Naruto: Slow Journey to the Core [Madara]
Title: “Slow Journey to the Core”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: Everything that Madara hates is incidentally centred around one person. [Vague spoilers for Chapter 499]
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto Masashi’s playground.
A/N: I hate my life right now, so here’s this semi-old plotless, pointless Maddy-centric piece.
SLOW JOURNEY TO THE CORE
Madara’s hatred is the colour of newborn leaves in spring, and smells of freshly loosened earth. It tastes like sake on the veranda under the stars.
(Softly, he said: Death is relative. Everything ends. Even death.)
Madara’s hatred is the colour of night that shimmers in the flat, reproachful eyes of his deceitful kinsmen. It is cold to the touch like the blade of a finest sword and tastes a little like pine wood.
(Are we not one, brothers? he pled with them and they replied mercilessly: You killed your brother.)
Madara’s hatred is the deathly crimson of the Mangekyou Sharingan awakened by a child who dares play his pitiful gambits against him. It smells and feels and tastes a lot like blood, like the blood of his own.
(Deal, said the boy, and Madara wondered which one of them was the devil.)
Madara’s hatred is the dizzying red of the Nine-Tails’ fur. It blazes like a thousand scalding suns and reeks of fury and destruction. It makes him nauseous.
(You dare!.. the creature bellows. Madara answers conceitedly: I dare.)
Madara’s hatred is the colour of fiery red hair swirling in the wind like a wondrous dragon of fortune. It tastes like salt ramen and sounds like laughter that has an insolent, angry edge to it.
(You can destroy my entire country, the woman spat vehemently, but you’re never getting my chakra! He chuckles. That is not what I’m after.)
Madara’s hatred is sunshine yellow and the most brilliant summer blue. It sings to the painful old tune of putting the village before oneself and it makes a pact with death.
(The young Hokage said: The village rests in the shadow of fire, and fire keeps it safe. So it shall be.)
Madara’s hatred is the white-hot ancient chakra that gave birth to the carnivorous world of shinobi.
(I am the one who will establish peace and order, the great founder had said. When Madara repeated his words, nobody trusted him.)
Madara’s hatred acquires an astringent taste of a thorn in one’s passionate heart, a constant ache for a friend that should be here but is not. The boys that faced off at his and Hashirama’s battlefield have grown up.
(The two of you have been chosen by fate, Madara told the boy - and ran into a solid wall of obdurate denial.)
Madara’s hatred is all that and so much more encased in the shell of yellow and blue, orange and black, so bright and hot-blooded and raw. The brat has not an ounce of Hashirama’s level-headedness, and yet he is a Senju to the bone, in spirit if not in name or blood.
It should be fun to break him.
But it’s not.
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: Everything that Madara hates is incidentally centred around one person. [Vague spoilers for Chapter 499]
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto Masashi’s playground.
A/N: I hate my life right now, so here’s this semi-old plotless, pointless Maddy-centric piece.
SLOW JOURNEY TO THE CORE
Madara’s hatred is the colour of newborn leaves in spring, and smells of freshly loosened earth. It tastes like sake on the veranda under the stars.
(Softly, he said: Death is relative. Everything ends. Even death.)
Madara’s hatred is the colour of night that shimmers in the flat, reproachful eyes of his deceitful kinsmen. It is cold to the touch like the blade of a finest sword and tastes a little like pine wood.
(Are we not one, brothers? he pled with them and they replied mercilessly: You killed your brother.)
Madara’s hatred is the deathly crimson of the Mangekyou Sharingan awakened by a child who dares play his pitiful gambits against him. It smells and feels and tastes a lot like blood, like the blood of his own.
(Deal, said the boy, and Madara wondered which one of them was the devil.)
Madara’s hatred is the dizzying red of the Nine-Tails’ fur. It blazes like a thousand scalding suns and reeks of fury and destruction. It makes him nauseous.
(You dare!.. the creature bellows. Madara answers conceitedly: I dare.)
Madara’s hatred is the colour of fiery red hair swirling in the wind like a wondrous dragon of fortune. It tastes like salt ramen and sounds like laughter that has an insolent, angry edge to it.
(You can destroy my entire country, the woman spat vehemently, but you’re never getting my chakra! He chuckles. That is not what I’m after.)
Madara’s hatred is sunshine yellow and the most brilliant summer blue. It sings to the painful old tune of putting the village before oneself and it makes a pact with death.
(The young Hokage said: The village rests in the shadow of fire, and fire keeps it safe. So it shall be.)
Madara’s hatred is the white-hot ancient chakra that gave birth to the carnivorous world of shinobi.
(I am the one who will establish peace and order, the great founder had said. When Madara repeated his words, nobody trusted him.)
Madara’s hatred acquires an astringent taste of a thorn in one’s passionate heart, a constant ache for a friend that should be here but is not. The boys that faced off at his and Hashirama’s battlefield have grown up.
(The two of you have been chosen by fate, Madara told the boy - and ran into a solid wall of obdurate denial.)
Madara’s hatred is all that and so much more encased in the shell of yellow and blue, orange and black, so bright and hot-blooded and raw. The brat has not an ounce of Hashirama’s level-headedness, and yet he is a Senju to the bone, in spirit if not in name or blood.
It should be fun to break him.
But it’s not.