Chapter Text
On the third day of spring, under a dark gray sky, Uchiha Madara surrendered himself to the Senju Clan. He wore in a gray kimono and bore no weapons. He let them blindfold him and tie his hands.
This was how he was presented to Senju Butsuma and his sons - on his knees, with a kunai at his throat.
Uchiha Izuna was dead and cremated. His ashes were scattered in a quiet grove.
“Don’t tell me the son of Uchiha Tajima has come to defect,” Butsuma told his kneeling form.
“I have not come to defect,” said Madara. “I’m already dead. I will not fight anymore.” He raised his head slightly - the kunai at his throat raised with it - and his blindfolded eyes stared directly at Hashirama. “I surrender. Your youngest has killed my brother; let your oldest kill me.”
The guards looked at Butsuma. Butsuma looked at Hashirama. Hashirama’s face was calm and steady - this was not a clash on a riverbank, and he wasn’t twelve years old anymore.
“Honorable father,” Hashirama said quietly. “I would ask to speak to the prisoner alone.”
“Denied,” said Butsuma.
“No,” said Madara, simultaneously. The Senju guarding him shot him an incredulous glare.
“Honorable father –”
“Hashirama,” Butsuma said. “Out of respect for the clansmen his death here will save, I would grant his request that you be his executioner. He is correct, and it is fitting that my eldest be the one to take his life. But,” Butsuma’s voice lowered. “I grant you, Hashirama, only the mercy to end his life quickly.”
“And if I do not take it?” Hashirama’s voice was steady.
Madara said nothing.
“Then he will die by my hand,” Butsuma said. “He has come here to die, and I will oblige him this. His body will be returned to the Uchiha by the riverbank.”
Hashirama’s face was still, and his hands did not tremble. But there was bubbling anger in low in his throat when he said, “He said he will not fight. What threat is he to us? Why not –”
Butsuma did not strike his son. He, too, was older than he had been at the riverbank. He understood things now that he had not before. But when he raised his hand, Hashirama fell silent all the same.
“He is a threat,” Butsuma said, “Because he is here to be killed by you. Hashirama, do you understand?”
“Honorable father.” It was Tobirama this time. “I have a suggestion.”
“Speak, then.”
“Honorable father, Uchiha Madara’s death will protect our clansmen from his sword, it’s true,” Tobirama said. “But what of his clansmen? Do they know he’s here? Does Uchiha Tajima know that he has surrendered himself to us?”
Hashirama sucked in a breath. He didn’t know where Tobirama was going with this, but it was surely better than Madara dying at his hands.
Butsuma was looking at Madara thoughtfully, brows creased. “Well, boy? Does Tajima know where you are?”
Madara licked his lips. “No,” he said at last. “If I had told him my intentions, he would have killed me himself. And that… was not acceptable to me.”
“But dying to Hashirama was.”
Madara didn’t answer.
“Honorable father,” Tobirama continued, voice like sliding silk. “Maybe there is use in keeping him as a hostage? Would it not dull his clansmen’s blades to keep him here, alive?”
“It might just as easily sharpen them, Tobirama,” Butsuma said. “And hostages are not kept indefinitely. There are no demands I would make of the Uchiha clan to warrant the risk.”
“They won’t come for him, honorable father,” Hashirama said softly. “They know they can’t meet me on the field. Without Uchiha Madara, we would overwhelm them easily. And what demand have we but the cessation of hostilities between us? Even a temporary reprieve is still a reprieve.”
“Senju Butsuma,” Madara said hoarsely. “Do not inflict this on me. Deny me my death and I will be a terror on your house.”
“Honorable father,” Hashirama actually stood and walked before Butsuma, angling himself in front of Madara. His forehead touched the floor as he bowed in a deep dogeza. “I will take full responsibility for his actions. I will take responsibility for the clan. Please.”
“Full responsibility, huh?” Butsuma said. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Raise your head, Hashirama. It’s unbecoming.” He opened his eyes and gestured to the retainers at Madara’s sides. “Put him somewhere secure. Have Imori and Seisa guard him during the night.”
Madara’s face was completely expressionless as they pulled him to his feet. Hashirama didn’t turn to watch him leave, but remained kneeling in front of Butsuma, hooded eyes fixed on his father.
“What is your game, Hashirama? Tobirama?” Butsuma said quietly as the footsteps died away. They were alone in the room, the light from the oil lamp bouncing off the wooden walls.
Hashirama unclenched his hands. Tobirama spoke first.
“My only goal is the protection of our clan,” he said, sitting, back ramrod straight. “We would be wise to take advantage of such an opportunity as this.”
“Do the benefits of his life outweigh the benefits of his death, Tobirama?”
Yes, Hashirama shouted. Yes, yes, yes, they do! A thousand times over!
“Honorable father, we have control of this story,” Tobirama said. “With Uchiha Madara in our control, we can have them believe whatever we want. Maybe we captured him while he was away from camp. Maybe we rescued him from some terrible fate.”
“Honorable father,” Hashirama said. “What if we could use this to make peace with the Uchiha?”
Butsuma stared at him with flat disappointment. Tobirama’s nose scrunched up at the sides – he was displeased with what Hashirama had said, as well, but for different reasons.
“Hashirama, we’ve been over this,” Butsuma said. “They do not want peace. They don’t have the taste for it. Uchiha Tajima would never assent to a ceasefire with our clan, and the rest of our clan would never want it with theirs. There’s too much blood, Hashirama.”
“Then where does this end?”
Butsuma stood. “There is no end, boy. This is what life is. This is what it is to live as a shinobi.” He made a sharp gesture towards Tobirama, who also climbed to his feet. “Tobirama, this will be our story – we have Uchiha Tajima’s son. Do not mention how he came to us. We will let them make us an offer. If they can give us something with equal value to Uchiha Madara’s death, then we will return him to them unharmed. If they cannot, then we will grant his wish.”
Tobirama bowed deeply and left, but not before sending Hashirama a low glance.
“Hashirama,” Butsuma said. “Stand up.” Hashirama unfolded his legs. “You say you will take responsibility for this Uchiha. I will hold you to this. You are to ensure he does no harm to the clan; that he has no contact with his family; that he has no chance to see or hear clan secrets or gain information that he could take back to his family. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will be his guard, Hashirama. When we go to battle with the Uchiha, you will go with us, and Imori and Seisa will take your place.”
He could overpower them in an instant, Hashirama wanted to say. He said nothing.
“Go, then, if you understand.”
And thus, Uchiha Madara became a hostage of the Senju Clan.
Hashirama found Seisa and Imori standing outside a storage shed, near the outskirts of the Senju encampment.
“You locked him in a shed?” Hashirama asked.
Seisa shot Imori an embarrassed side-eye. “Butsuma-sama said to put him somewhere secure, Hashirama-sama.”
“I know he did, it’s just…” Hashirama scratched his neck and laughed awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure he could easily get out if he wanted to?”
“We don’t really have a prison, Hashirama-sama.” Imori said slowly. His ears were turning pink.
“Well, this is fine, I guess!” Hashirama clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Hashirama-sama?” Seisa asked, drawing her eyebrows together.
“It’s fine, father said I’ll watch him! Go on back to your homes. It’ll be fine,” Hashirama insisted, gently steering the two of them away from the shed door. Imori’s face had turned bright cherry red the minute Hashirama’s hand had landed on his shoulder and stayed that way as he was gently pushed down the path. Seisa just looked resigned. Hashirama waved cheerily at their disappearing backs, then turned back to the shed door.
“Are you still alive, Madara?” He said through the wooden boards. No response. “I’m coming in!”
The shed had clearly been cleared in a hurry. Barrels and sacks were shoved haphazardly against the walls, leaving a small dusty square of floor. Madara kneeled in the middle of the shed, still blindfolded and restrained.
Hashirama knelt down in front of him. “I’m going to untie your hands,” he told him. “I’ll let you remove your blindfold.”
Madara still said nothing.
The minute Hashirama’s small, sharp knife cut through the thin cord around Madara’s wrists, he lunged forward, pulling the blindfold off as he went. His hand slammed into Hashirama’s neck and forced him back onto the ground.
Madara’s eyes were red. There were no tomoe in his eyes anymore – thick black circles spun in their place. Hashirama felt the bottom of the world drop out from under him.
“You couldn’t just let me die, could you, Hashirama?” Madara snarled. He was kneeling over Hashirama’s torso, one hand on his throat, the other fisted in his haori. “You had to deny me even this.”
Hashirama knew, logically, that he was lying on the floor of the shed. That didn’t help his eyes, which were telling him he was plummeting through a black void. Madara’s balled fists and the knee pressing down on his thigh were the only points of contact Hashirama could feel, and he focused on them, willing himself to concentrate on his words.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Hashirama managed. “Madara, there is nothing I want less than your death –”
“Nothing you want less? Really?” Madara let out a wild laugh. “What about Butsuma’s death? Tobirama’s? What if I slaughtered your whole clan, would you kill me then?”
“You wouldn’t, though,” Hashirama said simply. He couldn’t see Madara’s face in the void, but when he reached his hand out, his fingers brushed cool skin. “I trust you.”
The genjutsu melted away, the colors bleeding back into Hashirama’s surroundings. He had fallen back against the doorframe, his shoulders pressed painfully against the beam.
Madara’s head was bowed. The delicate points where Hashirama’s fingers had brushed his skin burned. He let his hand drop. The hand that was around Hashirama’s throat loosened, as well, and slid down to rest on his collarbone.
“You really shouldn’t,” Madara muttered. “I’m your enemy. I could’ve killed you a hundred times over in that genjutsu and you would’ve let me.”
“Yeah,” Hashirama said. “You didn’t, though.”
“I didn’t,” Madara agreed. He didn’t look up. “What will Butsuma demand of the Uchiha?”
“He’s going to let them make an offer.”
Madara snorted. “If Tajima even wants me back,” he said. “I’m disgraceful. No one in their right mind would follow me as clan head.”
I would, Hashirama wanted to say. “I would,” he said.
“You don’t count,” Madara said, raising his head at last. “You’re kind of dumb.”
“Ah…” Hashirama said. He hung his head. “I know. I’m worthless. They should just lock me in here, as well. I’m garbage.”
Madara sighed, aggravated, and pulled himself off of Hashirama’s slumped form. He sat back on his haunches and observed him through dark black eyes. “You really haven’t changed,” he mused. “What do you think you’ll get out of this, Hashirama? Keeping me alive?”
Hashirama scooted back into a proper sitting position, taking the pressure off his shoulder. “I want peace,” Hashirama said.
“Again, with this…”
“Again, with this, yes. I want peace, Madara. You do, too, I can see it in your eyes.” Hashirama’s fingers touched Madara’s cheek again. “I don’t know how, but I know that you are part of it. I will never make it there without you.”
“Hashirama,” Madara murmured. His hand came up to touch Hashirama’s. “I have no godly idea what you’re babbling about. Our childhood dreams are dead.”
“No,” argued Hashirama. His other hand came up to cup Madara’s jaw. “Our dream is alive and we are going to make it happen. I promise. We will see peace between our clans before we die. I know it.”
Madara pulled his head out of Hashirama’s hands and held them between his own, face solemn. “I think,” Madara said, “You’re kind of full of shit.” Hashirama could see his eyelashes brush his cheek every time he blinked. “Hashirama…” Madara’s dark, dark eyes lowered. “Izuna is dead. My little brother is dead at your brother’s hands, because I couldn’t protect him in time.”
“You still deserve peace,” Hashirama said.
“None of us deserve peace, Hashirama. If there is to be peace, it will be carved out of everyone around us. It’ll be built on the bones of the children we wanted to protect.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Hashirama insisted. “We haven’t tried! How are you so sure it will fail? Why do you have so little faith in us? In me?”
Madara shook his head. “It’s not a question of faith.” Madara dropped Hashirama’s hands and ran one through his hair. “I’m exhausted. Hashirama, they will expect my hands to still be bound in the morning.” His eyes slid pointedly to the cut cord on the ground.
“I don’t really care what they expect,” Hashirama said. “Butsuma said I am to be your guard, and that means I’ll decide how you are held. I’m not tying your hands and I won’t let you sleep in the shed.” He stood.
“Let me sleep in the shed? You think I want to sleep in the shed?” Madara asked him incredulously, still squatting on the floor.
“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised. Come on,” Hashirama said, extending his hand.
With an air of resignation that was remarkably similar to Seisa’s from earlier, Madara took it.