Shion
Shion sits before her mother, the two women separated by a quaint low table. In the center of the table is a tea pot, complemented by two half empty cups of hot tea. Confidently, she takes a sip of the bitter, earthy drink in the manner she was taught. Back straight, teacup held by her right hand and supported by her left hand. Her mother, the dowager matriarch of the Uchiha, mimics her actions.
The words exchanged between Shion and her mother are minimal. The morning has been slow; it’s evident neither of them are quite in the mood for lively conversation. And so, her mother brewed a pot of tea, and now they briefly comment on unimportant details of life.
As she sets down her teacup, Shion observes the way her mother inhales sharply through her nose and presses her lips together. She’s seen this expression countless times throughout her life. There’s information threatening to roll off her tongue, but she’s hesitant.
“What is it?” Shion asks impatiently.
“Nothing.”
“You want to tell me something, don’t you?”
“I have done nothing to suggest anything of the sort.”
Her mother’s finger dances along the rim of her teacup, dangerously close to accidentally dipping itself into a scalding hot bath if she were so much as to breathe the wrong way. It’s obvious, no matter how much her mother may deny it. Shion swallows harshly and sits up impossibly straight. Her own breathing deregulates, and her obi feels as though it was wrapped around her body too tightly.
“Why aren’t you telling me?”
“Because there is nothing to tell.”
“Mother, what is it?”
That finger slips off the rim and presses deeply into the hard surface of the table, nearly taking the cup along with it. Shion’s heart skips a beat as she instinctively darts to steady it with both hands and a firm grasp. Her mother’s gaze triggers memories of when she was a child—the disapproving expressions she’d receive if she were to act in less than a ladylike manner. This, however, is not the circumstance to be acting in such a way. It is not unreasonable to press her mother when the woman is evidently withholding information from her.
“I was waiting for the right moment to tell you this, but you are rather insistent on knowing everything these days.”
Shion’s brows lace together. She has no choice but to press further. “What do you mean by that? You are waiting for the right moment to tell me what?”
A strand of hair falls into her mother’s face. She hadn’t pulled it back this morning the way she usually does.
“I have decided that it is necessary to arrange a marriage for you, Shion,” she avows, although her voice shakes ever so slightly.
"Arranged marriage?” Shion repeats. “Mother, that's not customary for us unless necessary. I understand Soran and Madara because you and Father did not produce an heir, but I have no reason."
"Shion, you have reached marriage age with no prospects. You are now older than Soran when she married. A love marriage is tradition for us, yes, but we still have specific expectations as the head family. Unless you find a partner soon, I fear this is the best path to take."
"Who put you up to this, Mother? I know this was not your own conception."
The older woman releases a sigh of exasperation. "Madara discussed this with me. Though, I can say for myself that I agree with him."
"You agree with him?"
"Yes, although..." she trails off. Her gaze is steady with the teapot sat before her. A distance in her eyes, it's evident that there is a note she is leaving out of the conversation.
"Although what?" Shion pries. The young woman haphazardly sets her teacup down, a small amount of the liquid spilling onto the cherrywood table.
"Madara's choice for a husband was certainly interesting."
Shion scoffs in disbelief. Interesting? What could be so interesting about his choice of a husband for her? It is peculiar enough that he would bring it upon himself to arrange her marriage without first discussing it with her, but it couldn't possibly be that shocking of a choice.
"Is it Izuna? I should tell him to choose a better man if that is the case. I would at least like to have a loyal husband."
Her mother's hands fold together and rest on the table. Not a laugh is uttered despite Shion's obvious joke. It must not be Izuna. What a relief. But then, who? There are limited eligible men in the clan, although none of them are particularly horrible choices.
"Who is it, Mother?"
The Uchiha matriarch's lips remained pressed together. As much as Shion despises her own potential arrangement, she wishes the woman would just spit it out.
"Who, Mother?"
"Tobirama Senju."
Tobirama. Senju.
Did she hear that correctly?
Tobirama Senju?
That couldn't be. It is true that Madara has come around to tolerate him as time in the village has passed, but surely not enough to consider him suitable for his sister through marriage. What benefit is there to it? Both she and Tobirama, while members of their respective clan's head families, only hold secondary roles. Unless Hashirama is to drop dead tomorrow, Tobirama does not lead the Senju. Shion may minimally advise Madara as the remaining stake of power her late father has, but what else is there? The clans are at peace, there is no political need for this.
And Tobirama himself. No, Shion can't do that. He's not suitable. He busies himself far too much to be a good husband. He's completely opposite to his brother. Mito is joyful, as happy as a wife could be, but that's not a characteristic of all Senju husbands. Tobirama's too callous, too pragmatic to be a doting husband in the way that his brother is. Shion supposes it is not necessary for the younger Senju to be identical to his brother, but she could possess more faith in a success marriage if he better shared these qualities.
"Shion?" her mother asks, breaking her from her thoughts. The young woman stands up abruptly.
"You said this was Madara's choice?"
"Yes."
"I must go find him this instant. Please excuse me."
Her feet begin to move faster than her mind. Out of the entrance of the home she shares with her mother and into the clan's compound. Out of the compound into the village. The urgency in which she moves ignores the biting cold of winter. She may have forgotten a thick hanten in lieu of her rush, but it's unnecessary.
The Hokage's office is close, but just far enough to be a tedious journey. Shion's only hope is that Madara is, in fact, there, although she bears doubt that the opposite could be true. After all, her brother through marriage and Hashirama have quite the affinity for one another.
But what will she say when she reaches the establishment? If Madara isn't there, all of this would have been futile. And if he is, then what? A confrontation is a bit much; she's unhappy with her predicament, but not enraged. A mere question should suffice. Yes, just a simple inquiry on why he has chosen to do such a thing.
Shion's footsteps slow the further along she goes. She should turn back now. She will have a chance to see him tonight. Then, there in the privacy of his home she can interrogate him. Why now? Why Tobirama?
Why?
There is no need for all of this, he should know that. She could be an unmarried woman for life, it's not as though a partner is a requirement for her when she has no responsibility to produce an heir for the family. With Tobirama as a husband, too, the heavens know the Uchiha would not want a Senju child to take the lead.
Her body shakes, a shiver running up her spine and she's beginning to regret leaving home so suddenly. The thick fabric of her kimono, back adorned with the Uchiha fan, only provides so much warmth.
"Shit," she mutters to no one but herself.
At this point, she's less than ten feet away from the building which houses the Hokage's office. Any stares that have come her way due to frantic behavior have been effectively ignored. The closer she gets, the more her heart pounds in her chest. Nevertheless, she pushes her way in. Hashirama's office sits at the end of a corridor consisting of shut doors. All are closed off, except for the Hokage's office of course.
Madara's voice booms down the long stretch of hall, which affirms Shion's prior assumptions. A second voice joins, but she's unable to make out the discussion at hand. And then a third voice enters. Halfway down the hall, she stops in her tracks. Her palms dampen and her chest tightens.
How could she so stupidly overlook this?