Chapter Text
It was over.
Madara Uchiha was being overwritten.
There aren’t many words accurate enough to describe the sensation of being exposed to the falsity of one’s own dream, one’s own reason for existence. Everything else, that desire for peace, seemed so real and tangible, and he hadn’t noticed the strings attached along the way. The infinite dream was a temptation he was fed used to culminate in this moment--overwrote, overpowered, overplayed by some being that cared not for humanity as he did.
This...thing, these things, that had plotted. Used him and discarded him as he had done, viewing people as mere harvest. Madara would rage if he had any strength left, he hadn’t felt so much genuine rage for a while. At least it was easy enough to drift back into the void, lingering towards the nothingness where life finalized.
Last time he had called out for the dead, in the way only final thoughts can, but this time he knew there would be no answer. What was happening outside, at that battlefield, was no longer for him, a pinprick that faded away in the dark, there was perhaps a chance a thread of his chakra would remain. Hardly did he think he could survive this and moreso, he was ready to see if there was an afterlife beyond the void. Maybe the valiant heroes living in their own illusions would win, it mattered to him, but he had his doubts.
When he opened his eyes, it was dark. But he could feel his breath rise and lower in his chest and the heaviness of his organs. Pain reverberated, even down to the marrow, and the sensation of imploding and then exploding lingered in him. He had felt everything. With how little chakra coursed through him, he didn’t bother trying to pretend to move. Perhaps he was still in the in-between. He had hoped it would be nothingness.
“You’re a...awake!” A voice cut through to him. Familiar and spoken with apprehensive softness. Reflexively, he turned his head, shifting after lying down for who knows how long.
“You collapsed, all of a sudden, and-”
“That’s you,” the words cracked in his throat, “Hashirama.” All at once, he lifted his body, the feeling of pins and needles couldn’t hope to out-pace Madara’s confusion. Then, he asked: “Are you alive?” Did that woman die already?
“I am quite sure I am alive, yes. Don’t worry,” the man’s voice grew a little louder, enough to make it clear he was sitting relatively close, “my question is, what happened? As I was saying, you were found collapsed. And you...it seems you are blind? We searched for an assassin but we found nothing.”
It was all a bit overwhelming, yes, reaching through a fog of information, memory, and failed attempts to process what was going on. It was annoying how hard of a time he was having but it was clear he was not at the same time or place as before. It would make sense if Hashirama greeted him in the afterlife, but everything both surreal and too flesh and blood.
Attempting to stand was a mistake but hands caught him as he stumbled. He leaned into him, pressing his head to Hashirama’s chest out of necessity for support. “My memory isn’t right. Am I in some kind of personal hell? Is this punishment?”
“You’re at our village. It’ll the opposite of a personal hell. Like we had talked about.”
“It’s...the village?”
“We’re mainly working on the foundation, there’s so much to build. Your home was just furnished, remember?”
Madara’s laugh was thick with bitterness and defeat and it turned to coughing as he felt both his lungs shudder and his heartbeat twist. Arms ended up wrapped around him and his body settled, becoming still. Hashirama lowered him then, placing him back on what could be safely assumed was a bed.
“I’ll be here. If there’s a threat to the village or anything else comes to mind, tell me. And rest, for goodness sake. It’s clear you can’t walk around just yet. You’re...weak. The weakest state I’ve ever seen you. I thought you had died.”
Whether or not it was an illusion, the delayed activation of some jutsu, or a cruel joke played on him to placate him while he was possessed, he went to sleep without thinking on it too much.
Madara had another one of those dreams that he could only read as a nightmare with the many years of context he had lived. When he woke again, he felt more centred, and his thoughts actually started to gather.
Perhaps the power he had gained had allowed him to transport himself, or again, put himself under some kind of illusion, to somewhere earlier in time. Before he started succumbing to the meddling with the Stone Tablet, as before the village was even named, which seemed too perfect for a do-over. Regardless, it hadn’t been a conscious action, and it seemed it had cost his eyes. It was a good attempt if it was meant to placate him so he wouldn’t oppose the possession, his own mini Tsukuyomi.
“What do my eyes look like?” He asked Hashirama after a while of more idle chatter between them.
“White, your pupils and irises are entirely white.”
“As I assumed, then,” he attempted to flex his fingers, testing his dexterity; there was some roughness but it was not as bad as the last time, “is there anything unusual about my body, or me in particular?”
“No clear wounds, no signs of poison, and well...I think any unusualness about you is because you’re just a bit peculiar, Madara. You weren’t simply close to death, you were gone. Shortly after your alliance and you go and die on me.”
“If we’re in a contest of unusuality, you win that one, Hashirama.”
He laughed for a bit too long, and then his voice shifted to seriousness: “I believe you’ll need several more weeks of rest for full strength, maybe less since it’s you. I would recommend you at least get looked at by more people, if there’s any in your clan you’d suggest.”
Ah. Yes. This was when he was still the apparent leader of the Uchiha. “I don’t want to be looked at yet... How much do others know?”
“Weeell,” Madara disliked how long the man paused, “I discussed it with Tobirama. But you collapsed only near me. People have noticed your absence in the last days, I’m sure. They’d be happy to hear you’re safe.”
“...How many days? Of me just being unconscious? Did I seem dead the entire time?”
“Three days. You seemed dead and alive at points. I sensed something wrong.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting? I was worried sick about you. You can’t just call that interesting, Madara.”
If anything, Hashirama was the only shining figment through the enveloping apathy. Without the strength to protect himself or to change things, and with knowing what is in store for him, what was there to do? If this was a honeyed re-do, he was hardly interested in that either, at least he’d indulge it until he got bored.
“And, Madara,” Hashirama hadn’t stopped speaking, “I’m not about to give up on any of this. So...you better not be either. I need you here. The village needs you here. Any threat to you is a threat to our peace. If there’s anything you need, merely ask me.”
“Shouldn’t you be building houses? Or doing other important things than be here.”
“There’s more to buildings than wood.”
Madara scoffed. “Thinking on it, I wouldn’t trust your sense of exterior design. It’s probably for the better you don’t have a major hand in the construction.”
“How cruel of you,” Hashirama spoke with fake shades of misery, Madara simply wasn’t falling for it, “I nurse you back to health and you insult my sense of architectural design.”
“I am kind, as you keep saying about me. Saving the village from your style decisions is one facet of my kindest heart.”
“As if you have a better sense than me! I’m fairly certain we’d have spiked tiles or something like that on every roof.”
“My taste isn’t like that at all,” Madara sat up, “...but we were always better at destroying things, weren’t we?”
“That’s why this is so exciting! I haven’t had to fight in a while, and I get to help build something. It’s made me so happy that you’re here too.”
“A village is more than its foundations. I’ll ask you how you feel about it when all of the politicking truly starts. Though I’m certain you’ll delegate most of it to your brother.”
“I’m determined to do this right. You’re with me too,” Hashirama exhaled something that wasn’t quite a sigh, “and anyways! You need to eat. Aren’t you just starving? Thirsty?”
“I’m not starving nor thirsty.” A prevalent numbness lined his sense of self. “My stomach is not even rumbling. Go ahead and put an ear to it, there’s nothing.”
“Oh really? I believe I hear your stomach rumbling.” The man had pressed an ear to Madara’s belly, all of a sudden making Madara aware of his own state of mostly-undress. “And your pulse is--”
--about to be unsteady with this all. Madara placed a hand on the side of his head and pushed him away, strands of hair dangling against his skin. “I’ll eat and drink something. Don’t you worry.”
He felt the muscles move in Hashirama’s face, this damn man was smiling as he spoke: “Seems that your physical strength has returned quite fast, too.”
“How unnecessary of you.” Perhaps if he were really the Madara from this era, he would have lost his composure more. It appeared he was a hodgepodge of his future self in his past self’s shell for the most part. “If you want to practise taijutsu, all you need to do is ask. That will tell you how well I’m faring.”
“That sounds fun. But I won’t fight you on an empty stomach. I’ll be back with a meal.”
And then he was alone. It bothered him that he didn’t know exactly what building he was in, perhaps he should have simply ask. It was easy to conclude it wasn’t where he lived, as Hashirama wouldn’t be able to enter and leave freely without bringing forth a lot of attention.
If info about his condition were truly secret from most, and people thought he was missing, then Madara figured very few of his clan actually cared. Most had already given up and merely saw him as a senseless warmonger at this point in time,with so many defects even before this alliance. Hashirama Senju was both stronger and a more charming leader, and peace was worth submission to many. It was so common to escape something only to run into the clutches of something that’d equally destroy you, huh?
There wasn’t really much upset in his heart about it, not anymore. He had returned to a world of stumbling ghosts floating gratuitously in a paradoxical world.
A migraine, all around.
Maybe the solution was a simple enough one, that all he’d have to do is end himself here and change all of that. But that was a brief thought, considering that he had no reason to believe that bastard Zetsu wouldn’t pick someone else, or wait for another era. If he could stop such a thing from happening, on the other hand, it was more important to linger here.
When Hashirama returned, he brought drinks, soup, pickled vegetables and even polished rice, alongside an assortment of other things, as he described them. Technically, Madara hadn’t ate a meal quite like this in a long time, and he found himself with a sudden appetite. After the meal was well and done, after Madara thanked him, and then, suddenly he stood and turned to Hashirama: “I need to visit my house. Come with me.”