writing Shodaime and Uchiha Madara
The rain had come early this year, heavy and cold, as such weather often was, but somehow, the sky was darker than Uchiha Madara ever remembered it to have been. He had seen many nights filled with rain, where the heavy clouds, though it was full and bright, hid the moon, and the chill was enough to make the strongest of shinobi, if not shiver, think about doing it, and concentrate on preventing such weakness from being seen.
He wondered what the New Year would bring, what new jutsu techniques, what new students, and what new conflicts. The newly formed Kumogakure no Sato was, if not a threat as of yet, something to watch. Their leader was young and ambitious, as such folk often were, and her followers were devoted. They would follow her to war, if she commanded it. Madara knew that nothing had the power to challenge Konoha (yet, a part of his mind whispered, not yet), but that would not last. It never did.
They were not ready for a war. Not yet.
The rains came and went. The moon would show its face again, and new power would always arise from the shadows it was born in. Such was the way of the shinobi world, ever shifting and changing. Little, if anything, would stay the same forever.
“What do you see, Madara?”
He blinked, but did not turn, placing a hand on the window. The glass was cold and smooth under his scarred palm, the shadows making his pale skin into something ghostly. “I see conflict arising. This peace will not last.”
Shodaime chuckled softly, and Madara turned to face him, crossing his arms. The shinobi before him was leaning against the wall directly opposite him, crimson armor dented and worn, and dark hair disheveled and wet, sticking to his skull. “You find that amusing?”
“No,” Shodaime said calmly, because when was that man not calm? Nothing fazed him; Madara had tried numerous times, because it was not in the nature of an Uchiha to leave the powerful unchallenged for very long. “Though I would have said the rains are heavy this year. The Kajahara clan will not make a move until it stops. They will not be a threat until the spring.”
Madara frowned. “They are not so great. If we move now, we will crush them.”
Two squads would be enough; the family was skilled, without doubt, but they were few in number. Their Bloodline Limit would not save them from an onslaught of Uchiha fighters. Madara’s kinsmen were good at what they did.
Thunder sounded behind him, loud and bombing. The tempo of the rain increased; it reminded Madara of snapping bones. There would be plenty of mud in the morning, if the rain ended then, if the water didn’t wash the earth away until only the stone was left.
“I do not intend to massacre them,” Shodai informed him softly, the shadows hiding his eyes and turning his emotionless face into something strange and dark. Something dangerous. “What would that accomplish?”
Madara’s frown turned to a scowl, and dark eyes shifted to a bloody crimson. Twin Sharingan spun, and still Shodaime’s face remained neutral. As always. As expected. He said nothing, waiting for an explanation. Thunder sounded behind him, and lightning illuminated the room for a moment, before plunging it back into shadows again.
Shodaime stared at him, unblinking. Black eyes without any particular power, save perhaps a quiet defiance, met spinning Sharingan without blinking, without the little hint of fear that Madara had come to expect from those below him. There was nothing but calmness in the shinobi who stood before him, and Madara was forced to accept, as he had before, that Shodai was not below him in strength. That the man would never surrender and bow down to him, as all others had before.
It had been something new to him, when they had first met. A fact Uchiha Madara had not wanted to accept, that the calm Senju warrior could defy him, could challenge him, that their power was so similar, despite the great differences. They were equals in fighting skill, and Shodai had the loyalty of all those he commanded, even more so than Madara held over the Uchiha clan.
He had yet to figure out exactly how Shodaime did it.
“If we end the Kajahara, another clan will rise up in their place,” Shodaime said, still meeting his stare unblinkingly. “Perhaps they will be stronger, perhaps not. It is our way, to always strive to be the best, after all. The powerful are constantly challenged, and the weaker are pushed down to the bottom. A cycle that never ends.”
A pause, and the staring continued for a long minute as the rain pounded on the window behind them. It was Madara who looked away first, deactivating his Sharingan without blinking. Shodaime didn’t acknowledge his victory outwardly, his face still neutral as ever. Perhaps the man didn’t even consider these little staring-matches of theirs to be power-struggles, or more likely, he didn’t think it wise to show Madara his true feelings about their relationship.
Shodaime was smart enough to know how to stay cold about such things. Madara commended him for it, silently.
“I will make them part of Konoha. The fighting with them will end; their strength becomes our power.”
Madara laughed quietly. “They will not surrender.”
“No?” Shodaime gave him a look that said many things, none of which he could read clearly. “You underestimate their will to survive.”
The rain was heavy; Madara could almost smell the musky wetness, it was so loud against the window. Shodaime was a fool; this mercy would be the end of him. Konoha’s first Hokage would not die in battle, no, no such death for Shodaime. His ending would come from behind. Treachery he would not see coming. The dagger hidden under the arm-guard of the shinobi he allowed to live when he should have killed them.
Madara was almost sad about the fact, and didn’t understand why. Shodaime would die a poor death, that was fact. A fool’s death, fulfilling his ideals, that Madara had tried and failed numerous times to understand. The powerful were the ones who lived, and yet Shodaime would die to save those who were so far below him in skill.
It made no sense.
He shook his head slowly. “This will not go so simply.”
“No, perhaps not. But I am prepared for the consequences.”
Madara shook his head wordlessly, and turned away.
The rain had ended, but the water still ran down in little rivers down the glass, like it was crying. Madara closed his eyes because he didn’t want to look at it. The New Year was soon to come, and with it would come many new things. Shodaime would get himself killed, if not this year, then the next, or the one after that. He would not stand long with such a merciful rule.
Madara wished the rain would scream. The silence was too defining.