Time Crystals
Tobirama carefully catalogues the flow of information he receives from the diagnostic jutsu, parsing through it and running it by what he knows of brain tumours. Finally, he opens his eyes and pronounces, “Benign. For now, anyways. It is a Grade 2 tumour on the membrane, and provided we act fast enough, it will be unlikely to return if removed successfully.”
Iroha leans forward, an intense hope etched onto his pale face. “She will be alright? You can treat her, yes?”
“Settle down, boy,” Hatake Kitai grouches, hauling her great nephew out of Tobirama’s personal space with a roll of her eyes. “I’m old as dirt now anyways. You should be glad I’m finally going to keel over.”
“Baasan!” Iroha protests, outraged.
Mouth twitching, Tobirama settles back against the balls of his feet, hands folding in his lap. “I’ve never treated a tumour before,” he admits openly. Tobirama only ever acted as a healer in emergencies in both lives. He is more adept at treating injuries than illnesses of this nature. “Not to mention, Obaasan is old. Surgery of this scale might prove too much for her, and assuming it goes well, full recovery will take time and effort.”
Iroha turns to Tobirama, silver eyes wide and glassy. “So, you can’t do it?”
“I can try,” the Senju offers, turning to his grandmother and canting his head in deference. “The choice is yours, obaasan. I can also just give you medication to alleviate your symptoms instead. It is risky, however. Growth can be unpredictable even assuming it doesn’t turn cancerous, and it could press down on essential parts of the brain or surrounding vasculature.”
Kitai watches, gaze sharp and knowing, her eyes the same crimson red as his. “You would prefer I let you operate on me.”
He does not say that, in one set of his memories, the tumour did deteriorate her health to the point of death because, by the time they approached Tobirama, it had grown beyond his knowledge and means to help. Instead, he honestly confirms, “Yes.”
“But you can make me well enough to perform a rite of succession either way.”
“Yes.”
Iroha frowns, reproachfully saying, “…Baasan.”
The woman sighs. “We all die one day, child.”
Tobirama quirks an eyebrow at that. “You’re not that old, obaasan.”
“How kind,” Kitai croons. “Did you learn to sweet talk in the time I haven’t seen you? Maybe you inherited some of my genes after all.”
He is not swayed by her attempt at distraction, however, as he cants his head and points out, “You will have to retire after this one way or the other. The question is whether or not you want time to train your successor after choosing them.”
“Always straight to business with you, huh?”
“Apparently, it’s charming.”
Iroha gapes at his cousin as though he has just been slapped. “Was that a joke? Did Tobirama just make a joke?”
Tobirama stares at him, deadpan. “I am being perfectly serious.”
“Baasan, he’s joking.”
“He’s being serious, Iroha,” Kitai reiterates flatly.
The boy looks between them with a bewildered sort of betrayal on his face. “You’re ganging up on me?” he whispers quietly.
It is nice to see Iroha so young and unrestrained again. He had wound up being the Hatake clan head who brought them to Konoha, having succeeded his father in the role after the man’s sudden passing in an epidemic, and by then he had been a quiet, severe sort of man almost nothing like the boy before Tobirama now. Kitai’s untimely passing had been almost like an omen for the clan before several perils fell upon them that wiped out most of their numbers.
Losing two clan heads so quickly, neither able to choose or prepare an heir by the traditional rites had meant loss of old knowledge and a strain on the symbiotic relationship that existed between the Hatake and the wolf spirits they are contracted to. A Hatake clan head is supposed to be approved by the wolves as an anchor for the connection but with the succession thrown into disarray by emergency, the bond lost its strength because of the lack of choice.
It hadn’t been on Tobirama’s agenda initially, what with the establishment of the Naka River Agreement taking priority, but now that he has been presented with the opportunity, he would like to prevent the decline of his mother’s clan. Prolonging his grandmother's life is an easy way to do it. If Tobirama could have, he would have wanted to even in his first life simply because she is his family.
“Can you make Tobirama your heir, baasan?” Iroha asks curiously. “Would the Senju allow it?”
Kitai snorts. “They couldn’t refuse. Maiya and Butsuma’s marriage contract was built upon the fact we have equal claim to any children born of the union.”
Brows furrowed, the boy asks, “Maiya-oba was your heir before she married out, so it makes sense if her son takes the position, right?”
Clearing his throat, Tobirama points out, “That’s not how succession works among the Hatake, and you know it.” They choose successors based on inheritance of knowledge, not blood. The knowledge, however, typically ends up remaining within the main family barring a few exceptions anyway, so it’s all a matter of semantics really, though he refrains from saying as much now.
“He only cares about that because he doesn’t want to live here,” Kitai huffs, rolling her eyes.
At this, Iroha shoots him a look of deep judgement. “Why would you want to be Senju clan heir when you could be Hatake clan head? Are you that loyal to them?”
Tobirama opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, Kitai cuts him off.
“He isn’t really,” she states knowingly, her weighted stare finding his. “But he has a brother.”
Iroha’s eyes too find his face, lingering on the marks that he never healed though he could have found a way, and he says as if all has been answered, “Ah.”
Resolutely not shifting under their combined attention, Tobirama asks, “Have you chosen your heir, obaasan?”
If she had one in mind by now, no one ever learned of it in his first life. The mantle was simply passed to her youngest nephew—the closest blood relation still eligible for heirship. Despite the current benign nature of her meningioma, her symptoms had worsened quickly, and most things had fallen to the wayside despite best efforts.
Kitai sighs from deep within her chest and closes her eyes. “I’ve thought about it,” she confesses quietly. “My legacy is scattered among a few candidates, but I always assumed I would have more time to decide.”
“Time is a cruel mistress.” Tobirama, of all people, would know.
“Indeed,” his grandmother says. “I should have known better. Picked someone after you made it clear Masa was unfit.”
He hums, inclining his head before asking, “Will you undergo surgery?”
There is silence for a long stretch of time as both cousins watch their grandmother in wait, one impatient and the other impassive.
Finally, Kitai’s shoulders slump. “I should,” she says.
“Yes,” Iroha agrees, taking her hand into his own. “Will you?”
Another pause. There is something like contemplation now as Kitai meets Iroha’s eyes. Tobirama waits.
“I will.”
Within a fortnight of the village’s ‘inauguration’, bandits start creating trouble with the mountain pass that falls along the supply route, barricading the road and demanding a toll, and robbing the travellers either way. The Uchiha and Hatake are assigned to deal with the problem while the Shimura stay behind to guard the village.
Between the two of them, they make short work of the thugs. Both clans are too used to the intensity of war for amateur bandits to be posing much of a problem to them, especially when the other side does not wield ninjutsu techniques as sophisticated as ones taught among clans.
When it ends, as the dust is settling, Izuna catches Eizan’s eye and finds the man openly measuring him in a way. “You are a Predator after all, Izuna-san,” he observes. “I had wondered.”
Blinking, Izuna looks at him uncertainly. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Eizan shrugs, letting out a sharp two-note whistle that apparently acts as an order calling his clanmates back to follow him as he turns to lead the way back to the settlement, Izuna falling into step beside him and making a hand sign that will call the Uchiha to him for the same purpose.
“It means you have the disposition and responses of something that Preys,” the man says simply in response to him. “Something that Hunts.”
‘Well,’ Izuna thinks blankly, ‘all clans have their idiosyncrasies.’ Perhaps the rumours of Hatake being a tad feral have some merit to them after all.
“Shouldn’t all shinobi be predators then?” he asks reasonably after a short pause.
A noncommittal sound as Eizan makes a vague dismissive gesture with his hand. “You’d think so given the work we do, but no, some shinobi are naturally warriors. Upright, moralistic, fighting by rules even if they are of their own making. They believe that some prices are too high to pay.”
“And predators?”
“A predator simply does whatever it takes.”
Izuna considers this and decides, “This is probably the worst job for someone with a strict moral code.”
“Right?” Eizan nods along in agreement. “I’ve always thought so too, but you’d be surprised. I suppose it comes down to what people fight for.” Turning to Izuna, the general cants his head and asks, “What do you fight for, Izuna-san?”
Izuna freezes, suddenly feeling untethered as he remembers being asked the very question in a different voice, almost a lifetime ago.
“What do you fight for, Izuna?” Akio had asked, watching his younger brother catch his breath after another loss in a spar.
Even as he gasped for precious a lungful of air, Izuna had straightened and met his brother’s detached curiosity head on as he declared, “For my clan! Like all Uchiha shinobi do.”
Akio lifted a brow. “Is that what you think?”
“Yeah!”
“Wrong,” the elder stated simply, peering with interest as Izuna faltered. “Do you think Madara fights for the clan?”
Frowning, Izuna answered, “He said that he does.”
“He lied to you then. Madara does not fight for the clan; he fights for you.”
Bewildered, Izuna blinked. “Me? Why would he fight for me?”
“Because he is a fool,” Akio answered readily. “Madara is strong enough that he can hope to nurture stupid dreams of coddling you with a false protection. His softness will only cripple you and make you weak.” He waited, as if in wait for Izuna to protest and defend their brother. When Izuna remained silent, only biting his lip and shifting with discomfort, the elder boy smiled in vicious satisfactioin.
Izuna peaked through his lashes at his eldest brother. “What do you fight for, aniki?”
Regarding him thoughtfully, Akio waited a moment before saying, “I will be clan head someday, you know. The leader is for the people. The people are for the leader. I will become the clan. The clan will become me.” A deliberate pause. And then, as if in a challenge to the world at large, “I fight for myself.”
It had felt right to hold his breath then, so Izuna had, until his lungs began to burn in protest. When he released the air at last, he repeated firmly, “I fight for my clan.”
“A good Uchiha shinobi,” his brother crooned. And Akio had smiled because he had known then.
Izuna would fight for him.
As if through a ghost, he hears again, “What do you fight for, Izuna-san?”
Izuna swallows the imagined taste of blood on his tongue, repeating in time with the echo of his own childish voice, “I fight for my clan.”
“Honourable,” Eizan observes, though there is something unreadable in his sharp flint-like eyes that makes Izuna feel too seen, too known. “A model shinobi.”
The words are not the same, he knows, and yet they are similar enough that Izuna can feel his reality starting to blur at the edges, his lungs aching from the phantom of pain. He sucks in a greedy mouthful of air just to prove he can. He clears his throat, pulls his chakra close to prevent uncontrolled output, forces himself to focus on the present.
Izuna looks at the mountains, feels the gravel under his boots, the wind on his face. He listens to the quiet conversations of their shinobi behind them. He counts his breaths.
Finally, he clears his throat and spins the attention off him. “What about you, Eizan-san? What do you fight for?”
A smile immediately crosses the man’s weathered face, his features softening and a warmth so potent enters his chakra that Izuna feels it without even meaning to. “I have a daughter,” Eizan says. “She’s almost your age.”
‘Ah,’ Izuna thinks. Eizan fights for his daughter for the same reason Madara fights for him. He does not tell the man that he will make his daughter weak by wishing to protect her; he knows better than that.
Now that he is older that Akio ever got to be, Izuna has learned that it is not just the purpose who is at risk of weakness when someone else fights for them, though he also knows it is impossible to prevent such a phenomenon. The madness of grief is far more dangerous than death is when the purpose is inevitably lost to them.
After all, Izuna would know.
“My fellow clansmen, my beloved pack, I have asked you all to gather today because I have something very important to announce,” Kitai says, voice strong and resounding despite the chair she is bound to while still in recovery. “In light of my illness, it has become clear to me that this is a decision I should have made long ago for all of us. I am fortunate that the spirits have allowed me a chance to correct my carelessness and I do not intend to take their grace for granted. I have called you here today because I have chosen a candidate for my Trials.”
Murmurs break out through the crowd gathered in the open amphitheatre. Tobirama watches as the suspected candidates shift, none in surprise because everyone anticipated as much from a leader who can no longer fight while in long-term recovery from a very experimental surgical procedure. At his side, Iroha’s leg bounces impatiently.
“Father has been unbearable in his nervousness all week,” he whispers lowly to Tobirama in the traditional dialect of Iron. Despite the language being almost lost to those of recent generations, it is taught to the Hatake main line so they can continue to pass down their sacred laws and stories in their language of origin.
Though Tobirama picked it up enough to speak and understand, he never learned how to read or write it. A shame. Perhaps he should ask to be taught.
“He expects it will be him?” Tobirama murmurs back.
Admittedly, he expects the same. Though the clan’s tether to the wolf spirits was weakened under iroha’s father in Tobirama’s last life, that was because formal Trials could not be held to win the spirits’ approval without a clan head dictating what those tests would be. Since Kitai is alive and presiding over the ceremony, the outcome should be different this time.
Iroha snorts. “Who else could it be?”
It is a rhetorical question, and yet, as if in answer to it, Kitai announces from the central stage:
“Iroha, my great-nephew. He shall undergo my chosen Trials to prove himself worthy of being our heir.”
Eyebrows shooting up in surprise, Tobirama (along with pretty much everyone else present for the declaration) turns to face his cousin. Iroha is too busy gaping at the stage blankly to take notice at first, but then he registers the weight of the attention on him and promptly turns an alarming shade of scarlet, spluttering.
Tobirama elbows the boy to get him to focus. “Get up,” he hisses in the traditional dialect, though he doubts anyone will be unable to guess what he’s saying given the context. “The stage, Iroha. Go to grandmother.”
Rising to obey on sheer reflex, Iroha mechanically clambers down the stairs to the stage with the air of a man being marched to his death. Kitai reaches for him once he is close enough, clasping his hand in hers and beaming at her people.
“It is after extensive consultation with the wolves that I have decided on my candidate. In Iroha, I see potential for a leader who is compassionate, patient, steadfast, and dignified. I hope he will be able to make use of his strengths to succeed and lead his clan to the road of prosperity and happiness. The Trials will commence from tomorrow.” She turns to Iroha and smiles, “May the spirits guide you well, my child.”
“May the spirits guide you well,” the gathered audience choruses after her.
Iroha takes them all in with wide eyes, though his spine straightens under their regard for the honour being bestowed upon him. He raises his fist to his heart in the traditional greeting and dips his head. Kitai watches, satisfied.
Tobirama wonders what fate awaits the Hatake now.
“Did I surprise you today?” Kitai asks, sipping at the medicinal brew Tobirama prepared for her.
“I rather think you surprised everyone today,” Tobirama replies dryly. “Iroha most of all.”
She chuckles at that, smiling fondly. “He looked shaky as a newborn fawn. I bet everyone thinks I’m insane for trusting that he can lead a pack of wolves.”
“May I ask why you chose him?”
“You don’t think he will succeed?” Kitai asks back.
Tobirama shakes his head. “I have faith in him,” he says honestly, although he must admit that his faith is born of retroactive evidence.
Kitai hums, thinking as she sips at her medicine. “I thought of who learned most from the life I have lived, who I shaped best with my hands, who will act with values and principles I passed down to them,” she says. “Once, I trained your mother to take my place one day, while your uncle Masa learned to be her general. I took in my nephew Issei after my sister passed. I taught them everything I could.”
“So, why not Issei-san?”
For a moment, she does not answer. When she does speak, her face is lined with the softness of nostalgia. “Iroha used to say I was his favourite person in the world when he was small. He wanted to spend all his time playing in my shadow. No one knew what to do with that stubborn boy, not even his parents, so they just let him be.” She sets her cup down, meeting Tobirama’s gaze. “I may have taught my children and nephew, but Iroha grew up watching me. More than anyone else, he knows what kind of leader I am because he learned purely from my example, no frills attached. I may have never meant to teach him, but I think he is the one who has learned most from me. If anyone is to embody my legacy as a leader, it should be him.”
Tobirama had known his grandmother and cousin had been close, but he never knew the extent of their bond given the short periods of time he spent with the Hatake that grew sparser as he grew up and became essential to the Senju roster. He could have never guessed at this turn of events.
Still, he nods in acceptance. “You think he is prepared?”
Kitai snorts. “As much as anyone can be for the Trials.” Wryly, she adds, “They have a way of surprising you after all.”
Everyone knows that the Trials are comprised of three tests that assess the qualities of the candidate: Trial of Balance, of Heart, and lastly, of Sovereignty. What these trials comprise specifically, however, is a mystery to everyone outside of the candidate, the clan head, and the wolf spirits.
“Are the tests different every time?” Tobirama wonders aloud.
His grandmother smirks as if sensing his curiosity, appearing to consider the benefits of answering of leaving him to stew in his own questions before shrugging. “They tend to all be similar, but the specifics are tailored to the candidate. They are fuelled by very old, very complicated magic. It is how the spirits are able to judge worth.”
He frowns. “I see.”
Magic is a very loose term for what is the spirit realm equivalent of chakra. There has been little to no study conducted on it, and it will probably remain that ways in order to preserve the overarching balance of their realities. Tobirama can’t help but think it’s a loss.
“We will have to swear you to secrecy for the Trial of Sovereignty,” Kitai muses out loud, effectively ending every other train of thought.
Tobirama blinks. “Excuse me?”
Kitai blinks back. “Well, I will have to be involved in it, you see, and I expect it to last several hours. As my acting medic, shouldn’t you be present on scene?”
“If you’re going to have me swear an oath of secrecy anyways, can’t you tell me what the other Trials are?”
“You’re not going to get that out of me, boy,” she scoffs. “If you’re so curious, you can try and get Iroha to tell you after he has passed through them.”
Iroha doesn’t even bother to put up an act of resistance, practically pouring his soul out before Tobirama even opens his mouth. He wouldn’t be able to speak of the Trials at all if Tobirama hadn’t been under oath as well, but it’s still amusing that he doesn’t even ask before he’s draping himself over his cousin and sharing his woes.
“They stuck me in a magical maze, Tobirama! I know it’s called the Trial of Balance, but I didn’t think it would be so literal. There were genjutsu everywhere, layered upon each other, asking me riddles and turning me around corners on purpose when I couldn’t even see straight. I thought I was dying, so being smart wasn’t anywhere on my mind, but I guess it worked out in the end? It was actually exactly like that time we accidentally ate those mushrooms! Do you remember that?”
Tobirama does remember. He is not envious of Iroha. The mushrooms had not been a pleasant experience for either of them.
Iroha isn’t done, barely pausing to inhale before he’s launching back into his rant. “And then when I managed to get through, I ended up in the Weeping Grove where the Sacred Willow Tree told me that a great calamity would befall the clan if I didn’t pay the price of the Tree’s protection. In hindsight, it must have used another illusion but when I tell you I was convinced this horrible sickness would strike us if I didn’t offer this Tree my firstborn. Anyways, it didn’t want to steal my children. It actually got kind of offended that I offered because it’s sensitive about that stereotype or something.”
“What did you give up then?” Tobirama urges before his cousin can get side-tracked.
Iroha shrugs. “I don’t remember. I know it cost my most beloved memory, but since I gave it up, I don’t remember what exactly the memory was.”
Tobirama hums in thought. “They seem convoluted, but it makes sense,” he concludes. “You got tested for wisdom under duress, then for sacrifice or compassion depending on your take on it. The last test will probably be one of initiative somehow.”
Shoulders slumping, Iroha bites his lip. “If I pass, then that would make me clan head.”
Blinking, Tobirama asks, “You don’t want to be?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Iroha admits.
“Will you ever think yourself ready?” Tobirama challenges knowingly. His cousin might be young, but Hashirama had been about the same age when he succeeded their father. Besides, Iroha had done appropriately well despite his harsh circumstances.
Sighing, his cousin says, “I don’t know.”
“It will not be immediate. You will be trained before the official ceremony takes place. There will be time.”
Iroha peers at him, obviously unconvinced. “I thought you said time is a cruel mistress.”
Tobirama shrugs. “There are ways to make the best of it anyways.”
“And you’re the expert or something,” his cousin scoffs.
Dryly, Tobirama points out, “Well, I did write a whole paper on the theory of time crystals, so yes, I’d say so.”
“You’re insufferable, Tobirama.”
“You just don’t want to admit that I’m right.”
“Insufferable.”