Chapter Text
The wind stirs throughout the courtyard as Hashirama's trees quake in agony, yet Tobirama does not dare to glance aside at them, not with Touka's naginata at his throat.
In front of him, Butsuma leans forward on the dais. His eyes glitter. His mouth twists, and his hand fists in the back of Hashirama's shirt and forces him down into a kneel, ignoring Hashirama's wordless weeping. His voice is acid. "Do not move the blade, Touka. Not even a millimeter."
Touka's gaze darts over Tobirama's face, frantic, her mouth unsure whether to tighten or tremble. There is no escape here, for any of them, from Butsuma's madness, from their duty to him.
Tobirama drops his chin a fraction against the blade, and Touka swallows. Calls back, her voice steady at the heart and quavering at the edges,
"Yes, Lord Butsuma."
"Tobirama." Tobirama glances at where Uruame stands on his other side, his voice laced with power. "Do you not feel the need?"
He swallows. His knees threaten to quiver. The inside of his mouth is a raw, scraping wound where he has bitten himself to blood. His hands are fists at his sides, and his nails dig into his palms until he can feel skin split beneath the pressure. Yet for all the pain he can deliver himself, there is still this endless, awful need at the core of him, the impulse to bend his knees, to obey-
His voice is a bare whisper, cracking with youth. "Yes."
He's felt it ever since Butsuma came to him two nights ago, Uruame - one of the only dominants in their clan - at his side, and had Uruame demand he kneel. They must have suspected him, what he was, even then.
Bewildered, captive to the power in Uruame's voice, the weight of his gaze, the vicious need to please that took hold of him, he had knelt right there in the dust of the training yard, and held the position, horrified at his own obedience, as Butsuma spat in his face. As he named him submissive, slave, unworthy, and walked away.
“There hasn't been a Senju submissive in years,” Hashirama had said when he helped Tobirama up and tried to clean him with trembling hands. “There's hardly anyone left with a dynamic these days.”
Now there is Tobirama, alone as he has always been alone, cursed anew, set apart once more. He looks away from Uruame and stares into Hashirama's wide, red-rimmed eyes. Locks his knees. Drives his heels into the dirt and curls his toes until they ache. He will not kneel. He will not deprive Hashirama of his last remaining brother.
All noise - Touka's staccato breathing, Hashirama's weeping, the wind in the trees - dies beneath the weight of Uruame's soft, "Kneel."
His knees shudder. His shoulders threaten to collapse inward beneath the weight of the command. He grits his teeth as the naginata presses into the softness of his throat, blade aimed up and in, and Touka's eyes fill with tears as if her grief can overpower a dominant's command-
It may be a minute. It may be a second. It may be forever. The weight grows on his back, in his head, threatens to crush. Blood spills from his hands, his lip, his throat, and he can't even feel the pain, can only feel the appalling weight of the word, of the expectation.
Butsuma flicks his fan at Uruame. Hashirama grips, imploring, at his sleeve.
"Kneel," Uruame says again, and then, "Would you not be a good boy? A good submissive? All you must do is kneel."
The command becomes breath, light, the world. He's shaking beneath its power, his heart roaring in his ears, his red-misted gaze fixed only on Hashirama's face, at the agony there. He wants to be good, wants to be kept, wants-
But to have it is to die, to pain Hashirama and Touka, to deprive the clan of a blade-
A blade must have only one hand on its hilt.
He gasps for breath, and the bob of his throat presses against the cold clean bite of the naginata, and the thin cloth of his kendogi plasters wet and hot with blood against his chest, the only warmth in the world. His head is a knot of pain. His fingernails scrape deep. He cannot hear, blind to everything but Hashirama's gaze, can only feel the agony in his thighs as he fights the need to obey.
Uruame moves between himself and Hashirama. His wrinkled face is calm, his expression faintly kind.
Tobirama clenches his eyes shut as if that will aid him. His hands tremble with the need to cover his ears, rip them off if necessary, but he can't move, can't speak, can only gulp for breath against the word,
"Kneel."
He's shaking so hard he's cutting himself, and Touka's breathing is short and sharp and pained, and his entire body aches to let go, to empty itself in some desperate show of pure submission, and he can't, he can't, he-
"Stand," Uruame says, and he wrenches open his eyes to find Butsuma looking down on him from the dais. His gaze is thoughtful as he sits back, then satisfied.
"Perhaps we cannot change your nature, Tobirama," his father says at last, letting go of Hashirama, "but we can temper you regardless. Teach your body to know no master but yourself."
Hashirama bolts down from the dais. Touka drops her naginata. They clutch him to themselves, their tears hot against his chilled skin as he stands with the last of his strength.
Butsuma's mouth curls into a smile. "Yes. We shall train you, my boy, to be my blade alone."
He becomes a weapon: cold, keen, unfeeling, unnamed.
He tears across a thousand battlefields and leaves carnage in his wake, the mask he is forced to wear to prevent the Uchiha from seeing his heretical eyes and hunting him down no impediment.
He earns his own names: Ghost. Demon. Wolf. Blind One.
They are not the praise he wants, the thanks he hopes for in return for his silent, unbending service, his unflinching loyalty, and in the long nights when he drives down the useless urge to submit-
A tiny, hopeless part of him still yearns.
-
Madara stalks into the conference area assigned to the Uchiha, and behind him, Izuna, his little brother's steps still limping from the Ghost's blade. Then the gaggle of Uchiha elders, half of them with their voices already raised and squabbling, the other half just waiting to unleash their sharp tongues. Lastly, the daimyo's guards and one of his negotiators, gently closing the shoji behind him with his free hand.
"You can't possibly be considering accepting their offer," Izuna starts, falling into seiza at the first empty spot and snatching up a cup of water.
Madara takes a spot beside him, and then at last, all the elders find their own. Goddess, his head hurts; this island the daimyo's trapped them on is bounded with chakra-suppressing seals, and his own chakra build-up pounds behind his eyes.
"What else would you have me do, considering the situation?"
'The situation,' he calls it, as though it isn't their last, best hope at escaping destruction. At that last battlefield, where the Ghost struck to wound, where Hashirama begged Madara again to reconsider their childhood dream, the daimyo's troops had surrounded them, backed by every other clan they could find, and delivered the ultimatum: Senju and Uchiha must meet and negotiate a truce beneath the daimyo's watchful eye. Failure to appear, much less failure to reach a settlement, would result in annihilation, the rest of the Land of Fire exhausted by their war, all-too-aware of the other nations circling like wolves around a weakened deer.
"Hashirama's already got the Senju council on his side, or at least he's managed to cow them into an appearance of it," Madara has to raise his voice over Elder Kishi, who has the grace to shut up and listen. "And he's got all that to show how serious he is about obeying the daimyo."
'All that' is the giant stack of scrolls in the negotiator's arms, which he deposits before Madara. He stares grimly at them, remembering the negotiator assigned to the Senju droning on and on as the people in the hall followed along on their own copies. Painfully detailed maps of infrastructure, sewer systems, curriculum for a proposed academy, mission and shinobi rankings, economic models and predictions... thousands of hours' worth of work, and there's no way Hashirama did it all on his own. Whoever did these - for the handwriting is the same on all of them - is wasted in the shinobi realm; they'd be far better suited as some great administrator for the daimyo.
"It could be a trap," Izuna says, shifting onto one hip and wincing as it tugs at his wound, "just to lure us into agreement."
Elder Kishi and the other two in his faction leap to agree, only to quiet at Madara's irritable stare.
"Considering that they're allowing us to read these proposals and demand changes to them, it doesn't seem like much of a trap. Again, the Senju are showing themselves to be willing to negotiate in far greater faith than we are, and if we want the daimyo to look favorably on the Uchiha at all, we have to at least extend some faith of our own."
"Hundreds of Uchiha have bled and died for our cause," Elder Ayame says. Her dark eyes shine narrow and vicious from the deep creases of her face. "And you propose to spit upon their sacrifices with this peace? To leave our lands and the graves of our ancestors for this dream?"
"Would the death of the clan itself be a worthy victory?" Elder Yuki snaps, leaning halfway over her desk. "All of us hunted down and killed for your stubbornness and pride?"
That quiets Ayame. She, like many of the older Uchiha, still cling to some hope that this isn't real, that the daimyo doesn't mean what he says, but Yuki has been savage in reminding them that their options are settlement or death.
"Madara," Izuna says, and Madara glances aside at him to find him staring, grim but determined, at the stack of scrolls on Madara's desk. "Hand me the scroll on the proposed intelligence service, would you? And give Ayame the one on agriculture allotments."
The weight of his love for his brother carves out his chest, and all he can do is give Izuna a nod and the scroll.
Izuna, their hands brushing together against the parchment, gets his point, one side of his mouth twitching up in return. He ducks his head at Madara, then unrolls the scroll and picks up a brush to begin his edits.
Days pass. Endless rounds of proposals, and notes, and the daimyo’s negotiators crossing from room to room in soft whispers of silk, and the Uchiha filing back to their camp with sore hands and tired eyes. Nights of further arguing, and Izuna flinching every time the Ghost’s chakra flares and dies on the other side of the river in the Senju camp.
White mask. White blade. White furs. A voice flat and empty as blank parchment. Whatever his identity is, the Senju guard it closely; Madara had thought, for a while, that it must be Hashirama’s only remaining brother, but the few spies he’s managed to slip into their compound report back that Tobirama spends his days locked away in a lab, isolated from the rest of the clan. Ill, perhaps.
“Madara?” Izuna’s whisper breaks him from his thoughts, and he rolls onto his side to find Izuna, on his own cot, looking back. His eyes shine in the dim firelight leaking through the tent walls.
“Hm?”
“Do you really think this is the right way?”
Madara groans. “Not you, too.”
“Sorry,” Izuna says, but doesn’t sound it. He lifts himself up on an elbow, the motion making his sheet fall down his bare chest, and goes on, “Once you sign tomorrow, that’s it.”
“I’m aware.” Madara rolls onto his back to stare up at the shadows dancing on the tent roof. “And I know that the clan will follow me, whatever I decide, and that I have to make the best decision for them.” The responsibility weighs on him like the earth itself. “But I think… this is the best choice of what we were given.”
They’ve gotten most of their demands granted, after all. Two Hokages: an inner one to handle the village itself, and an outer one to handle diplomacy and war. A police force made up of mixed clan members, reporting to a council with representation for civilians and all clans. Each clan allocated an amount of arable land based upon their population, and that had been the thing Madara wanted most. The Uchiha lands have always been poor except for potatoes and game, their rice and soy and other staples bought from the daimyo and other clans in return for metal and smithing. The idea of his clan being well-fed, clothed in silks, able to ask for second helpings at any meal - there is little Madara wouldn’t sacrifice for that.
“They didn’t give us much,” Izuna grumbles, then flops back down on his cot and goes on, “But I guess peace is better than death.”
-
The next morning, the Uchiha, dressed in their best, file back over the bridge to the negotiating grounds, ducking beneath the curtains the daimyo’s guards hold open for them to enter the great hall.
It itches, as it always does, to feel the chakra seals settle in over them, cutting them off from their senses, reducing them to only five.
Hashirama is at the head of all the Senju arrayed down the right side of the hall, resplendent in their grays, browns, and greens, and he offers Madara a wide and hopeful smile that Madara returns with a nod as he finds his own place. He takes the moment to take in the Senju ranks while the rest of his people seat themselves.
Hashirama, of course, and his wife, Mito, next to him, composed and so still she seems carved of marble. The kunoichi who often fought with Hikaku using a naginata and genjutsu seated beside Mito; if he remembers correctly, her name is Touka. And on Hashirama’s other side, given a wide berth in all other directions by the other Senju -
Madara stills. The dominance in him stirs in silent question, but no, the Senju have no submissives; in all the years they’ve warred and killed and spied, there’s never been even a hint. And yet, the banked fire in him wakes, and wants.
The man is lanky, as Hashirama is, all bone and sinew and muscle, barely an ounce of fat on him, but their resemblance ends there. Compared to all the other Senju around him, he’s pale as mist, shocking against the dark gray of his formal kimono, his silver-white hair short, his features sharp and fine. He wears a blindfold, seated snugly just above the aristocratic arch of his nose, and Madara finds himself frowning; curiosity and unease tangle within him. Is the man missing his eyes? He doesn’t recall any Uchiha using the traditional punishment for child-stealing since he assumed the headship, and the man appears younger than Madara is; too young to participate in a raid if he had to guess. Is he simply blind, and wishing to hide his disability from others?
Next to him, Izuna uses the voluminous cloth of their kimono sleeves to hide him taking Madara’s hand and tracing kanji into his palm.
Madara straightens as the shock races up his spine. The mysterious Tobirama, dragged from his safety, his lab, to witness -
Of course. He is Hashirama’s heir. He has to sign the peace agreement as well.
He gets no more time to think about it, forced to rise with everyone else as the drums start up to welcome the daimyo to the dais. They stand, silent, the air thrumming with tension, while the daimyo settles into his throne, takes a sip of water, and then gestures for everyone to sit back down.
“I am given to understand,” the daimyo says, “that both sides have come to an agreement regarding the cessation of the war and the foundation of a shinobi village for the Land of Fire.”
Both negotiators, the Senju’s and the Uchiha’s, seated at the base of the dais nod and murmur affirmation.
“Good. And both sides understand that they must begin construction of Konoha within six months?”
More nodding. More agreements. All show, considering that everyone here has already agreed.
The daimyo leans forward. “Excellent. There is one more requirement that must be fulfilled before we can dispense with all this unpleasantness.”
Hashirama’s gaze swings from the daimyo to Madara’s, looking faintly panicked, which doesn’t improve Madara’s mood one bit. If Hashirama doesn’t know about this either -
“To improve relations between the clans, and to serve as a visible reminder of your peace, I have decreed that Uchiha Madara must wed a Senju.” The daimyo sits back in his throne and fans himself, completely unconcerned, while the words resound in Madara’s ears and rage grows into a consuming conflagration within him.
Hashirama is staring up at the daimyo, mouthing something, that if it echoes Madara’s feelings, is likely “what the fuck?” The two negotiators glance at each other in utter bafflement, as shocked as the rest of them, and Madara readies himself to rise and take the daimyo’s throat in his fist.
He’s saved by Izuna’s hand pressing down on his shoulder, keeping him seated as Izuna stands. Behind him, the other Uchiha whisper frantically to each other, and a deep-seated and vindictive part of Madara enjoys their unmitigated panic. Hopefully this’ll get them off he and Izuna’s backs about marriage.
“My lord daimyo, I am deeply aggrieved to tell you this.”
‘Deeply aggrieved,’ Madara’s ass.
“The Uchiha form of marriage for its main line family is often considered unusual,” Izuna continues, and Madara can’t do anything but be grateful for him taking this over. Goddess knows he’d never be able to speak so eloquently.
The daimyo pauses fanning himself and leans forward, eyes narrow. “How so?”
“We practice spousal sharing between brothers to reduce the likelihood of conflict between potential heirs to the headship.” Izuna’s grip tightens on Madara’s shoulder, keeping him down. “Whoever Madara marries, I will marry as well.”
The daimyo glances between Izuna and Madara, brow furrowing. “And you do not take concubines?” This sets the Uchiha negotiator off into nervous titters, only ceasing when the Senju negotiator hisses at him to be silent.
“No,” Madara manages, voice raw with fury and disgust. “Uchiha are loyal, beyond everything else. We would never dishonor a spouse by breaking our vows of fidelity.”
“I see,” the daimyo says, expression frozen with irritation. The man is known to have several concubines of his own. “But are you both not old to be unmarried?”
Behind Madara, Ayame mutters,
“That’s what I said.”
“Ah, yes,” Izuna says, ignoring the daimyo’s rudeness with far more grace than Madara has ever possessed. “Thus the other reason your proposal will not be feasible, my lord daimyo.”
The daimyo’s expression is pulling tighter and tighter, his lips paling and thinning, his hand white-knuckled about his fan. “Do tell.”
“Madara and I, unfortunately, possess a rare trait. We were both born dominants. For any marriage to be possible between us and another, they would need to be submissive and ready to accept being married to multiple partners. With the rarity of corresponding submissives, we have been unable to find one who would accept the proposal.”
More like Izuna’s been unable to find one; his little brother has been far more interested in marriage than Madara.
“Furthermore,” Izuna says, and his smile is more a snarl, “you do us grave insult, my lord daimyo, by expecting both the lord and heir of the Uchiha clan to marry someone of far lesser status from the Senju. But as the Senju have no submissives, and I imagine no one willing to suffer both mine and Madara’s attentions, the point is moot.”
Madara catches Hashirama’s gaze, but Hashirama isn’t joining him in his triumph. He’s staring down at his clenched and trembling fists atop the desk, his mouth quivering. Mito leans in to whisper something in his ear, and on Mito’s other side, Touka’s face shines scarlet with rage. She’s bending around Mito’s back to grab at Hashirama, voice low and urgent,
“You can’t, Hashirama, you swore!”
A deep pit opens in Madara’s stomach. They can’t possibly- there’s no one in their main house, no one even in their clan who’s a sub-
Izuna’s noticed the commotion now, and turns to glance at Madara, concern passing over his expression, before they both turn to the Senju side of the room, where Touka’s got Hashirama’s hand in hers and appears to be trying to break it.
“What was all his suffering for, if now you just-”
“Touka,” Hashirama says at last, all life drained from his voice. “Enough.”
But next to him, Tobirama lifts his bowed head. He lifts his chin and pushes his desk back, and shakes off Hashirama’s imploring hand, ignores the curses and cries from the Senju around him as he stands.
He takes a deep breath, and the room goes silent. Turns his blind eyes to Madara and Izuna, and speaks in a voice all too familiar.
“I fit their requirements,” the Ghost says. “I will marry them, if it brings peace.”
The entire hall drowns in chaos.