Tobirama sighed, closing his eyes and counting backward from ten to keep his mounting ire in check. The seal was ruined. He would need to start over, spend another week setting up the delicate array on another scroll begged from the elders using ink he would need to make himself, as he was no longer allowed to requisition any from the storerooms—a restriction which would soon extend to scrolls, he was sure. Worst of all, his sensei would be cross in that quiet, unjudging way she had, all the while insisting that, no, she was not actually cross, and could Tobirama please stop projecting human emotions onto her, thank you.
With slow, exaggerated movements, he set down his calligraphy brush and pushed himself up out of the somewhat uncomfortable position he'd been in for who knew how long, his face all but pressed against the velum. Settling back againstly his heels, he looked up at his older brother with a carefully cool expression.
"Anija," he greeted, pointedly not wiping at the ink splattered across his face and clothing. "Can I help you?"
To his credit, Hashirama's chakra felt chagrinned, flickering earnestly as he reached out and smudged the ink on Tobirama's cheek. "Sorry, Tobi, I was too excited."
Tobirama shook his head, unclenching his teeth before speaking. "It's fine," he lied. "What do you need?"
Immediately, all signs of remorse left Hashirama's chakra, replaced by his characteristic exuberance. He grabbed hold of Tobirama's wrist and pulled him to his feet, dragging his younger brother along behind him. This was an unsurprisingly common occurrence, not a single flicker of chakra catching his attention as they rushed across the village to the common training ground. Butsuma and Itama were there, along with a handful of the elders who insisted on making Tobirama's life harder than it needed to be. They were all strangely smug, clearly pleased about something. Itama's chakra came across as sheepish, almost shrinking under the attention, but he brightened as his brothers approached.
"Anija, aniki, you're here!"
Tobirama bowed to his father, waiting to be acknowledged before bowing to the elders. Only then did he turn to his sibling.
"Itama," the youngest of Butsuma's living children deflated a bit at his stern tone. "Maybe you can explain why Hashirama dragged me here?"
Itama bounced from dejection to excitement as quickly as Hashirama. "Even better, I can show you!"
Tobirama watched as his brother placed his hands together in the Snake seal, his chakra rushing through his coils in a familiar way. Red eyes widened as the chakra seeped into the ground, grabbing hold of roots and infusing them with energy. They burst through the ground, wrapping feebly around Itama's ankles before falling limp, the boy panting heavily from the effort.
"Did you see," he asked, voice expressing his joy almost as clearly as his chakra. "I can do it again if—."
"I saw." It was hard not to. The brilliant light which accompanied mokuton was almost blinding. It was why he avoided the training ground frequented by his older brother, no matter how much Hashirama begged him to join in. It was just too hard to concentrate. "Congratulations, Itama."
The elders were nodding among themselves, heads bobbing as their chakra flared with satisfaction.
"How auspicious," the worst of the lot crowed. "The mokuton is a fickle thing; two bearers in a generation is unheard of! You must be proud, Butsuma."
Tobirama felt his father's triumph. "Indeed. With sons like mine, it's hard not to be."
His brothers radiated pure joy and Tobirama let himself pretend, just for a moment, that he was included in that statement. His delusion was short lived, however, as Butsuma turned his attention onto him.
"Tobirama," his father's voice was stern and cold, completely devoid of the warmth he'd shown his brothers. "How goes the seal? I recall I was promised a demonstration soon."
Tobirama did not wilt under the force of his father's stare, instead meeting it head on. Butsuma's face was a tanned blur, with only vague shapes hinting at what he knew to be sharp features, but he knew he was frowning. His chakra was laden with disappointment.
"Apologies, father," he said with a bow. "It will not be ready for another week."
Butsuma clicked his tongue, the sound cutting at Tobirama's pride. "Again? What is that foul bird teaching you?"
Tobirama looked up sharply, the words to defend his sensei rising in his throat, but Hashirama stepped between him and their father, chakra flaring with indignation.
"It's not his fault, father!" Hashirama spoke with a freedom Tobirama had never been allowed, his words devoid of the formality that had long become his younger brother's defining trait. "I messed it up! Look!"
Hashirama held out his hands, showing Butsuma something Tobirama's eyes couldn't see. Whatever was there, it had the older man huffing in begrudging acceptance.
"Fine. It had better be worth the wait."
"Of course, father," Tobirama promised, more than confident that his work would be satisfactory. "I apologize for the inconvenience."
His father waved a hand in dismissal, turning his attention back to Itama. Tobirama wasted no time in leaving the training ground, fully intending to return to his seal. If he hurried, he could probably have something to show Butsuma in a couple of days. Maybe one of the simpler seals would be better? He shook his head to dispel the notion. No. He had spent too long on this one to abandon it halfway.
"I'm sorry, Tobi," Hashirama said, so softly he almost missed it. "I can help you fix it! I-if you want, that is."
No, he most certainly did not want. Still, it was kind of him to offer. If Hashirama was anything, it was kind.
"No, thank you, Anija. I will do it myself."
"Tobi." He turned around, giving Hashirama the benefit of looking at him while he spoke. His chakra was rife with concern, and Tobirama knew immediately what he was going so say. "You'll come home, tonight, right? Mother will want to celebrate Itama's awakening of the mokuton."
Of course, she would. For a single, fleeting moment, Tobirama was tempted to say no. Then, he sighed. "Of course, Anija. Itama would be sad if I didn't."
The brilliant light of his brother's happiness all but chased him off, a shining beacon in the back of his mind as he returned to the shack which held his calligraphy supplies. The ruined seal was still where he left it, an ink spill so large even he could see it marring the velum. The idea of redoing every stroke set his wrists to aching. Perhaps, he mused, it could be salvaged.
With that thought, he gathered up his brushes and ink, carefully stowing them in their designated travel pouch, before picking up the scroll. The ink was still wet, so he couldn't roll it the way he normally would, but he picked it up as best he could. This time, as he walked through the village, precariously balancing a scroll which threatened to unroll at the first opportunity, people did notice. They whispered among themselves, chakra pulsing with pity and suspicion. That was always the case when he did something 'unusual'. The words 'cursed' and 'that child' went in one ear and out the other, so familiar now that they may as well not exist. The stigma of his coloration was only off set by his station as Butsuma's child, and, even then, it wasn't always enough to keep the worst of their baseless speculation at bay.
At least, he was alive. There had been no talk, as far as he knew, of abandoning him to die, or of taking a more proactive approach to his demise. Somewhat hazy memories of an Uchiha child speaking so easily of her brother's murder and the hatred she faced for simply thinking differently from the rest of her Clan rose unbidden in his mind and he scowled. Kyou was a sensitive topic in his family, even more so than most other Uchiha, which seemed like something the spiteful hellion would enjoy—and so he resolved never to tell her, should the unlikely opportunity ever arise. She occupied more space in his mind than she should, he knew, but it was hard not to think of her at times like this.
He stepped through the village gates, leaping into the trees with little preamble. At the top of the tallest tree in the copse perched a bird, much larger than any Tobirama, or any other Senju, had ever seen before its summoning, making even Butsuma, the tallest man Tobirama knew, look small. It was looking off into the distance, black wings to their full, staggeringly wide wingspan as it basked in the summer sun. That the tree was strong enough to hold it was a testament to its strength, though it did sway when the winds got caught in the bird's wings. Slowly, those great wings folded in on themselves, the bird's down covered head tucking into a ruff of tawny feathers, the long, crooked neck bending in a way that had Tobirama's aching in sympathy. It turned its head to look at him, large black eye blinking as light glinted off the wickedly curved beak.
"Midori-sensei," he greeted, bowing his head to the summons which had blessed him with a contract. His gaze focused on talons too big for his eyes to miss as they adjusted their grip on the branch which held their incredible weight.
"Hello, hatchling," the vulture's soft voice still surprised him, so at odds with her magnificent size. "What brings you to me? I had thought you would sequester yourself for a few days, yet."
He hung his head in shame. "I apologize, sensei. I have been meaning to seek you out, but I wanted to be done with the seal before I did so."
She bobbed her head in the way that he now knew meant she was laughing. "I know, hatchling. I am not offended. Did you finish it?"
He presented the ruined scroll to her, averting his gaze as she looked it over. She hummed in consideration. "I see. Did you wish to know if it is salvageable?"
"Yes, sensei."
"It is not."
He had expected that, but the bitter truth of it had him deflating. He found himself suffused in darkness as Midori extended one giant wing, long flight feathers pulling him closer to her warmth. She reached down and pulled gently at his hair with her beak, the deadly instrument cutting a few strands loose despite her tenderness.
"Hatchling," her tone was kind, but he knew the coming reprimand for what it was. "I understand your frustration. You have labored over this for so long and have put much of yourself into it. That it has come undone is terrible, but your time has not been wasted. Tell me, now that you must do it again, will it take you as long? Having written these words before, will you labor over them as tortuously a second time? Something tells me you will not."
She was right, of course, he knew she was. Still, he couldn't help the wave of anger that welled in him when he looked at the ruined velum. Even the cool, calming feel of Midori's chakra couldn't soothe his ruffled feathers.
"So quick to anger," she tutted—never mind how a bird even managed to do that—shaking her head in an eerily human expression. "How such a fire burns in a water natured child I do not know. Do not mistake me," she added as his shoulders slumped. "It is not a flaw. You are simply unlike any hatchling I have ever had the privilege to teach. It is a chance for me to learn, as well, and I thank you for it."
It was shallow comfort, but comfort all the same. Tobirama took a moment to manually bolster his spirit, mustering up a small smile for his sensei. It was hard to tell what she thought of that, given the lack of expression on her avian face, but he got the feeling she was humoring him, just a little.
"Hatchling," she said in that way she had when she was about to launch into a lecture. "There is nothing wrong with your anger. It is valid and warranted. An issue will only arise if you let that anger rule you. You are not your anger, Tobirama, just as you are not your sorrow, or your joy, or your fear. It will pass, and you will remain."
Her words had merit. He knew they did. He just wasn't in the right frame of mind to accept them. Later, when he'd calmed down, he would think on them properly.
"Thank you, sensei," he said sincerely. "I will mind your words."
She made a sound that might have been a scoff or a snort, spreading her wings to their full, terrifying width. The movement generated a draft which ruffled Tobirama's hair and pulled at his clothes. He looked upon the giant raptor with awe, the fading sunlight catching the many different shades of brown and black in her shiny feathers.
"Go home, hatchling," she said gently. "Eat, sleep, bathe; a fresh mind will help, I promise."
He had to use his chakra to keep his perch on the tree as Midori left it, the wind generated by her wingbeats sending the entire canopy into a flurry of flying leaves and evergreen needles. He had no idea where she roosted at night, but she was always perched on the same tree during the day. She had not returned to the summoning realm since leaving it with him, almost two years past. His Clan treated her with the same stiff tolerance they did him, wary of the carrion eater in a way they likely wouldn't have been had Hashirama been the one to summon her.
He shook his head, banishing that treacherous thought back to the dark corner of his mind from whence it came. He rolled the ruined scroll, sighing as he did so. He would much rather start on the seal again than head home, but Itama would be sad if he missed the celebration of his accomplishment. And it was and accomplishment. Tobirama was viscerally aware of the odds behind awakening the mokuton. That Hashirama had done so was a miracle on its own; that Itama had also managed it...
He knew he ought to be proud of his brother—and he was—but he couldn't help but feel...left out. Excluded. An observer in his own home. As he always was. As he would likely be again, during whatever feast his mother had put together in the short time since Itama's demonstration.
These bitter thoughts accompanied him back into the village, clouding his mind as he dropped off his tools in his shed. The sunlight which had seemed so bright in the treetops was much dimmer on the forest floor, diffused by many layers of leaves and tree trunks into a scattered echo of its true brilliance. There were fewer people out and about in the fading day, and Tobirama used the walk home to set his brooding thoughts aside. It was difficult—likely unnecessarily so—but it needed to be done. For Itama's sake if nothing else.
It wasn't as if he wouldn't be given something else to worry about, anyway.
When he stepped into his home, he was welcomed by the warm chatter of happy voices. He removed his sandals, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves before stepping into the light of the main room. His family was seated around a low, square table, each side occupied. His brothers sat opposite each other with a parent on either side, all four of them smiling in the yellow lamplight. It was Hashirama who noticed him, looking up from a bowl laden with rice.
"Tobi!" The chatter ceased as they all turned to look at him and he felt suddenly small under the weight of their gazes. Hashirama jumped up from his seat, gesturing at the place setting beside him. "Here, Tobi! Come sit!"
He did so, bowing his head in greeting to his father before turning to his mother. Her chakra was dour, churning in that old familiar way. She said nothing, though, and Tobirama dared to hope that tonight would be a good one.
"Tobi," Hashirama said excitedly, his flaring chakra showing just how much he was restraining himself. "Did you go to see Midori-sensei? Did you?"
Ah, that did it. He could feel their parents' chakra signatures curdle with unease at the mention of the great vulture. His brothers, unburdened by sensory abilities like his own—or by the need to hone them at all—were unphased by the change in atmosphere, genuinely interested in what he had to say.
"I did," he confirmed, reaching out and pulling meat from the communal pot in the center of the table.
"Was she able to help you fix the seal? I'm super sorry for messing it up!"
He knew that. He could feel his brother's remorse, hiding under the thick layer of happiness that never left his chakra. He let a small smile form on his face, turning so Hashirama could see the tiny quirk of his lips. "I know."
"So, can you fix it?" Itama said around a mouth full of his favorites, prepared just for him. "I want to see what it does."
So did he.
He sighed. "No. I will have to start from the beginning. It's fine," he said, cutting off another apology from Hashirama. "It is an opportunity to improve before I present the final product."
Butsuma nodded, his chakra mellowing out enough that Tobirama let some of the tension leave his shoulders. "That is a good way of thinking, Tobirama. You two would do well to emulate it."
Tobirama couldn't see his father's face—the harsh features he was told he'd inherited were a blur even sitting as close as they were—but whatever expression Butsuma wore had his brother's ducking their heads sheepishly. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the rare bit of praise, savoring the taste of the tea.
His mother sniffed disdainfully, reaching across the table to place more meat in Itama's bowl. "Good to know he has some use."
There it was. He knew better than to react and instead focused on keeping his attention on his meal. His brothers' spirits dampened almost in sync, which would have been amusing had anything else caused it.
"Mother," Hashirama all but whined, much bolder than either of his siblings—a trait granted and indulged by his position as Clan heir. "That's not fair. Tobi's great at a lot of things! He invented a new jutsu and he—!"
"That was last spring," she dismissed easily, not even sparing Tobirama a glance as she reached across his seat to refill Hashirama's cup. "And hardly anyone can use it."
"That's because it's super awesome," Hashirama returned, undeterred. "Only really strong shinobi can use it."
"That's enough, Naoko," Butsuma said stiffly, likely cutting off another remark. "This is a happy occasion."
That was enough to have her holding her tongue, but Tobirama could feel her seething. With a small, internal sigh, he set down his bowl and chopsticks. He ignored his brothers' incredulity as he stood and bowed to each of his parents.
"Please excuse my rudeness." The words were flat in his mouth. "But I wish to have the seal ready for demonstration in under a week. I would like to use this time to prepare the necessary materials."
His mother said nothing, but his father shook his head. "Your time would be better spent resting. We fight the Uchiha tomorrow."
Just like that, the levity of the occasion was gone, but Tobirama could take solace in knowing he hadn't caused it, this time.
"I will do so, father," he said with a bow. He wasted no more time in leaving the family home, stepping out into the cool night air. There was a reason he spent most nights in his shed, surrounded by the scents of velum, leather, and ink. It would be worse, now, he knew, since he was the only living child not to awaken the mokuton. It wasn't as though he hadn't tried. As soon as Hashirama awakened it, he tried everything he could to make his chakra glow the same way, but to no avail. That Itama had managed it so easily...
No, he couldn't think like that. It wasn't his brother's fault.
It was time to follow Midori's advice. At the very least, sleep would put some distance between his mind and his troubles.
The next morning dawned dim and grey, as they always did before a battle, it seemed. The shinobi gathered at the gates were grim, with only a few daring to break the silence with lackluster jokes and half whispered laughter. Butsuma stood at the head of the crowd, towering over many of his kin. He was speaking steadily—Tobirama could hear his voice, could recognize the words in some distant corner of his mind—but his chakra was a mess of emotion. Anger, hate, sorrow, anticipation, anger, grief, anger, anger, anger. It was almost too much for Tobirama to bear. Luckily, his brothers stood on either side of him, their ambient joy, while out of place, washing out the anxieties surrounding them.
"I wonder if we'll see Kyou-kun," Itama said, as he always did. "He still won't talk to me." And he deflated, as he always did.
Hashirama placed a hand on his youngest brother's shoulders, as he always did. "Don't worry, Itama! I'm sure Kyou will come around! It took Madara years before he started speaking to me again! Maybe his little brother just needs more time!"
As he always did, Itama bounced right back to glowing optimism. "Yeah! Maybe you're right! Thanks, Anija!"
That exact interaction played itself out, word for word, every time they battled the Uchiha. Tobirama had it memorized. And, like he always did, he wondered how it was possible that no one had noticed Kyou's true sex—or how Hashirama still hadn't realized she wasn't Madara's sibling. It hadn't taken him very long to figure it out, but Itama still thought of her as a boy. She never once corrected him, but the way she spoke during their last encounter made it clear to Tobirama that she was aware of it herself, at least—and of the fate that would befall her should he tell anyone the truth.
That was why he hadn't, though he was loathe to admit it. She was younger than Itama. The way the men of his Clan—any Clan, he was sure—treated the women they encountered in battle was abhorrent and debauched. It was the main argument his mother used to try and convince his cousin Touka to quit the field, but she persevered. Kyou did, too, it seemed, though her Clan had the foresight to disguise her properly.
Not that any disguise would hide her from Tobirama.
Even now, as the Senju forces ran through the trees, he could sense her. She stood out among her kin like a beacon, suiton so distinct against a background of katon, her natural opposite. It was blurry and distant, but he could remember her saying she was the only one with chakra like hers. She was also the only female among the Uchiha, that he could see. It always felt off to him, but Touka was only one of maybe three women among the Senju, so maybe he was reading to far into things.
The Senju came to a stop on one side of a large clearing, residual chakra in the soil and trees marking it as a past battlefield. The Uchiha did the same, filling the trees opposite their rivals, and Tobirama took the opportunity to scan the area for traps. His eyes may be useless, but his sensing more than made up for it. He turned to where his father stood on a branch below him and shook his head. Though he couldn't see it, he was sure his father gave some signal to the others, as they immediately rushed into the clearing. They were met head on by the Uchiha, the swirling mass of angry chakra promising to give Tobirama a headache, as it always did.
Still, he didn't hesitate to jump into the fray, drawing his sword as he dove onto Izuna, Madara's younger brother, from above. The younger boy cursed him, rolling away from his blade at the last possible second.
"Fucking Senju," he said, pulling his own blade up to defend against Tobirama's onslaught. Their faces were close enough that he could make out the upturned slant of Izuna's dark eyes. "Always so eager for a fight!"
He didn't dignify that with an answer, instead pushing his opponent back with a sweeping blow. He used the space that granted him to cast one of his more recent experimental jutsus, two exact replicas of himself poofing into existence on either side of him. He could sense Izuna's hesitation, the Uchiha stepping back before, unthinkably, turning his head and looking away from Tobirama.
"Kyou," he yelled into the mess of bodies and jutsu. "What is this?"
Sure enough, there she was. She was taller than he remembered, as she always was, but her chakra was much the same as it had always been. Bitter, dejected, resigned. And angry. Always angry. Unlike his, however, her anger did not threaten to boil over. No, instead it steeped her in cold, slowly freezing her chakra over like a creeping frost.
Not that it showed.
"What do you want, Zuzu?" Her tone was biting and he could all but picture the sneer on her face. "I'm busy."
Izuna snorted, amusement rolling off him in waves. "Doing what? Avoiding the unfinished print over there? Use your sharingan and figure this out for me."
Tobirama's clones had waited, just as he had, but they burst into action at the mention of the sharingan. He knew how powerful Kyou's dojutsu was, had seen it used on his father when she was only half her current age. He'd meant what he said to her, all those years ago, though his exact words escaped his memory. No one knew much of anything about the sharingan. It's exact abilities and limitations seemed to vary from user to user, with each encounter posing an unknown threat.
At the very least, he knew Kyou meant him no harm.
He'd felt her rage before, been paralyzed by it. She turned her face toward him now and simply looked away.
"They're clones, Zuzu. Seriously, just use your brain."
Izuna's chakra swelled with indignation, but Tobirama left him not chance to act on it. His clones dispersed, joining other parts of the battle raging around them as he pushed Izuna back with blow after blow. He knew the other boy could more than hold his own, if granted the opportunity to use a jutsu. Tobirama's main advantage was his superior size and strength, as well as his suiton's natural dominance over Izuna's katon. One fireball, however, and he would lose the edge granted him by close quarters combat.
Kyou left them to their own devices, leaving the range of Tobirama's vision. Her chakra signature flickered in the back of his mind, though, her exact location always marked. Off to his right somewhere, Hashirama and Madara were clashing in a brilliant display of power. His father was fighting Tajima, the Uchiha Clan leader, with equal vigor and greater vitriol, their chakra signatures tainted by decades of rivalry coming to a head. Itama was somewhere behind him, keeping out of the battle proper as per their father's orders. He didn't want anyone to know that two of his sons had inherited the mighty mokuton until they could both wield it properly. His clones were tag teaming a single Uchiha opponent, his chakra so foul he immediately pulled his attention away from it in favor of focusing on his fight with Izuna.
That chakra was familiar. He hated it. It made him sick. It was a writhing mass of loathing and cruel entitlement, though its edges had begun to smooth over the last several years. It was everything his father told him the Uchiha were supposed to be, an enemy that the world would love to see vanquished. A true demon in need of slaying.
He wasn't sure he was strong enough to fight such an opponent head on, but that was what the clones were for. In theory, they would simply poof back into oblivion once they met their end, transferring valuable knowledge about their foe as they did so, providing Tobirama with the insight to better face the enemy at a later date.
Ah, there they went. One, two, gone.
He stumbled as their memories merged with his own, the different perspectives jarring him out of the rhythm he and Izuna had fallen into. The Uchiha moved to take advantage of this, his blade rushing toward Tobirama's chest in a downward slash. He dodged, though not as quickly as he would have liked, narrowly avoiding injury only immediately roll into another dodge as a kunai embedded itself deep into the loam where he'd once stood.
He turned, raising his blade with a snarl only to freeze. He could see it. Clearly, every hair and thread in sharp relief, he saw his own death. Dismemberment, really, with his blood splattering on the turned earth, staining his colorless hair red. His teeth sunk into his cheek, dispelling the horrid illusion and throwing him back into a blurred world. Before him stood the source of the foul Uchiha chakra. His clones' memories told him that this man used a traditional scythe and chain, favoring his left leg ever so slightly and sporting a fully matured sharingan.
"Shuji-san!" Shit, he'd forgotten about Izuna. "What are you doing?"
"Shut up, brat," Shuji growled, his chakra roiling with malcontent. "This freak started it."
Izuna's chakra was conflicted, though Tobirama couldn't understand why. For a moment, he though the other boy would speak again, but Shuji moved before he could. Faster than any opponent he'd encountered before, the adult Uchiha swiped down at him, air whistling as his scythe cut through it. Tobirama dove out of the way, honing his focus on the increasingly violent man before him. He was agitated, something other than the young Senju stirring his chakra into a frenzy. Where his scythe hit the ground, small craters were left in its wake and Tobirama knew without a doubt that one hit would be all it took to end his life.
What were his clones thinking, challenging him?
A quick recall showed it was his own plan to gather information for a later take down. Tch.
This was no time to wallow on past idiocy, though. He rolled again, his armor digging into his body as he scrambled to his feet just in time to dodge another blow, this time from the deadly weight at the end of the chain attached to the scythe.
There was no way. He couldn't possibly defeat such a foe. He was too young, too weak, too inexperienced to take on such a terrifying enemy. He'd fought other Uchiha adults over the years—one particular experience stood out in his memory and he doubted it would ever fade, no matter how fervently Kyou demanded he do so—but none of them fought quite like this, like it was a battle of life or death. It wasn't. Not by any means. Still, his opponent swung his weapon with wild abandon, chakra swollen with pent up fury. It was like fighting a toddler mid tantrum, his emotions taking command of his body while his mind floundered. Unlike a toddler, however, this man was a trained shinobi with a powerful dojutsu at his disposal. He could have ended Tobirama's life on three separate occasion—that he'd noticed—and yet. He was toying with him, the vile joy floating on the surface of his chakra telling the Senju boy all he needed to know about the situation.
He was going to die.
It was a certainty. He had no time to lament it. It simply was. But he could maybe add to it. If he swung his sword at the right angle, and if this Shuji moved the way he expected him to, then he might be able to inflict enough damage that another of his Clan would then be able to capitalize on and hopefully bring the menace down.
It was a terrifying prospect. He was only twelve years old. Kawarama had died at six, along with so many others, Itama almost among their number. He was twice his brother's age, but he would be joining him, soon. Was it too much to wish he had more time?
He turned, his muscles straining as he pushed himself to move at speeds he'd never before achieved. He had to be fast enough. This was the last thing he'd ever do for his Clan. And he doubted anyone would remember it.
"No don't!"
The haze which clouded his opponent's chakra was gone, bursting like a bubble to reveal panic and concern. The Uchiha immediately moved to withdraw, pulling back what would most certainly have been a killing blow as he turned away from Tobirama, who made no such motions, his momentum propelling the long blade in his hand forward.
"Kyou?"
Tobirama's sword cut through the delicate flesh of his neck, red blood spilling out over his red armor, red eyes turning to look incredulously at the child who slew him. He could feel the chakra signatures of everyone around him light up with shock and disbelief, but he stood still, panting as he stared at the fading chakra of the man in front of him. Those red eyes—the only part of him he could see clearly—were rolling in a pale face, searching for something.
Or someone.
"Kyou." His voice was little more than a gurgle, but Tobirama could still make out the girl's name, clear as day. "Kyou."
She was standing only an arm's length away, watching as the man bled out. He called her name, raising a hand toward her before collapsing onto his face, red, red blood soaking the ground beneath Tobirama's feet. She stayed where she was, red, red eyes glowing with the power of the sharingan. Those eyes turned to him, burning him with the intensity of the emotion projected by her chakra, the wrongness of it stinging him.
In an instant the stillness was broken, Madara himself stepping in front of Kyou. Izuna was also there, sticking close to his younger cousin as Hashirama took a stand in front of Tobirama, staring his one time friend down with an almost foreign solemnity. Their fathers weren't far behind, Tajima crouching down beside the dead man.
Butsuma reached out with a hand, pushing Hashirama behind him. "Tajima."
The Uchiha leader's chakra was a nauseating mix of outrage and grim satisfaction. Whoever this Shuji was, he wasn't well liked, but the reactions of the adults around him made it clear he was important.
"Let's end this here, Butsuma," Tajima said sternly, his Clan disengaging as a single mass at his words. "I must return my cousin to his mother. Kyou," he turned to the girl, his chakra radiating pity for only the shortest of seconds. "Let's take your father home."
Ah. Her father. That explained a few things. Kyou was in line to be Clan heir, so her father had to be a high-ranking man among the Uchiha. Certainly a member of the head family, at least. Suddenly, the full weight of his actions fell upon his mind. He'd killed a member of the Uchiha head family, had slit his throat to such a degree he died in less than a minute, as his child watched.
The child who distracted her father and made his death possible, in all likelihood saving Tobirama's life in the process.
The child whose reaction to her father's death was mind numbing euphoria.
The Uchiha left the clearing in a great wave of movement, their dead retrieved in silence. Butsuma placed a hand on Tobirama's head, his chakra buoyant with pride.
"Excellent work, son. That one has always been a menace."
Tobirama didn't recoil, but it was a close thing.