Chapter Text
**One thing is clear: in this world, only the power of love makes a person desired.**
**(C) The Sorrows of Young Werther**
---
Tajima Uchiha, upon learning of his daughter's birth, felt an insurmountable disgust for her. He could not, as was once done with unwanted children, send her floating down the Naka River; in wartime, a person is reduced to a resource. Even if it was a girl, she could be used as a bargaining chip to seal a deal with another clan or married off to one of their own, seeded with offspring. She would be lucky if even one of five sons survived. Had Izuna deigned to be born a boy, Tajima would have mourned his wife's death less. Now, nursing a flask of sake, he grieved for the woman who had warmed a shinobi's bed for over ten years. She possessed no outstanding skills, but she had given him four wonderful, healthy boys who, regrettably, never reached adulthood, falling at the hands of the Senju. This girl, if she proved strong enough to survive, would also have to bury children. Tajima had witnessed female suicides many times. A woman can endure violation or beatings, but not the death of her own child.
Madara, however, less attached to his emaciated mother than to his brothers, rejoiced at the birth of his only sister. Born a little early, she weighed almost nothing, like a feather. Madara, being the eldest child, held the infant properly, carefully supporting her head. In that moment, his little sister seemed to him the most beautiful creature in the world. He decided then and there that he would never let anyone hurt her.
---
///
"Father," called four-year-old Izuna, clutching a book to her chest like a true treasure, "read me a fairy tale."
Tajima, warming his hands over the irori hearth and seemingly contemplating something serious—perhaps another plan to ambush a Senju squad—frowned. The fearless girl, grabbing a zabuton cushion, approached her father and fluttered her eyelashes ingratiatingly. Her thick black lashes cast lengthening shadows on her cheeks.
"Where is your nanny?" her father grumbled irritably. "Ask her."
Izuna possessed the manipulative charm of a spoiled child. Her brother, her nanny, and the elderly women of the compound doted on her not like a *hime* of a military clan, but like a princess of the Land of Fire itself.
"I don't know. She went somewhere..." The girl sniffled, delivering the last word with such dramatic flair, as if her nanny hadn't just stepped out on an errand but had abandoned her forever. "Is it hard for you?"
"I'm tired."
Tajima hesitated, but the ice of his indifference had already cracked. Izuna, sensitive to the moods of others, couldn't fail to notice, yet she betrayed none of her triumph.
"Then I'll ask Big Brother."
That answer did not sit well with her father.
"Izuna, your brother is busy. He is the most gifted of my children. Instead of listening to fairy tales, you should follow his example and train. Even a woman must know how to defend herself."
Izuna, heaving a heavy, unchildlike sigh, set the book aside and half-lay across her father's lap. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. All the barriers he had erected between himself and his offspring—she alone demolished them with such ease, as if they were made of straw. No wonder she was the youngest. She would go far.
"Papa, what is war? Why can't the Senju and Uchiha clans just stop killing?"
Her father straightened his posture, betraying his penchant for moral instruction. Izuna's questions had undoubtedly struck a nerve—a nerve from which her father's pride grew.
"The world is not as one-sided as it is written in your fairy tales. Every generation has something to repent for. Our ancestors perhaps regretted deciding to reclaim their rightful lands at any cost, but this is a matter of pride, and the pride of the Uchiha is not up for debate. We must continue the struggle of our ancestors; otherwise, we devalue both their lives and their deaths."
Izuna listened intently. Her father waved off her intent yet naive gaze.
"Why am I telling you this? You don't understand any of it anyway."
"Go on, Father," the girl insisted, rocking on his knees.
"Sucking up to me?" Tajima smirked, laying bare the cards of her little game.
She was a child and therefore lacked experience. But Tajima had no doubt that if Izuna, upon growing up, did not delude herself into thinking that honesty and nobility were the main things in life, she would become a skilled seductress, capable of steering men's hearts like chakra flow.
"I just want to know the truth."
"The only truth you need to know is that we must slaughter every last Senju, even if we die trying."
An ominous silence fell after those words. Izuna knew better than to break it.
---
///
The conversation with her nanny went no better than with her father. As Retsuko pulled the blanket up to her chin, Izuna asked:
"What is love?"
Retsuko's expression darkened for some reason.
"Love is a deception," she answered unwaveringly.
*'Probably got her heart broken,'* Izuna thought, having noticed that people happy in family life began to smile stupidly at the mere word "love," while those who had been betrayed or whose loved ones had fallen to the Senju either grew angry or averted their tearing eyes.
"Then why does everyone believe in it?"
The nanny pursed her lips angrily.
"Because it is dear to the heart."
Replaying this conversation in her mind that night, Izuna agreed. People believe in deception because it spares their feelings.
But the next morning, the nanny did not come. Her father came instead. Izuna, without ceremony, asked:
"Where is Retsuko?"
"I ordered her flogged."
Izuna's eyes, framed by their thick lashes, widened. As far as she could tell, Retsuko performed her duties well, even too well. Izuna was always fed, dressed, shod, and clean. The women of the clan fawned over her beauty. The men patted her head and gave her sweets, dreaming of marrying their sons to her one day.
"What for?..." a hoarse, bewildered sound escaped her.
"For spouting nonsense about love."
Something clicked in Izuna's head. She realized this was an opportunity.
"And you, Papa, don't you believe in love?"
Timidity stirred in her soul before her father.
"Love exists, but it is not a great feeling; it is great labor." Tajima folded his arms across his chest, his face set in a grimace that deepened the wrinkles around his mouth. But Izuna was relieved he hadn't denied love outright. "Hence, it is all dreadfully prosaic."
"So you don't believe in the existence of soulmates?"
"Kinship of souls is forged by people, not granted by heaven. If the patroness of our clan, the goddess Amaterasu, incarnated as a human, would she really take a man whose name stained her wrist rather than one she chose herself?"
The girl tilted her head. An interesting question. She had never thought of it that way.
"Were you and Mama not soulmates?"
"Another name is on my wrist. But does that diminish my love for your mother? Searching for one's other half is an unaffordable luxury for shinobi. They say such a union produces stronger offspring, but I wouldn't say that Madara, born of an earthly union rather than a heavenly one, is inferior to such children in any way."
Izuna lowered her gaze. That conversation dispelled her romantic illusions, leaving only a specter of curiosity. Papa was right. If Madara, a descendant of non-soulmates, could match the abilities of a soulmate descendant, then what was the benefit of a union inscribed on the wrist?
---
///
Izuna's insatiable curiosity manifested when she learned of the existence of a soulmate pair within the Uchiha settlement. They had a son two years older than her. Finding the boy, who introduced himself as Hikaku, she asked him to tell her about his parents. What was the difference between a soulmate pair and an ordinary one?
"Mutual understanding, I suppose," he shrugged, having never thought about it before. "Unconditional. They often speak in unison. Think the same thing. Well, generally, they're different in some ways, but as different as any complex and ambiguous person can be. When I look at them, I believe it's not two people, but one. They don't complement each other; they continue each other."
A shiver ran across Izuna's wrist, still unmarked by anyone's name.
"What you're saying sounds a bit eerie."
"It is. But then again, if we accept that soulmates are a gift from heaven, it's strange not to expect something frightening from it. After all, a miracle usually upends the laws of our world."
"You're so wise," the girl admired, extending her hand. "I want to be friends with you."
"If that is what the *hime* of the Uchiha desires, then gladly."
Hikaku shook her hand a little more firmly than necessary. Madara, watching his sister from the top of a tree like a jealous older brother, could not approve of her befriending the opposite sex, but he chose not to interfere.
---
///
At nine years old, when Izuna first meets Tobirama, nothing flutters inside her. But a vague premonition arises—this person will be with her for a long time.
---
///
"Retsuko, you have a lover!" Izuna exclaimed with a delight that could be mistaken for an accusation.
She had seen Retsuko kissing some man in the forest yesterday. It was strange to perceive the woman who had replaced her mother as someone's mistress.
"Yes, my lady," Retsuko's shoulders slumped, an air of hostility emanating from her. It seemed she had taken the *hime*'s words badly. "Will you order me punished?"
"Sit down. Your punishment is about to begin. Retsuko, what is it like... to lie with a man?"
Retsuko flinched. It was awkward explaining such intimate details to the girl she had looked after since childhood. Retsuko hadn't expected a punishment like this.
Izuna was fourteen, and although boys eyed her, she gave no one reason to close the distance. All her time was spent training with her brother and visiting the temple. She was quite religious, but religion only fueled her fire. Izuna was notoriously known for her cruelty. That was precisely why her good-natured nanny had cooled towards her charge.
"It's..." Retsuko's face turned crimson. She hunched over so much her chin nearly touched her chest. "It hurts the first time. You need a lot of lubrication. Without it, it hurts not only the woman but the man too."
Izuna rolled her eyes.
"I'm not asking what it's like the first time. I'm asking what sharing a bed with a man means to you *now*. Why do you do it? Why does a woman need a man?"
"You ask far too difficult questions, my lady. I don't know what to answer."
"Ugh, you're hopeless. You may go."
Afraid of angering Izuna, Retsuko glanced around fearfully and blurted out with a strange mix of obsequiousness and sincerity:
"Sex is a natural continuation of love! When you like a man, you want to be one with him!"
Izuna leaned forward. Her yukata slipped slightly, baring her shoulder.
"Even if that man is not your soulmate?"
"Of course."
---
///
By the irori hearth, where embers crackled softly, stood an unusual piece of furniture for this house—a *zaisu*, a low legless chair upholstered in dark fabric. In it, leaning back against the rest, sat Tajima Uchiha. The illnesses and wounds of recent years were taking their toll—sitting on the floor with his legs folded was now difficult for him.
Izuna settled beside him on a zabuton, adjusted the edge of her kimono, and opened a book. Once, she had asked her father to read to her, but he had never agreed. Now, she would read aloud for him, even if he didn't need it. Such was her petty revenge. Being an Uchiha, she was entitled to hold grudges. Engrossed in her reading, the *hime* didn't immediately notice that the smoldering flame of her father's chakra had gone out. Finishing the passage, she felt a profound loneliness. A single, stingy tear fell onto the page.
---
///
The semi-darkness reigning in Amaterasu's temple set the mood for prayer. Only a few oil lamps dispersed the gloom, illuminating the smooth floorboards polished by time. It smelled of aged cypress—Izuna inhaled the damp scent, feeling herself sinking into a drowsy state the moment she crossed the threshold. She had never been in a Senju temple, but from the memories left by ancestors, as well as the accounts of those who had escaped captivity or simply curious thieves, a broad, unattractive picture emerged: the temples of a clan that championed practicality and clarity of mind were distinguished by pompous decor. Amaterasu, however, needed no statue to be worshipped. The goddess's visage was imprinted in the hearts of her children.
This was one of the reasons Izuna inwardly mocked the Senju. They were simply hypocrites. And Tobirama was the most two-faced of them all. Destroying him was her personal mission. Izuna would take the greatest pleasure in drinking his blood from a cup.
In the depths of the hall, behind a gold-embroidered curtain, the sanctuary resided unseen—an ancient bronze mirror in which, it was believed, the very soul of the Uchiha clan was reflected. Izuna paused at the threshold of the *haiden*, feeling the reverent coolness of the temple wash over her flushed face. Madara stepped forward first—tossed a coin into the *saisenbako* offering box, bowed twice, clapped twice to summon the goddess's attention...
Izuna squeezed her eyes shut. She prayed not for her father, but for her brother, who had officially become the head of the clan. She prayed for his health and fortitude. In the temple's silence, she imagined that the distant sun beyond the walls had suddenly grown a fraction warmer, as if the goddess herself had winked at her encouragingly.
Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the passing on of fire. That was why peaceful time in the temple calmed her chaotic soul.
"Izuna, you know you can stop. You haven't reached adulthood yet. You don't have to keep fighting by my side. You're a talented kunoichi and you've done a lot for the Uchiha clan. Let anyone who calls you weak bite off their own tongue. I'll personally oversee the punishment for any mockers if you decide to leave the warrior's trade for family, medicine, science, travel, or whatever."
"Madara, do you really think I keep fighting out of pride?"
"Is it not so?" Dimples appeared on Madara's cheeks from a smile. "Father often said that if an Uchiha's pride is wounded, expect trouble. He revered pride as a virtue. You might not have always done as Father commanded, but you always listened to him."
Izuna twitched her shoulder.
"I'm with you because I'm *for* you. Your war is my war too. I can't leave you. There are many strong shinobi in our clan, but I can't entrust you to them—not because they're incapable, but because none of them are as devoted to you as I am. How could I forgive myself for your death, knowing I could have been there to deflect a poisoned enemy kunai? Besides, you know my feelings on history. It's written not by bureaucrats, but by shinobi. I want to be closest to history, and thus, to eternity."
"Oh, little sister... from whom did you inherit the gift of eloquence?"
"Must be from Amaterasu."
"You are undoubtedly her precious child."
---
///
The day before her coming-of-age, Izuna must undergo a solitary rite with the senior priestess in Amaterasu's temple, but before that, she must receive the blessing of the oldest and most honored representative of the clan. She enters the minimalist chambers and, obediently looking at the floor, prostrates herself. She remains in this posture of complete submission until the old man bids her rise. Izuna's posture is too perfect, as if she had swallowed a katana. A katana is capricious weaponry, and one who carries themselves with the self-assurance of a blade inspires fear.
"My lord, I have a question for you," the young *hime* begins without any embarrassment.
"I am listening, child."
"Why do you live?"
A gurgling chuckle escapes the old man's mouth.
"You are direct."
"Since childhood, I've been taught that a shinobi's purpose in life is war, and that honor means dying in battle. But I see no purpose in old age. Please, explain to this foolish woman what's what."
Izuna softens her audacious question with feigned meekness. This manipulation does not go unnoticed; to a centenarian, Izuna is no different than a four-year-old, just as she was to her father on that long-ago evening.
"I survived because I never truly fought. To give oneself over to war is to let it devour you. But I never agreed to be meat. Among shinobi, only the strongest or the most cowardly—and cunning in their cowardice—live to old age."
"Thank you for your honesty."
The old man had already read her intentions written on her face and shifted nervously.
"You see, in old age, your body ceases to match your ambitions. I cannot parry your strike. Do you not pity an old man?" smiled pleadingly the coward who had no right to call himself a warrior.
"No. I think we feed you for nothing."
Izuna's fury was unwavering. She plunged a kunai into the honored elder's heart. And she pressed it down for a long time, until her rage thinned to a spider's thread. This honored coward had nothing left to offer the Uchiha clan. If you don't cut off a rotting limb in time, it will infect the whole body.
---
///
On one hand, Hikaku felt pride that his clan's *hime* was a self-assured girl who didn't fear standing up for her interests and wouldn't let herself be wronged; on the other hand, her revolutionary approach provoked angry and wary whispers among the elders and their associates, whose power could not be underestimated.
Hikaku saw her right after the initiation rite. Her face reflected the joy of a child contentedly crushing ants. At least she hadn't killed the priestess. Before Izuna, no one had thought to kill an elder simply because he was, you see, useless. If this had happened under Tajima-sama's rule, he would not have let her get away with such willfulness, but her indulgent brother merely smirked and sided with her.
Hikaku understood then: Izuna Uchiha was truly a cruel person. Strangely enough, it was her very curiosity that made her so impatient with the rigidity of others.
---
///
Izuna boiled the water for her bath herself using seals, thus needing no servants. Izuna's ancestor—Fujiko-*hime*—was so spoiled that servants dried her like a princess, but with each generation, the girls became more self-sufficient, and therefore freer.
Izuna lowered herself onto the bench inside the wooden *furo* tub. The water was scalding—its temperature matched her character, fifty degrees at least. Steam rose from her body, clouding her vision.
In February, the Uchiha houses are cold, and the bath is a reliable way to warm up. Tomorrow, Tobirama would read her name on his wrist. Would he try, as she had, to burn it off? If so, he was in for failure.
Izuna tilted her head back, resting her nape against the damp, cedar-scented rim of the tub. Her heart beat rapidly, nearly leaping from her chest, but it was a familiar, almost pleasant sensation—a warrior's pulse after battle.
The water washed over the old scars on her shoulders—gifts from Tobirama. She traced the deepest one with her fingers and smirked. She wondered, if he knew she was sitting here now, defenseless, flushed, thinking of him... what would he do? Burst in with a katana? Or... no. Better not think about that. The water was already too hot.
She would need to add sea salt before her next soak—it helped relax her muscles after training with Madara. For now—just sit and wait for the fire under the tub and the fire in her head to equalize in temperature.
Having finished her ablutions, Izuna, flushed and purring with pleasure, dried herself with a terrycloth towel and headed to her chambers. Retsuko was supposed to check on her around this time, but where was she? Formally, she no longer needed a nanny, but Izuna was attached to the woman she had known since childhood.
The woman who entered brought incense. Izuna looked at the stranger with an expression as if she were not a person but a cockroach.
"Where is Retsuko?"
Silence.
"Where. Is. Retsuko?" Izuna repeated, and her voice rang with impatience.
The young woman, a little older than Izuna, with hair slicked back smoothly and sharp gray eyes that betrayed her as more than a simple servant, lowered her gaze but did not bend. In her hands, she held a tray with incense.
"My lady, I will be taking her place," she said evenly, without fawning.
Izuna fixed her gaze on her. The silence stretched, and the air in the room seemed to vibrate with tension.
"Are you deaf?" Izuna stepped forward, closing the distance. "That wasn't my question. Where is Retsuko?"
No one should make her repeat herself three times. This wench clearly didn't value her life.
"My lady, I don't know. I was merely sent."
Izuna's hand shot forward—not with full force, just a flick to the forehead, humiliating, like for a misbehaving dog. But the woman evaded the strike. Smoothly, effortlessly, as if she'd done nothing else her entire life.
Izuna froze. Her face showed not irritation, but interest.
"Not bad," she breathed, lowering her hand. "Who taught you to fight?"
Of course, "fight" was a strong word. But an ordinary person couldn't dodge a shinobi's lightning-fast flick.
The woman hesitated. Her gaze momentarily became empty, turned inward.
"That person is no longer alive," she replied just as evenly, but a barely perceptible tragic note trembled in her voice.
Izuna's eyes swept over her broad, unfeminine shoulders.
"What's your name?"
"Suzume, my lady."
"Sparrow," Izuna smirked. "Well then, Suzume. I like you. You may stay."
Suzume bowed, and there wasn't a drop of subservience in that bow—only dry, businesslike readiness.
---
///
Kenji—the elder seated at the head of the table—didn't even flinch when Izuna barged in. Only an eyebrow crept upward. He was starting to get used to the mad *hime* doing whatever she pleased.
"Izuna-sama," he said with exaggerated politeness. "We weren't expecting you. We were just discussing..."
"I don't care what you're discussing," she cut him off, approaching the table and planting her palms on it. Her kimono parted slightly, revealing her neck, still pink from the bath, but none of the men dared lower their gaze below her face. "Where is Retsuko?"
Kenji exchanged glances with Hiroshi. The latter shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"Izuna-sama, that question should be addressed to your brother," Kenji said softly. "We do not interfere in matters..."
"You don't interfere?" She laughed, and the laugh sounded like cracking ice. "You are the elders. You interfere in everything. Don't feed me fairy tales."
"Nevertheless," Hiroshi spoke up from the shadows, "you must ask Madara-sama."
Izuna straightened up. Her gaze slid over each of them—slowly, appraisingly, as if sizing up enemies before a fight. No one looked away, but no one could withstand that stare for more than a couple of seconds either. After the murder of the elder, relations with the council had cooled sharply. If she had killed a man five times her age, what stopped her from dealing with them? She was a direct threat to their power. And her brother had her back, as she was his most reliable and beloved ally.
"Do you hold me in no regard?" she asked quietly, and there was more menace in that quietness than in any shout. "Do you think you can disregard me without fear of consequences?"
"Izuna-sama," Kenji rose, his bulky figure looming over the table. "We honor you as the daughter of Tajima-sama and the sister of our leader. But decisions concerning servants are made either by the clan head or... those who oversee the household. We have nothing to do with it."
She looked at him for a long time. A very long time. Long enough for Kenji, a seasoned warrior, to feel a chill crawl down his spine.
"I would have found out the truth sooner or later anyway," she said finally. "What was the point of this comedy?"
She turned and walked out as swiftly as she had entered, ruining relations with her visit for good.
---
///
Madara sat on the veranda of the house, staring into the garden where the first February twilight was already beginning to thicken. A cup of cold tea sat before him—he hadn't touched it in the last hour.
Izuna settled down beside him. Without asking permission, without waiting for an invitation. She simply sat, tucking her legs beneath her, and stared at the same spot in the garden as he did.
"I barged in on the elders," she said after a long silence. "They seem to fear me."
Madara didn't stir. Only the muscles in his jaw tightened.
"Isn't that right?"
"It is right." Izuna turned her head and looked directly at him. "Where is Retsuko, Madara?"
He was silent for so long that she opened her mouth to repeat the question.
"She ran away."
Izuna froze.
"Ran away?" she repeated, and there was no anger in her voice—only disbelief. "Retsuko? Who was afraid to stick her nose out the gate without my permission?"
"She ran away," Madara repeated. "With a man. The same one you caught her with in the forest years ago."
Izuna blinked. The memory surfaced almost tangibly: Retsuko, shrinking like a snail, and that man—broad-shouldered, with the rough hands of a blacksmith, who looked at her as if she were not a nanny, but a goddess.
"I didn't know she..." Izuna started and faltered. "Why didn't she say anything?"
"And what would you have done?" Madara's voice took on a familiar bitterness. "Let her go? Given your blessing? You would have demanded he pass an inspection, prove his usefulness to the clan, swear an oath of loyalty. You wouldn't have let her go just like that. And she knew it."
Izuna wanted to object. Wanted to say that she would have understood, that she wasn't a beast, that Retsuko was dear to her. But the words stuck in her throat. Because deep down, she knew: Madara was right. She wouldn't have let her go. Not without conditions.
"They were killed," Madara said, and those three words fell into the silence like stones into a deep pool.
Izuna felt something snap inside her. Not her heart—a warrior's heart doesn't break so easily. Something else. The thin thread connecting her to childhood, to the scent of herbal remedies, to the warm hands that tucked her blanket on cold nights.
"Who?" she asked, her voice hoarse, alien.
"Bandits. On the high road, three days' travel from here. They were heading to the Land of Lightning. Thought they could start a new life there." Madara finally turned to her, and the same pain she felt inside swam in his eyes. "I found out a week later. By then, the local peasants had already buried them. I sent men to... to bring back the remains. But it was too late. The bodies were burned. Foreign people, foreign customs. We don't even know where their ashes are."
Izuna was silent. One thought pounded in her head: Retsuko. Her Retsuko. Who taught her to tie her obi, who told fairy tales, who blushed when Izuna asked about lovers. Dead. And not even ashes to pray for.
"Why didn't you tell me right away?" she finally breathed out.
Madara looked away.
"Because I wanted to protect you."
"From the truth?" The familiar prickliness crept into her voice, but now it sounded not like a weapon, but a plea. "From the fact that death exists? Madara, I've been killing people since I was six. I know death exists. I know it comes for everyone. But Retsuko... she was..."
"She was a mother to you," Madara finished for her. "I know."
They sat in silence. Somewhere in the garden, a night bird began to sing.
---
///
For the first time since her coming-of-age ceremony, Izuna crosses katanas with Tobirama in March, the polished steel ringing. Under his gaze, she always felt stripped to the bone, but this time it was different. Was he trying to memorize every line on the face of his soulmate before personally snuffing out her breath?
Izuna allowed herself to note that with beads of sweat on his heavy brow, Tobirama looked attractive. He fought fiercely; never before had he poured so much emotion into his movements. It strangely flattered Izuna—right up until the moment he grabbed her by the hair and she had to burn off an entire lock to escape his grip.
She used to run across hot coals as if they were sakura petals, and now this? Her own fire had devoured her silken hair. If Retsuko were alive, she would have sympathized.
---
///
Tobirama.
She hated saying that name aloud.
To-bi-ra-ma.
The name of her sworn enemy seared her tongue like a fire steel.
Today, as the last snow, mixed with mud, crunched beneath her feet, she saw him differently. Saw the beauty of his profile, lit by the sun. Perhaps Amaterasu hadn't chosen Tobirama as her other half by chance. He would balance out her impulsiveness. Right?
Today Tobirama grabbed her hair. He had never resorted to such dirty tricks against her—her, who stooped to anything for victory.
Izuna automatically touched the spot on her head where, this morning, a thick lock had been. Now—only an uneven edge, singed by her own fire. She'd had to choose: stay in his hands or lose her hair. She chose freedom. But freedom smelled of burnt hair.
Izuna collapsed onto her futon and stared at the ceiling.
She mustn't think about him. He's bad for digestion. And anyway...
But her thoughts disobeyed.
She hated him. Hated him so much that sometimes it seemed that hatred would burn her up from the inside. But today, looking at his face, sheened with sweat, at his lips pressed tightly in determination, at his hands—strong, sinewy, capable of snapping her neck with one motion—she felt something else.
Something that took her breath away.
Izuna squeezed her eyes shut and rolled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest. Her body hummed after the fight, muscles ached, but a different kind of heat was kindling low in her belly.
Her hand slid down on its own, to where the heat had become unbearable. Izuna bit her lip, trying to suppress a moan. How stupid this was. Today she could have died, just like before, just like always.
But the image wouldn't let go.
Tobirama looming over her. Tobirama, whose breath mingled with hers. Tobirama, whose fingers squeezed her wrist, leaving bruises. Tobirama, looking at her as if he didn't just want to kill her—as if he wanted to possess her completely, without reserve.
She arched on the futon, pressing her hand to the most sensitive spot, and one thought pulsed in her head: what would he do if she let him? If, in that moment he grabbed her hair, she hadn't broken free, hadn't burned the lock, but stayed?
What would he do to her?
---
///
The Uchiha clan training ground was empty. Izuna stood in the center with her katana at the ready and waited.
"Madara is busy," a familiar voice came from behind her. "A meeting with the elders. He asked me to tell you he won't be able to make it today."
Izuna turned around, and irritation flashed across her face, quickly replaced by resignation.
"The elders," she repeated with an intonation as if speaking of annoying flies. "They suck the time out of him."
"They suck the time out of everyone." Hikaku shrugged, drawing his katana. "But I'm here. Will that suffice?"
Izuna gave him an appraising look. Hikaku was no Madara—no one was Madara. But he was a strong fighter, smart, and, more importantly, he wasn't afraid of her.
"It'll do," she nodded, taking her stance. "But don't expect mercy."
"From you?" Hikaku smirked. "Never."
They crossed blades. For the first few minutes, Izuna fought at half-strength, testing his reactions. Hikaku held his own confidently, parried strikes, went on the offensive himself. But Izuna felt it—he was holding back. Too cautious.
"Are you afraid to hurt me?" she asked, stopping and lowering her katana.
Hikaku also paused, breathing heavily.
"I'm afraid to anger you," he admitted honestly. "There's a difference."
"There's no difference." Izuna raised her blade again. "Anger is fuel. If you're not willing to provoke my anger, you're not ready to fight me seriously."
They continued. Hikaku began striking harder, and Izuna felt the familiar flame kindle inside—the thrill she only felt in real combat.
"You know," Hikaku said between blows, "I've always been amazed at how easily you walk towards death."
"I don't walk towards death," Izuna retorted, evading his lunge. "I walk into battle. Those are different things."
"But death is always nearby."
"Of course." She made a thrust that he barely parried. "But don't fear death, Hikaku. Fear life."
"What does that mean?" He stepped back, catching his breath.
Izuna stopped too. Something flickered in her eyes—a shadow of the girl who once asked her father questions about love and war.
"Death is just the end," she said quietly. "Life is the constant choosing of an end. I think living in expectation of death is scarier than just dying."
Hikaku laughed, but respect glinted in his eyes.
"Are you in a philosophical mood today?"
"I'm always in a philosophical mood."
They sparred for a long time. Izuna felt fatigue spreading through her body—a pleasant, proper weariness after a good workout. Hikaku held up well, though it was clear he was tiring.
"You're stronger than last time," she admitted when they disengaged again.
"I train," he smiled, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You know, watching you, you realize that the feeling of safety is an illusion."
"Illusion?" Izuna raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah." He leaned against a tree, catching his breath. "You never let yourself relax. Even now, when we're just training, you're ready to kill me if I make a wrong move. There's no safety with you. And that's... right. Because in our world, safety doesn't exist. There's only readiness."
Izuna smirked.
"You're becoming a philosopher too, Hikaku."
"It's your influence," he smiled back, but the smile quickly faded. "And you know what else I've realized, watching you?"
"What?"
"The feeling of belonging is a sin."
Izuna froze. Those words resonated within her. She couldn't help but demand an answer:
"Explain."
Hikaku looked at her without his usual softness.
"You belong to the clan. Uchiha is your destiny. And because of that, you're ready to kill and die. But look at what the clan gives you in return? The elders fear you. Women whisper behind your back. Even your brother..." he faltered.
"What about my brother?" Metal rang in Izuna's voice.
"Your brother loves you, but he's part of this too. He also demands that you belong. That you fight for the clan, die for the clan. And what if you wanted to leave? What if you wanted to live for yourself?"
"I don't want to leave," Izuna cut him off.
"I know." Hikaku sighed. "That's exactly why I'm saying it. The feeling of belonging is a sin. Because it robs you of choice. You don't ask yourself what *you* want. You ask what the clan needs."
"Treasonous talk, don't you think?" Izuna tried to turn the conversation into a joke, but it was clear she was angry. "One might think you're suggesting we run away from the war and our obligations, or at worst, commit double suicide."
"I would die for you, you know that?" Hikaku continued, because a good fight loosened the tongue like sake. He just couldn't stop; words raced ahead of common sense.
"Dying isn't necessary," Izuna sighed, sheathing her katana. "If you want to suffer so badly, go chop firewood for Lady Yoriko; she asked."
---
///
"The Senju squad is moving through the gorge at sunset," Madara spoke, tracing a finger along a drawn line on the map. "Approximately thirty men. Among them—Tobirama."
At that name, something fluttered inside Izuna, but she didn't let it show.
"We strike from two sides," Madara continued. "You take the left flank. I take the right. We meet in the center, where..."
"Instead of leaves on the trees, there will be Senju," Izuna interrupted, her voice carrying that same pompous bravado she had picked up from her father. "No one will leave."
Madara didn't meet expectations: instead of his usual nod, he froze, and the way he slowly raised his head made the air vibrate with alarm. Probably, the inevitable end that *nii-san*'s victims saw before death looked just like this in his eyes, which now flashed red. His Sharingan spun at a furious speed, but there was no battle lust in them. There was only rage, undiluted by irony.
"What did you say?" he hissed.
Izuna opened her mouth to repeat, but didn't get the chance. Madara lunged at her, grabbed her wrist, and forcefully pushed up her kimono sleeve. There, on the inside of her arm, just above the pulsing vein, a name burned.
千手扉間 — Tobirama Senju.
Black characters that had appeared on her skin on her sixteenth birthday. The very ones she had tried to burn or cut off. Neither had worked. They appeared again and again, like a curse.
Madara stared at that name as if it were not a character, but a living enemy.
"How can you say such cynical things," her brother spat liquid fire with every word, "with Tobirama Senju's name on your wrist?"
Izuna yanked her hand back, rolling her sleeve down. Everything inside her was boiling.
"How long have you known?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Did Suzume tell you? That traitor."
"It doesn't matter how I know," Madara snapped, stepping closer. He was taller, broader, and now, in his fury, he seemed like a true giant. "What matters is that it didn't come from you. You hid this from me. From your own brother."
"And could you have solved this problem?" Izuna shouted, and tears—tears she hadn't allowed herself since childhood—flashed in her eyes. "Could you? Would you have told me something that would have changed everything?"
Madara froze. His rage didn't subside, but something else appeared in it—pain.
"Maybe I could have," he said quietly. "If you'd given me the chance."
A heavy silence hung between them, like a soaked banner. Izuna looked at her brother and saw something in his eyes she had never noticed before. Fear. Not for himself—for her.
"Madara," she said firmly, pouring all her resolve into her voice, "this changes nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing. I won't miss. I won't spare him. Tomorrow I'll drive my katana into his heart, and whatever will be, will be."
Madara stared at her unblinkingly until a bitter, strained chuckle cut the silence in half, bringing back the brother she had known all her life.
"In that case," he finally said, turning back to business and facing the map, "when you moan our sworn enemy's name at night, do it quieter. The walls in this house are thinner than you think."
Izuna felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to object, to say she didn't... that he had no right... but the words stuck in her throat.
---
///
And again, just like in March—Izuna under Tobirama. And what should she do, beg for mercy? That would be utterly humiliating. Her pride wouldn't survive such a blow.
The katana entered her shoulder—clean, deep, right on target. Izuna exhaled—not a cry, but a strange sound, almost like satisfaction.
Tobirama loomed over her. His knee pressed into her thigh, his free hand pinning her good shoulder to the wet ground. The fingers gripping the katana's hilt slowly, almost tenderly, drove the blade deeper into the wound.
Blood soaked her combat gear—black with red accents, she knew it was his favorite uniform—spreading across the grass in a dark stain.
"Well," she breathed, looking up at him. "Go on. Finish it."
Tobirama was silent. He was looking at her hair, splayed out on the ground.
"Am I not your gift? A gift from heaven?"
He froze. His fingers on the hilt trembled. Izuna didn't rush to celebrate victory, but he was definitely not indifferent.
"You are my curse," his voice broke, turning into a rasp.
Izuna smiled disarmingly. Now, it was she who would finish him:
"I masturbated thinking of you. Never came so hard before. Maybe this is it, that fabled kinship of souls?"
Tobirama's anger had a life of its own, seeping into every pore of his body. The katana twitched in her shoulder, but she didn't even wince.
"You disgust me."
"Love you too."
Tobirama withdrew the blade from her body. He left, throwing only:
"You'll regret this." — Given his inability to kill her, it sounded unconvincing.
The Uchiha *hime* felt no shame for what she had said; after all, it had saved her life. Though her clansmen, especially the old guard, would have deemed her vulgar.
---
///
At the conclusion of the truce between the Uchiha and Senju clans, Izuna appeared in a kimono with short sleeves. Anyone who wished to examine the characters on her wrist could do so.