Crossroads of Fate
“The fuck—put me down, you bastard!” Izuna snarls, struggling as best as his weak limbs allow. His voice feels hoarse, his throat dry, but anger pushes the words out anyway.
Tobirama ignores him entirely, his expression unreadable as he dashes through the darkened streets. The night air is cool against Izuna's clammy skin, and a faint breeze carries the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. He barely has time to note that he doesn’t recognize the village before Tobirama picks up speed, leaving the settlement behind in a blur of shadowed rooftops and flickering lantern light.
Izuna would punch the asshole, but his arms feel like they’re made of wet paper. The weak, pitiful attempts he makes barely register, his muscles sluggish and foreign in his own body. It only makes Izuna angrier. He is a warrior, an Uchiha, not some helpless thing to be carried around like a maiden. The humiliation burns like a hot coal in his gut, smoldering beneath his exhaustion.
Travelling at shinobi speed is one thing. Travelling at Tobirama’s speed is another. Each leap through the trees makes Izuna’s stomach lurch, the ground below an indistinct smear of darkness and shifting moonlight. Dizziness creeps in, nasea clawing at his throat, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to focus. If Tobirama is telling the truth—and that is a massive if—then Madara is in danger. If there is even a sliver of a chance that nii-san needs him, then he has to endure. Weakness is not an option.
The journey stretches on. It feels like an eternity, though Izuna knows it is only hours. Every breath is a battle, every heartbeat an uneven stutter in his chest. He wants to ask questions, demand answers, but his pride refuses to let Tobirama hear even a hint of weakness in his voice. So he clenches his jaw and waits, caged in silence and frustration.
By the time they reach the battlefield, dawn is breaking, the first slivers of light casting an eerie glow over the destruction.
Izuna almost doesn’t recognize the landscape. What was once grassland and forest is now a wasteland of craters and broken earth, a giant hole steadily filling with water. The sheer devastation makes his breath catch. How much power did it take to do this? The world looks shattered, wounded beyond repair, and an ugly thought slithers into his mind: Was this Madara’s doing?
Tobirama halts at the edge, surveying the scene below.
Madara stands in the center of the battlefield, gunbai lowered, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Across from him, Hashirama kneels on the surface of the water, looking equally spent. The battle must have pushed them both to their limits.
And then there is the Kyuubi, bound tightly in thick Mokuton restraints.
Izuna’s heart skips a beat.
Why the fuck is the Kyuubi here?!
Before he can demand an answer, movement catches his eye. A second Hashirama rises from the water behind Madara, a blade gleaming in his hands, poised to strike.
Tobirama acts in an instant. He sets Izuna on the ground and, with a single hand sign, a massive water dragon erupts between Madara and the clone. The impact forces them apart, Madara leaping back while the first Hashirama disintegrates into wood.
A Mokuton clone.
“Stop it!” Tobirama’s voice cracks like a whip. “Both of you!”
Two sets of heads snap toward them. Two pairs of wide, disbelieving eyes land on Izuna.
Madara looks like he has seen a ghost.
Izuna feels an odd, twisting sensation in his chest. He has never seen Madara look so raw, so vulnerable. His brother, the unshakable force of nature, looks like he’s staring at something impossible, something he doesn’t dare believe is real. Izuna is used to seeing Madara filled with fire and fury, but never like this—never with a tremor in his hands, never with eyes that look almost wet.
“Tobirama,” Hashirama breathes, his face pale with shock. “What did you do?”
Tobirama exhales, unimpressed. “Something you’ll thank me for years from now.”
Madara takes a step forward, hesitant, his eyes fixed on Izuna like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he blinks. His hands tremble at his sides.
“Izuna?” His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Nii-san,” Izuna replies, his own voice hoarse.
The gunbai slips from Madara’s fingers, hitting the water with a splash. The sound barely registers over the pounding of Izuna’s heartbeat. He can see the way Madara’s breath hitches, how his chest rises and falls unevenly, as if his whole world has just tilted on its axis.
Then Madara moves, a twitch of his fingers, a slight tilt forward—he wants to reach out but doesn’t. Izuna can see the hesitation, the fear, the disbelief warring in his brother’s expression. He has never seen Madara afraid before.
Izuna doesn’t hesitate. He takes Madara’s hand, gripping it tightly, anchoring them both in reality.
“How?” Madara whispers, as if saying it too loudly will break the fragile moment. “You died.”
Izuna flicks a glance at Tobirama. “Apparently, I didn’t. You’ll have to ask the asshole for details.”
Madara’s gaze sharpens, shifting toward Tobirama, and for a moment, Izuna swears he sees something like gratitude flicker in his brother’s eyes.
“Is this really Izuna?” Hashirama asks, still hesitant, like he expects some cruel trick.
Izuna scoffs, forcing his voice to sound more like himself, like he isn’t standing on the edge of something too overwhelming to name. “Who else am I supposed to be?”
Hashirama still looks to Tobirama for confirmation. “How?”
Tobirama sighs, clearly tired of the questions. “You know how Hiraishin is a space-time technique? I figured if I tweaked the seal, I could travel back in time, pick up Izuna moments before he died, replace him with a golem, patch him up, and give him to Madara to stop his endless moping. Sorry it took me so long.”
Hashirama opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling for words.
“You’re crazy,” Madara murmurs. But there is no venom, no hatred. Just something that sounds almost… grateful.
Izuna swallows hard. None of this feels real. He should be angry—he is angry—but beneath that, something in his chest is loosening, something he hadn’t even realized was knotted tight. He doesn’t know what to do with this feeling, so he shoves it aside for now.
“So he’s the real Izuna? No Edo Tensei?” Hashirama asks.
Tobirama rolls his eyes. Rolls his eyes. “Of course he’s real.”
Edo Tensei? Again?
“What’s this Edo Tensei you’re talking about?” Izuna asks warily.
“A crazy zombie jutsu Tobirama invented,” Madara answers. “It brings back the dead. Doesn’t make them alive again, just turns them into his zombie puppets.”
Izuna immediately regrets asking. A cold weight settles in his stomach, twisting with unease. It makes his skin crawl. His fingers twitch as if shaking off the phantom sensation of what could have been, what Tobirama could have turned him into.
“So,” Tobirama says, turning to Madara, tone as sharp and clinical as ever. “Are you done throwing your temper tantrum and ready to come back to Konoha?”
Madara doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicker between Izuna and Tobirama, something unreadable lurking in their depths.
“Izuna needs rest and further treatment,” Tobirama presses, unyielding. “He just regained consciousness and shouldn’t even be out of bed, much less here.”
Madara’s jaw clenches, his entire frame taut with something unreadable. Then he tilts his head back and laughs—raw, bitter, broken at the edges. The sound rings hollow in Izuna’s ears, and it unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.
“You manipulative asshole,” Madara mutters, the words lacking true bite. When he stops laughing, his face crumbles, and for the first time, Izuna sees something fragile in him. Madara turns to Hashirama, voice quiet in a way that makes Izuna’s stomach churn. “Is it really okay for me to come back?”
“Of course!” Hashirama replies without hesitation, warmth and conviction clear in his voice.
Izuna frowns. From the way they talk, it sounds like they all live in the same place. But that can’t be right. The Senju and Uchiha have been enemies for generations. He is missing something. Something big. Something life-changing. His thoughts swirl, pieces refusing to click into place, and frustration knots in his chest.
Before he can fully unravel the implications, Tobirama’s voice slices through his thoughts.
“What are you going to do about the Kyuubi?” His tone is all business, as if they’re discussing logistics, not a massive, chakra-infused fox capable of mass destruction.
Izuna turns, eyes landing on the colossal beast still ensnared by Hashirama’s Mokuton. The Kyuubi’s eyes gleam with burning malice, its lips pulled back in a snarl that exposes gleaming fangs. Its tails flick sharply, cutting through the air like whips. How the fuck did they even get their hands on the thing?
Hashirama scratches the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Madara could try apologizing to it. Maybe it’ll forgive him and go back home if he promises to never put it under Genjutsu and control it again?”
Izuna stares at him, certain he’s misheard. “What?”
“It’s worth a try,” Tobirama says with a shrug, as if they aren’t discussing an enormous, rage-filled chakra beast that could level mountains.
Izuna is aghast. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Tobirama gives him a flat look. “What alternative do we have? We could try sealing it, I suppose, but I’m not sure I can come up with a seal strong enough to contain a Biju. Maybe Mito knows more—”
“Fine!” Madara groans, clearly at the end of his patience. He steps forward, head tilted back to meet the Kyuubi’s burning gaze. “Can you hear me, Kyuubi?”
A deep, rumbling growl rolls through the air, the sound reverberating in Izuna’s chest.
Hashirama steps beside Madara and, to Izuna’s absolute horror, actually bows. “Please, we’re sorry.”
Madara just stares at him, expression unreadable. Then Hashirama sighs, grabs Madara by the back of the neck, and forces him into a bow as well.
“I’m sorry,” Madara mutters. The words are reluctant, but there’s something real beneath them, something sincere.
The Kyuubi lets out a loud snort, hot air ruffling their hair.
“If I let you go, will you promise not to attack us or Konoha and just return home?” Hashirama asks, voice firm but not demanding.
There’s a long, tense moment where Izuna is sure they’re all about to be incinerated. Then, to his utter disbelief, the fox slowly nods.
Hashirama beams like a fool, and the Mokuton bindings retreat.
Izuna stiffens, bracing for the inevitable betrayal, but the Kyuubi merely glares at them all with seething hatred. Its muscles bunch, claws digging deep into the earth, and then—with something like a deep, guttural hiss—it turns away.
“Never come before me again!” it growls before launching itself out of the crater, disappearing into the ruins of the forest.
A heavy silence lingers in its wake.
Hashirama exhales heavily, rubbing his forehead. “For a moment I thought it would attack us.”
“It’s heading in the opposite direction of Konoha,” Tobirama confirms, eyes tracking the beast’s departure.
“Hopefully, it won’t come back,” Hashirama mutters, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
Izuna blinks, something clicking in his mind. “So… Konoha,” he asks slowly, “is that the name of the settlement we just came from?”
Hashirama hesitates, eyes flickering toward Tobirama before meeting Izuna’s gaze. “You don’t know?”
“I didn’t have the chance to explain much of anything to him,” Tobirama says blandly, as if the details weren’t monumental.
Hashirama frowns at his brother. “You didn’t tell Izuna that the war is over, that our clans made peace, and even founded a village together?”
Izuna feels like he’s been doused in cold water. The world tilts slightly beneath him. “You what?”
Madara cringes, looking at Izuna the way a guilty child looks at a parent who caught them misbehaving.
“Is there something you would like to tell me?” Izuna hisses, his voice dangerously low. He had told his brother not to trust the Senju. How the fuck did his stupid brother take that to mean it’s fine to found a fucking village with them?!
Madara shifts on his feet, looking almost embarrassed. “I know you advised against it,” he says quietly. “But please, give it a chance.”
Izuna wants to stay angry. He really does. But then Madara looks at him with those stupid, hopeful eyes, like a kicked puppy, and—fuck it all—it’s just unfair. The fight drains from him, leaving him feeling wrung out and tired. He exhales, long and slow, then sighs.
“Fine.”