Chapter Text
There are a lot of stupid ways to die, but this one, you think, really takes the cake.
You stare down at the burial site—a ditch with tarped corpses, some still bleeding through cloth—and listen to the sound of bodies hitting dirt, until it sounds like bodies hitting bodies. They’re like sacks of potatoes, each limb clubbing against each other until the thwacking comes to silence.
When the last of it is over, you look at your mother, who’s watching the procession with a keen, unyielding eye. Like she’s proctoring some silly exam.
“That look on your face is unbecoming,” she states. “You ought to show some respect for the dead.”
You don’t say much about that as you stare down the overlook, watching as Madara and his gang of buffoonish shinobi come filtering through the doors. “There’s no respect in thieving,” you say at last. It’s the only truth you know, the only truth you’re willing to resign yourself to. “Even less in killing.”
“Is that what you think they do?”
“It’s the only thing I think they do,” you say with a smile. From far away, Madara barks out orders for them to close the ditch. “Storming into enemy territory like hungry dogs … it’s the only thing we know.”
Your mother betrays nothing on her face. “Those dogs are the reason why you eat dinner in peace every night.” Her voice sounds cold, cut with frost and ice. “Those are good men. Our men. To speak to them as vagabonds—it’s despicable.”
“The only difference between us and the local vagabonds is that one of us wears a clan insignia,” you state coolly.
She doesn’t hear you, having already turned around, hands tucked neatly into her sleeves as she returns to the shade of the compound.
You turn your gaze back to ditch, watching it close, one shovel-ful at a time. Once it’s done, the gates squeal to a shut. In time, the line in the ground will vanish and no one will know they’re walking over bodies six feet under.
You look at the gate, so looming and tall. Made of old redwood, enchanted by all sorts of old, protective jutsus. You know it’s made to protect you. You know it’s made to shield you from whatever world is waiting to hurt you outside.
-
Madara glares at you.
He’s been doing quite a lot of it since his return, not that it matters. Not that you matter. For the most part, you’ve been invisible inside the Uchiha compound. A singular moth content to sidle up next to the dim, beating light—or however the saying goes. You wouldn’t know. Idioms, adages, and poetry were always your favorite lessons to cut.
But still. It’s a small compound so you’re bound to see him around. The long, arduous stares are draining. Nauseating, even. Say what you will about the Uchiha Clan and their infamous (and somewhat overrated) bloodline, getting glared daggers is a different kind of fatigue. Especially when you’re talking eyeballs, revenge plots, and sharingan.
He glares at you over afternoon tea. In the common room. In the library, when you’re browsing corny romances and bad epics. He glares at you when you’re playing shogi in the courtyard with the old ministers you call fun monkeys. He even glares at you in the eating room, when you’re having breakfast with your mother, who’s pretending to be none-the-wiser.
In such close quarters, it’s easy. The main compound of the Uchiha Clan has only a little more than a hundred men and women living within the walls. Sadly, you’re one of them.
“What do you want from me,” you hiss at him one day, while walking through the gardens. You block his pathway to the koi pond and give him a glare of your own. “Go ahead, spit it out.”
He regards you indifferently, which comes across mirthless, like he’s scrutinizing an ugly abscess of a weed. Which isn’t very far from the truth. You are technically trampling over fresh grass. “Well, if you won’t say it, I will,” you state.
Interest piqued, he folds his arms over his chest and relaxes his stance, as if to offer you a fighting chance.
“I know you’re, like, in love with me,” you tell him.
The curiosity vanishes from his face.
“But you need to move on.”
The glare returns.
“I’m just not in the right place to be romanced and wooed, okay? I know. I shouldn’t have called you a dog, but it might not even really be about you. I think I might like girls.” A pause. “Well. Not just girls, but. Hm. It’s complicated. Labels feel restrictive and I don’t know if I have it all figured out yet.”
The more you speak, the less relaxed he becomes. His fists start balling, his glare gets darker, and the humorless look on his face starts turning into something … quieter, almost sinister.
“You called me a dog?” He says.
You let out an achingly loud sigh. “I cannot believe that’s your only takeaway.”
Before he can say any more, you turn heel and leave. You can feel him continue staring at the back of your robes. You know this is the first time either of you have ever held a conversation with one another, but you feel like you’ve pretty much won this round.
-
Truthfully, it’s not a stretch to call Madara a dog. A hyper-vigilant one, nonetheless. His lord and holiness, he who takes great care to mind the duties inside the main compound while also leading his embassy of morons out on their thieving missions.
Maybe watchdog is more apt. Stupidly stubborn, loyal to a fault, a slave to structure and order.
“You’re drifting again.”
You blink, eyes focusing on your mother across the table. She’s left her tea untouched, the steam rolling off the dark surface in curls. “Lord Tajima is bedbound,” she says. “It’s unlikely he’ll ever walk again, let alone lead.”
It’s empty at this hour, with only the glow of candlelight keeping watch. The children are sleeping, the halls are empty, and not a single soul is meandering the gardens, not even the gossiping handmaids.
“Times are changing,” she says. “You ought to prepare yourself.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “That’s what they say every day. But I still eat the same, shit the same, and sleep the same.” Slowly, you pick up your cup, feeling the ceramic warm your palm as you take a sip. “Times change, our leaders live and die, and still we go on. Like sailboats in the night, crossing a river of corpses poisoned by half-thunk ideology.”
“It astounds me how that foul tongue manages to wax poetic with the ugliest words,” she responds, callous to the point of cruel.
You prop your elbows on the table and lean in closer, “Thank you, I appreciate that. My teachers never give me any credit.” A wrinkle forms over her brow that looks thin and strained. “Are you concerned about job security, mother?”
You peer over her shoulder at the open window and see a familiar silhouette strolling through the gardens.
“At worst, Tomboki is next in line to take his father’s place. And you, his righthand once again.” The life of a court advisor through and through, though there’s almost no subtlety or grace to it. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one here who’s coming out the other side unscathed.”
She meets your gaze again, piercing this time, “Tomboki is dead.”
You open your mouth. Clamp it shut.
Oops.
“He died in their last expedition,” she goes on, finally taking a sip of her tea before setting the cup down on the table. “He was buried with the others.”
“Oh,” you say, stupidly, realizing only then she’s talking about that day they were tossing bodies into a ditch. He must’ve been among them.
“Madara is next in line,” you state, the words escaping you before you can truly comprehend the gravity of what they mean. Well, shit. You lean back in your seat, massaging the migraine that’s certain to develop in the oncoming seconds. “I’m positively thrilled.”
Your mother arches a brow, “Truly?”
“No. I want to die.”
You stand up from your chair, legs screeching against the hardwood. “Well, off I go. To offer my condolences." And an apology, which you don't say. You did, after all, just call him and his recently dead brother dogs.”
Once you’re gone, your mother sighs. “Idiot.”
-
You drag your feet against the floor, feeling your socks glide against wood. As you stare out at the night sky, past all the orchids and greens, you have the sudden urge to turn heel and run the other way.
But there he is. Madara. Lying down on the veranda of the common room. He’s staring at the garden with utter dispassion, lounging like a bored gorilla on one propped elbow. You meet his gaze across the koi pond, the distance between you separated by peonies and water irises. Taking a deep breath, you stick your chest out and cross the path to meet him.
“You’re killing the flowers,” he states plainly.
You continue walking through and resist the urge to tell him they’re stupid, wasteful things anyway. So long as you live behind these gates, the same people who’ve seen them all their lives will be the last ones to see them before they die.
“Moron,” he says.
You have to physically resist the urge to snap back; but it’s late, you owe him an apology, and if you don’t buck up now, you might not find the strength to do it again. As you come to a stop before the veranda, you gesture to the empty space beside him.
“Can I sit?” You say.
“No,” he replies, apathetic to the point of cruel. “Go away, eyesore.”
After a long moment of silence—him, staring at you; you, staring back at him—you take the seat next to his head anyway. It’s somewhat compromising, you think. Behind lattice doors, people will make something out of nothing. Given the state of your being: he’s a man, you’re a woman, and considering your respective ages, people are bound to make assumptions.
It’s the way of living behind closed gates. The way of living with people you’ve known all your life. The same faces, the same names. Your business is everyone else’s business. You know this. After all this time, you still can’t make peace with it.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” you tell him, too stubborn to look at him, instead, staring ahead at the trampled flowers of the garden. “I’m sure Tomboki was a good man.”
“Spare me your sympathy, woman,” he says, yawning. “I liked you better when you had more bite.”
You frown, looking down to see him scratching his ear. Boredom written in every facet of his well-being. When you realize he doesn’t give a shit, you roll your eyes.
“Could’ve at least given him a proper burial or something. You’re the son of Lord Tajima for god’s sake.” You’re not sure when you decided to change up your tune, but you decide it’s much easier to feign compassion by ways of reprimanding than to act the benevolent fairy. “Throw him a ceremony—at least give him a box to rot away in.”
For a moment, you think you may have overstepped your boundaries; but instead, he smiles a cold, half-smile. So full of spite and indifference, whatever worry you had about pissing him off immediately evaporates.
“There’s no honor in dying,” he tells you, as if it’s a fact of life and not some stupid ideological pissing contest he’s having with himself. “Once you see it enough, you’ll realize it’s all the same. We die alone, regardless of rank. Regardless of prestige. And regardless of title.”
You hug one knee to your chest, staring at him with half-lidded eyes. “I really do not like you,” you say with no resolve at all.
“That makes two of us.” Had it not been for the shadow eclipsing half his face and half of what you can’t read, you might’ve even taken his expression as amusement.
After a long moment of silence, you tell him, “I feel like I’ve met you before.”
He pauses, something startlingly unfamiliar in his eyes. It wouldn’t be today or tomorrow, or even the years to come—but one day, the two of you would share this moment and know.
“Doubt it,” he says. “I would’ve remembered a face as hideous as yours.”
“Okay. Great. I think my work is done here,” you stand up and dust off your robes. Then you face him and do a little mock-bow like a happy monkey, feeling the ache in your lower spine as you meet his gaze. For the most part, he acknowledges your curtsy with a half-amused look in his eyes. “Good night,” you tell him. “Have a nice life, good luck leading the clan, hope you get stabbed by a kunai on your next mission.”
Just as you take one step onto the pathway, he asks, “What’s your name?”
You turn around to face him again. “Senbi.” And then: “Daughter of Uchiha Kiyo.”
“I wasn’t aware she had a daughter.” He proceeds to study his nails like he has somewhere better to be, people better to see. You don’t buy it.
“Somehow I doubt that,” you say. And then you leave.
If there’s one thing certain about Madara, it’s that he knows everything. As you go, he studies your silhouette, the corners of his lips tipping up to form a smile, as if he’s already memorized your name, your face, and your story.
-
In the ensuing weeks, you return to routine.
Attend lecture, drink tea with mother, play shogi with the ministers in the courtyard. In class, Youta-sensei starts teasing out the same old witticisms like they’re all-knowing truths and you pretend to pay attention, staring down at the scrolls scattered before your two crossed legs.
Someone in your class volunteers to read the next verse, but all you can do is feel the words cycle in and out of focus. Your stomach turns. You feel hungry, then nauseous. As you slowly lose interest in what’s being said, you bow your head forward and let it press against parchment.
And then you groan. Loudly.
“Can we help you, Senbi? Perhaps you’ve a stomachache that ails you?” says minister Youta, his feet stopping short of your knees.
“It’s just horrible,” you say, sitting back up. “You’re telling me this guy.” You poke at the illustrated scroll of a young man surrounded by his harem of lovers in a foggy meadow filled with flowers. “This guy has, like, a gazillion concubines—basically his pick of the litter—but the one person he’s hung up on is his stepmother? Like, really? Gross!”
From far away, one of your classmates gives you a pensive nod in solidarity.
It compels you to go on. “Never mind the fact that he has a million illicit love affairs and bastard children,” you say. “He never ever gets punished for it! What’s up with that? Where are the stakes? The high aspirations? The epic falls from grace? I wanna see him squirm! Cut off his balls! Feed 'em to the fishes! I wanna see him suffer!”
“You don’t think dying alone quantifies as suffering?”
“Not really. We all die alone,” you state. “One way or another.” Borrowed words, but you mean it the same.
Youta-sensei stares at you, as does your many compatriots also sitting in class. Your resolve slowly depletes. “Are you done?” He asks.
Eventually, you give up, body going slack as you hunch over your scrolls again. “Yes.”
-
You have one plan today. You’re going to smoke the hemp you won in a game of shogi, you’re going to get high, you’re going to smoke some more, and then you’re going to sleep until kingdom come.
But getting high is a risky endeavor in a small compound, what with the ministers lollygagging between meetings, the elders taking their afternoon strolls, the guards standing patrol in the halls. You breeze past them all, coming to a stop at the arch of the bridge overlooking the koi pond.
You look to your left. The handmaidens are retreating into the corridor, the heels of their white socks eclipsed by the shadows. Then, your right. A guard turns around and returns to his patrol route. Out of sight, out of mind.
It’s quiet, as you reach into the sleeve of your kimono and unveil a pipe. You place the hemp into pot chamber, and as you reach for a match to light it, you hear an ahem and suddenly you realize you aren’t alone anymore.
The pipe slips. Without thinking, you leap over the railing to go after it. Somewhere in between falling and realizing you’re falling, you see all those hungry little koi with their beady little eyes, staring right back up at you. Their puckering lips, their wide mouths.
Splash!
It’s a mighty stupid thing to do: to try and inhale air while underwater, but that’s exactly what you do.
Suddenly your lungs are filled with liquid, you’re choking, you’re trying to fail upwards somehow, flailing like a fish out of water. (The irony. The old bards would one day sing songs about your stupidity and you’d thank them).
Someone grabs you by the scruff of your robes, pulling you up like a mother cat and her kitten. Arms and legs akimbo, you get dragged to the shore on an extremely uncomfortable bed of pebbles. The gorgeous spirals in the rock garden are promptly destroyed, all zen-ness disseminated in the struggle, but you do not give a flying fuck. You’re so hungry to breathe, coughing and hacking like an 50-year-old smoker, you’re pretty sure you might throw up your lungs.
“Are you smoking hemp?”
You blink away tears, looking up to see Uchiha Izuna staring down at you.
He looks like his older brother, if anything, on the thinner side. With the way his robes hang over his shoulder, he looks like a walking skeleton. He has his father’s eyes, which is to say he has the eyes of nearly every man in this clan: always wounded, always angry, always yearning for something.
“You,” a wheeze, as you wrangle your limbs away from the garden of rocks. You’re a slopping mess, dripping water in puddles all around you in a dark circle. “Not.” Wheeze. “Another.” Cough. “Word.”
He studies you, eventually recognizing you, then rolling his eyes at you. He tosses you the pipe, which drops to the ground with a thud. You stare at it, then at him. Eventually you pick it up and say, “This never happened. I was never here. And for all intents and purposes, you don’t know who I am.”
“Already forgotten,” he says, waving his hand.
-
You take yourself to a quiet spot on top of the gates, far, far away from the main compound where no one can find you.
The sun has dipped beyond the horizon, leaving the sky in varying shades of red, varying shades of black. The air is crisp and smells like smoke. You can see the village from here: people drinking rice wine in their backyards, children playing tag between fences. You think it’s silly how the only thing separating you and a different life is a wall.
You take a drag from your pipe, feeling your lungs shrivel. Feeling it hurt, feeling it feel good. And then you exhale smoke. Your head feels lighter, less restrained.
It's cold, wind piercing through every gap of your soaking wet robes, but you feel like you can open your arms to the world and expect good things again.
“Well, well, well, look who we have here.”
Madara manifests beside you, staring out at the horizon, where the sky meets the earth in one fine line. Had you not been high, you probably would’ve shrieked.
“Ugh,” you say.
“Ugh? Ugh?” He looks genuinely offended, squinting at you. “I’ve killed men for lesser offenses.”
“That is not something you should be proud of,” you state.
When he eventually sits down to occupy the empty space next to you, you frown at him. “My brother said you killed two koi in the pond,” he says, looking somewhat amused. “I had to see it myself to believe it.”
“Well, go ahead, take a look.” You do a little mock bow, evidently much harder when you’re hunched over your two crossed legs. “Check out the moron who fell off the bridge. Laugh at her utter buffoonery, go ahead now. I’m waiting.”
But he doesn’t laugh, just sort of sizes you up like he pities you, which is admittedly worse. “You’re so glum.”
“Guilty.”
“Like a storm cloud of mediocrity.”
“I happen to enjoy being mediocre, thank you.”
“Do you?”
After a long moment of consideration—and it is consideration that you give—you shrug, “Not particularly, no. But it seems I’m destined for it.”
He watches you from the corner of his eye. Takes the pipe from your hand and inhales deeply. You’re vaguely aware this constitutes an indirect kiss, but you’re so faded you’re still zoned in on what happened several minutes ago, several days ago. “Anyway,” you say. “I’m giving you permission to leave now.”
He returns the pipe, which you take. “I will not. This is my spot,” he says, expelling smoke with pursed lips.
“Actually, it’s mine. I found it first. Also, I need it more.”
He’s about to retort something snarky, but when he sees you blink at him, one eye at a time, like a sloth, he just snorts. “Fine. Pitiful fool.”
“You’re pitiful,” you say with no resolve.
He stands up, arms crossed over his chest as he studies the horizon again. “Ironic. Because between the two of us, I’m not the one who fell into a koi pond.”
“That’s … true,” your eyebrows scrunch as you digest his point, which sounds like a very good point. A very good point. An excellent point, in fact. It’s probably the best point you’ve heard all day. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”
A moment of silence passes. The wind blows and you shiver. You think about your day and your many menial complaints made throughout. But were they menial or were they a symptom of a much bigger issue? They all feel so big now, so vast and looming, like boulders on a high hill waiting to run you down.
You know you were never afforded the extravagance of marrying for love. For years, you were content accepting that. One day, it would be decided for you. Your mother, for all her faults, has always been a decent judge of character. Of the many people to place your faith in, you’d choose her time and time again.
“For once, I would like to read a story with a happy ending,” you say. “Just a happily ever after from beginning to end. None of this silliness with duty and rank and illicit affairs and incestuous romances. Just a nice story with a nice middle, a nice end, and a nice denouement. That’s it.”
He considers it shortly. “Youta-sensei,” he says. Taking another drag from your pipe, you nod. He sighs. “His taste in literature has always been dismal.”
You open your mouth. Clamp it shut. You’re aware this is the first time the two of you have come to an agreement on something. On anything, actually. You think it's stupid. A coincidence born of loneliness, maybe depravity.
“I know marrying for love is stupid,” you say. The suddenness throws him off as he arches a brow. “I know that’s supposed to be the big takeaway.”
He doesn’t respond. You don’t bother to look at him, to see what he’s thinking.
“I wish I could be stupid,” you exhale, a wish lost in the winds of change.
It hits different. The dizziness goes from being bearable to making you spin. You topple backwards into the guardrail, where you bump the back of your head so hard the whole gate shakes.
“Oi,” he says. You hear him, but the pain seizes you, jolting through every nerve of your body. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter. “I said oi, idiot.” He walks to your side and gives your shoulder a gentle kick, “Are you dead?”
You open your eyes and see the stars staring back at you from their vast pockets of darkness behind his head.
“I wish,” you tell him. “I’m just very, very wet. And cold.”
He dumps his haori on top of your head in a heap. You pull it off your face and get a whiff of his scent, something heavy like a wet cellar. You can hear him make his way towards the ladder, the sounds of his footsteps heavy as he starts making his way down the gate.
As you stare up at the sky, with all its vast mysteries, you think about it. Maybe marrying for love is stupid. But you think, with all the wisdom of being young and eighteen and full of love, that marrying for anything less is stupider.