Chapter Text
Madara eyes the sky with a growing disdain. The gentle hues of red and orange are being slowly consumed by thick puffs of dark storm clouds. It seems the Seer had been right; trouble will find them this day, despite how calm the air and sea had been when they first set out. Even now the waves swirl and crash against Spitfire's hull with a growing fervor – a clear sign of a divinity scorned.
Leave it to that thrice-damned Susanoo to throw a tantrum befitting a god. If he didn't want Amaterasu's children snooping about his domain, he should have thought about that before he stole from the Heavenly Mother.
Gods does he miss her voice. It feels like an eternity since he began searching for Amaterasu's sacred relic and twice as long since he’s last heard her gentle words clearly. With her connection to the mortal realm gone – stolen! – her presence has steadily grown weaker over the last decade. The once impressive flames of the Uchiha have dampened to nothing more than dying embers in their patron's absence.
Madara must return her hallowed mirror, before the weakness plaguing his people becomes their doom.
“Captain!”
The heavy thud of boots splashing across wood planks draws Madara's attention away from the grim thoughts and foreboding sky and towards the entrance of his private quarters. Hikaku – his best pilot, a rarity amongst the fire mages of the Uchiha – leans heavily against the doorframe as he catches his breath. His left hand is clenched tightly around a strip of parchment, crumpling the letter and smearing the ink. Madara catches sight of a broken red wax seal in the familiar shape of a bird's head along one edge. He knows he will find A set of magnificent wings on the other half.
The phoenix crest his brother seals every report with.
“Izuna's hawk has returned,” Hikaku wheezes out, confirming what Madara already knows. The young pilot's hand shakes as he lifts the missive into the lantern light.
“He's found our Lady's vestige.”
Little Uchiha Kagami is quickly brought into the captain's quarters at Madara's request. The boy is only fourteen summers old – too young to understand the cold emptiness of Amaterasu's absence – but he's a bloody genius in the realm of navigation. Paired with Hikaku's own skills, not even a godly temper tantrum will be enough to stop them.
With their course charted, Hikaku takes to the helm. Kiho scrambles up into the crow's nest while little Kagami rushes below deck to help with preparations. Madara turns his attention to the rigging, shouting orders as he monitors their progress.
There’s a buzz of energy about the crew. Izuna's promises have set their hearts alight with the spark of hope. To see their patron again, to hear her words once more… They'd sail to the edge of the world.
– [ x ] –
The storm is on them faster than what any of them anticipate.
Thick, dark clouds block out the sun, leaving them with only their oil lamps to light the way. The waves crash against the hull with relentless strikes. Hikaku fights against the supernatural strength of the wind and waves to keep them on course: It seems Susanoo is just as determined to keep them from their destination as they are to reach it.
But they don't, won't, can't give up.
Not even when the gentle rains turn torrential. Not even when the waves grow and surge taller than the mainmast, rocking their ship and flooding the deck with each buffet.
Not when the winds howl and tear at their sails, sending unsecured rigging whipping free. Not even when a nervous crewmate pulls the line just a tad too far, overcompensating his grip against the rain-slick ropes, causing the fabric to catch suddenly on the violent winds. The foremast groans and creaks in protest.
Madara has no time to shout a warning as it dismasts.
The crew scrambles out of the way as wooden splinters shower down, followed by the shattered foremast and its sails. There's panicked shouting. Boots pound through the flood to rush temporary repairs.
Madara's beside his people, pulling at ropes and sails, when the first mayday is called. Kiho's voice rises above the clamor, desperation and terrified.
“Kagami! Kagami!”
Amaterasu help us, Madara prays as he rushes port-side, peering over the railing for any sign of dark curls in the deluge. When their Lady’s presence was at its strongest, the gift of her connection allowed Uchiha eyes to pierce through even the unnatural darkness of the Void itself, but now…
Now all Madara can see is how the water swells higher and higher around their modest vessel. Only sees how the wall of water rushes forward and for a single, confusing moment, Madara's staring down at the place he'd just been standing beside Kiho. The woman stares up with impossibly wide, horrified eyes.
“Madara-sama!”
And then he's falling. The very water itself rises to meet him until it washes over his head and blots out the weak flicker of the ship's lanterns. It's dreadfully cold, driving out what little precious air he had left in his lungs and numbing his limbs within seconds. The current drags at his waterlogged clothing and pulls him down, down to those briny depths…
All around him, the sea churns and snaps with every bit of Susanoo's rage, hungering for the kill.
– [ x ] –
Up becomes down becomes up again.
He’s tumbling through an inky abyss. There is nothing for him in this desolate void; no light, no warmth, no hope.
His lungs scream for air that will not come.
His hands reach to grasp that which is not there.
The way to the surface is lost to him. He’s caught in the undertow, wrapped in the water god's iron grip.
Something dark flashes in his peripheral vision. Something white. No, red. No, that isn't right either. It's something red against white, or perhaps it is the white that frames the red – either way, it glows like an ethereal beacon. It comes closer, brushes against his fingers, and he realizes with idle curiosity that he's staring at a person.
For just a fraction of a moment, before the lightless void swallows him whole, Madara swears Amaterasu's radiant face stares back.
– [ x ] –
He does not expect to wake. For one to wake, they must first be alive – a condition he is surely lacking after Susanoo's frankly brazen assault. He must be dead, for that can be the only explanation for the warmth that surrounds him and the unimaginable softness that cushions him. It's a familiar feeling of safety he thought lost to him – the feeling of home.
“Uchiha-san?” A voice breaks through the haze of his thoughts. “Can you hear me, Uchiha-san?”
But consciousness slips between his fingers like smoke.
– [ x ] –
It is the blooming ache in his head, his lungs, his very bones that alerts Madara to the fact he yet remains within the realm of the living. The comforting plush cloud he'd noticed before registers now as sleek fur against his bare – bare?! – skin.
(He'd almost, almost considered this some sick and twisted joke of Susanoo's – the last laugh of an arrogant god – if not for that little detail.
… At least he still has his pants.)
The world slowly streams back to him. Curious sounds reach his ear; the soft, gentle glide of a brush on parchment, the muted rustle of sleeves against wood, the occasional clink of a nearly empty inkwell. They are the sounds of a scholar at study, not a boat capsizing amidst a god-sent storm, and the stark contrast has Madara fighting to open his eyes.
The room is bathed in soft candlelight. It allows him to see the thick furs that comfort him in great clarity – dark tan striped black and speckled in white. The hide is familiar; familiar enough that he knows his would-be rescuer must be a skilled hunter, to fell a beast most wouldn't dream of challenging. That, or he's in possession of an impressive amount of coin. Chimeras possess a notoriously thick hide. Its resistance against most blades makes a clean tanning tedious and time-consuming – and thus a pricey investment.
Madara's eyes trail from the chimera hide to the source of sound that initially caught his attention. A stranger sits at a low cherry wood table with their back to Madara, dressed in a royal blue yukata – a sharp contrast to the white locks spilling around their shoulders – the sleeves dragging across the surface with each upwards stroke of the brush they hold. When Madara calls upon his Sharingan to ascertain what sort of creature dare try to trick him, the stranger pauses mid-brushstroke, but does not turn.
“All is well, Uchiha-san,” a deep voice rumbles. The brush resumes its march across parchment. “You've been out for some time. The little one began to worry.”
“... Little one?” Madara winces at the roughness of his unused voice.
As if by answer, there's a sudden flurry of feet and a small blur slams into Madara prone form.
“Mada-shisho!”
Madara struggles to sit up, keeping the fur blankets wrapped close. His heart thumps wildly as he scrambles to pull Kagami into a tight hug. Between struggling to keep the ship afloat and nearly drowning in a sea god’s fury, he hardly had any time to think of what had become of his son in everything but blood. When he looks back to the stranger, he finds them with their head turned, a single ruby eye staring at the scene with a ghost of a smile upon their lips, crinkling the blood-red line decorating their pale cheek.
“... You saved us?” By all rights, Madara should have drowned, if not first crushed by the mounting water pressure. Kagami’s fate should have been equally sealed. Yet here they both are, very much alive. “How?”
Who is this man, to have pulled them from Oblivion's embrace?
But the stranger shakes his head.
“Many who are lost and without hope often find themselves upon the shores of Uzushio.” He gestures toward nothing in particular with his brush-hand. “And there are more still who never stop searching for that which was lost.”
Madara isn't in the mood for more cryptic Seer nonsense; he shakes his head and thanks the man for his help anyway.
He learns the stranger's name is Tobirama and that he is indeed a scholar. He prepares perfectly steeped tea and offers herbal remedies for the lingering ache. It helps quicken Madara's recovery that, by the third day since he woke, he's able to leave the small hut of a home without feeling winded by the time he reaches the door and gets his first real glimpse of the island.
The tide laps gently at Uzushio's shores, a sharp contrast to the water raging against the horizon. The golden sand glitters beautifully in the sun, adding to the tranquil image. Childish laughter filters through the air as Kagami splashes across the beach, chasing after a squealing boy with strange two-toned hair. A smiling woman watches over them, her long ashen hair swept back into intricate braids. Madara wonders how many more share Uzushio.
The mage turns his eyes to the sea.
His crew is still out there, somewhere. Izuna will have surely – hopefully – found them by now. They are a resilient people, and with Susanoo's ire focused solely on snuffing the candle of Madara’s lifeforce, he has faith in their escape. With Kiho’s clever jury-jigging and Hikaku’s unmatched piloting, their survival is no question. Kennosuke should have no trouble picking up the slack in leadership – he is experienced, loyal, and respected well enough to keep the crew glued together during Madara’s absence.
Until such return, Madara knows his people will be safe while he sorts his own curious situation. He isn’t sure what to make of his host yet; Tobirama is a quiet man, often keeping to his scrolls, only offering conversation if Madara presses for it. There’s something off about him – not quite fae yet not entirely human, either – but any glimpse caught with Madara’s Sharingan picks up nothing unusual. Either his Lady’s influence has faded much more than he initially realized, or Tobirama is particularly apt at hiding himself. Either way, Madara can all but feel the power of the magic thrumming beneath his skin. It’s like the resonance of a strike from a tuning fork against his senses – or the thunderous crash of a tsunami against the shore.
It is his hope that, once he is fit enough to return to sea, he can convince this peculiar scholar to aid him and his people. His strength is a rarity, and with Susanoo nipping at their heels and Amaterasu’s power waning, Madara isn’t above seeking help from a stranger. Perhaps the promise of access to the Uchiha Clan’s impressive library of magics and historical records will be enough to entice an academic such as Tobirama, but only time will tell.
Madara watches the sun’s lazy crawl across the horizon. “May your flames burn bright,” Madara murmurs to himself. “May Amaterasu light your path. Stay strong, Izu.”