Chapter Text
And he removed from thence, and digged another well; and for that they strove not: and he called the name of it Rehoboth; and he said, So hath the Susano’o of the Lord made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land. - Genesis 26:22
Madara rocked back on his heels and surveyed the congregation with something approximating a warm smile. He leaned forward, resting his hands on either side of the pulpit, and watched with dark black eyes as his clan slowly filled the pews. He had yet to remove either his hat or his coat. His boots had left wet imprints on the rug that ran from the door to the altar.
Zechariah Small, the pastor, daubed at his forehead with his handkerchief, even as the snow gathered in the tall church windows. He sent up another silent prayer and hoped fervently, though in vain, that this year’s Christmas Eve Service would be shorter than the last.
The Uchiha clan could be called Christian, much in the same way pigs could be called cows. Cows and pigs are both mammals, after all; they both have four legs, a tail, and two eyes. They can have spots, or be uniformly colored; they are both domesticated animals. They’re very similar in many respects, except for all the huge, massively obvious ways in which they are not.
The religion that the Uchiha more-or-less subscribe to is Christian in that they follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth; they believe in One God; they fully acknowledge life after death and fear the fires of Perdition as much as any Christian would. They even have a bible.
The difference comes in that the Uchiha clan believe Jesus of Nazareth was a highly accomplished user of the sharingan, a type of magic power that manifests in the eyes after the wielder suffers great loss, and that he used this power to beat back the Roman legions. They believe that he broke out of his crypt with the mighty Susano’o, and that in the end of days all sinners would be cast into the Pit where the fires of Amaterasu burn forever. They also believe themselves to be descendants of this mythical sharingan-user, and tell stories of Uchihas of old who were able to summon its power themselves.
The bible they follow is the only one in existence. A French missionary named Pierre Barbet was the first to stumble upon the clan in the early 18th century; the bible in question was written during his sole attempt to bring the barbarians in the hills into the Lord’s light. The bible now sat on a small shelf in Madara Uchiha’s office, next to a pile of cheap knives and tins of tobacco. It was brought out once every year, on Christmas Eve, and presented to a long-suffering Zechariah Small, who, without fail, would refuse to conduct his service with it. The duty usually ended up falling to the clan head – in this case, Madara.
His sermons were things of legend.
“Cousins,” Madara said, the low timbre of his voice cutting easily through the murmurs of the crowd. “Aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. We’ve survived another year, it seems. All thanks, of course, to our Lord God on High, who, through the beneficence of his mighty sharingan, has seen fit to make it so.” He picked up the ancient bible from its place on the pulpit and rapped on the wooden cover conspiratorially.
Scattered laughter and applause from the audience. Zechariah sucked in a deep breath and resumed his prayers. With luck, it would be over soon. Mr. Uchiha might even keep it under three hours this time.
A mile and a half away, windows shuttered against the frost and snow, the final nail was being driven into a newly built manor home.
Over 1,000 miles away, Butsuma Senju signed off on a shipping invoice, and presented his sons with two train tickets over Christmas dinner. The train was to be leaving in two hours. Thankfully, both sons were already packed.
“And why do we praise His name?” Madara demanded to the riotous crowd. His voice shook the timbers overhead. “For we know what awaits us, don’t we? What awaits us, my brethren?”
“The fires of Amaterasu!” came the roar.
“The fires of Perdition itself, the unholy flame that never dies – so weep, my children, pray as hard as you can that His Eyes may look kindly upon your transgressions, for they are legion and one –”
In the manor home, a foreman checked the last box on a long list. The newly-installed gas lamps flickered over fresh wallpaper.
“– and what greater mercy could there be, my children, than He who would use Izanagi to dry the floodwaters, He who would send down Susano’o upon His son such that he might lift the stone that buried him –”
“I know, father,” Hashirama said, rolling his eyes. “That’s the entire point of sending us out there, isn’t it? You don’t have to tell me again!” He swung up into the carriage with barely-contained glee.
“– and that is why we are here, cousins, because we know what they do not; for we are chosen, cousins, and for that gift we say Praise be, Almighty God –”
The clan joined in the chorus, cacophonous voices rattling the windowpanes. There was no more pretense at an orderly church service – the crowd was clustered close around the pulpit, standing on the pews, sitting on any and every flat surface, from the piano to the altar itself, stamping their feet and howling like wolves –
Madara’s hat was long gone. His hair was unbound and wild down his back. He’d shed his coat in the first hour, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He spread his hands wide, like a conductor at an orchestra, and thundered, “Blessed is our Father, blessed is His Son, blessed is the Holy Susano’o! Writhe under his gaze, children, for though he is mercy incarnate we deserve not even a shred –”
Nezumi, a young woman with elbows like knives and knives like needles, began laughing hysterically from the back of the church. The smell of smoke began to seep through the air.
Zechariah stood in the far corner, trying desperately not to meet anyone’s gaze, and reflected bitterly that maybe if he’d just gone to a bigger parish, he wouldn’t have to deal with this every year. But the Uchiha clan was vast and densely concentrated in this area, and to do any business here was to do business with Madara Uchiha himself.
A window shattered amid the chaos. Zechariah clutched the bible close to his chest (decisively not the same as the one the Uchiha patriarch was currently brandishing like a weapon) and reflected that at least, at the end of the day, the clan usually paid for the damages.
“I still dislike the purpose of this endeavor,” Tobirama said, frowning sharply. His arms were folded across his chest as he glared moodily out the train window. “Alcohol is the devil’s drink, brother.”
“Yes, yes, but it’ll be good business!” Hashirama said, jostling him from his seat opposite. “Father was quite adamant that we start with something small, and I think the area would be a good launching ground for a brewery. After all, technology’s come a long way since –”
“I know where technology’s come from,” Tobirama interrupted. “That’s not the point. I am far from convinced that you are the best arbiter of local tastes. You know as much about the area as I do.”
“Now, Tobirama, we both know that’s not quite true,” Hashirama said, winking and tapping his nose.
“Stop that,” Tobirama said frostily. He crossed his legs as well. “Your dalliance as a child ten years ago does not an anthropological study make, brother.”
“Oh, spare me,” Hashirama said, laughing and waving a hand. “It’s better than what you did that summer. Do you even remember half of those books you read? You might as well have just stayed in New York!”
“Would that that had been an option,” Tobirama said.
“Hikaku, did we get everyone?” Madara asked briskly. He was drenched, half kneeling over a low copper tub that had been dragged into the middle of the church. There was a group of women standing in front of him, each holding a now-wet baby. The water that had sloshed over the sides of the tub was soaking through the abused rug underneath it.
The Uchiha clan only went to church once a year. It was decided a long time ago that it was best to be efficient about some things.
“Let me see,” Hikaku said from the other side of the church, well-out of the splash zone. “Fumiko, Tomiko, Emilia, Phyllis, Sachiko…”
“Pardon,” said one of the women, holding a still-dry baby aloft. “Lil’ Mako still hasn’t been baptized.”
“Oh, right.” Madara accepted the baby and unceremoniously dunked it in the water. The baby looked too stunned to cry as he held it back out to her. “My bad, Himari.”
“Thank you, Mr. Madara.”
Hikaku made a note in the ledger. The sun was starting the shine through the glass church windows. Zechariah Small snored softly in one of the back pews.
The day passed. The Uchiha clan cleared out of the church, much to Zechariah Small’s palpable relief. Madara Uchiha left an envelope of cash on the podium, as was customary.
Miles to the east, a locomotive powered down the Nickel Plate Road.
Two horses plodded determinedly through glittering snow.
“I can’t believe we’re back!” Hashirama said excitedly, almost bouncing in the carriage seat. “It’s been so long!”
“Ten years.”
“A lifetime!” Hashirama said. He grabbed Tobirama by the shoulder and dragged him to the carriage window. “Look, look! There! We should build our brewery at the bottom of that cliff!”
Tobirama squinted through the frosty pane of glass. “What? Why? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“Everything’s in the middle of nowhere out here, Tobirama! That’s the beauty of it. We get to make our own ‘somewhere’ out here!”
“I don’t think you appreciate how difficult establishing a business community will be,” Tobirama said curtly, pulling back onto his own side of the carriage. He straightened his rumpled overcoat with cat-like indignation.
“Pff, it won’t be difficult at all,” Hashirama said dismissively, not looking away from the scenery as they trundled down the road. “We have a few contacts Father made out here already, and we’re not even 30 miles from the nearest railroad – a mere day’s journey!”
“A day to the railroad, yes.” Tobirama squinted and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “Hashirama, we don’t even have furniture in our house yet. Let’s not get carried away.”
“Abstaining from dreaming about the future isn’t going to bring your armchair out here any faster, brother.”
“No, but it’ll make the wait more bearable for me,” Tobirama grumbled, slouching in his seat.
Hashirama squinted. “Is that the church?”
Tobirama leaned over out of his own volition, this time. His nose wrinkled disapprovingly. “It’s in some state of disrepair,” he said. “We must have a word with whoever owns the building.”
The Church of the Holy Sacrament was looking rather worse for wear. It was the day after Christmas, after all. Several windows had been busted out; there were scorch marks above the main door; the cross nailed to the front façade was listing to the side. It looked bleak in the weak afternoon sunlight.
“It looks like it got ransacked,” Hashirama said, voice somewhere between confusion, amusement, and alarm.
“I shudder to think what kind of barbarians would attack a humble church like this. And in our day and age, too.” Tobirama clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
They had come to a sort of crossroads, though it was hard to tell through all the snow. The carriage had come from the north. To the east, the pillaged Church of Holy Sacrament, and dense woodlands beyond; to the west, a series of small, unassuming wooden buildings with stout brick chimneys. A battered, painted sign was nailed to the one closest the road, reading Red Grass Saloon in an ornate script.
“Is that a bar?” Hashirama asked delightedly. “Oh, excellent – look, Tobirama! Look! Our first customer!” He laughed as he pointed.
The bar was directly across the road from the church. Tobirama frowned and narrowed his eyes.
The carriage continued south, horses tramping determinedly through the loose-packed snow. The woods pressed in from all directions; bare branches towered over the icy road. Every once in a while, Hashirama thought he could catch a glimpse of movement far in the trees – but everything was always still when he turned for a closer look.
The wilderness cleared away so quickly it was like they had entered into some other realm. One minute the carriage was hemmed in on all sides by frost-encrusted scrub and briar, and bare trees that clawed through the icy air – and in the next, the ground leveled out, the thicket cleared, and the carriage was sailing through a pristine, perfectly flat, snowy white field. The smooth expanse of snow was interrupted only by the large manor that rose before them like a mountain.
“Home sweet home,” Hashirama said.