memory
Mourning.
As they stand over the grave of their brother, Kawarama, the brothers mourn.
Itama cries and weeps and sobs, their father silently scolding him. Hashirama’s bottom lip wobbles ever so slightly and his eyes glisten with unshed tears, still he tries his damndest to keep from joining his now youngest brother in weeping.
Tobirama stares. No expression is betrays his thoughts, his carefully crafted facade of neutrality only cracking slightly to allow a furrow of eyebrows and muted frown. He knows. Tobirama knows that he must be strong for his brothers. So he must mourn later, when daylight falls to night. Tobirama will mourn when his remaining family have all been lulled to sleep. For now, he must be the rock that keeps his brothers close and secure. His youngest brother weeps and weeps, thrashing in his fathers arms while yelling, scolding their father. Butsuma raises his voice, which usually does the trick to shutting his kids up.
Itama screams.
He screams at his father, yelling, vengeful profanities that are nothing but accusatory. The normally calm, quiet, sweet boy rips into the man, shouting to the world that it’s his fault Kawarama is dead. Their father, like many Senju who have come to investigate the commotion, is caught off guard by this reaction and in turn releases the young child. Their cousin, Touka, emerges from the crowd to try soothing the boy lest he do something rash and set off their violent father. Hashirama begged his father to not do anything rash. But they were too late. Butsuma had already begun to advance, smacking his now-youngest child across the face. And the forest stills.
The abrupt silence that follows Butsuma’s slap was one memory that remains in the mind of many, many Senju. But not because of the thickly layered tension that wrapped the graveyard when silence spread, no. It was what happened after.
Itama spat blood at his father’s feet. And when Butsuma raised his hand again, chaos erupted. Tobirama lunged in front of his little brother as Hashirama pulled their father back by the plates of his armor, Touka restraining Itama from lunging. Butsuma, enraged by his sons and their defiance, turned to yell at Hashirama. Wood tied his limbs together, slamming him to the ground. A few moments later, Itama screeched, vines wrapping around Butsuma and Touka’s throats, squeezing hard.
“Anija!” Tobirama yelled. “Stop! You’re hurting Touka!”
“That’s not me!” Hashirama defended. “I only did Mokuton… Only wood, I don’t know who…”
Tobirama turned to Itama, who managed to escape Touka’s grasp as she struggled for air. Itama, looking back at Touka, ran blindly into Tobirama. It was at that moment when Tobirama recognized the chakra that flowed through the vines.
“Otouto,” Tobirama said softly. “Please let Touka and Tou-sama go.”
“He doesn’t care! Our little brother just died and he doesn’t care! He—”
Tobirama hugged his small brother to his chest. “Let it all out, ‘Tama.”
Itama wailed. As anger faded to sadness, the vines unwrapped themselves from Touka and Butsuma. Wariness and wonder found it’s way on the crowd of Senju surrounding the Clan Head and his sons. Now two of his children had Mokuton. Touka coughed and gasped for air, a few clan healers taking her back to the Compound. Healers tried to help Butsuma to his feet, but he waved them away with shaky breath.
Hashirama supported the weight of his father, who began to stumble toward Itama. Tobirama stood in front of his younger… youngest brother, ready to shield him if necessary. Butsuma walked to Tobirama and nudged him aside, pulling Itama in for a hug. The crowd surrounding the Head Family began walking back home, glancing back occasionally in concern.
“I hate this,” Itama cried, his face scrunched up as he shoved his face in his father’s shoulder. “I hate this stupid war. I hate…”
Hashirama sniffed, wrapping his arms around his crying brother and silent father. Butsuma embraced both sons, never speaking a word.
Tobirama stood guard.
—
When day swept into night, Tobirama lay awake. In his room. Alone. Itama had gone to spend the night in Hashirama’s room. Their father had went to check in on them, and had fallen asleep at Hashirama’s rarely-used desk.
It was a cold night. Abnormally cold for this time of year. The night patrols frequently took breaks to go warm up or change clothes. So when Tobirama ran away in the night, no one noticed.
A few minutes later, he escapes to a large clearing in the forest. It’s in Senju territory, but a few hundred meters away is the Naka that separates them from Uchiha. He silently thanks a higher power for the clearing, as he can’t stand to look at the brown trunks of the trees in the forest. He can’t spare a glance to browned leaves and rock filled dirt. Each shade of brown reminds him of his once-littlest brother, a sunshine to everyone in their family.
Kawarama was a brightness that only Hashirama could even come close to matching. The two brown haired brothers would often frolic around in their spare time, with Hashirama proudly showing off his Mokuton tricks to a sparkly-eyed Kawarama. They would boost shy little Itama’s confidence and ever so slightly melt Tobirama’s cold dead heart. Tobirama saw Kawarama in the earth below and the dust that settles from above. He saw his littlest brother in the gold of the sun and the yellowed grass.
He remembers a time where they’d all planned what their armor would look like in the future, when they were older and were able to lead their clan into grand battles against the Uchiha. Kawarama declared he wanted a golden yellow so that he could be like the sun on the battlefield. Kawarama beamed when Itama requested his be a cool green, the color Tobirama’s hands glowed when he healed scrapes and cuts. Hashirama proudly announced that his armor would be bright red like their father’s, and Tobirama quietly added his choice of color— plain blue.
Kawarama had pouted at the blandness, and, a few months later on Tobirama’s birthday, gifted his albino brother with a multitude of happuri, the majority having the Senju symbol engraved. Tobirama hasn’t worn them. He didn’t want to, not until he was stronger. After a while of not wearing it, even on Kawarama’s birthday, Kawarama whined and said he was planning on getting Tobirama more for his next birthday. He was 7 at the time. Tobirama was 10, Hashirama, 12, and Itama was 8.
But it was a year later, a few weeks after his 8th birthday. That is when Kawarama had taken his final breath.
His littlest brother’s chakra had cried out, reaching to send signals to any Senju that was near. Tobirama had reached back, trying to comfort his youngest brother with his chakra’s presence. Hashirama, despite being slower, managed to sprint ahead, gaining distance on where Kawarama’s chakra flickered and leaving Tobirama behind. Itama and Butsuma were running alongside the albino, no one being able to catch up to the Mokuton-gifted teen. For better or for worse, Hashirama arrived after Kawarama had already passed.
But Tobirama felt it. Kawarama’s chakra clawed at the blanket of Tobirama’s. The sunshine chakra begged its brother to not leave. Tobirama wrapped his chakra around the other boy tighter, feeling the pulse and breath of youngest brother’s chakra dwindle. But when Kawarama’s heartbeat slowed to an infinite pause, Tobirama felt a piece of him go with it.
Tobirama had taken one quick look at his brother’s corpse. He had paused, hesitated. Tobirama had stopped to mourn for a split second, but forced himself into the familiar mask of stoicism. He focused on his expanding his sensor range, ignoring the wails of his brothers and shaky breaths of his father. And then Tobirama took off into the trees toward the direction of a few nearby Uchiha.
Their chakras hummed with power and savage delight. Tobirama silently trailed behind them in the branches above, observing the Uchiha below the foliage with a predator’s gaze. None of the people in the party noticed him, too busy laughing and cheering about their latest slaughter. What a shame, they cackled, if only the Senju hadn’t have gotten to the brat so fast… we could have had some fun with it. Then a kunai embedded itself in one of their heads. The Uchiha looked scandalized and horrified as the blade ripped through their comrade’s skull. But they were not prepared for what was to come.
Tobirama’s eyes were wide and unfocused, and the moonlight illuminated his face in a ghostly light. His red irises glistened with murderous intent and his pale frame shook with the urge to kill, only amplified when the terrified Uchiha noticed the boy in the trees. But he remained in place on a branch, perched like a bird of prey. One of the Uchiha inched toward his blade, the others stepping back slowly and cautiously to get away from the blood-seeking preteen.
“Run.”
And Tobirama lunged. With a simple kunai and a vengeance like no other, he tore through the bodies of one, two, three, five, eight Uchiha. After the albino had spoken that one word, yes, the Uchiha party had desperately tried to escape, but he mutilated. Every. Single. One. He watched them bleed out with numbness creeping into his veins. One Uchiha, who somehow managed to survive, was stumbling away. Tobirama, being a distance away from the crawling man, launched a kunai through his thigh.
His hands and feet, arms and legs were stained with blood. Tobirama didn’t care. He made sure each Uchiha who lay at his feet, each last one of the inhuman scum, had suffered what Kawarama had tenfold.
A singular tear fell down his cheek as he fell to his knees in the carnage. A silent scream tore through his throat as bloodied hands gripped at his head to stain white hair. Water wrenched itself from the plantlife around as blood ripped through the corpses at his knees, the heinous mixture swirling around Tobirama. A maelstrom of emotion burst through the young sensor’s range, spreading hate and pain and love and loss.
Tobirama can’t recall when or how he got back to the compound. He remembers faceless blurs fretting over him when he stepped into the Clan Head’s house, but Tobirama was numb. He let himself be pushed around and cleaned so he could go back into the wilderness and bury his brother.
And that is where he stood now, in the wilderness. He was countless paces from the graveyard, but his mind was in a different dimension entirely. Tears flowed down Tobirama’s face, small sniffles escaping the boy.
He looked to the moon for guidance as he donned a shiny new happuri.