The Senju clan, despite the months of preparation time they'd had, was not prepared for the birth of their second heir. Not by a long shot.
He was so much...frailer, compared to his elder brother.
Unsettlingly quieter as well.
No hearty scream came forth from his lungs to announce his arrival, even as midwives crowded around him.
His hair was pale as the moon, the unusual colour explained only by his mother's heritage.
Then there were those eyes, unnaturally focused and stained in the same vibrancy of their enemy.
Still. Ghostly as he was, unsteady breaths continued to pump out of him with each passing moment after his birth.
The midwives had all thought him healthy enough if a bit small and odd looking as they cradled him in their arms, checking him over only briefly before tilting him to the side for Batsuma to see.
Darker eyes met unfocused red ones, the child's face distinctly grouchy as he was brought forth and into the world. A distinctly sour look crossed his face as he began to fuss quietly under his father's gaze, the elder Senju allowing only a wry smile to cross his lips at the sight.
A firm nod of approval was all Butsuma had given as he crossed his arms, the same as he had with his previous son.
If only the child's mother had been able to do the same.
For as soon as her eyes laid upon his sickly skin, listened to his silence in place of a healthy cry, and saw those too-vibrant eyes, a low sigh of mourning was all she had been able to give from her bedside.
She held him to her tightly, too tightly, tired tears welling in her eyes as her hand sat atop the back of his head.
In the few brief moments following Tobirama's birth, the treaty the Senju and Hatake had been working so hard to build towards fell to pieces.
A mother ready to put her child out of it's misery, and a father that insisted he already had claim over the boy's life.
That was what Tobirama was born to.
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It didn't take long for rumors to begin circulating about the entire ordeal.
Especially that night, when just about every member of the clan was forced awake by the distrinct screaming of a newborn.
The boy's uncanny appearance merged with his odd behavior, the splitting screaming three times as loud as any child born before him making it all but impossible for the nosy clansmen not to speculate.
Was it due to his Hatake herritage, his ability to scream so loud the full moon overhead likely wanted to weep alongside him?
Was it the absence of his pack, left alone with only his paternal family after they had heard of Batsuma's insistence on keeping the poor thing alive?
Was it the child's soul calling out, mourning over the cruel actions of it's mother? Afraid, so afraid at the thought of almost having lost his chance at being alive?
Had his mother been insane? Had she ended her own life after being returned to her family? Did the child cry as her spirit tried once again to smother him from beyond the grave?
Did he call out in anger towards his clansmen, for condemning him to such a painful life?
Some said the Hatake and Inuzuka had the ability to sense when their young wouldn't make it past the early days of their life. Was the boy damned by the spirits to die regardless?
Unkind whispers filled the compound that night, of both father and son - treturous as it was.
Was Butsuma so deserpate for heirs he would take even one as ill-fitting as that? He already had a young and healthy boy at home waiting by his first wife.
She was a strong and kind women who would surely offer him comfort after the whole oreal. Perhaps he could even manage to claim another child from her, if he hurried home quickly enough. She'd already proven herself capable as a mother and defender, after all.
What possessd him to remain by the frail, screeching thing for so long was far beyond many of the clansmen. Were they so pressed for allies that he hoped to scavenge the treaty with the Hatake clan by keeping the child alive?
Had they fallen so low that their clan head found it necessary to have the midwives feed his second heir goatmilk, the screeching falling on deaf ears as he wrote letter after letter to their allies - searching for any mothers willing to act as a wetnurse as none were available in the clan? He carried on without an ounce of emotion weighing on his features, the screams hardly seeming to register as he focused on his efforts.
Really, it was terribly out of character for their stoic and notoriously hard-hearted leader. He'd only become the head of the clan recently, yet never once had he shown such willingness to leap through such narrow hoops for anyone besides perhaps his first wife.
What was it that their young leader was thinking? Was he trying to keep hold on the steadily shriveling treaty? Trying to secure favor with the elders after being met with complaint after complaint concerning the spoiling his eldest received from his mother on the daily? Had the boy's red eyes bewitched him? Or was it a kindness for his wife, to give Hashirama someone to keep him company while she rested? A cruelty, perhaps, towards his son? Giving him a playmat he was sure to lose to harden his heart?
No one could be quite sure.
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That same night, not quite as loud but certainly there, another cry could be heard echoing from the clan head's residence.
Rather than that of a newborn, however, it was distinctly toddler-like in that it came with the full-body dramatics only a three year old could get away with.
Hashirama lay across the floor of their dining room, wailing in upset as his mother poured two cups of tea - ever steady hands never once wavering even as her son demanded again and again that he wanted to go see his brother and father.
The Senju woman merely allowed him to empty his tear ducts for a long few minutes before, finally, he tired himself out against the floor. A few deep breaths sounded through the home before he lifted his head, rubbing at a puffy eye while eyeing his mother.
She remained ever calm, only waving a beckoning hand towards the boy as she spilled perhaps a bit more honey than was necessary into his smaller cup.
Mild scoldings fluttered through the air as he climbed up and into her lap, head pressed to her chest as flowing kimono sleeves wrapped around him - his cup being preased to his lips as she massaged his scalp.
What would his father think if he saw such a tantrum?
Was that the sort of first impression he wanted to give his little brother?
He was growing far too old to sulk so severely.
These words only seemed to flitter in one ear and out the other, however, the child all too content to listen to his mother's silky tone and feel the cooling sensation of the peppermint tea against his throat.
He really didn't mind making a bad first impression, not as long he had the chance to meet him.
The clansmen that had come to inform them of his father's late arrival was wrong. His baby brother was going to make it, he was going to live. He had to - he'd already waited so long to meet him.
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Tobirama, unfortunately, didn't seem to share the enthusiasm. At least not openly.
For when the time did finally come for Hashirama to meet his little brother - the young brunette holding him with the utmost care while his mother reached around him so she could catch the child if need be - he was only met with a the same distinctly grouchy fuss Butsuma had.
The boy had taken it in stride however, only happily declaring that he looked like their father despite the nearby midwives' doubtful glances.
It had been a good week before Hashirama was able to meet him, his mother worried it would break his heart if the child did in fact not make it past the first few days. She had wanted him…distanced, just in case.
Oh, but how relieved she was to see the distinctly moody face sparkle with interest as the child's eyes wandered lightly, grasping Hashirama's outheld hand perhaps a bit tighter than was usual for his age. The baby gnawed at her son's fingers, the eldest looking to her with teary eyes then back to his younger brother. It was as if he'd been given the most precious gift known to man, the happiness behind his gaze undeniable.
Not even Butsuma could bring himself to scold the boy for his tears, the man far too occupied watching his children sit atop his wife’s lap - the Senju woman leaning against him every so slightly while his arm wrapped around her waist to sit on her hip.
The child would simply have to make it. Hashirama would never forgive them if he didn't.
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The rumors - at least the clearly audible ones from before - quickly died down after one too many shinobi found themselves on the receiving end of Butsuma's eldest son's fury.
Butsuma wasn't sure where the boy had learned that kicking people in the shins was a good idea, or how so many of his men fell for it, but a round of scoldings from his father later and the kicking had evaporated right alongside the rumors.
It was simultaneously so easy and difficult to imagine his eldest son doing such a thing - watching how horribly gently he played alongside his brother as they grew.
One minute he was listening to his son ramble happily about Tobirama crawling to him after his training.
The next he was watching the boy try again and again to hand the wiggling one year old to his mother, offering to share her with him and insisting she didn't bite like his mother had (which had been a long talk, by the time it was over).
Then eventually he'd had the five year old beside him, bounding on his feet after training with arms folded behind his back in excitement. They'd come home to find the two year old curled up beside Hashirama's mother as he slept, the woman holding a twinkle in her eye as she met her son's gaze - the two beyond pleased with the hard won victory.
Finally, he was there to witness his son lecture the younger about how little Itama would be when he came out - about how strange and angry he'd be.
Butsuma had to admit. He was proud of his second son for only scrunching up his nose at his brother's unintentional rudeness. Even if it was a bit odd to see a three year old so calm as the whole ordeal passed.
He would wonder whether his son had a heart at all, if not for the way he followed Hashirama around like a young duckling and held Itama with so much protectiveness it made it hard for even the boy's father to get close to him without a weary glance.
The little silver-haired boy just about cost them a second treaty with the Hatake (albeit a different pack) when he initially refused Itama’s mother's requests and later demands to hand her baby back.
If it weren't so damn stressful, Butsuma might have had it in him to feel bad as the three year old returned to his side after his second wife’s scoldings - head bowed with his arms crossed behind his back in complete mimicking of the elder Senju.
He instead gave the boy the grace of not giving his own disappointed look, turning a blind eye as Hashirama's mother laid a hand on the back of his neck - rubbing soothing circles even as the boy only looked to his younger brother and his mother with a look of dissatisfaction.
Besides. His first wife was once again with child, and he hadn't a doubt in his mind he would likely be the first to hold them once the two of them and Hashirama was done.
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By the time Tobirama was six - by now having collected an additional two younger siblings to guard over while Hashirama fretted - he was becoming less and less shy.
Rather, Butsuma noticed, it would be more accurate to say he was simply not a fan of most people.
The boy hadn't gotten along with his second wife for the entirety of the two years he'd known her, though he supposed it was mutual enough to not be much of an issue. It only ever came to head when he claimed a bit too much of her son's time, though it was usually quickly smoothed over by Hashirama.
What the elder boy had that made her more willing to indulge him than Tobirama, Butsuma couldn't say.
However, he wasn't all that pressed to look into it considering Tobirama hardly seemed to mind the brief feuds near as much as Hashirama did on his behalf.
As he said, the boy simply didn't seem to be a fan of her. Just as he wasn't a fan of just about anyone outside of his brothers or Hashirama's mother.
Sometimes, Butsuma wasn't sure he even made the list as anything beyond being Tobirama's favorite training dummy.
The thought didn't bother him horribly, though occasionally the increasingly sassy child would awaken a distinct urge in his stomach to remind him that he had not *had* to lower himself to the state of asking to borrow their clansmen's livestock for milk. He had not *had* to embarrass himself by asking allies if they had any wetnurses available to come stay in the compound for a few months. He had not *had* to have a custom sword with his favorite phrase carved masterfully into the side knowing he would grow out of it in barely a year or two.
The child was damn lucky he was as endearing and clever as he was snarky, sitting at his father's side and mimicking each action as if he had something to prove at age six.
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Hashirama had an…unfortunate habit…of crying throughout the first few years of his training. It was one he'd had to work long and hard to break, one that absolutely couldn't be seen on the battlefield.
One sight of a sniffle and those Uchiha bastards would eat the boy up in an instant.
He had no interest in such a thing happening, despite being fairly certain it would be enough for Tobirama to tear the clan to shreds all on his own if left to stew on it long enough.
Tobirama who. Had decidedly not had that problem in his training - if anything, Batsuma's only real issue with his second son's combats was that he was entirely *too* immersed in it.
They needed to get him on the battlefield before he either hurt himself overdoing it with training or other clansmen with his discreet overexcitement each time he found a new way to trick a man three times his size into defeat.
He almost worried one of them might actually throttle the boy if he pressed one too many buttons - far too interested in what they would do for his own good.
He was seven now, and Hashirama was ten. He would have to consider it.
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It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
It was a mistake
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His first wife's blood was permanently stained against his finger tips.
Hashirama's horrified scream rung loudly overtop the sound of blades clashing and jutsu being released.
Tobirama was pale, so pale, paler than that day all those year ago when he'd struggled to breath for hours after the attempted pity kill.
The battlefield seemed to slow as Butsuma took a step forward, vowing to himself that even if he couldn't kill Tajima, he would send the man home with enough pain in his body he'd pray for the shinigami to come take him away.
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Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Crying
Always crying
Butsuma had no idea what to do.
She had been a shinobi.
She was just as likely to die as anyone else on the field.
Yet that didn't stop Hashirama or Itama from always, always, crying.
It didn't stop Tobirama from staring, staring, staring at her gravesite.
It didn't make Kawarama’s quiet sniffling any less deafening against his ears.
What was he meant to do?
He couldn't have saved her. He couldn't have.
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…Kawama had rejoined his mother, he had died just as she had, she would be proud. She would be proud.
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…Itama had left them. Itama was gone. Itama was a brave boy. Always so brave, pushing though his fears to prove himself to his father. He was a brave boy, a good boy…
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…The house was empty. His second wife had gone to see her son. She was so tired. So tired of seeing only his sons. His sons he never was able to catch glimpses of anymore…
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…Tajima’s wife was dead.
…Butsuma’s was gone all the same.