Fractal
“You know of the eyes on you.”
Tobirama hums, not looking up from the board that he is studying. He reaches into the bowl holding his black stones and places one in the upper right quarter, right at the very edge of the territory laid out by his opponent.
The chief priestess of the Hachiman shrine, Senju Amaya, narrows her eyes at his move but does not openly frown. Tobirama knows that he has surprised her, nevertheless. She ignores his provocation and makes her placement where she is attempting to encroach on his territory at the centre of the board. “Whatever it is you are doing—it is not going to be unnoticed,” she warns in a murmur.
“I know,” he acknowledges, smoothly triggering his trap and cutting off her encroachment. Amaya purses her lips as she watches him collect the stones she has just lost. “I am counting on the attention.”
She quirks a brow at him. “That is unlike you,” she notes. “For as long as I have known you, you have preferred to operate from behind the scenes.”
He inclines his head. “It is a matter of efficiency,” he reveals carefully. “Minimum effort, maximum gain.”
“I see,” Amaya says. Her gaze drops pointedly to his hands, very evidently looking to the stark way the dark blue—almost black—of his veins stands out against his papery skin. “And I suppose this is the price you have decided to pay.” The disapproval is clear in her eyes even as she decisively cuts off his advance in the lower left corner. “There are plenty who have forgotten, and even more who are unaware, but I recognise the signs of death when I see them, Tobirama. It is a very dangerous game you are playing here.”
Offering her a wry smile, Tobirama shakes his head. He can’t even be surprised that she has caught on—far before anyone else in fact. This is the woman who taught him how to strategize after all. Every trick he employs is based on something he stole from her book. “I do know what I am doing, if that is of any comfort to you.”
Amaya scoffs. “The question is whether or not your word is a good enough guarantee,” she says, “and the answer is that you are a shinobi, which makes you a liar by trade. I have no reason to believe you.”
It is so like her to cut right to the heart of the ugly truth and say it as it is. Tobirama’s grandfather had always hated her for it, and Butsuma had learned to be wary of the chief priestess for this very reason too. Tobirama, however, had never been too bothered by this quality. He’d preferred it even.
“That’s your prerogative,” he says simply, shrugging. “I have no real reason to try and convince you.”
Clicking her tongue, Amaya glares at him but doesn’t argue. “The council has begun to speculate about shifting loyalties within the clan, and you are at the heart of every doubt. When you were first brought to the council, it was clear you weren’t interested in following your brother’s ambitions of peace. Then your tendency towards opposition faltered and you distanced yourself from the factions that you were previously closest with before leaving for Uzushio. When you came back, you were clearly suddenly content with your brother’s decisions, and in fact, actively started supporting some of them far more openly than you ever bothered to before. Then, in Hashirama-sama’s absence, you once again began to interact closely with the factions that act as opposition to your brothers’ supporters,” she recites dryly.
Tobirama does not fluster at having his own paradoxes pointed out to him. He only arches a brow and comments, “I had no idea you followed my activities so closely, Amaya-san.”
“No one can be quite sure where you stand with all these contradictory displays, Tobirama,” Amaya says. “It makes people wary of you and all the power you wield so unpredictably. And now this—” she reaches out to grab his wrist, fingertips pressed to his pulse, clearly indicating the unnatural inky hue his veins have begun showing there. “You have knowingly allowed yourself to be poisoned, and for the life of me, I cannot discern why. Just what is it that you are planning, boy?”
Silence hangs between them for a long moment before Tobirama sighs. “It isn’t fatal.”
“Yet.”
He presses his lips into a thin line. “I will not let it get to that point,” he tells her.
Amaya does not appear to find much comfort in that. “Does your brother even know of this?”
So, she knows where his loyalties truly lie despite everything she said earlier. Tobirama slants his gaze and admits, “He would never allow it if he did. Not with all the possible risk even if it is calculated.”
“For very good reason,” Amaya says firmly. “I told you I recognise those symptoms. I thought I would never see them again after all those flowers died, but the damage that can wreak on your system—the damage it is already doing to you even now. You look like you’re on death’s doorstep. How much more can you even take?”
“Eleven days.”
Brows furrowing, confusion crosses Amaya’s face. “How do you know…?” she trails off as realisation visibly dawns over her and her hazel eyes widen. “Surely you aren’t—”
“You can tell no one, Amaya-san,” he cuts her off before she can say it. “I cannot stress enough to you just how vital it is that you keep this information to yourself.”
Amaya gapes at him, uncharacteristically at a loss of composure. “I’d assumed you knew and were simply allowing it, but to think—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “The poison targets chakra pathways. You know this, yes?”
Tobirama offers her a deadpan stare. “I do.” He’d be hard-pressed not to considering it’s his chakra coils that are being corroded away slowly but surely. With each passing day, it gets more painful to access his chakra. He is already at a point where he cannot channel any of it into ninjutsu. Next, he will lose his sensing. Finally, his connection to his chakra will be severed entirely, at which point, there will be no reversing the damage and his life will be forfeit.
It was a risk to choose a poison that could cause career or life-threatening harm should anything go awry, but Tobirama had decided that it would all be worth it once everything has gone according to plan. He will have quite a recovery ahead of him, but that is a price he is willing to pay.
“I really do hope you know what you are doing, Tobirama,” Amaya says, eyes grave.
Tobirama breathes slowly and captures her territory in the upper right corner. That makes it his win. “It will all be over soon, Amaya-san,” he assures her quietly.
Eleven more days.
Emaciated. That’s the only way to describe the unnatural frailness that clings to Tobirama, etched into the bones that poke through sallow skin and the wildflower bruises surrounding his eyes. Hashirama can count every ridge of his brother’s spine when he hugs him close, smooth his hands right over the hard edges of his shoulder blades and count each rib.
Touka’s pointed stare follows him with a clear message as Hashirama and Tobirama make their way to their family home, and he can only nod wordlessly at her though he is unsure how much help he will be.
As soon as they are behind closed doors, Tobirama sighs and steps away to look at him flatly. “I know Touka wrote to you,” he states. “There is no other reason you would arrive so far ahead of your entourage. We weren’t expecting you for another five days.”
Hashirama purses his lips, studying the way the shadows seem to all but settle in the hollows of Tobirama’s cheeks, his already sharp bone structure becoming uncannily prominent. “Touka did exactly as she should have,” Hashirama responds. “In fact, I almost wish she’d written to me sooner, but I’m sure she tried to talk to you herself first.”
“She did,” his younger brother confirms, running a hand through his hair, “and I will tell you what I told her then: I know what I’m doing, and I will be fine when the time comes.”
Eyes narrowing at the unnatural blue of his veins, Hashirama frowns. “Let me look over you for myself,” he demands, hand already reaching out to Tobirama, a diagnostic jutsu at the tip of his tongue.
But Tobirama is dodging him before he can get anywhere close, taking a large step back to put more distance between them. “No need,” he says, voice edged with a measure of caution that instantly has Hashirama’s eyes narrowing further. “You don’t have to go that far.”
“Tobirama,” Hashirama’s voice is low in warning, “what are you hiding?” It might not be as noticeable to just anyone, but he can tell the exact moment that Tobirama stiffens under his scrutiny. Brow furrowing, he demands, “Tell me.”
“I will be fine,” Tobirama repeats simply, taking another step back when Hashirama draws closer.
“Then why won’t you let me check?” Hashirama fires back, frustration and anxiety bubbling within him. “You’re hiding something from me,” he says again. “Why won’t you tell me?”
The edges of Tobirama’s mouth tighten. “It’s not time yet,” he allows with obvious reluctance.
Hashirama stares at him, taking in the deathly gauntness that diminishes his brother’s usually imposing presence into something small. When he reaches for Tobirama’s chakra, he is unsurprised but disappointed to find that it is hidden away. Tobirama is nothing but meticulous after all—he will not be caught out before he decides to permit it.
“Nothing could be worth doing this to yourself, Tobirama,” Hashirama says quietly, and it is a plea.
Something unreadable passes through Tobirama’s eyes. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, swallowing as if the words are too big for his mouth, “Some things are worth the price to pay. This is simply something that must be done.”
A horrible weight takes root in Hashirama’s stomach, making him think he might be sick. The last time Tobirama had looked at him this way and said something similar, he had wound up with another man’s blood in his teeth and brands on his face. Hashirama breathes slowly. “Let me help you,” he says after a moment. “Tell my why you are doing this. Tell me whatever it is you need, and I promise I will find some way to make it happen, Tobirama. Let me help. You know I can’t stand to see you like this.”
Smiling wryly, Tobirama offers a noncommittal noise. “I’ll need your help eventually,” he admits. “Not yet, but soon.”
“So, you have some sort of plan,” Hashirama infers grimly. “You planned this, and you’re keeping it from me because you know I will stop you.”
Tobirama shrugs. “I promise it’s for a good cause,” he assures dryly.
This time, when Hashirama reaches for him, his brother allows it, letting him ghost his thumb over the thinly raised scar on his cheek that so often gets mistaken for a tattoo or something else benign. “What cause could be good enough for me to see you put yourself through something like this?” he challenges softly, frowning. “You look a half step away from death. Seeing you this way, when you won’t even tell me why or let me help you—it is painful, Tora. It makes me think of how easily I could lose you, and it is not something I like to linger on. What would I even do without you? What cause could be worth the pain of seeing you like this?”
There is a startled quality to the almost imperceptible way Tobirama’s eyes widen. He lifts his own hand to Hashirama’s and leans into his touch. “I will be fine, anija,” he says, voice hushed.
It’s not good enough. “Why won’t you just tell me?”
Tobirama purses his lips. “You will find out in time.” Hesitating for a moment, he adds, “Just be ready when you do.”
The dreadful feeling in Hashirama’s chest worsens. “Tobirama, if you—”
“It is late, anija,” his brother cuts him off, dropping his hand and stepping away. “You should get some rest. I will see you in the morning.”
And before Hashirama can stop him, he is gone.
“This is your own doing.”
Tobirama pauses for all of one second at the accusation, gaze briefly flicking up to the incensed look on Elder Hanabi’s face before turning his attention back to the platter of wagashi he’d been choosing from. “I’m not quite sure I know what you mean, Hanabi-san.”
“Don’t play the fool, Tobirama-sama—it does not suit you,” she seethes. “I of all people would know the symptoms of snakeroot poisoning when I see them.”
His mouth quirks into an empty smile, a picture of mockery. “It certainly took you long enough. You must be losing your edge, Hanabi-san.”
Truly, an audacious thing to say to one of the most accomplished poisons mistresses their clan has ever produced. Senju Hanabi comes from a long line of poison masters and her family is still responsible for maintaining the greenhouse of toxic plants that the Senju clan derives its biochemical weapons from. She alone has personally seen to the…removal of several inconveniences that stood in Tobirama’s father’s way. Currently, she must hold more knowledge regarding organic poisons and their effects on the human body than any other living member of their clan.
It took her exactly as long as Tobirama expected to realise what has been afoot. Having been monitoring the activities of her household since he took on his self-assigned mission, he is prepared for this confrontation today.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” she admits. “I saw the signs and thought, ‘Surely not.’ It didn’t make sense. The flowers do not grow naturally in the wild anymore, the last Senju grove was lost in a skirmish decades ago, and the only living plant left survives alone under carefully monitored stasis in my greenhouse. The only person who could recreate it outside of the existing specimen is your brother thanks to his gift. No one outside my family and the clan head is supposed to even know it still exists.”
“Plants are difficult to synthesise artificially without samples,” Tobirama comments, wrinkling his nose ever so slightly. “Poisons, on the other hand,” he inclines his head and taps his finger against the rim of his teacup, smiling at its rippling surface, “are a much simpler affair if you know their chemical makeup. Even those from supposedly extinct flowers.”
Hanabi’s next breath shakes audibly as it leaves her. Her dark eyes gleam with unconcealed rage at his careless confession. Still, she does not lose control just yet. Instead, she simply asks, “Why?”
He considers this, leaning back in his seat. “You asked me to think about what I wished to do my influence. My…power,” he says, each word loaded with intent, savouring the way Hanabi’s eye twitches at having her words thrown back in her face like this. “Did you honestly think I would side with you over anija? That I would let you turn me into a figurehead for an opposition against my own brother?”
A laugh of disbelief leaves Hanabi and she all but collapses into the chair opposite his, rattling the teacup set there for her as has been the case during each of their meetings. “You make it sound like we had no grounds for our assumption, Tobirama-sama. To date, the only policy you have openly supported under your brother’s reign has been to install those barriers. Over the past two years, you have been a vocal check to Hashirama’s sole influence over this clan.”
She isn’t wrong. In another life, Tobirama gave her exactly what she wanted too. In this one, he arches a brow and says, “Your inaccurate presumptions are hardly my concern, Hanabi-san. What I am more interested in asking why you would ever decide to make such a decisive move.”
Scoffing, the elder shakes her head. “A decisive move,” she repeats slowly. “It’s not as though we were planning a coup.”
“No,” he agrees, humming, “just the possibility of one if things started to go unexpectedly well.” Tobirama looks at her pointedly. “Kaname-san is far less subtle about his intentions than you are, Hanabi-san. He has made it clear just how…upset he is about losing his support and, subsequently, a very prolific weapons contract in the capital. I’m sure he’d like it very much if anija would get back out of his way. Personally, I find unparalleled wealth and growing status to be rather shallow motives for someone who is an advisory position in this clan, but each to their own, I suppose.”
Hanabi swallows, holding herself very, very still, no doubt sensing just who the Predator is in this conversation. “You have no proof,” she says and that much is the truth.
Tobirama had realised that for himself right at the start of this whole charade. No proof means no meaningful conviction. It means that this is a problem they will have to keep circling back to. That Hashirama’s choice to not wage war will be a much contested decision and would risk months—if not years—of unrest.
He considers his tea. “I will give you two choices, Hanabi-san,” he decides. “You can either go to anija now, admit to your intentions, and pull back your opposition, or you can be convicted of a more sinister attempt at treason.”
Following his gaze to the seemingly innocuous cup of tea, Hanabi’s eyes widen. “You’re bluffing,” she tries but it sounds weak enough that it’s obvious she can’t be sure.
“I’ve been microdosing for the past month. Never quite a lethal amount, but certainly enough to take its toll over time,” Tobirama informs her succinctly. Lifting his cup, he says, “This would be a final nail, so to speak.”
He can see the exact second Hanabi realises just what he is meaning to do as the blood drains from her face and she shoots to her feet in a wild attempt to knock the cup out of his hands. She’s too late though. He has already drained almost the entire cup, swallowing the bitter metallic tasting liquid in one go.
Gaping in shock, Hanabi whispers, “What have you done?”
Tobirama grins at her even as the poison takes effect and arrythmia sets in, already starting to cloud his vision. “You should have known better,” he says, resting his head against the back of the chair.
Before he can lose the last of his shaky grip on his chakra to the poison, Tobirama painstakingly gathers it and then lets it go in a starburst flare that wouldn’t go unmissed for the world. Certainly not when he knows Hashirama has been passively sensing for his signature for nearly a year now. His brother can deal with the rest.
Minimum effort, maximum gain. It is Tobirama’s win.