeningly, Madara was reminded of another bracelet. At the bottom of the sea, which he'd only gotten a small glance of, yet knew whose it was. Madara and Izuna had waited many months to clear out Kuro's stuff from his room, and even then they clung to the majority of it. They tried not to pay attention to the fact that they'd done this before, and mixed in with Kuro's was that of his other brother's as well.

Finding what he needed, Madara stood up on the rusted ladder. He clung to the wooden, splintered edge of the dock while he shoved the bracelet in his pocket. Madara began to climb up, staring at the sea with his back to the ladder. The first step hit the peg above. Madara prepared to rise back on the dock, his hand already reaching up to do so. The old metal beneath his feet gave out before he could and Madara plunged into the sea, the ladder falling with him.

Madara thrashed when cold water hit him. The night's air already held a level of chill resembling the cold of autumn, and the sea was only impossibly colder. His skin prickled with goosebumps and the bracelet he'd held tightly in his grasp floated just as soaked beside him.

Madara regained himself quickly and resurfaced with practiced ease. The damage, however, had already been done. His thick, warm clothes were drenched and stuck to his skin. His hair covered his vision with dark curls. Madara wiped the hair away with his hand, simmering. He snatched the sinking bracelet, causing an uproar of water at his fast moving hand.

Madara looked up. The vibrant sunset and sky were completely covered, showing only through cracks of the dock's floorboard. Madara floated directly underneath it, shrouded in shadow. From a distance, his dark eyes and figure appeared almost monster-like.

Madara swam forward, leaving the underside of the dock and swimming beside one of the boats. He glared at the rusty ladder that had already sunk to the bottom, fitting in perfectly among the murky algae thriving on the rotten wood.

The sun had set, completely disappearing from the sky and only leaving a sliver of its yellow color on the horizon line. The rest of the sky followed a strict black color, harboring small stars that shone, only allowed to when the sun's burning presence dimmed. The sun wasn't selfish, rather realistic. It would always outshine others, and its glory was set to stay forever.

Huffing a sigh, Madara pulled his wet hair to his shoulder and prepared to haul himself onto the boat. It was attacked by rope, thin and meant to leash it from going too far. Each time Madara attempted, the boat would rock the opposite direction until the rope pulled thin.

Madara felt the blistering annoyance of a headache, already wishing he'd endured the painful conversations of dinner. Had he done so, maybe he would be resting in room now. Rather, his clothes were wetting and sticking to his skin as he struggled to mount the mulish boat.

Madara managed to pull one of his legs inside the boat, holding himself with his hands. They splintered into the polished, yet not without insecurity, side of the boat. The stringed bracelet Madara gripped in his hand embedded and left a small indent in his palm.

Ignoring it, Madara pulled himself on the boat. It hadn't strayed far from the dock, and Madara was easily able to climb back onto the dock. His clothes dripped onto the wood, and the hooks holding the ladder appeared out of place, missing something.

The dock was much darker than it was moments earlier, and Madara looked up to realize the flame had given out. The entire beach was dark, with the only light burnt through. In the distance, the lights of the clan were barely visible like stars among the sky.

Madara held the bracelet in his hand, as a reminder that his trip was not in vain and began to walk the dock back. The wood creaked under him and Madara could not help the sudden creeps he got. He was alone on the beach, drenched, and in complete darkness. Izuna and his cousins knew where he was, but truly how long would it take them to search for him? How long would he need to be gone for?

His feet had once again hit the sand, sticking to his wet shoes. Madara froze.

It was slightly involuntary, an instinct. The eerie feeling Madara hated most rose in his body, his eyes began clearer and he was suddenly aware of each corner his vision could see. Madara felt watchful eyes scan his body, possibly sizing him up. Madara was inches from the shore, one particularly long wave would've covered up to his entire foot.

The wave ran up, splashing against the grains of sand. It was cold, fresh with the smell of salt. It barely touched Madara's heel before retreating just as quickly as it had come. Such as an army would, realizing its fatal mistake, the sea ran back under the cover of itself. Madara was frozen in place with the familiarity of a watchful gaze burning his neck. When the next wave splashed forward, taller and rising further, something was hidden below it.

An icy, slimy hand grabbed Madara's ankle. Quick, and in a movement so fast the blur of colors wasn't perceivable. It wrapped around fully, with what the fleshy fingers couldn't grasp the long claws did. The hands were warm, and memorable. Whether or not Madara admitted it, he knew who it was. He didn't fight the hand on his ankle. He couldn't. His body was still while his mind shouted at him to move.

Madara was rigid, listening to the pitter-patter of the water dripping from his clothes. It wasn't in a pattern, unlike the waves. It simply dripped and sunk into the sand. Madara didn't move, and the hand holding him didn't either. The wave retreated, moving so slowly. The entire word began to move slowly, all sounds drowned out.

When the wave was back in the ocean, under the gloomy shade of the moon, an entire, thick arm could be seen connected to the hand. Madara only caught a glimpse of it through the corners of his eyes. The next rush of waves came, shorter than the last. The fingers of the hand flexed. Right when the waves came to touch Madara's heel, the hand tugged and pulled him under the sea.

Madara's startled yell was muffled and suppressed with a mouthful of salty, bitter water when he was dragged off his feet and plunged back in. Madara struggled, grabbing fistfuls of wet sand to hold on to until eventually, his hands were unable to reach the sand below him.

Madara couldn't see, his eyes were clammed shut and stinging with the salt that had entered them and he dared not to open them. The thing was holding him with resounding strength, yanking him wherever it pleased. Madara felt his hair be pulled against the current.

Madara, although blind to his surroundings, still managed to kick the thing. He thrashed around until he knew the thing's location, and continued to kick it. It made a high-pitched sound, a whimper possibly. Madara considered it a victory. Short lived though it was, as the thing only gripped his leg tighter, leaving a reddened area that was definitely to bruise later.

Madara had no advantage in the water, and that became more evident as his struggles only caused him greater pain. His legs grew tired, and the thing had moved somewhere that it still held him, yet was impervious to his repeated attacks. Madara slowed, then stopped. His lungs begged for air.

Madara felt an infuriating sense of feebleness knowing it was so close, but lacking strength to do anything. Would this be how he died? Drowned by someone he'd rather never think of again? Madara was maybe grateful he couldn't see the thing holding him down. A small weight, different from the one of the water, caught his attention. It was in his clothes, buried in the pockets.

After realizing Madara was done with his onset of kicks, the thing moved closer again. It relaxed its grip. Madara would ensure it knew of its mistake. With his last bit of strength, he reached into the pockets of his clothes and pulled the knife Tamaki had given him out in a single motion.

The thing didn't have enough time to react before Madara was slashing it forward, relishing in the fact that it had hit skin. He dug the knife in further, listening to the wounded shout the creature let out. Now it was helplessly trying to push Madara off, floundering around. He didn't relent and held onto its skin, pressing the knife deeper and deeper.

Madara didn't release it until he was sure the blade had done substantial damage. In a last intent of pure malice, Madara dragged the knife hard across the thing's flesh, from the puncture wound to the open sea, until the knife unburied itself. The creature cried out, a pathetic long sound, and swatted Madara away with its tail.

For a moment, Madara was thrown upside down by a harsh slap of the things tail, sending him flying back. He quickly regained himself, though the knife slipped from his hands. Madara, mourning its loss, quickly resurfaced.

His head broke the surface tension of the water much later than he would've wished. The crisp air was a slap as he took a deep inhale, coughing burning bits of salt water. The headache and bruises to come didn't pain him yet, though he knew once his heart beat and dilated pupil returned to normal, he'd feel it in full. Madara floated, though his muscles had become tired against the onslaught of waves, and he struggled to keep his head above.

As shocking as the cold water had been first when Madara was plunged and then dragged in, it now was warmer than above land. A small part of him wanted to retreat back under, allowing himself to return to the sea. Would it not be better that way? Up here, it was freezing. Madara felt himself shiver to the bone. His hair blocked a majority of his view. Once he'd blinked the salt and moved his hair out of his eyes, he looked around.

The lights of the Uchiha were small specks in the vast landscape he saw. From here, Madara could see the large mountains behind them almost fully. The shore was still slightly visible, and possibly if someone stood on it they'd hear him shouting. But that wasn't the case. Madara was alone at sea with a creature bleeding below him.

Madara felt it before he saw it. It was thicker and warmer than the sea. Madara looked down in disgust at the large pool of blood, spreading in thin spit-like clouds among the water. Under the murky, bloody water, Madara could see the dark outline of a figure clutching its arm, hissing. As if it felt his gaze, it rounded its thin pupils to Madara. They were illuminated by the bright bulb hanging off its head, and among all else Madara could see the rage it harbored.

He half-expected it to sling forward with high speeds, to crunch its large jaws into him. Dying at sea had never been his plan, but by now maybe he could accept it. He didn't have much energy left if that was its final decision.

To Madara's relief, it didn't attack. The wound he'd left in its flesh kept it from moving more, and Madara felt a sting of pride at that.

The Uchiha beaches had always been rocky. Below them alone was a large park of thick rocks, housing all kinds of creatures. Most of them hid under the water as a danger to sailors, but some also revealed themselves. Unafraid to be unapologetically themselves everywhere, Madara almost envied the rocks.

There was one not too far from them, tall and pointed. It wasn't all that huge, but it was tall and out of the water enough that Madara would be safe from being grabbed. The waves crash harder than on shore into this rock, slamming into the obstacle. With the siren distracted, Madara swam for the rock. He used all his remaining strength, not daring to look back to see if it had followed him.

Its surface was smooth and flat, but all the same rough and jagged. Madara, in an attempt to climb it, cut his hand on a sharp edge he'd failed to notice. It bled quickly, pushed on by the water already soaking him. Madara ignored it and soon found himself straddling the rock and staring below at the open sea.

He immediately noticed the figure had disappeared. The water it had just inhabited moved oddly, as if it was struggling to recover itself from a sudden fast movement. The blood stayed pooled in place, sat atop the waves and dispersing with them as they moved.

An eerie feeling crept on his neck before he heard it, thick and worryingly. Madara felt a sudden urge to flee, as if his body knew the steps to a panic and instincts he didn't. Madara's eyes became many times more sensitive, like he was watching for something terrible coming to him.

And when it did, it was gut wrenching. Enough so to completely freeze Madara in place.

It was a sound, a soft one that began to play, coming from all directions in a way that made Madara unable to distinguish where it came from. It was a melody of love and loss, even without words the sounds themselves sung them. A choir fit of the divine, so perfect like the breath of lilac. Warm summers, cold winters. Pain and the love of life, it described each in a beautifully crafted song. It called for Madara to follow it, to become one with it in the deep depths of the water.

The song brought along memories he'd long since buried, and thoughts he refused to think. Madara was hit with nostalgia and longing all at once. Some was his own, while others belonged to a completely different yet all so similar boy. The senses that had just begged him to run were suddenly begging him to join the ocean waves.

It called him with such fevour, like this wasn't its first time doing so, or dreaming so. Perhaps he would've, perhaps he already started to attempt to climb down the rock as steadyily as possible, when a sharp pain not stabbed through his ear. A pain similar to the day it'd been years ago, the aftermath of the shipwreck that had left him with a constantly throbbing ear. It was as if the sharpness had returned in full, enough to instinct him into slamming his hands over both of them, muffling all noise. The melody and its effect limited when something came in its way.

The sudden sensation of it being gone was worse than when he'd first fallen into the ocean's cold, bitter hands. The illusion from before was shattered, and Madara found himself almost slipping from the rock. The sharper edges poked and prodded his thighs, slowly tearing the pants Madara wore as he slid. He quickly grabbed onto an edge and stabilized himself.

His eyes glanced all around the vast sea, while his hands stayed pressed against his ears. Madara knew that no matter what, he shouldn't remove them. The song hadn't yet stopped, and it still resoluted in the air. Where it had been beautifully played before, it now sounded harsh and scratched. The melody that pleaded Madara into the water now demanded it, shrill and violent.

Madara looked down just below the rock, and the sight made him freeze.

A boy, or rather a man, with dark hair straight as the soil for crops and the leaves of spider plants, and gills on his neck which fluttered with every terrible hiss of his voice. A tail flicked beneath the water, visible through the moon's light casting on the surface. Eyes lacking warmth with a single, small pupil stretched thin like a thread, and a bulb on its head creating its own light to shine on its body. Madara already knew who it had been, yet this only solidified his prior knowledge with terrifying certainty.

Hashirama had changed, his face grew thinner and his body grew leaner. Where it had been childhood fat on his stomach before, it was now tan muscle. Where his eyes had been a thing Madara would've adored to stare into for hours, it was now a detached display of reality and monstrous hunger.

There was a large puncture wound on Hashirama's chest, with a deep cut streaking across the rest of his chest. The knife had done substantial damage, as it was clear Hashirama wasn't moving at full pace.

Sensing that his song was in vain, the cacophony of sound ceased. A silent rush of water came to fill the quiet. Far from land, no sneaking bushes or late night wandering animals could be heard. Only the constant sound of the sea, and the wind's howling.

Hashirama's eyes met soon with Madara's as he raised his head, hair pooling down to his back.

A mix of longing and rage simmered inside of the black, unhuman eyes. Hashirama's hand rested on the spot he'd been stabbed, clutching it while blood flowed between his webbed fingers. Madara's eyes were filled with something akin. Like a weak animal would in the presence of a predator, he'd fled to higher ground. The predator wasn't full in strength, and it lingered below waiting for the inevitable where the prey would need to come down.

Madara was defenseless and Hashirama was injured. Even so, one of them held the clear advantage.

Hashirama's hand tightened on his chest, and he slowly trudged forward towards the rock. His pace was noticeably slower, his chest rose up and down quickly, while his gills fluttered endlessly. Madara shifted on the rock as much as he could, slowly retreating back with each stroke Hashirama took forward.

It wasn't long before Madara was on the furthest edge of the rock, while Hashirama was directly below it. Hashirama's eyes never left Madara, a brownish black murderous gaze always locked on him. From his angle, Madara was unable to see what Hashirama did. He was only able to see the retreat of his body, casting one last glance at Madara before he sank back into the waves and disappeared.

Madara was left stunned on the rock, hearing the fast thump of his heartbeat and the panic in his breath, materializing in the cold, crisp autumn air. Madara didn't dare move, not until a long, uninterrupted moment passed.

Madara carefully studied the waves, and deemed it safe. Getting down the rock proved harder that climbing it had been. His soaked body made the way down slippery and difficult to hold on to. Once he'd made it far enough down, Madara simply jumped down into the ocean, freezing.

His mind was blank. Everything he should've been thinking, the rush of unwanted thoughts that should've plagued him, didn't. Madara was unable to form a single, coherent thought. Perhaps it was better that way.

Madara floated on the sea's surface, scanning the area as though in any moment something would jump out and devour him. Nothing did, and Madara slowly relaxed. As he prepared to swim back to the Uchiha shore, something caught the corner of his eye.

On the side of the rock which Hashirama had been lingering at, something was written. In scratched claw marks, crude and messy, one word was written on the rock.

‘Tomorrow?’ It read; and just below it, a small threaded bracelet soaked indefinitely was placed in a crevice of the rock, hidden from being washed away in waves.

Chapter Text

A deep, bitter darkness settled over the horizon. Thick, misty clouds covered the sky and any light the moon or its stars would've shed. Everything was cast in an indigo, navy shine. The sand resting on the ground, cold and dry, blonde in color and far from the sea which dampened others.

Madara didn't dare near the waves. Rather, he stood a large distance, watching them carefully. The words etched into the rock, to be forever there, deep as they were, persisted in Madara's mind all throughout his tasks. Not once had they let up, neither did the small image he'd remembered from seeing Hashirama.

At that time, he had been preoccupied and terrified. The details of Hashirama's face were lost to him, as the memory itself was foggy. Still, he'd remembered the strong body replacing the scrawny, puffy-faced body he knew before. His hair had also been longer, longer in length that Madara's. He hadn't seen his face to the full, nor been able to make out his features. Possibly, if Madara were any kinder to himself, he would've tried to convince himself it wasn't Hashirama he saw.

That, however, he couldn't do.

So, Madara snuck away from his clan once more, feeling the touch of déjà vu that followed his descent to the beach. As it were, deep in autumn, everything was chillier. A wind, strong and in gusts enough to bristle bushes in a sudden, spooking way, fluttered Madara's clothes against him. His shirt ruffled and patted against his thrumming heart. Like a child who knew they were behaving naughty, not abiding by their parents, Madara's entire body pulsed with electrocuting energy.

As he'd assumed the night prior, little bruises dark and blemished in an angry green, purple, and sickly yellowed appeared on the skin of his ankle. They hurt to the touch, but otherwise were quiet and ignorable.

Madara this time came prepared. A large harpoon, skillfully crafted, rested in his leather gloved hands. The wood of the handle was polished and thin. The rod was shorter and thicker than most. It was Madara's own, meaning it had a layer of projectile attack the simpler ones didn't. He'd ensured to choose one deadly damage wise.

A thick, durable rope threaded in braids was attached to the end, and tied around the arm of Madara. The head was where the true attack damage occurred. A strong, pure iron made pointed head. Jagged and sharp, long and taking whatever the rod lost in size to itself. It could've penetrated through bodies with ease, which in turn was the purpose of the small yet thick body.

Madara's clothes too, were choosen particularly for this. Despite the cold weather, his clothes themselves were thin and airy, such as the ones in the peak of summer would be. He wore a cloak above it, reaching down to his knees, more to combat the cold his clothes couldn't. As another thick gust of wind blew by, he pulled the cloak closer to his chest with his free hand.

Madara didn't debate whether Hashirama was coming. He knew in gut, even after years of not seeing him, that Hashirama would come.

In waiting, he watched the water.

Madara had grown sick of the sea. Ever since the death of Kuro, the sea's allure and endless possibilities grew smaller, enclosed in a box that cramped tighter and tighter. Each interaction he had with it since was a regurgitated terror, ending in despair. Madara began to hate it, hate the very sea he'd stare into for hours as child and point to the horizon, asking for the beyond. Scars and bruises were a reminder of the true sea, violent and dangerous. Most of all, the things in it screamed danger.

Kuro's death left him open, and Hashirama had slipped into the opening. Even now, Hashirama lingered in it without ever doing anything, and Madara believed that that was the sea's cruelest trick. Despite his anger at him, Madara still showed up to the beach when he asked, and that alone spoke volumes. He'd tried to abandon him for Izuna's sake, and had so far succeeded, but all it took was Hashirama waltzing into his life once more for him to be completely entranced.

Feelings resurfaced, ones he refused to name and refused to acknowledge. If Shiori had taught him anything then, at the Fūma's small corner beach, it was that Madara would never be who his father wanted him to be. He would never like the soft, rounded and soft skin. His mind, whether it was Hashirama or another boy who caught his corner glances, would always default to rough hands and rougher play, cut skin and short hair and chests.

Madara would never marry, and it could instead simply fall on Izuna to bear the burden of a family. Once Tajima was gone, no other clan member would have a say in his decision.

Izuna was better suited than Madara, anyway and held the preferences to do so. Maybe, Madara could just pine away forevermore for a certain boy he'd never be with, and would always despise and never meet with again after this. Madara solidified it in his head on the trudge here, this would be the final time he gave into his wants.

Madara's musing are cut short with the sound of splashing, slow and deliberate, as though the noise's founder wanted to be heard.

Madara gripped the harpoon tighter, feet digging into the ground below him. The bristle of the wind, which was hard and made his hair fall into his eyes, slowly gave up. The quickness that had it howling seconds earlier was now slowed, barely enough to move the few strands of hair fallen out of place.

“You came, Madara.” A deep, sharp voice sounded from the water. It softened his name, sounding out each syllable with gentle delicacy, as though nothing had changed. Madara couldn't see him, and the voice seemed to come from all around him.

Madara didn't dignify Hashirama with a response. His eyes called the surrounding surface of the sea, worry creeping in. Hashirama appeared on his fourth scan of it. His head popped out from the water, so quickly it startled Madara. He regained himself and squinted his eyes to see Hashirama.

Madara's eyesight had been declining. He never told Tajima, although he'd spoken it many times to Izuna. It was a simple blur that began to creep in the corners of his eyes, seemingly with no cure as no matter what herbal or other medicine he took, the burn and blur never ceased. During the day, it was fine and easy to manage. Once the sun's brightness dimmed however, it was an entirely new struggle.

The light on Hashirama's head made it much easier to see him. Like Madara, he didn't near the shore.

Unlike the last time Madara had seen him, he was adorned in jewelry this time. On his arm, bands of sparkling gold that shimmered in the sunlight. His hands were hidden beneath the sea, but it too shimmered with something. A necklace of some sort, beaded and long going down his bare chest.

Along with it, Madara noticed the wrapping of green on his chest. Seaweed, as it appeared, was rounded across his chest and back. It covered the hole directly where Madara had stabbed him. When he'd felt pride at the time for doing it, Madara now felt an air of guilt.

Hashirama smiled, prickly teeth showing. He didn't seem all too concerned with the wound on his chest, but the distance he kept told an entirely different tale.

Hashirama was easy to look at. Madara found that he could easily watch him, stare at him for hours without pause. Even if it was only to do domestic things, he would watch. The long hair suited him much better than the bowl cut ever did, he'd grown into the lanky limbs of his body quite well. It was like staring at a corporate, something that wrenched his heart out whenever he looked at it, but wasn't enough of a deterrent to completely stop his gaze.

Hashirama eyed Madara's harpoon with suspicion, speaking slowly. “It's been awhile.”

“It has,” Madara replied. His grip on the harpoon loosened, but the memory of his bruises and the cuts on his leg from the large rock didn't allow him to let go of it.

A small silence followed, with Hashirama's scanning Madara much the same as he had done moments before. He watched his hair, unruly curls grown bigger, thicker than they had when they were younger. The bags under his eyes grew, although Hashirama remembered seeing it on almost every man to sail the seas of this beach. He wore dark, as he always had. Hashirama could feel Madara's hardened gaze, and the ache in his chest. Clearly, Madara had grown much stronger since he'd last seen him. Hashirama's eyes flickered to the sharp thing pointed at him.

“Would you mind putting that down?” Hashirama asked, smiling sheepishly and pointing to the weapon in Madara's hands.

Madara followed his gaze and looked at him with a raised brow. “I'd rather not.” He flexed his fingers around the harpoon.

Hashirama's smile dropped and he deflated, hanging his head. In turn, his hair to fell like a thick curtain around his grown features. It was as though a dark cloud of puttering and thunder cloaked him, making a depressing sight.

Madara sighed. “You don't seem to have changed much, Hashirama,” he muttered.

Hashirama pouted even more in response, and sunk lower into the sea until only his sad eyes could be seen above. It was a song and dance he'd done many times, and the familiarity of it all eased Madara's guard. Despite himself, he found his grip around the harpoon easing unconsciously, and his rougher tone smoothed its edges.

“You brought me here for something, Hashirama,” Madara said, voice gruff yet not aggressive. “Why?”

Hashirama's face went passive again, and he eyed his surroundings with suspicion. Eventually, his eyes turned back to Madara and he smiled, goofy and dumb.

“We can't speak here, not out in the open,” he said, a devilish smile crossing his lips while he whispered it as though it was a secret. He winked, and motioned Madara to follow before he completely disappeared under the waves.

Madara stood on the beach awhile longer. He watched Hashirama's retreating shadow move under the water. The bit of nostalgic trust shattered immediately. Madara knew it was stupid to follow Hashirama, even if out in the open any stumbling Uchiha could find them, it was a much safer bet than whenever Hashirama proposed him to follow to.

Against his better judgment, Madara followed the murky figure of Hashirama. He quickly realized where he was being led. The rocks were large and behind the corner of a cliff. Madara had climbed through the back of the rocks, losing vision of the sea and Hashirama.

He hadn't neared those rocks or so much as step foot onto them since the last time he'd truly seen Hashirama. They hadn't changed, he didn't expect them to. Perhaps he hoped they would've, and that they would've reflected the change Madara himself went through, and that instead of being a comforting place that they'd bring him a sense of hatred that would fully fade away his last remaining doubts.

When Madara neared them, climbing and stepping up the slippery rocks and their jagged, grey-black edges, he felt warm. The memories he and Hashirama shared here were the very reason he'd never returned, as were the sudden throb of old resurfaced feelings.

Hashirama reappeared seconds after Madara stood on the lowest rock, closest to the sea in terms of the layers. He stood on the rock, looking down at Hashirama.

Madara bit his lip, gnawing at the raw skin. The harpoon felt heavy and thick in his hands, and the hair on his neck prickled with worry. Madara began to regret, as he did always with Hashirama, showing.

The siren was shadowed in the darkness of the rocks, hidden from even the moon's faint light. The bead on his head seemed dimmer and insubstantial, barely lighting up his eyes, the black which stayed trained on Madara and his movements.

Eventually, Madara spoke first to break the silence.

“What did you bring me here for, Hashirama?” He said, snarled it in an unfriendly tone that didn't seem to bother Hashirama. Each memory stabbed his heart and irritated him further. Perhaps if he was smart enough, he'd run before Hashirama entranced him with his words and frustrated him to the ends of the heavens.

The siren smiled, undeterred, with the grotesque sharpness of his full teeth. He opened his mouth, then shut it.

Madara waited for his words, the ones he'd spoken as a child that were so dream-fueled, running over themselves. Hashirama could speak for hours, which Madara, regardless of how he felt, would listen. That was how it had been when they were younger, when they'd been in this exact spot, and Hashirama hadn't seemed to change much.

Yet, for once, Hashirama wasn't speaking endlessly and without breaths in between. He seemed to consider his words carefully, with his gaze locked on the waves for inspiration. Whatever he said to Madara, would need to be clear. It would need to truly envelop all his feelings and emotions in a way that wouldn't end with him having yet another wound — physical or emotional.

“I wanted to talk with you,” Hashirama said after he saw Madara open his mouth, ready to demand answers.

“That's it?” Madara snarled, narrowing his eyes. Immediately, he began to step off the rocks, beginning to return to his clan.

Hashirama didn't allow him to. Instead, from his position on the water so close to the rocks, grabbed Madara's ankle. Half of his upper body pressed into the slimy stones, and dug clawed fingers into the skin, unwielding in his grip.

"Madara..." Hashirama said, low and almost mournful.

Madara's features changed from passive frustration, to a contorted face of anger.

“Let go of me, Hashirama!” He hissed, attempting to wiggle his ankle out of the other's grip, still not able to break free.

The rocks were slippery, and hard to stabilize on. Madara knew better than to writhe himself away from Hashirama. Either resulting in him being thrown into the hands of the distrustful sea, and in turn Hashirama, or cracking his skull open on the jagged edge, Madara refused to risk it.

The area Hashirama touched buzzed with energy, even more so he forcefully kept his hands fighting to hold Madara.

Hashirama glared back. “Madara, for what reason did you come, then?” Hashirama said, tightening his clawed nails into sharp needles that prodded and pricked Madara's skin. “You choose to come to me, follow me here, and for what?”

“I thought you had something important to say. I wouldn't have come otherwise!” Madara, with his free foot, tried to reach over and kick Hashirama. The tone of his words sounded off, even to his own ears. The truth glowed and stood out beneath them.

Hashirama, attentive though he was, picked up on it.

“Liar,” he snarled. “If that was the case, you would've left long ago.” Hashirama's black pupils, illuminated with the light over his head, displaying Madara's reflection back to him, harbored anger.

Madara knew, against his better wishes, what Hashirama alluded to. Hashirama had grabbed him from the waves the other night, and for reasons Madara tried so hard to rationalize, he hadn't fought back or ran. Not until he was under the water, until he was truly threatened. He worried Hashirama would kill him, but he didn't. And even now, didn't seem to want to either.

When Hashirama spoke again, it only deepened the wonder in Madara's mind.

“That weapon,” Hashirama gestured behind Madara to the harpoon. “If you really wanted to leave and get rid of me, wouldn't you have used it?”

Madara froze, feeling the wait of the forgotten harpoon in his hands. Out of anger, Madara swung it forward, finally enough to force Hashirama to retreat before it collided with his face. Madara, in pure rage, kicked his chest as he was moving back to the water, and set him crashing further back into the waves.

“Fuck you,” Madara growled.

Hashirama resurfaced, staring at Madara with his watchful eyes. He didn't comment on how Madara had clearly aimed for the side of his chest opposite to the wound, or how he wasn't leaving.

Madara was burnt out, and didn't reply or move when Hashirama placed his arms onto the rocks, hauling himself onto them as he'd done what felt like forever ago, and laying on his back.

Thwarting any warnings in his mind, Madara sat slowly beside him, harpoon held high as a warning. They sat a far distance from one another, on two separate sides of the lowest rock.

The moon glinted across the earth, high in the sky. Its light was perfectly cast on the sea in front of them, shining down in reflections all across the water. The sky was a muted navy, matching with the sea. Tonight, it all seemed tranquil and peaceful. Madara couldn't help thinking back to times where they'd done this very thing. The warmth in his gut had been muted, but never completely receded. Now, it seemed to want to be reignited.

Madara had almost forgotten Hashirama was beside him, had it not been for his presence engulfing the area around him. The sight of a beautiful moon, glittering seas, and the wonder that came to the earth before the bareness of winter, all were small, insignificant compared to the boy beside them. When Hashirama spoke, Madara became even more aware of this presence, as it seemed to engulf even him.

“It's been awhile, Madara,” Hashirama said. His gaze was locked on the sky, with the fins of his tail twitching, reaching for the water just below where he lay.

“For good reason,” Madara replied bitterly.

“Madara...” Hashirama said slowly. “I know of our differences, however — ”

“Do you? Do you really, Hashirama?” Madara mocked, his tone brusque, rough at the edges.

“Believe me I do.” Hashirama contorted his face into an unpleasant expression of anger, grief perhaps. “And I know as well that this world we live in is flawed. Madara, do you remember when we spoke of our dream? There's no safety to be found in this world, not now or ever. I haven't forgotten your words, we can protect our brothers, ourselves, and life freely, going wherever we please. Does that not sound perfect to you?”

“You're insane, as is your dream. I despise you for that. I have responsibilities in my clan, and as it seems so do you. You speak the words of a red-faced fool who's had too much to drink, Hashirama.” Hashirama blinked at that, tilting his head in confusion.

“I don't know what you mean by that, but our dream is not insane. You used to tell me all about how the responsibilities would bore you, and how you wanted to live freely — ”

“ — I was naive.” Madara interjected, but Hashirama paid no mind.

“Anyway, if you really despise me, then why won't you kill me? I've witnessed many of your kin kill mine, leave their bodies to rot, and you could very easily do that same thing. We are similar in strength, no matter how you try to imagine we're not.

“When you stabbed my chest, you could've aimed for my heart, and instead you stabbed just next to it. You saw me on that other beach.” Madara opened his mouth to speak, but Hashirama didn't give him the opening. “There were both you and that woman,” Hashirama snarled when he spoke this, “and instead of attacking me then, you retreated knowing fully you had an advantage.”

“You're stronger than me in the water,” Madara said.

“You tell yourself that because you don't want to fight me.” Hashirama replied.

Madara bristled, standing on his feet in an instant.

“I don't understand the reason for you wanting me here. You stalk me, and refuse to let me be. I've moved on, I left you at the beach that day and I don't care for you. My clan has killed numerous of your ‘people’ and you've killed ours. It is because of your ‘people’ that my brother is dead!” He shouted, and Hashirama seemed unaffected. It angered Madara more.

“If you've moved on, if you despise me, why are you here? I know your heart, Madara. I've seen it in the way you speak and in your actions. You blame yourself for his death, don't you? I can tell you it's not your fault. You held him to the very end, you searched for him and did your best to protect him.”

“Great, so you were stalking me then too?” Madara shouted, glaring in disgust at Hashirama. The mention of his brother only infuriated him even further. Hashirama knew nothing about Kuro, he never would. Madara truly considered throwing the harpoon, jabbing it into Hashirama's face and ripping off the beautiful features on it. The fact that he didn't, gave Hashirama the opportunity to continue speaking.

“Madara — ”

“No!” Madara interrupted him. He refused to listen to another word, another honey covered word that would make him question the very foundation he'd built himself on. “I hate you, Hashirama. I fucking hate you.”

That was the final straw that broke Hashirama's resolve.

“If you hate me so much then leave!” Hashirama shouted back. His calm voice was gone, and this one rang off the walls of the rocks around them. “You won't! You never will, you'll always come back and so will I!”

Madara felt, underneath it all, a slight joy in making Hashirama angry. The way his words and the emotion, not the one he practiced and perfected to say, came out true and real. It mirrored the one in Madara, ugly and raw. He could poke at it, make it bleed open. He preferred that to the facade Hashirama put on.

Madara leapt forward with the hand not holding the harpoon, and grabbed hold of Hashirama's hair. It was long, thick and well groomed. It touched his nape, and the strands appeared perfect from a distance. However, when Madara grabbed it, fisting it in between his fingers, the true amount of knots and tangles showed through.

Hashirama hissed, making a sound inhuman in all ways. Madara held his face close to Hashirama's, inches from being nose to nose. Hashirama kept a low growling noise vibrating his Adam's apple, teeth bared. The closer he got to him, the more Madara could see every imperfection on his body. The ideal appearance anyone else would've seen from a distance was pored and real up close.

In retaliation, Hashirama too grabbed a fist full of Madara's hair, digging his claws into the hair. While Madara's appeared messy and tangled from a distance, his hair truly was uniform, proper and with little knots. Under the light of a bright moon, Madara was perfect. Every inch of his light skin matched that of the moon, although darker with the tint of summer still attached. His hair was not unlike the night sky, and his eyes were smooth and cat-like.

They kept hold of each other for a while, glaring into the eyes of one another. Tension bubbled, overflowing and dripping out slowly. Their conversation hadn't evented to much, and as it seemed was a theme, ended in a fight. Madara's body twitched with anticipation, and Hashirama's tail flicked with excitement. The end to their tension was not what Madara had expected.

Hashirama tugged Madara's hair hard, pulling him forward and crashing their lips together. Madara made a sound of startled surprise, but didn't pull away. Hashirama deepened the kiss, tilting his head and pressing himself further against Madara. He was bent forward at and awkward angle, held in the air by Madara's grip on his hair, which the latter tightened to ground himself.

It was very unlike the one he'd shared with Shiori. Madara felt nothing but the instinct ingrained in his body at that moment, while now he felt a wave of what felt like the unrestfulness of a windstorm blowing in his belly. He didn't kiss back, rather stood and allowed Hashirama to. He was still as a frozen lake, with the bristle of a thousand storms pressing on his stomach.

Madara preferred this to Shiori. A part of him always knew he had, and the revelation of it and full extent of it terrified him. Madara, for the slightest second, pressed his lips back to Hashirama. It felt less awkward than Shiori, and the warmth of summer tingled his cheeks.

Madara was the one to pull away, dropping his hand from Hashirama's hair and letting him fall back on the slippery rock. He didn't give Hashirama time to speak, rather he grabbed the harpoon he'd unconsciously discarded on the floor, ruffled his hair to appear somewhat proper, and turned to make his way back up the cliff.

Madara didn't look back. He didn't want to see Hashirama, lips puffed and hair messy as he did with Shiori. He knew there would be no feeling of shame this time, and his actions if he looked back would go against everything he spoke of.

“Tomorrow?” Hashirama asked from behind, still laying on the rock, and watching with a look of greed in his eyes. His question was less of that and more of a statement, something he knew. Madara clenched his fists, hating to prove him right. He didn't respond, but the answer was evident as he stomped away, back up the hill to his clan.

Chapter Text

A thin, soft layer of frost covered the ground, the sand, and the empty barks of trees. Animals nestled warmly under hidden burrows, and the buzzing light of summer finally faded to just a memory. The ocean's water was slowed, thick, with chunks of ice hidden beneath each overlapping mountain of seawater. The sky, a muted grey, glinted off the layers of snow and blinded the eyes who looked at it.

The sun was a mere peck in the sky, overshadowed by clouds. Its reign that heightened in summer, fell in fall, now fully crashed down.

Madara was older, shown both in the thick, long hair that reached down to his flank, and the bulking body he'd acquired through labor and chores. His eyes became worse, as they grew blurrier, leaving any objects in the distance an array of fuzzy colors. Madara found that he didn't need to see his surroundings so much as he could memorize them. He didn't need to see people either, as he grew great at sensing them.

His duties, which had grown from small and simple, to large and tedious with his age of nineteen, had been completed in the early hours of the day. His training to be clan head, which Tajima alluded to wanting to give up to his eldest son soon enough, was too finished earlier. Madara had the rest of the day to laze with himself, which he'd done. He'd gone back to his room, picked out a scroll and headed for the Uchiha shores.

Madara kept his uneasy feelings of the sea. He found them calming in the same way he found them the fuel for his restless dreams. Bittersweet memories were all he could recall and all he would allow himself to recall. Madara stayed far from the beach if not for a mission, or to visit Hashirama.

Madara learnt from his younger mistakes. He watched himself carefully, ensured no one followed him before he ever stepped foot on the beach. Most of their meetings were in the wee hours of the morning, or under the cover of the evenings shadows.

Today, Madara took a risk with confidence. The day wasn't halfway over yet, but he still went to sit with Hashirama. Their new meeting place was further into the woods, with higher cliffs, more secluded. It was out at sea, slightly with the cliff still in sight, but a distance away regardless. Madara found it easier to sit on a boat, legs spread out, leaning under the sun, than to have the constant stress of discovery.

Madara could see his breath in the air, could feel the hum of the sea, feel its coldness. Hashirama was beside him, arms rested on the boat and talking idly.

He'd grown as well. His hair was down to his back, thick and lushly straight. Madara enjoyed touching it, which he often did without thinking. He'd twirl the hair strands around his fingers, brush out any knots. Hashirama did the same to Madara, playing with his hair more frequently than he did.

His body grew bulkier as well. Madara was gifted with strong arms, but compared to Hashirama they paled. Thick back muscles, strong shoulders. Madara could outdo him in leg strength, having thicker thighs and calves. Although, as Hashirama often reminded him, it's not like he had legs anyway.

“Is all well with your brother?” Hashirama asked, finally a break in his constant chatter. He was running his fingers through Madara's hair and since Madara's head was titled to rest on the edge, his hair spilled out into Hashirama's hands, inches from getting wet with the water.

“Yes, though I'm sure you know that with your love of following people,” Madara replied, crossing his arms.

“I don't follow people! It's just if I see them, I'll want to check what they're doing!” Hashirama said, the pout in his voice audible.

Madara raised a brow, tilting his head back further to level a glance at Hashirama.

Hashirama was always adorned in jewelry of some kind, beads and bracelets, earrings though not as commonly, and hairpins. Madara thought he looked much like the pretty women of rich towns, always wearing the clothing to make others rage with envy. For now, he wore a simple necklace and hair peice, shimmering with the grey sky.

Madara turned back to stare at the sky, feeling his cheeks heat, and Hashirama began talking again to fill the silence.

He spoke of everything, his family, fish, underwater plants he so knew so much about. However, steered clear of many topics. Hashriama always tried to get Madara on board with his dream, he always tried to talk Madara into understanding and agreeing with him. Madara always stormed off, never allowing him to finish. Hashirama soon began to talk less of them, and more of anything else.

Madara could always feel the overlooking shadow, the bubbling pot, ready to boil over, with each second they ignored the words they so desperately needed to speak to each other, and instead replaced them with sweet, honey-covered words that fell flat. Madara shook the thoughts from his head, deciding not to continue with his musings.

“I won't be able to stay any longer,” Madara said after a while and pulled away from Hashirama, sitting up.

“I thought you were done with your tasks,” Hashirama said, the fingers being brushed in Madara's hair paused.

“I am, but I still have other things. I'll be back by tonight,” Madara said.

Hashirama seemed to rejoice at the prospect, but a lingering sadness shone behind his eyes. He retracted his hand from Madara's hair and plopped back down into the water with a short splash.

Madara decided not to dwell much longer, he grabbed the oars, holding them with strong, calloused palms. He prepared to leave, taking one last glance at Hashirama.

Hashirama smiled, small but warm. He ducked under, and reappeared on the boat's side.

“Be safe, Madara,” he said brightly.

Hashirama hoisted himself up with the boat's edge, and placed a small peck on Madara's cheek. Less than a second and warm. Madara felt his cheeks heat, the spot where Hashirama had kissed feeling to indent so prominently in his mind. Hashirama had begun to do this every time Madara was to leave, and the latter didn't want to think too much about it.

Alone, perhaps, he'd think about it more. He'd indulge himself, allow the heat below to rise and peak, allow thick warmth to coat his fingers at the thought of Hashirama. But once the sun rose, once he was in his presence, all he presented was a level of indifference. They'd rekindled what was a lost feeling, yet the burning passion and open honesty never returned, not fully.

“Goodbye, Hashirama.” Madara said, turning back to face the sea.

He felt Hashirama's gaze on him, staring intently into his back. Neither of them spoke, and only the sound of soft breathing and the rhythmic sound of water could be heard. Then, there was a slight swish of the waves, and the stare retreated along with them. Madara kept his head low, with his gaze resting on the wooden floor.

Madara boated back to Ishiyama, and Hashirama disappeared under the sea, both wearing a frown.

After departing from the beach, sneaking back to his clan, and from Hashirama, Madara went to find Izuna. Their father had requested the two of them, and the hour of which he called them began to approach.

Walking through his clan, Madara noticed the quiet buzz that sounded across its back entirely. The air was calm, not fearful of the thick winter, rather accepting as they would of the warm summer season. The clothes grew thicker, but the spirits of the Uchiha hadn't diminished. The effects of the famine had long since subsided, its edges perhaps creeped at the corners, though it'd lost enough merit to be nothing but ill and caution warning memories.

Madara aided Tajima, as was his duty as heir, in trade with the allying clans and broadening their territory. He aided in food, and was sent as a diplomat for discussions. By the time Madara's seventeenth winter came, they'd successfully worked themselves to the glory they'd had before.

With their full strength returning, anyone who'd been against them, pushing at their borders quickly subverted, crawling back into the hole they came from like skittering insects. In light of his successes, Tajima elected to stay low. Rather than jump straight into another battle, he handled himself in the wellbeing of his kinsmen. Madara disagreed, wishing to attack those who threatened them, forcing them into submission. Still, he understood his father's reasoning and kept his musing to himself.

Madara continued his walk to the local area, where families conversed with grins and loud laughs. Children had finished their lessons by now, running around with glee. Their clothes fit, not bagging around their thin bodies, as they had only years earlier, and Madara felt relief at that. All around it seemed like a day of quiet laze. No boat had been sent out and only small audiences were held for the more trivial matters. The Uchiha were in a moment of calm, joy that otherwise seemed unfathomable in a raging winter.

Madara's stride took him away from the local area and to a small clearing leading into a large forest, opposite to the one leading to the sea. It held a giant tree, one that sprouted cherry blossoms in the spring, bright green leaves in the summer, and a beautiful array of oranges in autumn. Now, in winter, it was bare of all its leaves, but still mighty all the same.

Behind it, vast forests stretching on up the mountains to the Yamanaka clan. Then, a small lake and river before the vast ocean was visible again. Madara, when he was younger, had spent much time here. He'd often play with his brothers, and it was here where he first truly hurt himself, a small cut that came from falling from the tree's branches. When Izuna was old enough, he'd made the same mistake. On Madara's leg and Izuna's shoulder, a scar was faded but still visible from it.

Madara rounded the bark of the tree and there he found Izuna, resting on the side blind to the front, knelt before a stack of papers. The grass around him was already indented with his shape, and the thin snow was misplaced with his footsteps and body. He startled when Madara tapped his shoulder.

“Nii-san!” Izuna's face brightened, dark eyes shining.

Madara smiled back. “It's almost time for us to meet with Father, I supposed I'd find you before.”

Izuna's cropped hair, down to his chin before, was now held in a ponytail slipping down his back. It had never lost its ruffled bird-nest appearance, though many concluded it was a better appearance than Madara's wild hair. His jaw was sharp, chiseled yet still round and soft. His eyes held the gleam of a conniving fox, with a grin to match it. His childhood rebellion and desire for trouble never faded either, only grew more calculated.

Izuna nodded and rose, the edges of his navy clothing dripping with melted snow.

“Have you heard from Shinya today?” Izuna asked, picking up the pens scattered amongst the wet floor. A painting, half-finished and still wet in the ink, rested on the ground. The paper was thick and only slightly damp from where it's been on the snowy floor. Small dots of water soaked through the page, adding rather than breaking the allure of it. It made the image on it seem realer, more immersed.

“No, I have not seen him since breakfast,” Madara responded. “Were you painting?” He gestured toward the paper on the floor.

“Oh, yes! I forgot to show you,” Izuna grinned and reached on the ground, carefully holding up the painting.

Swirls of blue, stroked cleanly and gently across the page, resembling moving waves. They mixed with oranges and indigos for a lowering sky, blurred together at a line waving across the middle. The sun was a bright orb of yellow with colors painted so smoothly it resembled the true thing. In the water, a red, fluffy flower floated about. The painting on it was unfinished, but the flower had a slight red hue around it, appearing as though they bled into the sea.

“It’s beautiful,” Madara said truthfully, his eyes filled with admiration.

“It's not yet complete,” Izuna responded. “I still want to add some things, especially more color for the sunset. I'm waiting for later tonight so I can observe the real thing. Do you want to come with me?”

“You're going to the beach tonight?” Madara asked, drawing his brows inward.

“Yes, I was hoping to grab a better view.” Izuna responded, not noticing his brother biting his inner cheek.

Madara looked back at the painting.

“The flowers,” he said, changing the topic. “What are they for?”

“They're carnations,” Izuna replied. “I find them to be quite beautiful. They've always been my favorite.”

“I don't see how they're different from roses,” Madara raised a brow.

“You say that about all flowers,” Izuna laughed.

“That's because they all look the same,” Madara frowned, but the smile in his eyes didn't fade.

Izuna held the painting with careful focus, ensuring not to smudge the carefully adding paint. Madara held the brushes and pens, placing them into the small pouch empty beside them. Together they walked back to the clan, a leisurely pace as they spoke of everything, yet nothing all the same.

“I'm sure I can guess what he will speak to you about,” Izuna said, ducking below the intruding branches of a tree.

“Hm? And that is?”

“I'm sure he will talk to you about being clanhead. Afterall, you're old enough, and you're already more qualified than him, Nii-san.” Izuna replied, gloating as if he was talking about himself.

Madara smiled softly, heart warming at the words but speaking humbly. “I'm sure Father still has many things he can do. For now, I can aid him.”

“Hmph. If I were you, I would've taken control a long time ago,” Izuna said, a devilish glint in his eyes.

“That is why you will be my advisor, not the man in charge.” Madara chuckled.

“I'd be great in charge,” Izuna said, furrowing his brows and glaring at Madara.

Madara laughed, a true grin spreading across his face. Izuna mirrored it, his facade of annoyance falling with a proud expression and crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

The snow blanketing the landscape thinly outlined their features across all of it, making their blue clothes stand out in a place covered in white. The snow crunched below their feet, and the empty air seemed to echo their words all around them. Izuna's loud proclamations and Madara's louder ones, could be heard far and wide while they disturbed the quiet sanctuary of nature.

The empty feeling of hollow promises and warmth that Hashirama had brought to him, the feeling of missing something crucial, was immediately filled with the warmth of Izuna. Madara couldn't confide his meeting with Hashirama to him, but everything else he gladly spoke to him. Izuna kept him well, and drew happiness and joy from him that no one else could. Izuna drew safety and security from him, as he'd always done.

When Madara and Izuna stood between an intersection of two pathways, Madara began walking to the one leading to the audience chamber, while Izuna took the path opposite.

“Where are you going?” Madara stopped, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“I'm going to place the painting to dry,” Izuna replied. He reached forward and grabbed the pouch of brushes from Madara's hands. “We're still early, no? You go on without me, besides I want to try and find Shinya.”

Madara nodded, slightly disappointed at the abrupt end to their conversation, but continued to walk down the path anyway. The brightness Izuna brought along with him diminished, and the world seemed to darken under Madara's eyes. The sky turned a deeper grey, the snow turned from a pure, untouched white to having dirt, footprints and disgusting brown tinting its corners.

Madara elected to take the longer way to the audience room, slowing his steps. His eyes closed, and he sucked in a deep breath of cold air, exhaling warmth that showed in the sky.

As Madara walked back, he felt the looks of his clansmen on his back. One thing had been never changing, and that was the strange stares he received ever since he turned thirteen. Madara knew his clansman distrusted him, for what he could never really know. They'd only ever seen a boy with a slight temper that easily triggered. Madara didn't lose his head much in front of his kin, but when he did the reaction was large and explosive. They'd never seen the version of him Izuna or even Hashirama had.

Hashirama, though, Madara was often considered a smart fool. He was strong, and not easy to fight against, but overly trusting. Madara hadn't given him much of a reason to trust him, or to continue coming back, yet he always did. Every time Madara had turned him away over the years, even if for a few hours or years, he'd always come back with open arms. Hashirama knew Madara the best, and yet knew Madara the least as well.

Madara, at some point, gave up fighting Hashirama. He allowed him to get close, allowed himself to stay, even if the words that desperately needed to be said weren't, and left gaping holes instead. Madara had all he needed, Izuna and Hashirama. He had the support of his clan, somewhat, even if they distrusted him they knew of his strength and loyalty. Madara became content with his life, and saw himself following the same path of his father, like a child stepping in already made footprints in the snow.

Madara eventually arrived at the audience house, far too soon for his musings to be complete. Madara ignored his thoughts, saving them another hour, and entered the chamber.

Tajima was bent over a table, knelt while his hands scribbled furiously at each paper. His hand held his head and his fingers tapped his temples, pulling at the strands of grey hair. The room was still and silent, cold with the air from outside. He hadn't noticed Madara, not until he spoke.

“Father,” Madara said to grab his attention. Tajima looked up, tired eyes scanning his son's face. He looked away, rising from the table and moving to sit in front of Madara, both kneeling in a mirrored action.

“Where is Izuna?” Tajima asked in his stern voice, though unable to cover the exhaustion below it.

“He's finishing up what he was doing. He will be here any moment,” Madara replied, lowering his head.

Tajima nodded, and the room fell silent again. His stern features twitched in thought, his brows and eyes narrowed while he examined Madara's face. Madara kept his face passive, and stared back into Tajima's coal eyes. They'd grown softer over time, sinking along with his skin that began to form wrinkles.

“Very well, then. Things have aligned perfectly,” Madara blinked at Tajima's words, hard and cut like a blade. “I was hoping to speak with you,” he said, easing the tension that had begun to form in Madara's posture.

“What is it, Father?” Madara asked, glancing up to meet his gaze.

“You've grown quiet competent, a true brilliance you don't often get the luxury of witnessing. I don't only say that because you're my son, rather I've seen, and so have many other's, your ability. There is no disputing it, Madara, you alone set an imbalance and higher standard.” Tajima smiled at him, worn but proud.

Madara felt his face warm, a redness creeping onto his cheeks. “Thank you — ”

“ — I say all of this to you not simply for flattering, but because I'm not getting any younger, not now or ever again. My age is soon going to catch up to me, if not my insanity.” Tajima cut through him, shushing Madara with the raise of his hands. “You must understand that, no?” He said.

Madara nodded, slowly, narrowing his eyes. He was never all that good when it came to diplomacy, he was seen as such for his silence and look of understanding, quiet responses, and witty remarks. When it all fell through, however, Madara could not express himself through the words he spoke. Each one was a reflection and deflection of another's more proper words, not his own. Constantly, it felt as if a shadow loomed over him and whispered another's idea to him, that was how he often made it through the hours of diplomatic conversation.

“My thoughts are that as my eldest heir, once I die you will be named clanhead. However, giving up my position would mean the same thing.” Tajima continued. “You are already much better than I was before, and I feel as though by giving you this role would properly honor our clan. The Elders agree as well, and all that is necessary is your agreement.”

Madara swallowed thickly, feeling the weight of his breathing grow heavier. For a moment, he was sure his heart completely stopped.

“Father,” Madara said in dismay. “Aren't I too young?” He asked, grasping at straws.

“Not at all, I was your age, if not younger.” Tajima said. “You won't be alone, rather Izuna and myself will help you lead.”

“Isn't it tradition to wait until you pass?”

“In many cases, but I am reaching the end of my journey, and the clan needs finer leadership to continue to prosper as it has. The latest advancements were not made by myself, you influenced every one of them. You have grown from irrational to smart and calculated. Your leadership is necessary, Madara.” Tajima's black eyes watched his son carefully, noting each flick of his face. Madara did the same, watching carefully.

“That siren-boy you used to know,” Tajima said slowly. “The very fact that you were willing to murder him, for your brother, for the clan, is a sign of your growth. You are loyal to the clan, that much is evident.”

Madara's breath cut short. He clenched his hands.

“You still have many years ahead of you, Father. There is no need to be rational.” Madara smiled, soft but pressing at the corners.

“If that is how you see it,” Tajima nodded.

A soft silence filled the room, wood creaking under their knees. The cold wind blew against the wall, soft and harsh on the walls. Each gust brought along with if an air of chillingly air that swept through the building, crawling at any exposed skin. Madara felt the coldest, so much so that the wind softly kissing the windows felt like a warm running through him.

Hashirama was a topic they'd never discussed. Tajima did not bring him up ever, since the last time he'd see them. The mere mention of him brought fear through Madara. A suspicion crept through him. Did Tajima know? Was it a coincidence that he'd mentioned it as he did? Madara didn't want to think too hard on it. However, the other option for his thoughts to linger on didn't serve him any kinder.

Madara didn't feel ready for the responsibility of clanhead. Long discussions held him captive, but only if he could watch them from a distance. Madara didn't enjoy engaging, speaking about himself. He'd usually watch others argue, drop his own bits of information that exploded the room into harder conversation. The few times he needed to negotiate for the clan had happened with Izuna by his side, or a plan sent in place for him to follow.

Madara would struggle making the plans himself, and he'd rather not end up the man Tajima is. Tired, always wanted in some task. When Madara thought of his future, he thought of one that people looked down upon. Laze, afternoons in a blissful sun, and a siren he'd grown to love by his side. His duty and responsibility called for one, and his heart called for another.

Madara looked up as the sound of footsteps approached, loud and fast. In seconds, the door slid open. Light from the white, blinding snow outside illuminated the room further. In the shadow of the door, Izuna stood, huffing and out of breath.

“I'm sorry I’m late, I was caught up in something,” He smiled sheepishly and knelt besides Madara. His fingers fiddled with the navy coloring of his clothing while his chest rose and fell quickly.

“You're on time,” Tajima said, his face back to the stoic expression it always took on.

Madara was again left wondering what this was about. He and Izuna hadn't been up to anything troubling, and as far as they could tell a winter of peace was upon them. Madara felt a slipping worry prick the hairs on his neck. When he side-glanced Izuna, he was glad to see a similar reaction in him.

Tajima wasted no more time, and began immediately.

“Lately, our scouts have been reporting suspicious activity around the East harbor. Large ships and boats have been spotted all around, seemingly waiting for something.” Tajima clenched his teeth, narrowing his eyes. Behind them, shone the prospect of sleepless nights considering every possibility.

“What flag do they fly?” Izuna asked, leaning forward in interest.

“None. We can't find a single identifying symbol or flag on the ship. Even the men on board don't carry any emblems on their backs.” Tajima responded.

“Could it be possible they're trying to goad us into something?” Madara asked, digging crescents into his skin with his nails.

“Perhaps. But from the distance we watch them from it is difficult to tell.”

“Maybe there's an ulterior motive. It could be possible they are trying to lead us into a trap, perfectly set in order to catch us off guard.” Madara furrowed his brow, recalling every clan that could possibly.

“Impossible!” Izuna cried suddenly. “Why would anyone be as idiotic enough to try and attack us? What would they gain from it other than a war with our allies and us? We're the strongest clan there is, and only the damned creatures in the water could dream of competing!”

“Izuna,” Madara said. “You may think that, but all it takes is one wrong move to send us into ruin. We may be prosperous now, but what will we do if we go on and attack the ships, and they use our distraction to burn our crops and homes, what then?”

Izuna piped down, gnawing on his lower lip.

“What do we do then?” Izuna asked. He looked at Madara expectedly, tilting his head slightly. When Madara looked forward, he saw Tajima's eyes on him as well, watching him with careful, keen eyes.

Madara, deciding it was him who needed to answer, lowered his head in thought.

“We could send out more scouts to get closer, a group of men trained to fight but not our complete best. We first try communicating and identifying these strangers, and try to keep everything calm. We could have someone on the shore watching so if it goes the worst, we use a smoke signal to alert him and call for reinforcements.” Madara said, tapping his hand on his thigh.

“That is what the elders and myself decided as well,” Tajima smiled widely, proud. “We've already chosen to send the both of you and a predetermined number of men out on a ship at dawn, where you will carry out the plan you describe, Madara.”

“Why the both of us?” Izuna asked. “Wouldn't it make more sense to keep one of us here?”

“Yes, it could be a disadvantage if both of us are injured,” Madara agreed.

“I have faith in both of your strengths, and doubt you will face any major issues.” Tajima said, but his smile faltered slightly. “Originally, it was Shinya who was meant to accompany Madara, it seems he has fallen ill.”

“The winter cold gets everyone one way or another,” Izuna grumbled. Madara grinned and hid it beneath a curtain of his hair.

“Be well rested and on your feet by dawn,” Tajima said, sending them chastising glances. “Both of you have grown well, and I put my faith and trust into the two of you. I know I can put everything in your hands.”

With that, Izuna and Madara left the audience room.

Later that evening, with his father's words still ringing as a soft whisper in his ears, Madara went to the beach. Izuna was fast asleep when he slipped into a boat, rowed it out into the ocean and waited for the familiar face of Hashirama. The siren appeared shortly, already speaking brightly with a smile and a handful of stories.

Tajima trusted Madara fully. He had no clue that his son still met with the creature from that day, or the feeling that rushed through him. Madara would stop seeing Hashirama one day. One day, he would fully stop giving into his longing. One day, he would stop lying to his brother and father. One day, he would stop indulging in the longing and wishes of his heart.

Madara would quit Hashirama one day, but not today.

Chapter Text

There was a soft dawn rising across the horizon. It cast the land, the sea, and all its subjects in a warm glow of oranges, pinks, and blues that could only be seen as mystical. A lingering fog sat between the eyes, tiredness that begged to be put to rest. The movements of the crew dispatched early in the morning were vastly different. Some already had absurd plethoras of energy. They bounced, bright and cheery, bringing with them the joy of the sun itself.

Izuna was one of them. Despite the early hour, he brimmed with the liveliness of a hummingbird's wings, animated in every step. His face showed glee, excitement even. He was quiet, only speaking when one spoke to him. There was a charm to be held with him, the way he spoke in such a cheshire voice that eased and put others on guard all the same.

Then, on the complete opposite side, there were those who dragged their feet, rubbed their eyes, walked with an air of hatred for the early world. They grumbled, glared at anyone who stared too long. Many of the men fell into this, as the early rising didn't do them well.

Madara proved to be the worst of them. Like a feral cat, he hissed and snarled at the crew who tried to speak with him. Each of his movements, hauling the necessary items onto the ship, were done with lagged and harsh, angered strength. His hair was unruly and in his face, giving the appearance of a shabby bush.

“You're terrifying anyone who looks at you, Nii-san,” Izuna had said to him, laughing. “You could be mistaken for an Oni, at this rate.”

Madara shooed him away, pushing him back to what he'd been doing with angered grumbles.

Once they had set out to sea and made substantial distance among the waves, the sun was already nearing its peak in the high sky. Very few clouds covered it, and it seemed to be even brighter glinting on the sea than on the waves. The slight chill of winter was evident in the breezes of pure cold and the visible breaths that showed all around.

Madara was leaning, hand held in his palm, on the railing of the wooden ship. He drummed his fingers on it, staring at anything but the water below. He kept his eyes out, squinting with blurry vision at the horizon.

He awaited to see it, the large sails of a ship, the stranger that'd been lurking in their shores. Each rock of the ship, back and forth, brought a sickness to his stomach, pounding the corners of his head. Madara could only wish for it to be over and done soon, that he could return to land and be left there to his own devices.

The bright sun felt out of place, too bright and joyful for the thoughts that swirled in Madara's head, for the boredom that overcame him. It was unlike the winter sun, usually dim and hidden behind a layer of clouds, cowardly as it was. Madara would count the few, thick fluffy clouds in the sky. He imagined shapes in them, saw faces and weird shadows across them. He wondered their purpose, and how long until they flew into another sky entirely.

From behind, Madara could hear the crew laughing. They'd grown bored as well, and had begun to wager amongst themselves. They laughed, playing with the items they found on the ship and the mismatched deck of cards one had brought with them.

Madara could also hear their whispers. They were untrusting of him, perhaps a little resentful. Their words were far from kind, and they spoke without the fear of reproach.

Madara was tempted to yell at them, to chastise them for being so tranquil when they could stumble upon the other ship at any moment, when they could come face to face with either a threat or brewing issue. He didn't. He decided it wasn't worth the effort, nor the frustration, and continued to stare bitterly at the sky.

Madara's brooding was interrupted shortly. Izuna had snuck up behind him, grasping his shoulders with a reassuring hand.

“You shouldn't listen to them, you know that.” Izuna said, leaning his back on the railing as well. “They don't know what they're saying, and only think that way because they don't have half of the strength you do, Nii-san.”

“It becomes difficult to ignore when that's all you hear them say. Whether they think you're listening or not,” Madara grumbled back, diverting his eyes from the sun to Izuna's face.

“They won't say that for much longer.” Izuna's bangs covered his eyebrows, but his deep eyes stayed knowing. “I overheard what Father said to you.” Izuna admitted.

“I know, I saw the shadow of your feet below the door.” Madara said, shrugging.

“If that's so then you know what I'm going to say.” Izuna inhaled deeply. “I believe you should take it, Nii-san. You're strong and competent. Those men only dare to speak ill of you because they don't know all you've done for them, I'm sure if you were to — ”

“I don't need praise. I'll do what I'll do for the sake of the clan's survival. They don't need to be sitting at my feet, thanking me endlessly for me to want to help.” Madara said. He felt no need to explain that his obligation to the clan had died long ago, and he only clung to it because Izuna did. Had Izuna ever decided to withdraw from the clan, Madara would be right alongside him.

Still, Izuna continued.

“So that's what makes you great in leadership! Everything you say only proves my point, and you can't say it's my inexperience talking because Father believes it as well!” Izuna waved his hands in the air dramatically.

“I'll take on the role when needed, Izuna.” Madara smiled, soft yet with enough sternness to finish the conversation.

“And I'll stick by you, Nii-san,” Izuna grumbled. He crossed his arms, pouting like an upset child.

A gentle, fond silence followed. It held the air of knowing tenderness, but below it something stirred. Madara could not pretend to not notice the distance that had slowly grown between them. Less and less did Izuna update Madara about his life, and Madara had stopped sharing many details of his own.

There were topics they both broached and new to life, light hearted things they knew to cause no harm. Madara often wondered the reason for Izuna's silence, his shutting in. He knew it had started with him, but didn't voice it. Either way, he and Izuna had a level of understanding that didn't need to be spoken. Madara knew Izuna, and that would never change.

“This landscape,” Madara said eventually, turning his head back to Izuna. “It's quite a pretty thing, no? Have you finished your painting yet?”

“No, I'm waiting for the first layer to dry.” Izuna replied, his eyes stayed locked in constant gaze with the sea. “You didn't come with me to the shore last night, Nii-san. Why?” Izuna asked suddenly, startling Madara.

A small part of his breath hitched, and the world outside became condensed into a small box, enclosing Madara with it. He felt a small pang of guilt, but washed it down quickly as the sea does with itself, overlapping each wave.

“I went to bed early,” Madara lied. His voice held no tone of his deception. He had mastered that long ago, and was prideful in his ability to be undetected.

“But when I came to your room last night, you weren't there.” Izuna's eyes snapped to him now, black and resembling Tajima's with terrifying intensity.

Madara met his gaze.

“You must've not seen me, or went by too early.” He said, feeling his weight press hard into the floor.

Izuna hummed in response, tapping his nails on the wooden railing.

The silence that fell this time was less fond, more tense than the last. Many questions remained in Izuna's head, but he dared not ask them.

“We're not done, you know that.” Izuna muttered. “You're going to tell me sooner or later.”

Madara smiled, placating.

They didn't say another word, both watching the sea as a shepherd does his cattle. Madara's eyes were locked on the bottom, watching the waves attack on another with anger, hostility in each rocking of the slow-moving ship. Izuna's eyes stayed locked on the sky, the horizon where the sea stretched on for what could've been forever. Madara's eyes were dim, lightless while Izuna's held the light of something far, distant and appealing.

A cold brush of air, heavy with the scent and crispness of winter, swept the air past them. Madara's bangs rose up in the breeze, as did Izuna's. Once it had disappeared, the wind still left a trail of goosebumps that littered their open skin, and reddened their noses.

“Izuna-san!” A young, male voice called from across the ship. “Come, join us!” He laughed.

Madara saw the way Izuna's face brightened, and he turned to meet the gaze of one of the men circled with the crew. They hadn't quieted, and in fact only seemed to grow louder with the lack of discipline, and their rowdiness only grew.

“Nii-san — ” Izuna began.

“ — I'm fine by myself, just go.” Madara waved his hand, shooing Izuna away.

“You don't want to join?” Izuna frowned.

“I don't think I'd be welcome,” Madara shrugged.

Izuna's frown deepened. “So what? Come, come!” He said, boarding on yelling.

Still, Madara shook his head.

“Go on, Izuna. Someone has to keep an eye out for the ship, anyway.”

Izuna glared at him, but relented. He walked over to the voice that had called him, and was quickly grouped in on a game of cards.

Madara sighed, slumping on the ship's edge. He tuned out the noises behind him. The sound of Izuna winning, of him being accused of cheating, and the loud shouts of anger and a demand for a rematch.

For as far as Madara could see, on all sides the water was empty besides them. A mountainside, tall and wide, ran down and ended in the water, providing a large cover of what was behind it, but otherwise nothing stood in the way. They placed their anchor, stopping the ship's path and looked out. Tajima had said the ship would wait here each day, standing still for hours without movement. Yet, as they looked out, only they occupied the freezing sea.

As a formality rather than anything else, Madara waited. He itched to return back to land, but begrudgingly stayed. The ship could appear at any time, and Madara knew Tajima would be far from pleased in the case that they left and it showed up afterwards.

Once more, with nothing to do, he watched the waves. They had a rhythm to them, one that they hardly ever disturbed. They moved as though following a tune, meticulously on point. Whether it was the song of the gods, or its own song, it followed the rhythm with care and caution.

Which perhaps was why, when a sudden quick movement rippled across it, Madara immediately focused, feeling a sense of unease. For less than a second, quick and in what could be considered a trick of the light, the end of a tail swam through the water.

Madara didn't recognize it. It was soft, shorter than Hashirama's, and a completely different color. From the usual deep green, a color only found in the deepest leaves of the forest, to a stark contrast of blue, matching better with the waves than anything else. A siren swam below, disappearing into the shadow below the boat.

Madara's attention was on high alert, and he immediately prepared to shout out. The men behind him were busy, laughing amongst themselves.

Madara's command was cut off, silenced by a boom that shook the earth below it. The book subsided, replaced by a whizzing that flew through the air. By then, the men were on their feet, wide eyed. Some had grim faces, panicked with horror. While others had a face of excitement, like they were foreseeing glory.

None of them had a chance to react before the stable ground beneath his feet shook and rattled, rattling them as they were sitting on a pounding drum. The ship tipped backwards wounded, and seeming to crumble in pain, before it thrashed back forward just as fast. It rocked, unstable and beaten, while anything on it struggled to keep steady.

Large smoke flew into the blue sky from the ship's bottom. Against the clear and sunny skies it stood out harshly, grey and sickly. A parasite to what should've been a calm day, the grey infected and overtook. A thick haze was born from the smoke, which covered all of Madara's view, and along with it came a sound, booming through the air for a second time.

It missed by a margin, flowing past their heads and crashing its momentum into the puttering sea, uproaring that did nothing to quell the ship's distress. Its motion only grew worse, rocking now with the water as its enemy.

Madara watches the cannon ball sink, bubbling smoke from the water, covering the rest of its descent. When he looks up, he hears the shouts of his men, and the shouts of men on the ship before them. The ringing in his ears, panic stricken, makes way only for the clammer of voices.

“Aim lower!” A voice screams.

“We can't aim with the mountain!” Another shouts back.

Madara hears the voice of his enemies, or perhaps imagines them in his mind. Still, the ship before them begins to move. The oar-men waste no time, pushing their backs and the full of their strength into pulling the ship out from behind its concealed corner.

Out of four cannons, two send similar smoke pilling into the air, while the others stand threatening, ready. The ship carries no identifying flag, only pitch blackness fluttering in the wind. The men on board all shout, loud enough to be heard from the distance between the boats. They too wear no emblems, only plain clothes, resembling poor merchants. Their actions do not. Their commands are planned, their structure is ingrained in them with each step, like men whose generations have seen war.

The quake of their own ship begins to slow and Madara's hands leave the railing they were gripping. He turns back, watching the floundering of his own kin. When held in regard to the clanless crew before them, they appear like scattering ants.

“Raise the anchor!” Madara found himself yelling, dispatching from the ship's wall and conducting himself in the middle. His voice burns his throat, vibrating in his chest as it does in the ears of his clansmen. “We need to move out of their direct attack line!”

His crew seem to gain an ounce of their mind, as the oar men prepare to move while others tug on the lowered anchor. The shouts of the other ship are still present, however as though the divine took pity on them, the other ship struggled. Their boat stayed on moving despite the pull of their men, and with each hard row they only moved centimeters further. By the time they had unmasked themselves from the mountain's hidden corner, the Uchiha were already pulling back.

“Prepare the cannons.” Madara heard Izuna shout from behind him, and he turned to see his brother standing before him.

“Did you see any indication of their clan?” Izuna asked. The cheer from his voice had been lost and replaced with a grim expression.

“None. However, they do not manage their ship badly enough to be clanless. They're directly obscuring the ties to their clan.” Madara replied.

“Probably to dispel the blame. What do we do?” Izuna asked.

“I doubt they'll allow us to leave so easily. They seem to be headless chickens currently, so we'll attack while we can. If we are able, we should overtake their ship. If not, we'll send it to the bitter oceans.” Madara could feel the rage bubbling through. He gritted his teeth, yet felt the excitement all the same as the anxiousness.

“If it's the latter, should we not try to save at least one man to question? And overtaking their ship, isn't it risky to get into hand-to-hand combat now?”

“Saving one man would be difficult if we simply plunder the ship. Perhaps facing them head on would be risky,” Madara paused. Here, he was unable to suppress the grin that nipped the corners of his mouth, reaching out into a large, murderous smirk. “But that is the allure. Tell the others to attack with the cannon for now, before they strike again.”

Izuna smirked as well, mirroring his brother. “Very well, we'll see how it goes.”

Izuna turned back, rushing towards the remaining men to give the orders. Madara was left, glaring out through the harsh sunlight, reflecting across the bright blue sky, and into the deep waters. The smell of gunpowder overtook his senses, and his ears filled with blood, fear, and exhilaration.

Another cannon shot out, though this one was not attacking their own. The ball hit head on, slamming into the side of the enemy's ship. Their ship rattled as well, and commands were heard being delivered in panicked screams. They sent a cannon of their own, barely missing the Uchiha.

That way, their fight resumed. The ships drew closer to one another, and the cannons hit and missed in an odd, unscripted pattern.

An opening was soon made from the chaos.

Madara could foresee it, the way the Uchiha would overcome and overwhelm their opponents, who were clearly unprepared. He could see the way his kin would have no choice but to accept his behavior, as it was true that his stratagems never failed them. Madara was captivated in his own mind by the thoughts of glory.

Madara looked back, finding Izuna standing not far behind him. Madara departed from the cannon he stood against, sprinting across the ship to his brother.

Above him, behind, and all around sounded noises he hadn't heard in years. The sounds of battle were lost under negotiations, and the attack of famine befalling the land pushed it back further. If Madara were born to be anywhere, it would be on the battlefield.

The cries of panic quickened his heart rate, the prospect of whether they would lose or not, all of it brought him a feeling of utter glee. It buzzed under his skin, kept him moving and going. Their ship groaned with another cannon hitting it, smashing into the side and quaking the entirety.

Izuna was still yelling commands, ordering the ship be moved. A fight on the water was more intense than any other. Madara could see it on his brother's face, a fire that reflected the one brewing in his own eyes.

“Bring the ship closer,” Madara called. His chest rose and fell with excitement. “There's an opening at two o'clock.”

“That would only be more risky,” Izuna said. “Shouldn't we take out their cannons first?”

“No.” Madara shook his head. His breath was ragged, excited. “We've already blow out one of them, that's all we need.”

“Nii-san — ” Izuna opened his mouth to speak. He was cut off. Only the constant sound of booms and the smell of smoke filled his senses. Madara's back was turned to the enemy ship, his gaze locked on Izuna's face.

He watched it happen slowly. The way Izuna's furrowed brows rose, his eyes staring far behind Madara, yet at him all the same, wide and open with horror.

What had been an expression filled face turned rigid. The color drained from it, suddenly, and along with it his lips parted. Izuna tried to speak, but the words didn't leave his throat.

Any lingering glee left in Madara changed to worry. Madara kept his eyes on his brother's face, watching as it sank and paled. The wind ruffled his hair and his eyes were unblinking.

Time ticked by slowly, each second marked by Madara's beating heart, fast and erratic. For a moment, Madara swore he could feel a second one, one that was slowly accepting its fate. Time crawled forward, and along with it, a large growing shadow that covered the sunlight overhead. Izuna's figure was engulfed by this shadow above, which blocked the light of the bright, cloudless sky.

Izuna blinked. Madara swung his head back, turning his neck to the sky. In front of him, a large cannon ball. Bigger than anything they'd seen prior, moving at speeds incomprehensible.

Madara's face sank as well, watching as it descended and crashed directly into their ship, hitting it in its middle.

The last thing he saw, Izuna's terrified, black eyes reflecting his own, horrified expression back to him haunted the white flash that overtook his vision.

Madara knew this feeling all too well. The sounds of shouts assaulted his ears, a thick, imperceptible white grabbed his vision behind his eyelids. A chill ran across his arms, his legs, colder than the bite of snow. Running down his veins, filling the pores of his body, an angry freeze attacked.

It lapped and moved with the currents around his body, soaking him completely and bending him to its will. Madara recalled Kuro's death, the very same ocean that had engulfed him, engraved its memory in his body. So alike, yet so distinct from this.

Madara forces his body to move. He kicks with legs numb and without feeling, using the sound of his beating heart and burning lungs to ground him. His limbs move and thrash nonsensically, like a tree caught in a summer storm. Madara hears shouts, screams and noises of victory behind the thick wall of deafness coating his ears.

Soon, Madara feels the break of the surface at his fingertips, the cold air nipping at it. In seconds, he's resurfaced above the water, staring at the broken ruins of his ship.

For a moment, Madara worries about Izuna. As he scans the sea before him, his eyes see the blurs of a clansmens drifting below, in their own battle with the sea. Madara knew better than to worry for him. Izuna was strong willed, his strength was near if not greater in certain areas than him. Madara trusts in Izuna to find himself, and that trust allows him to worry for his own predicament.

Madara can hear the shouts of the enemy, victorious. His blood boils, gritting his teeth. The Uchiha aren't dead, but he knows the men on the ship don't expect them to last much longer. He hears them scream about picking off the ones they see, watching their figures raise harpoons high in the air.

“Pick off any you see lingering!” He hears a voice yell.

Madara ducks, keeping only his eyes and a floating mass of hair stationed above the blue. He keeps himself small, observing his surroundings. The water isn't safe, he knows. He glances back to the Uchiha's figure he saw moments earlier, only to notice it gone. A strange feeling, the one where he feels the watchful gaze of something inhuman, passes over him.

Madara shakes it off, and his eyes glide to the edge of the mountainside, where the sea crashes on the rocks harshly. He knows if he were to swim there, the current would impale him on the side of a rock. However, with a growing ache in his body and the need to regroup, Madara doesn't hesitate to dip back under the cold, bitter sea.

It fights back against him, clawing him back and towards some aggressive force behind.

Madara is not far from the mountainside when he feels something snarl below him, suddenly jumping out and grabbing his body.

It grips onto his shoulders, pounding a tail back and forth. The grab isn't delicate, soft but with hardened strength in the way he knows it. It's deadly, but weak.

Madara opens his eyes against the saltwater, ignoring the sting and wrestling against a siren. Thick, black eyes with short cropped hair, a thick orange tail that thrashes and tries to subdue him. Madara is thankful it is weak, barely able to hold his grip.

Madara snatches its arm, twisting it while he kicks at the siren's bare chest before it can begin its horrific song.

He doesn't look back, instead Madara swims with the adrenaline that pumps through his blood until he reaches the edge of the mountainside. He pops out of the water close to it, breathing in deeply. The sea is aggressive here, throwing him hard against a rock, enough to bruise and cut the skin, knocking the air from his lungs.

Madara pays no mind, grabbing the corner until it cuts the skin of his hand and climbing up against the slimy rock. The mountainside is steep, with only a few flat heads. Slippery, with the sea hurling white foam at it, a small flat surface on the rock, only covered in small grooves, awaits. Madara throws himself on it, gripping it so as not to fall, and clutches his stomach, gasping for air.

Finally, when he's resting on his side, groaning in pain with a full view of the destruction before him, the steep uphill to the mountain behind him, his own ship in ruins and the other with pieces falling, Madara empties his stomach into the puttering ocean below. The bile burns and claws at the delicate skin of his throat, enough to spin his head. Madara stares into the sky, still bright and clear with the faint smell of battle, and allows for the darkness to enter his vision afterwards.

The vivid, vibrant blue that owned the sky in the earliest hours of the day and throughout the afternoon, soon blended into the colorless black above. Where the sky had no clouds before, it now had many that cover the moon and stars alike, thick and wispy across the horizon. They drop down little white flakes, dusting the ground in a layer of ivory.

Madara awakes to a freezing coldness that nibbles at his skin, aggressive and unyielding. His eyes flutter open, meeting the black sky with panic. His hands wrap around himself, rubbing to ease the goosebumps.

In the rock below, there is a silhouette void of snow where he had been fast asleep. Madara can see and feel the breath that exhales out of him and disappears into the darkness above.

His eyes meet the sea next, where it is peacefully calm, back as it always had been. No signs of their presence remained, and the ship from before was long gone. Not even the broken chunks of their ship float along the coast, perhaps long gone.

As Madara scans the lightly snow dusted area around him, he realizes, with increasing worry, that he's alone. Not a single voice, not a single sound, that doesn't belong to the midnight nature, sounds.

Madara looks back on the water with half-asleep deliriousness, unaware of where he is, and barely aware of who he is. Were the events from earlier today? Were they yesterday? Years ago? He stares at the sea for answers, glaring at it. The water, in response, splashes and hits the rock he's sitting on with such fury that stray droplets of pure chill slap against his face.

The rough cold of the water finally fully wakes him, and the panic fully settles in his gut.

Madara is on his feet, almost slipping, and climbing around the rocks. His heart pounds in his chest, and the fear is enough to make his body ache. Madara worries for Izuna. Last he saw of him, he was standing on the ship with the look of horror in his gaze. Madara doesn't think of how he's seen that look of horror before, how it's been ingrained in his mind the past four times he'd seen it.

The rock's eventually, as he climbs to the tallest one, lower into a valley of sorts, nestled in between the first mountain and the second. It's covered in the thinnest layer of snow, bound to grow larger, with small patches of ice where the land was most moist.

Madara stands on the valley, looking out into the sea and beyond it, to land. He recognizes where he is soon, as it's not far from the Uchiha shore. If Madara were to follow around the second mountain, it would lower into the rocky terrain where Madara often met with Hashirama, and then to the main beach.

Madara is moving again, taking that very path. His heart pounds and his eyes don't leave the water. Had it been only the men in the ship to worry about, Madara would've been confident of Izuna's survival. However, it wasn't just that in the sea.

On his shoulder, there is a faint claw mark that sunk into the skin and was coated in dry blood. Madara bites his lip and hurries his footsteps, keeping his eyes more keenly on the water. Madara would return to his clan, and Izuna would be already there, uninjured, and waiting for him.

Madara repeats those words in his head and begins to run, breathing heavily with each footstep that hits the grass, shaking and toppling the whole world, in his mind.

It didn't take much longer for Madara to be nearing the shore of his clan. His head spun and his legs ached, however he could see a faint light coming from the dock's lamp in the distance, the one that had been replaced. Madara would only need to continue forward, and he would find Izuna.

Two sounds.

One mirroring a shout of pain, and the other the sound of soft hissing halted Madara in place. It was as though his heart stopped, his breathing, his thoughts all stuck in place.

Madara was running, the pain his lungs forgotten, the docks of his clan forsaken, to the sound. His feet hit like drums against the ground, rattling his head. The air mixed with the scent of salt in the air, enough to make him nauseous and dizzy. Vaguely, the scent of iron was rooted deep in the air as well.

Madara's eyes were glancing from each corner of his vision to the next, jumping at every small shadow and staring at every tiny object. When his eyes first crossed by it, they hadn't noticed a thing, only the silhouette of two people. Madara froze in his tracks, stumbling forward on his feet. He was staring at the scene before him, the one he'd run by moments before.

It was dark, yet he was able to make out the shadow of Izuna. His hair, clothing, the features of his face even without the intricate details was unmistakable. He was on his stomach, screaming, shaking with a look of fear reflected in his eyes. He struggled, fought against the creature above him.

A thick, blue tail, with white hair not unlike the snow falling at their feet. Madara could only see his face fully through the bulb that hung from his head. Madara could see the resemblance, even if very small, to another siren he knew better than anyone.

The claws of the siren were hooked, clenched, deep into Izuna's stomach, the sound of squelching and gurgles heard behind the shouts. In a circle, almost like a ritual pentagon, was red. Pure, still pumping, crimson hung in a dark barrier around them. It mixed with the snow piled below, and sunk into the earth to blossom what would become flowers bathed in death once spring came to be.

The siren's face ducked down, biting into the hole it had made, and began feasting. It held Izuna down with its clawed hands, wrapped around his neck and digging into the back of it, drawing slips of blood down his throat.

Madara wanted to rush forward. He wanted to fight the thing off, yet his body was stuck to the snow beneath his feet. It wouldn't listen, not to his pleas for it to move, not to anything he willed it to do. Madara's breathing had grown louder, enough so that the siren froze, snapping its head back.

Deep, red lines of blood dripped down from its mouth. A deep crimson to a light pink, all of it was stuck between its sharp teeth and stuck under the nailbeds of it's claws. Its eyes seemed to glow in the dark, wide, dark, and staring endlessly at him with a rage below its face. Madara expects, and wishes that it would jump on him. He wishes it would open his gut, rip his inners out. He wishes it was him below the siren, feeding its disgusting hunger, rather than the pure boy it had in it's clutches.

The siren held Madara's gaze for a moment. With terrible, red, lifeless eyes staring at him. It looks annoyed, rather than angry. Finally, it snarls and releases Izuna's neck from its claws, drawing more blood as it does. With inhumane speed, it rushes off the cliffside of the valley and into the sea, splashing hard on its way down. It was gone as quickly as it had come.

Madara stands in place for a moment, listening to the retreating splashes of the creature behind him. Then, with a burst of energy, his feet unglue him from the floor and he's rushing forward, falling harshly enough on his knees beside Izuna for it to bruise and scrape his legs.

The air smelt of iron, rusted, old. Against the smell of salt, thick and heavy with the movement of the waves, it sent a putrid and sickening smell to stick in the windless, snowy night. The blood squelched and tainted Madara's legs where he sat in the pool rapidly expanding below Izuna. Sticky, dark red, and

Izuna's skin had a gleam to it, a shimmer like sweat all across his body. Thick, heavy crimson mixed and stuck against itself, blurring the line of what was skin and what was cloth and snow. His eyes were glazed, staring at the black, starless sky with a far away look, not unlike some rabid animal. His skin was paler, white as the snow beneath him, and red with the blood that dripped from his wounds.

“I want you to kill him, Nii-san.” Izuna snarled, his voice distant as though he was speaking to Madara from across an ocean, barely a raspy whisper. “Find that bastard, and kill him.” The way his words were spoken, soft but filled and fueled with abhor in each syllable.

Madara stared down at Izuna, worry prevailing across his face. He watched him with careful eyes, noting that the little boy he'd known has his brother was gone, replaced by the spitting image of Tajima, bloodied and angry.

“Let me help you up,” Madara whispered, listening to the waves in his own voice. He reached an arm under Izuna, wincing as Izuna cried out and blood poured and smeared through his fingers, into the beds of his nails into what would soon dry as a cracking cast in between them. With a slight effort, he managed to hold Izuna, limp and weak with breathing rapid, quick, yet shallow and thin.

“Y’know, I believe you'll accomplish great things.” Izuna began to ramble, looking through his brother. “You're strong and don't give up easily — ”

“Izuna,” Madara interrupted. “Not now.” Was all he could push out of himself. Izuna couldn't die, not now.

Izuna laughed. Behind it, the wound in his throat bled and gurgled in a sickening sound. Izuna's hand was held tightly against his stomach, holding in the blood that dared to pour from the hole. As Madara began to walk, with each step Izuna would loosen his hold, the resolution of his death already accepted in his eyes.

“Nii-san,” Izuna whispered after a grand silence.

“I'm sorry, Izuna.” Madara responded, clenching his teeth.

“Can you promise me something?” Izuna looked up at him, holding his gaze with unblinking eyes. For a moment, they resembled not the eyes of a man, but the eyes of a young boy who knew nothing of the world's terrors. The eyes of an innocent child, filled with hope in black eyes.

“Whatever you want.” Madara replied.

“Once you kill that siren, I want you to negotiate a peace.” Izuna said.

“Why would I do that?” Madara's brows furrowed.

“Because I know you. While you hold grudges, you carry on the rage and anger, you also know how to forgive. I stopped being able to understand you a while ago, but I think I finally see it. You never stopped seeing that siren, the one with the green tail, did you?”

Madara didn't respond. His silence was enough.

“You knew how to forgive him. That's admirable. I know you won't forgive the other siren, and I can't ask you to stop your vengeance because I know that's a part of you. But once that is done, I want you to forgive the rest of them. For the sake of the clan, for the sake of not losing more lives.”

“You're the only life that matters to me.”

“Don't say that. Think of our clansmen, of your future children.”

Madara's face soured at that, and Izuna, watching him carefully, blinked as the soft revelation hit him.

“Oh,” Izuna muttered. Then, he laughed again. “Then do it for me, okay? Think of me.”

“Okay,” Madara whispered, turning to look up as he felt his cheeks heat.

More silence passed, with Madara navigating the slippery rocks with careful steps, slowly making his way to his clan. He pretended not to feel as Izuna's weight grew heavier in his arms, as his body slumped and his arm draped down inches from the ground.

“Nii-san, I'm scared. I'm scared to die.” Izuna whispered, so silent it may've been mistaken for the rasp of the water hitting the beach shore. “Is that bad?”

“You won't die,” Madara replied immediately. Even if he didn't fully believe his own words, perhaps Izuna would.

“Just keep talking to me, please.” Izuna's voice wavered more now, as if reality truly began to set in.

“About what?” Madara asked.

“...That siren. Hashirama, you said his name was. What's so special about him?” Izuna said, hesitantly and timidly.

Madara swallowed, feeling a heavy weight enter his chest. For a moment, no words could come out. It was as though sand was stuck to the roof of his tongue and spilled out rather than the words he was trying to speak. Then, he looked into Izuna's eyes. Curiosity, genuine, open and unjudging.

Slowly, Madara began to speak.

He spoke about Hashirama, everything he thought, knew and guessed about him. He told Izuna the things he was unwilling to admit himself. Under Izuna's gaze and the soft snow of the night, he spoke undeterred and with full conviction.

Izuna simply listened to it all, smiling. As the clouds parted and moonlight began to shine through, it landed on his face with soft shadows highlighting his features. His wide eyes, soft but firm jaw, his pale, gleaming skin. The darkness of his eyes brightened. The blood that clung to him and Madara's clothes was a stark contrast, yet even it was unable to escape the reflection of the moon. Izuna appeared pure, a kind of purity that did no wrong, clean snow with stains.

Madara could feel Izuna's life inching away from him, but his words didn't halt. He continued to speak until Izuna's eyes fluttered shut, leaving pale eyelids and thick eyelashes to flutter in the soft breeze coming from the sea. Even then, when Izuna's body went fully limp against him, Madara didn't stop talking.

Izuna’s eyes soon fluttered shut, the soft sounds of Madara’s words and the crashing sea being the last sounds he heard.

Chapter Text

Izuna struggled against burning hot fevers, nausea, and infection for three days.

Madara sat by his side for it all, easing the fever and delaying the inevitable.

On the third night, he watched as Izuna's breathing slowed, rose with a deep exhale that chattered his teeth, groaned and ripped through his voice like the sound of death mimicking him, before it ceased. The fever had scorched Izuna's mind, ending him in a slow, painful manner he was barely conscious of. His last words had been unintelligible mumbles, sounding faintly like Madara's name, whispered into the incense burning around him.

Madara watched the final light grey in his eyes, the darkness mirroring a night sky of stars, flecks of white, with an aurora behind it, vanish. The slow, final movements of his irises were drowsy with confusion, nothing as the liveliness Izuna was known for. Even after, his eyelids still fluttered with half blinks, sending his long eyelashes swaying such as the long grass close to the beds of rivers, or the wings of a restless butterfly.

Madara hovered his hand over Izuna's nose, praying for the exhale of even short breaths. It was a selfish endeavor. Izuna's final days had been spent in suffering and torment to his wounds, not so much the actual cuts but the infection that creeped in.

Izuna's body radiated a deep metallic smell, ignited by the warm stuffiness all around. The heat in his inner body felt as though it was spread across the entire room, clinging to Madara's skin. The smell stunk up the room, burning its memory permanently in Madara's nose.

Izuna's face was unchanged, eyes half lidded, not quite closed or open, staring far beyond the ceiling. A haziness had entered them, replacing the light that used to shine its place. His hair was stuck to his forehead, flat and unkempt in a way Izuna usually refused to allow it to be, with an unnatural gleam of sweat covering his entire body.

Madara reached out a hand to shut Izuna's eyes.

Madara felt that his body still burned with remnants of the fever and his former life pumping under his skin far past when his blood did. He hadn't lost the touch of life he always had, even in death. Madara dreaded the moment where he would. He dreaded when Izuna would become a distant memory rather than the truth before him.

Madara retracted his hand, feeling the heat indent in his brain as the smell had, as the haziness in his eyes had. Every part of Izuna was haunting to look at. Either a reminder of the boy that lived or a view of the body that died was what sat before Madara, putrid overtaking what once was pure.

Madara chose, knowing the selfishness that overtook his decision, to lay beside Izuna. He shifted himself, gently to not disturb the dead, or to not allow anyone to know of his choice. He rested on his side, facing the outline of Izuna's face, moonlight showing each feature, from his eyebrows to his chin in a glowing aura.

Madara bumped his knee with Izuna's, suddenly, which shifted and took the weight limply like a wooden doll. He resisted the urge to jump back in disgust, to pull away from the embrace he wished would hold him tight.

Madara pulled his eyes away from the corpse at his side, shifting them to the window shutters that rattled on the wall with the wind blowing outside. The view outside wouldn't be what stood out in his nightmares, it wouldn't carry a guilt over him like the warmth beside him would.

A huge blizzard blanketed the earth in a layer of pearly white, not unlike the shine of the moon itself. It roared Madara's anger incarnate, his fury, his disdain at the world, and what had come of it. The divine hurled chill and frigid winds at them as Madara himself would. Every emotion that flickered beneath his still, blank eyes was reflected by nature.

With each glance at the bandages wrapped evenly, carefully around Izuna's wound, Madara grew more infuriated. The image of the white haired siren, violent with the eyes of a careless, disgusting creature, haunted Madara as much as Izuna's state did. He relived the moment continuously, wishing and imagining how he could've changed it.

Perhaps if he'd stepped in sooner, Izuna wouldn't have been in such a dire position, perhaps if he'd found Izuna immediately when the ship crashed, perhaps if he'd been more strategic their ship wouldn't have been hit down. Every one of those ideas rang in his head, never giving him a moments rest. If not them, the image of the siren and the familiarity he soon pinned to Hashirama afflicted him instead.

Hashirama, too, angered him. Hashirama and the way Madara perceived him would never be the same. Whether or not it had been Hashirama directly was irrelevant to him and to Madara's scorching hatred that lunged at everything.

Hashirama's brother had been the one to kill Izuna. Hashirama's kin had picked off half of the men that occupied his crew. Hashirama was the reason Madara got odd, judgement stares. They all blamed him, his guidance, for the ship's demise. Madara felt the eyes of his own kin on his back like knives, stabbing his rotting moral. They all hated him because of Hashirama's men.

Madara buried his head in his hands. The problems around him never seemed to stop flowing. Madara could never be content with his life as whenever he was, something arose to humble him. He wished for simpler times. He wished for the time that he'd been content. The moments he'd seen as mediocre, as nothing, were now the moments his heart longed for the most.

Memories arose, blocking his vision and running through his head steadily, seemingly reflected by the moon to give him short dreams he wouldn't fall asleep to receive. Madara welcomed the memories openly, pulled them close to fill the gaping hole he felt forming in his soul.

Madara had been seventeen, laying on a boat with his body spread out. A heat clung to the air, thick and heavy, holding the whole of summer in its interior.

Beside him, water splashed where Hashirama flicked his tail in the water, unable to sit still.

Those big, expressive brown eyes watched him. They were wide with hope, ideas for the world. He took the world as he saw it, spoke of it that way. Hashirama would be regarded for nothing more than some lunatic had it not been for his charisma, for the strong grip he held on Madara. He had the ability to captivate those when he spoke, Madara knew.

He was calm, drifting at sea with a sense of safety fueling him. When he was with Hashirama, Madara knew he was untouchable. Not even Hashirama himself would hurt Madara, regardless of what the latter did. He took a sick sense of pride in that, in the ability to bend a man to his will for simply existing.

“Tell me, Madara, I hear rumors of a town, one that has endless jewels and perfect weather, have you heard of it?” He didn't wait for the response, knowing it wouldn't come. “You always complain of the cold, and how it isn't suitable for you, why not go somewhere warm? We could travel together, that could be our first destination.” Hashirama continued as he tapped his fingers on the wooden edge of the boat, a soft drumming beat matching the song of the waves.

“I'm not any better accustomed to the heat as I am to the cold, Hashirama.” Madara wiped the sweat pouring from his brow. His hair was a large mass of black behind him, trapping the heat within its curls.

“You are very difficult to please, are you aware of that?” Hashirama laughed, stretching and lazing on the corner of the boat.

“That's because you won't take no for an answer.” Madara grumbled. “Your dream of traveling the world makes no sense, Hashirama. It has as many holes as a fruitless, childish dream would.”

“You're harsh with your words but deep down you agree, no?” Hashirama laughed, stubbornly ignoring Madara's brusque voice.

Hashirama was hard to argue with. He believed any other world to be wrong, he pushed his narrative onto others, and bid them to see the world in the same sunshine he did. He had the power to do so, which was most infuriating. He held onto the past and used that to shape a man. How he perceived one then was the way he always would be, which led him to turn blind to the broken, dismal parts of Madara and view him only as the child he was before, not the man he grew into.

A part of Madara perhaps was infuriated with Hashirama's inability to perceive him as what he was, yet he was thankful all the same. Rather than have Hashirama veiw the gnarly, disappointing parts that shamed Madara, went against the nature he saw him as, he saw a part that kept him drawn in.

Selfishly, Madara loathed the thought of leaving Hashirama. As insane and flawed though he was, Madara was cut from the same cloth. He preferred to see Hashirama as a monster, a vile creature so as to not sink himself further than he could handle. There dynamic worked, as neither couldn't bring himself to truly part from the other, regardless of the underlying dilemmas.

“You see oddly distant today. Is something the matter?” Hashirama asked.

“I am tired, Hashirama. I did many things today.” Madara responded. He propped his legs to the edge of the boat, hovering below the waves. He threw his head back so it dipped over the edge.

“Funny.” Hashirama smiled so widely the corners of his lips turned downward. “I was praying for that earlier.”

“For me to be tired and cranky?” Madara frowned, tipping his neck further to level a sour look at Hashirama.

“No, of course not. I always pray for your happiness. I was just hoping you were tired enough to possibly stay longer.” Hashirama slowly raised his clawed, webbed hands and ran them thinly, without entering too deeply, through Madara's hair.

Madara narrowed his eyes. It appeared that even the gods adored Hashirama. He had no strength, no will to raise himself from the boat where he lay. In the deep afternoon sun, surrounded by the calm of the sea, and Hashirama's cool fingers petting his hair, Madara felt compelled to stay.

“For a little, I suppose I'll stay.” Madara said more to himself.

Hashirama's smile broadened, and that alone settled Madara's decision. He leaned forward, eyes filled with joy and embraced, adoring eyes to Madara.

Hashirama's eyes mirrored the peaks of mountains, dark rimmed like the onyx sky, flakes of gold acting as stars and adding the alluring, wonderous feeling one got from looking in them. In the middle, a lighter brown took hold, showing the inner love he held in a thin, dark pupil that twitched and grew as he kept Madara's gaze. Most of all, the perfected look in them brought Madara the warmest feeling, the familiarity and the sense of childhood memories that came with.

Madara found it hard to peer past the ideology he'd created around Hashirama. The day at the beach had killed his perception of him, left him to see him each time as a creature to behold and not the boy he related heavily with. It was only through the soft, quiet moments when Madara could look into Hashirama's eyes and feel the pang of nostalgia, of intimacy only they shared.

Madara believed that soon he'd understand the meaning behind the flutter in his ribs, the turn of his stomach, and the heat on his neck at the proximity to Hashirama. Soon, he'd come to terms with the feeling and reality of it.

A gentle, thumping wave hit the bottom of the boat, sending it rocking back slightly. The waves reflected Hashirama's breathing, while the thumps of the boat showed his heartbeat. All around, Hashirama was constant. His eyes were the mountains towering above, his hair was the bark of trees, silky yet rough with harsh knots. His skin was the sand on the beach, his heartbeat the thump of shore, and his breathing the wind. No matter where Madara thought of, he felt Hashirama envelope him, their connection starting through touch, such as the hand in his ink curls.

“You know,” Hashirama said, interrupting Madara's musings. “When I say I want you to be happy, I mean it within the ends of my heart and soul.”

“Is that so?” Madara replied, noncommittal. He'd close his eyes, staring at the reddened edges of his eyelids where the sun attempted to peak through.

“Very much so,” Hashirama nodded. “I pray every night to every deity for your constant comfort and peace, it is a routine I follow religiously.”

Madara opened a single eye, staring at the blurred man before him. Hashirama was staring so openly, with such intensity as though he bore his heart to him. Madara felt the urge to squash his innocence.

“You say that yes,” he began. His purpose was to hurt, for a reason he couldn't completely explain. “But do you know what it takes to make me happy? Do you know me, Hashirama?” Madara pursed his lips. “I doubt it.”

“You've told me before, haven't you? You said all it would take is your brother,” Hashirama smiled. “Although, I've come to my own conclusions as well. You like warm places, which is why summer is your favorite. You adore your brother and would move anywhere it'd be safe for him, you also enjoy the crispness of winter but only when it's light. An area with birds is most suitable for you, you mention the different kinds to me so often it's hard not to remember them. You — ”

“That's enough.” Madara felt a heat tingle his cheeks. He dipped his head forward, hiding behind the cover of his hair.

Hashirama's grin widened. He laughed, a deep sound vibrating his chest, with loud inhales that puckered his stomach and short exhales that made a snorting noise.

“Well,” Madara murmured, regaining himself. “I suppose if we ever did leave, I would be well taken care of.” He smiled.

Mostly, he was joking. Madara had known to let go of the dream highlighting his childhood. During a time where his chores were short, his lazing hours long, and the responsibilities of the world seemed vastly remote, removed from the little existence on the beach Hashirama had built with him, it wasn't unfathomable that they'd come up with something such.

Madara was older, though. He had responsibilities and duties, roles he'd need to fulfill. Hashirama did too, it was apparent by the relations and similarities they shared, and he'd learn to grow out of his dreams too.

“You will,” Hashirama said. His voice was sterner. It held more weight, the weight that Madara's lacks. “I can promise you, you'll be at your happiest.”

However, Hashirama, if Madara could foresee it properly, which he always did, would never grow out of it. He would stay brash and stubborn to his former words if it killed him. Hashirama wouldn't change, and because of that Madara wouldn't have to either. Hashirama wouldn't leave him, for whatever idea he made of him in his mind would stay constant. While Madara's selfishness would keep him from leaving, despite the warnings in his head.

“Then we may as well leave now, eh?” Madara laughed. Placatingly, joking. He leaned his head back on the boat's edge, oblivious to the way Hashirama's face soured.

Above, the sun was still scorching. Its warmth brought on the joy of summer, its reign, short compared to the tyranny of winter, but loved most of all. Madara felt it on his neck, allowing a shutter of heat and goosebumps across his skin. He was relaxed back, enjoying the sun's rays, perfected and heated.

For a moment, the memory warmed him. The remembrance of it and the calm indulgence he'd felt at the time almost crept in, fighting the gnawing sensation of freeze biting his skin. A snake slithering through the grass, its eyes lock on the target before it, was what the mimicked heat felt as. It only got so far before reality, the larger predator, an eagle, managed to swoop down and nip it before its climax.

Madara was freezing, shuttering. Even in the midst of his home, where Izuna's body was still feverish and burning beside him, the tips of Madara's fingers and toes cried out, tingling and curling in on themselves.

The change, from the imaginative swelter of summer, to the biting chill of winter, was sudden. Madara was reminded that his world didn't resemble what it once did. Izuna wasn't waiting for him at home, Hashirama was not sitting by him from afternoon to dusk, and most of all the hole in his heart grew larger, more gaping, with a demand for appeasement.

The memory, as well, brought emotions so distinct, so unlike one another they began to mix. The separation between them was skewed. Whether it be for Madara's disconcerted mind, or the truth that they had been one all along, wasn't what he focused on.

Madara recalled — perhaps regretted — the true, final words he'd spoken to Izuna.

They were only to be heard to his ears alone, and for that Madara felt security, but wished they had been wiser, the more grounding ones Izuna needed to hear, rather than his confession.

The real intent, the one Izuna had most likely concluded to, was so apparent to Madara's horror. His thoughts were too jumbled, moving too fast to stop the words from leaving his mind before he could think them.

When the shadows grew long and the sun descended, he would fight and ration the day to himself. He would conceal the truth and placate himself with false sedatives. The sentiment he'd buried, refused to acknowledge, stood before and mocked him. So what if he would not say it? He knew, deep down, what the sincere passions he felt for Hashirama were.

In the way the skyline loved the sea, connected by one and to a distance unseen by the human eye, the way the sun was devoted to the clouds in the day beside it, such as the moon was loved by the stars it shared the night with. Above the mountains, to the moon and down, below the earth and as nature adores the creatures of its creation.

All of it cowarded, kneeled and buckled in comparison to the love Madara felt for Hashirama.

That realization, accompanied with all of its meanings, emotions, was a terror beyond all else for Madara. He did not feel what he was supposed to. There was no joy, no embarrassed, flushed face, or stuttering over his words. He did not feel a sense of pride over his love, rather, if given the chance, he'd denounce it and expel it from the universe entirely.

Madara felt a bitter coldness in place of the embrace of love. Where his face was meant to redden, it instead paled, appearing much like the colorless snow overtaking everything outside. The joy was replaced by utter despair, and no words were able to leave his mouth even if he pleaded for it to.

Madara was hit by the memory of the day before he'd left, the night he'd gone to see Hashirama, rather than sit by the beach with Izuna. As of now, that moment haunted him, and lived in his many regrets. But that wasn't what flashed through his mind. He remembered, moments before he left, as Hashirama had done many times before, he'd kissed him.

Soft, loving, gentle. Madara, at the time, had not cared to savor the taste.

He despised Hashirama for keeping him from Izuna in what would've been their last domestic moments, but also could not dispel the urge he had to be kissed by him again, to feel what it would taste like when he was honest.

Madara sank in on himself. The weight of his thoughts rattled on his head, sickening him.

This love he realized held for Hashirama was destructive, tumbling just above the line of hate. His love for Hashirama did not reverse the many times he'd despised him, had wished him dead. The love only layered itself on top. But what had become of that love? What, aside from pain, despair, and hatred had come from it? These opinions were not new, they only had a name of which made them relevant, stronger. What had become of the love Madara felt for Hashirama?

The body beside him, a shell of the former living boy, spoke the answer clearly.

When Madara awoke in the morning to sunlight fluttering his eyes open. It was highlighted and enhanced by the glow of pearly snow outside, reflecting the grey sky and thin sun in a further layer of light.

Madara turned his head, expecting to find the eternal peaceful expression on his brother's face, similar to the one he wore as a toddler who knew nothing but play and joy.

Instead, he found that where his warmth had taken the majority of the futon, leaving the slightest corner for Madara to rest on top of, it was now empty and cold as the hardwood floor, and the snow below it.

The room had been cleaned of everything that had been the night before, even the smell of fever and illness had been properly washed away. Servants had come in the wee hours of the night, and had taken Izuna's body for his funeral, and the ceremonial burial that proceeded.

It was as though a forever cold had entered Madara's flesh, attached to his bone, and soaked the life in him. He felt rage, grief, but most of all emptiness. Madara was left gutted, with his exposed inners pouring out into the world, open for hungry wolves and hateful people. Madara wanted council. He wished to run, to hide away from the world before it picked him apart, dissected and digested the parts of him he hadn't the energy to hide any longer.

Madara sought council, and the proper guidance he desperately longed for, in Tajima. He rose and left the room, with the soft flakes of snow still descending slowly on the ground, unshoveled and a mess of dirt and prints, Madara treaded further into town.

It was far too early for the streets to be littered with interaction, and for that he was joyful. Madara was disheveled in appearance, he had not bathed in the days since Izuna's fever, and his body reeked of death and illness.

The lamp was not on in the room Tajima spent his days the most in, and instead was buzzing with movement from servants and clan elders. Madara walked past them all, and into Tajima's chambers.

The man was not in them. Rather, the room was empty, void of the sun brought on by life. The chitter of bugs crawling on the floor, unobstructed to the ways of touch, and a bed rolled in the corner, covered in the lightest sprinkle of dust. The window shutters were held tightly shut, without so much as a flicker of light peeking in.

Before him, standing in place of Tajima in the room, a man spoke from the shadows, starting Madara.

“Tajima-dono is not here,” he said. He entered Madara's field of view, to which he was quickly identified as a man on the council, who often aided and abetted Tajima's decisions.

“Where is he?” Madara asked. There was a gruffness to his voice, deep and strained. It sounded pathetic, gripped with weakness.

The man in front of him seemed to pause at that. He opened his mouth, shut it, and repeated the motion over and over again. His features were in a grimace on his unremarkable face, and his hands clutched at his side. He looked out behind Madara at the many servants running in and out.

"He went out earlier..." The informant paused again, looking shamefully to the floor. “He will not be returning.”

“Where is he?” Madara asked again, this time with a bite to the edge of his words. A rage was burning in the back of his voice. It rung through his hollow chest, igniting a fire in the cold coals of his heart. He welcomed the anger, festered it in his mind. If not rage, Madara knew he wouldn't feel anything else.

“Uchiha Tajima,” the informant inhaled, speaking with a layer of frustration of his own. “Chose to end his life on the beach shore this morning.”

Madara gave pause. His shoulders and body slummed, shrinking and fell flat. What had been fire in his heart, swiftly extinguished, as though a large gust if wind blew it far away. The seeking grip of loneliness engulfed him.

What was left for Madara?

All of those that he had held dear were nothing, either haunting him as a constant shadow, or a stain on his soul that wouldn't wash itself clean.

***

Madara oversees the burial of Izuna and cremation of Tajima. Both funerals bring mourning and grief to the clan, along with a fear of retaliation once neighboring enemies learn of their sudden spike of weakness, and the sudden loss of their leader. To avoid immediate conflict in a devastating time, Madara, as the sole heir, is given the title of clan leader. His hours alone grow short, his chores and responsibilities grow larger and unavoidable.

Shinya, the lone survivor of his close circle, had been missing for weeks. Madara considers it a cruel prank from the divine, that only in a matter of days he lost the people he loved and cherished.

Madara does not mourn the loss of his free time. For, only during the time where he is not needed and is left to himself, is when the haunting doubts and memories pour in. When they do, it is in the time he is alone. During the night, instead of rest he is pained by nightmares and constant stress, the corners of the room begin to shift and reflect his darkest moments back to him.

When they believe he is not looking, Madara's own kinsman whispers of Izuna's death. They gossip on what truly occurred. Afterall, doctors claimed that Izuna's condition improved only a day before his death. Is murder truly below their new ruthless clanhead?

Izuna's death is what haunts him the most, keeps him awake but sluggish and far from pragmatic. Madara spends his evenings in Izuna's room, surrounded by what once belonged to him. It is a comfort that decreases the intensity of his nightmares, of his terrible thoughts. He finds comfort in Izuna, in what is left of him.

On this particular night, outside the rain of a storm slams on the muddy streets, puddling high in corners, and keeps a steady rhythm of ruthless music, the wind hallows a deep growl, bristling the tall, bare trees, threatening their very roots. Spring is preparing its way, entering slowly though storms that replace the snow, hours of detached warmth, ephemeral, as winter will hold its tyrannical throne for the longest it can.

By then, it was late in the evening, the sun far gone below the horizon, its golden hue leaving the pulchritude moon to hover in the sky. It was round and full in glory, shining with the stars as its backdrop — obsequious they were to share the hours the sun's vicious ego wouldn't allow it to — and casting a bright light into the seaside village that outdid the simple lamps. From through the open shutters of the window, Madara could see the moon, so perfect and pristine.

Made by the rain and wind, a creeping chill blew throughout the room, pushing Madara to curl in a corner, as though it knew the room didn't belong to him, and wished to force him out. Still, Madara didn't dare shut the window, nor tidy the mess of paintings scattered across the floor.

He left the room as it was and had been for weeks, not daring to even clean the thin layer of dust coating the furniture. Madara feared that if he did, Izuna's everlasting memory on the items would disperse, as the leaves from autumn crumbled and eventually decomposed, so would Izuna's presence on the room that had been his.

In the entirety of the room, there were signs of him. His clothes, his instruments, weapons, and paintings. For a moment, looking upon all of it as he was, Madara could believe that Izuna was alive, and only away on a mission rather than forever young and dead.

How could he be dead? His items were still here, frozen in time, his life was vast ahead of him, how could one single night be the end of it all? Madara's mind rung those thoughts, swirling in his mind like angry bees around their conquered nest.

The wind fluttered suddenly, thick like a whip through the air, and thus through the room of the open window, rattling the objects inside. A sheet of paper, with the paint long dried, was one of them. Madara's attention was drawn to it as it threatened to fly away in the wind.

He regretted severely, ignoring Izuna for Hashirama that night, allowing him to sit at the beach by himself in what would've been their last moments together. The painting was still unfinished, only now the waves had grown larger and the flowers more vibrant. It stuck out in comparison to the rest, for this one had blank white spaces that would never be colored.

On the upper quadrant, small and neat, Izuna's signature was written in perfect characters.

The thought had been in his mind for weeks. An idea that went from the initial small thought without much merit, to an idea that held a tangible value that would ease the pain or increase in Madara.

Staring at what had been taken from him, the last few things that brought him joy all stripped from him, Madara solidified the idea in his mind. Living for nothing, with only the hate in his soul, and the final words of his brother keeping his heart beating, Madara decided to end the very thing that had started the downward spiral of his life.

By sunrise, either Hashirama or Madara would be no more.

…

The ledge which Madara stood on, one that had become so familiar to him disregarding its importance would be tantamount to disregarding the existence of life itself, the way it moves and continues, brought only foul memories. In each shadow, Madara could see his former, younger self with Hashirama at his side, laughing.

Madara's feelings towards Hashirama had always been ambivalent, even now as he attempted to round them and reel them together towards a specific goal. If he ended his issues where they stood, then they would not haunt him. If not them, then it would be him ended, resulting in the same fate.

The sea's water was furious as the beat in Madara's heart, slamming itself in a spray of white, sizzling foam against the rocks. Madara gritted his teeth, and along with him the wind screeched.

The weapon in his hand was heavy, a burden to carry that he'd refuse to let go of, sinking down his arm with its weight. It was as though it was stuck forever in his hand, thrust upon him rather than willingly accepted.

Aside from that, Madara had brought very few other things with him. In his cloak pocket, an extra knife and the jingle of summer pearls, ivory and opal in color sat beside each other like kin. The necklace Hashirama had gifted him was an item Madara didn't dwell much upon. He had hidden it in his weapon drawers, leaving it untouched for many years. He had grabbed it along with his harpoon, the purpose of which he didn't dwell on either.

The two items laid next to one another as though the smooth edges of the knife and the jagged edges of the pearls were one in the same.

He waited for Hashirama to show, as he knew he would, because they were one in the same.

Madara felt his frustration rise. Rather than quell it, he harbored it until it threatened to boil over. His hands flexed on the harpoon, the knife in his waist dug into the skin as a constant, branding reminder. Madara prayed his anger would somehow reach its recipient. As it had always seemed, Hashirama had an uncanny ability to sense Madara's presence, perhaps through his emotions swirling in the air between them.

Regardless of the reason, as Madara's eyes did their third scan on the vast sea ahead, it froze and caught on a glimmer of light shining just below the sea, peeking out at him. He glared at the moving mass as it slowly rose and stood tall, powerful even, against the roar of waves.

Hashirama's face was grim. It wasn't all that unlike from how it had been years before at the beach, barely slight in its differences. The only stark changes between them, the growth in his face and the way the hardened look was one less fear ridden and indecisive, were highlighted greatly by the full moon and the miniature light above Hashirama's head illuminating it all.

The wind howled, sung a deep, grunted melody in the air that the trees swung and danced to. The animals remerging from their winter burrows chittered along with the birds that returned from the south, all singing a great harmony in the night, loud and beautiful, one only the truth and fullness of nature could.

The wind brushed past Madara's hair, tugging it back and behind him, a long flowing cape of onyx similar to the starry sky. For Hashirama, it blew the hair in front of his face, whipping and covering all but the glaring, deep eyes watching Madara closely with a hint of morose behind them.

“Madara,” Hashirama's voice said, quietly, barely a sound that could penetrate the crashing waves and thundering wind.

“Hashirama!” Madara shouted, a deep grunted sound that ripped itself through his chest.

For a moment, the wind piped down. The aggressive dancing of the trees halted for a deep breath, still swaying slightly. It was as though Madara's voice had commanded it to stop from his anger alone, from the show of emotion behind his yelling.

Right as the wind picked up again, before it could even sway Madara's hair for a second time, he was tossing his cloak aside and jumping straight into the cold sea. The splash that flew into the air from it was heavy and rough, slamming back on itself with aggressive, angered force.

Goosebumps and a sudden cold wave slithered against Madara's skin as he hit and descended below the surface, the sting of his skin on the uncaring surface pausing him for a slight, quick second. It was within that pause that Hashirama's tail kicked the sea, propelling him forward to grab Madara and wrestle against him.

When it came to such, Madara had a larger advantage. His legs, thick and strong, kicked at Hashirama's tail in a way that his single limb couldn't swing fast enough to repel, with two outnumbering one.

Hashirama uses the brunt force of his arms to grab Madara's shoulders, holding them tight with bruising fingers. Madara realizes, to his utter anger, that Hashirama has yet to attack back, and rather attempts to subdue him. Filled with a larger, more intense fury, Madara kicks hard at Hashirama's bare stomach, listening in glee at the whimper that exits, and dashes forward with the harpoon as his head.

Hashirama dodges it barely, scraping the thin first layer of skin on his flank, before flapping his tail disappearing in a flash of quick blurs, hues of tan, brown, and green vanishing before his eyes.

Suddenly, Hashirama appears before him. He grabs Madara roughly, slamming him with his full weight down on a rock. Hashirama isn't able to hold him there, as Madara scratches at his chest, and using the wince of pain Hashirama gives, he kicks again and wiggles out from beneath him.

With as much, if not more, intensity than Hashirama had used to pin him, Madara mirrors it before Hashirama is able to regain himself. He cages him with his legs, using his entire right forearm to hold his shoulders down, and scowls in his face. Madara's free hand, which had kept hold of the sharp, well crafted harpoon, raises it above his head, aiming for Hashirama's chest, and brings it down.

Hashirama grabs it at the stick hold, holding it a beat away from his heart. A single breath would push the weapon's tip straight into his heart.

The strength in Hashirama's arms, the way it fights the strength Madara's put into pushing the harpoon, holds a stern, sudden cold. His face and manner, which had been to avoid and play defensive against Madara's attack, was changed. Madara knew that from the look in his eyes, Hashirama had now realized that persuading him was a fruitless endeavor.

The thought brought Madara a sudden spike of excitement, one that couldn't be mirrored anywhere else, at the way Hashirama would finally see him as himself, see Madara in the way he was rather than the way he imagined him. A cruel look of madness pulls up his cheeks into a venomous smirk, fueled by intense euphoria.

Madara's reverie was ephemeral, as through his thoughts the pressure of the tug and pull on the harpoon he'd engaged Hashirama in, slipped, causing Hashirama's ounce of larger strength to overtake it. The blunt edge of it shot backwards, budding Madara in the chest, before Hashirama threw it far behind his own head.

Hashirama thrust his tail hard on the cage that enclosed him, knocking the air out from Madara as he was shoved back. He was hapless when it came to fighting in the sea, surrounded by Hashirama's element. Despite his flexibility and movement in the sea, his lungs were begging for air, forcing him to abandon his attack on Hashirama.

Madara kept an eye behind him, at the shadow moving in the waves, anticipating an attack. He swam to the surface, taking in a lungful and rerounding himself. When his head only inches and a single, prideful wave away from the cold sea's embrace, broke through the surface, he coughed and took lungfuls of relief.

With the compromised, weakened position he was in, Hashirama took the opportunity to swim opposite to him. He swam a few meters in front, inhaling and exhaling with intensity. He too was out of breath.

“Madara...” Hashirama tried, only to be cut off.

“Quiet, Hashirama!” Madara snarled, belligerent.

Madara knew that if he allowed Hashirama to speak, the infuriating ability he had to dictate Madara's thoughts, to make him question every moral he believed he held, would shine through. Madara wouldn't allow him to, he would not bear the shame and self quarrel that could come if he turned back now. Even the sound of his name on plush pink lips, each syllable sounded out so carefully, like a gentle caress of words, could persuade him. Hashirama's speech was dangerous, melodic, and tantalizing.

With his harpoon lumped somewhere, among with it its rope and well crafted shaft, Madara disregarded the use of weapons, and boosting himself with his legs, tackled Hashirama back below the cold, shining blue.

Madara grabbed hold of Hashirama, using his nails to claw at his body, leaving large scrape marks that bled in dots that rose from the cut skin. Hashirama winced, thrashing and struggling to get the other off. He too used his claws, large and curved as they were, they cut Madara's skin easier, leaving a trail of blood to float up and surround them in the open sea.

Madara was enamored by the fact of his strong legs, yet as the weight of the sea slowed and diminished their full ability, he soon felt the pulse of exhaustion will them to slow. Hashirama's tail had not once stopped thumping, almost a larger weapon than the harpoon he'd held moments before.

He knew that keeping the battle going in the sea was a foolish and moronic plan, for fighting the enemy in their favor was a quick way to lose. Still, Madara's pride hesitated. Would it not be more powerful, better even, and more brutal if he were to kill Hashirama in his own turf, where Madara's advantage was low? It was those thoughts that kept him from retreating and bringing Hashirama to land with him, it was his pride that would not allow it.

Forsaking his pride for once, or in this instance alone, would've perhaps prevented Hashirama from suddenly, with profound vigor, thrashing his tail in a quick, dizzying movement at him. It would've prevented Madara from being cut off guard and thrown to his side, disoriented with blurred eyes and a reeling mind. He was pinned, before he could regain his balance, by soft but muscular hands on the sea floor.

Madara struggled valiantly, however Hashirama, who it was now clear was getting serious, would not let up. His claws dug into the cloth of Madara's dampened clothes, ripping skin deep holes in them. Hashirama's face, from the proximity to Madara's, was curled into a snarl, showing the pricks of teeth.

“Madara, this is an unnecessary fight,” Hashirama said. His voice was muffled, ever so slightly by the water, and released bubbles, flying to the surface. “I understand your anger, your hate, but I beg you to listen.”

You don't. You don't understand! Madara thought, he wished to say.

“This can be resolved, afterall, what is your end goal? This senseless fighting, this anger that precedes your usual pragmatism, what is its purpose?” Hashirama said, pressing down further when Madara tried to escape. “We can end this, we can move on and do far better. I'm begging you, Madara, don't forsake our dream.”

Madara glared, writhing in the grip Hashirama held on him. They held the graze of one another, looking into alike, yet striking different, ebony eyes that reflected their mirrors back to them.

Hashirama, no matter how hard he'd try, would always fail to see Madara as he was then, in that moment, staring with hate in his face. When Hashirama thought of Madara, he thought of the boy he'd spent his hours with.

He recalled Madara's face not in the way it was before him, but the way it had appeared on the day they'd seen the whale. Behind his eyes, there was an entire galaxy Hashirama longed to explore, and that day he had seen it clearly.

His hair dragged behind his head, every part of him radiant with emotion of excitement, that was how Hashirama always saw Madara. Whether he were to curse him, to hurt and utterly destroy him, that image and its perfection in the mind of Hashirama would not be sullied.

For all Hashirama would've cared, if Madara were to agree to their dream and then proceed to tell him to die, he would agree unhesitatingly. The times that had past and the growth of Madara's features, were all irrelevant to him. To him, Madara was still the boy who shared lives, dreams, and views with him in a way no other would.

To Hashirama, Madara was his first and forever companion, love, and reflection.

Looking into Hashirama's slit pupils, with the halo of the moon's light behind him, acting as a glow engulfing him and his body in an ethereal shine, Madara could not share Hashirama's perspective. All Madara ever saw, watching Hashirama now, was the appearance of a true creature, vile and disgusting.

The image of Hashirama shown in his eyes was one of exaggerated detail, where his teeth were monstrously sharp, his usual smile a grin of terror that could fuel anyone's nightmares. For a second, in brief flashes, Hashirama as a child would flicker in front of him and in turn flicker his cold heart to clarifying empathy, before the horror replaced it all again.

Madara saw the resemblance, in face and nose, to the monster that had killed Izuna, in Hashirama. This further led to his hatred, his inability to see Hashirama as a person and rather as a thing to be hated, loved, and destroyed. The ambiguity his emotions held to Hashirama was the bane of Madara's life, as were many things Hashirama involved himself in.

To Madara, Hashirama was the first man he'd hated, loved, and seen himself so uncannily inside of.

“My father is dead,” Hashirama said. “He died because he was unable to let go of his hateful, cruel ways. I don't want that misfortune to befall us. I know your heart, Madara, and I know your mind. You believe in it too, that we can live freely and without suffering. For what reason do you want to stay? To endure the hate around us? We can rebuild it, ourselves, alone.” Hashirama said, growing more hopeful with the sentiment of his own words.

“Reconsider this, I plead with you, Madara.”

The response Madara made was dragged out of him, a growl that mixed with bitter salt water and gurgled. It sounded faintly of ‘never’, through snarls.

Hashirama's face darkened. His hands moved from Madara's shoulders to his neck in a sudden, sharp movement. They wrapped themselves, soft and delicate but with intent and strength behind them, around Madara's throat. While his arms had been freed, his position only grew more grim when Hashirama pressed down, his brows furrowed with rage.

Madara thrashed and kicked, clawed at Hashirama with his nails, but the other didn't let up. His eyes were wide and scanning, searching for an exit. In a panic, Madara reached into his pocket, not for his spare knife but for an object whose edges were far more jagged, and cut deeper.

Hashirama noticed the pearls immediately, glinting in the light that came from behind him, immediately. His face softened, his eyes blinked in suprise, and his hands let up the slightest bit.

Madara threw the pearls behind Hashirama. They flew, in the way a bird's wings flap so delicately, with persistence and perfection, so did the loops of the pearls as the water sunk it. They lived through an entire life cycle in mere moments, from their birth to their short cut end on the sea floor, it all went so, so slowly yet with haste.

Hashirama's gaze followed it, his pupil straight and focused on them. His face showed a sign of regret perhaps, as his eyes shifted back to Madara and the hands wrapped around his throat. Hashirama began to open his mouth.

Madara reached directly into his pocket, grabbing out the knife, and stabbed Hashirama in the shoulder with it. While Hashirama cried out, his face scrunched in a deep cringe of pain, Madara slid out of his grip. With mini black clouds dancing across his vision, numbing his face and body to a sense of confusion, he managed to reach the surface and breath, deep, heavy.

Moments later, he dived back into the bloody sea.

From the time of which the moon was high in the sky, to its slow set in room for the sun, the battle was fought and repeated. The vibrant purples and blues swooshing in their hues across the sky, soon faded to a light pink, and then to a muted storm grey. The glinting, jagged edges of the moon reflected on the sea were replaced by the sun's rays, and the dark murkiness of the water they fought in became brighter.

Neither Hashirama nor Madara could grab an edge on the other, and instead all that rang out was the sound of splashing water, cries of pain, and raged shouts. Where Hashirama was injured, Madara had a wound similar. Where Madara's pace slowed with the growing hours, Hashirama's did as well.

The energy that had originally coursed through Madara, the hate that kept him fighting, was not sufficient fuel. Soon, his legs grew tired from fighting the current, his arms bled with wounds, his head thumped in rhythm with his heart, while his lungs burned. His hair was flat on his body, showing its entire length, and his clothes drenched and only adding to the weight he carried.

Madara knew Hashirama could not fight further, as he himself could not.

By the end of their fight, Madara was laid on the shore, his back pressed on wet sand. Each time a wave reached forward, it would momentarily cross over his face, drowning him. Each time it did, Madara would pray that the wave would stay and finish the job before his humiliation could. It never did, for the wave always rescinded as quickly as it had come.

Hashirama was hardly in a better state. He was not far from Madara, only meters away, sitting with his tail receiving the waves, and his hands holding him up. He breathed erratically, blinking at the sun above him. It was as though he could see something Madara did not, through the blue skies above. He watched them with a mournful, sorrowed look in his eyes, yet so pleased in the same manner.

Hashirama opens his mouth, for he can never seem to shut it, and speaks.

“What will it take?” He asks. His words hold less passion, far less enthusiasm, and behind it a crumbling pride. For once, it seems Hashirama is aware that Madara's will is not easily bended. “What will it take for you to believe?”

Madara is silent. Another, thick wave washes over his face, rising into his nostrils. Madara does not have the energy to move, and allows the sea to sink him into it. When the waves return to their mother, Madara opens his eyes and meets gazes with Hashirama.

There is an innocence in Hashirama's gaze, and Madara strives, for a reason he can't think of, to destroy it.

“Nothing,” he says. “My brother is dead, your kin have killed mine, and it is because of you that we suffer. I will not conform to your ideals, Hashirama.” He cusses his name, says it as though it is a vile word.

“Madara...” In contrast, Hashirama cooed his name mournfully. “Is there no way to change your mind? Is there no way to show you my sincerity?”

Madara shut his eyes, staring at the reddened expanse of his eyelids as the sea came and went again. When he opened them, they were staring up at the blue sky. Wisps of clouds flew by, early morning birds chirped a song of delight, and the trees still danced with the breeze.

“There is one way you can show me your sincerity,” Madara said slowly. “I want you to kill your brother, or kill yourself.”

Hashirama paused at that. The fluttering of his fins and the long expression in his face halted. His deep, black eyes watched Madara as Madara's watched his.

A quick flash of anger was apparent in Hashirama's face, for less than a moment, fleeting though it was, Madara did not miss it. There was no fear at Hashirama's anger, for the worse result was what Madara longed for, regardless . Madara wished to be ended swiftly, his purposes that kept him living were gone. The color in his word had faded, and his heart longed for death.

“Is that it?” Hashirama said suddenly, breaking Madara from his thoughts.

Madara huffed.

Hashirama smiled.

He reached at his side, where Madara's knife soiled with the blood of the two of them, mixed together in one, was lying. It had soiled the sand underneath it with red, reeked of hate, even in Hashirama's soft, loving hands.

He grabbed it, flipped it over in his hands, and aimed it for his chest. It was barely a few inches from where a similarly inflicted scar was, and where many other, fresher wounds surrounded.

“You're too kind to me, Madara.” Hashirama smiled and laughed.

A warm, bright sun was beginning to descend below the horizon, falling according to the cycle, and tainting the sky in bright vibrant pinks, blues, and indigos.

Madara was young, only fourteen, with Hashirama laying by his side on the rock. Everything was perfect, wonderful.

“Do you see it?” Hashirama's high, joyful voice said. “It's as I told you, once you begin to look upon nature, all its beauty becomes clear to you.”

Madara smirked.

“I bet I can see it much better than you can.” He leaned back on his hands, touching the rock that was still warm from the afternoon sun.

“As if!” Hashirama huffed.

“My clan is known for its sublime eye sight, I doubt you can compare.” Madara said with pride, puffing out his chest in a childish, unbecoming way.

Madara had begun to realize that, when in the presence of the siren, he often disregarded the many, strict teachings of his father. In Hashirama's presence, he found that he could be crass, bold without the fear of reproach.

“That so? Well, my clan has ties to nature. You may be able to see it, but I doubt you can feel it like I can!” Hashirama responded just as childishly, grinning wide.

From the tallest rock jutting out to the sea, hidden by a layer of mountains and forest behind it and to the left of it, a rock that crawled up to cover the sky, the sight of dusk lowering the sun was a true sight. Madara could feel the last embers of the sun descend, and could similarly feel the calmness of the moon come over him.

Usually, his hours were calculated and meticulously arranged. More so, as he grew older, Madara knew that his free time would be limited. He should've been home, perhaps speaking with his father or bathing, instead he sat with the smell of salt all around, and Hashirama sitting beside him.

“You know,” Hashirama began suddenly, Madara was beginning to realize that Hashirama's silence was a rare occurrence, flapping his fins. “It makes total sense that your eyes are so grand, after all, has anyone told you that they shine so magnificently? They look like the night sky, kind of, and when the light reflects off of it they appear like the moon.”

Madara's heart stuttered.

“You say the weirdest things sometimes, do you know that?” Madara said, turning his burning face away.

Hashirama laughed, bright. For a moment, Madara was sure that the entire world laughed with him. In the way the trees swayed, the birds chirped, and the waves moved, all in rhythm with his laugh. Madara would forever cement the sound in his mind. It was one that brought beauty, joy, and a string of what felt like flapping wings in his stomach.

Madara was sure that scene was upon him again. Each movement Hashirama made had nature to follow it, but this was not one of joy. The world around screamed, roared in anger and shouted in rejection. As Hashirama brought the knife to himself, insane though he was, Madara felt a way of panic.

Another wave washed over Madara's face. It tried to claw forward just as the wind swept through the trees, branches outstretched, all reaching for the same goal.

Hashirama and Madara were one in the same. They lived lives so similar and so intertwined with one another, cut from the same cloth. One was born for the other to exist, and without the other what was the purpose?

Madara had lost all of those to exist around him, his existence brought a sense of hatred to his clan, and his own destiny was no longer clear to him. His responsibilities that were once laid before him in a strict pathe suddenly cut off at the edge of a mountain, a tall height he would not survive.

Against the exhaustion in his limbs, the sweat on his brows, and with the pain in his chest to push him forward, Madara rises up from the sea. A relief falls over him momentarily, the sense of drowning leaving his body.

The sun is thick on his wet back, on his long, onyx hair. It has a shine to it that isn't colorless, that perhaps doesn't speak selfishly. The moon cannot shine without the sun, and the sun's only rest is when the moon is there to shine for it.

Madara grabs Hashirama's wrist.

“Enough.” Madara says through a gruff, deep voice. “I believe you. I trust your sincerity.”

Hashirama smiles, not through his face but through the bright look in his eyes.

Madara does not believe in this dream fully, he does not believe in its perfection. However, with Hashirama's hopeful look, so closely resembling the one he wore as child — for Madara can now see him not as a monster but as a changing being — he too feels hopeful.

Madara leans in, closing the distance, and kisses Hashirama under the gaze of a warm sun, with a lightness and a slight, everlasting rage in his heart.