a place ruled by peace

//awww anon this is so sweet. Honestly, thank you so much. I know I left this blog alone for a long time and I’m still not sure yet what I’m gonna be doing on here other than fart around and read old threads, but i thoroughly appreciate the compliment! And I hope our old threads provided you with some decent entertainment.

People should never have to be more than themselves. They shouldn’t have to carry the burden of symbolism, but like water following the path of a riverbed, it could not be avoided. He knew this intimately well. Despite his best intentions, symbolism clung to him, his every action, infected Madara, passed on to Tobirama, to Izuna, to their clans. To their village. Nothing they did could be simple, even if that was the intention. None of them could be free of the significance of changing history. 

The first children to populate the new village wouldn’t know it right away, but they were the first generation of shinobi not raised among the corpses of their fallen families. They’d be the first not to know hunger simply because their clan had chosen poorly in terms of contracts. 

None of that. And they’d be carrying the symbol of Hashirama and Madara’s dream on their young backs. Hashirama could only hope it would not become a burden.

And for his own son, he wished it even more so. Yukirama was...oh, he was so much. He was love, pure and simple, given form. He was more than a dream, because he should be impossible. He should be nothing but an unfulfilled desire in the back of Hashirama’s mind.

Instead, he was the ultimate symbol of the union between former enemies, formerly embittered rival clans. He was Uchiha, and he was Senju.

But he didn’t know any of that. Or if he did, he hid it well. What a wondrous, marvelous child he was. 

Could sunlight take human form?

Yes. Hashirama didn’t know the answer to many things, but this one, he could feel in his bones. He knew, because when he looked at his son, he could feel something ancient and sweet and a little other-worldly.

His son. Flesh of his flesh that grew and thrived because Hashirama had made it possible. Yukirama was starting to become a lanky thing; no longer the small bean that fit into the crook of his arm, or the living loaf of bread that cried with delight when Hashirama let him crawl across his chest.

He was just twelve years old now, and he knew nothing of pain, of loss, or of hardship. And it was good this way. A child, being a child. The only reason he learned about chakra and jutsu was to sate his curiosity. His training wasn’t based on a need to survive, but only on a competitive streak that Madara did his best to disguise.

Yukirama wasn’t spoiled. He knew the world was not only sweet and kind, but he only knew it from cautionary tales and village squabbles. Clan disagreements, or the sordid tales of his uncles. Both of which, despite denying it at every turn, had the same nostalgia for war that Hashirama and Madara regretted on some nights.

Yukirama grew him a tree.

It was the single, proudest moment of Hashirama’s life. Somehow, it managed to cast living history into its leafy shadow; the ceasefire, the peace, the founding of Konoha. None of that could measure up to the moment he watched his son pull up a maple, slender and young, from a seed to a fully grown, magnificent tree.

Yukirama inherited his mokuton. Hashirama hadn’t known it was possible, and yet, here he was, wild-haired like an Uchiha, strong-armed like a Senju, kind as Madara and hopeful as Hashirama. He was their perfect union, their perfect representation of what peace could be, could produce. But he was so much more than that.

He wasn’t a small child anymore. Every day, he seemed taller, stronger, more willful. A person unto himself, and one who did not always agree with his parents. And yet, even if he was being a stubborn teenager, he was a delight. A whole person, sprung from his love for Madara. How could he not love him so much?

It made him reflect on the way Butsuma had performed parenthood. Performed, because his children were, to him, mere extensions of his will, weapons to be forged and used and thrown away. Hashirama couldn’t fathom it. He’d give up anything to keep his child from knowing that sort of conditional love, if it could be called love at all.

Hashirama wouldn’t call it that. If you loved something, you protected it, and let it flourish on its own, like a tender little sprout that you might shield with your hands from a hailstorm. 

You didn’t force it into a cage of your own design.

// sel is a bully but ok i will post the teenie tiny drabbles

and the treelord missed you too!

A drabble to go along with v: fallen kingdom with @sennokami

                                                        x

The silence was the worst part. Like ramming a knife into an open wound, twisting it until it stuck too deep to ever be recovered.

This house had once been filled with noise, at near any time of the day. Even if Hashirama hadn’t spent much time here, in this house that he’d built, it had been his home, and it had been filled with life and love. 

His home, his family, his child and the love of his life. That’s what he’d come to expect from this place, a haven for his mind, body and soul. Here, he’d been whole. He’d been more than a shinobi of unparalled power. More than the Shodaime of Konoha. Here, he’d been Hashirama, a loving father, a dedicated partner and a man at peace.

All of that had been ripped out of his life, and now this house held nothing but bittersweet memories and solitude. 

Hashirama had been sitting in this particular room for uncounted hours. Everything still looked the same. The carved trees on the wall, the bed rolled messily to the side, some clothes strewn about, Yukirama’s childhood toys piled into a corner (holding the solemn little promise of being cleaned up after dinner!).

Except that the one who should have been here had been swallowed by the world, and stolen from Hashirama’s life.

He twisted the wooden bird in his hands. Yuki’s favourite companion in his baby days. The wing tips were blunt and a little chewed, the back and head smooth from long time petting by tiny hands. It even still had the little sprout on its tail, the first manifestation from his son at toddler age. It had withered now, a sad little sprog of dry wood.

Hashirama had been confused and angry for a long time. His wild search of the immediate area had come up with nothing. The result of Tobirama’s sensing, much the same.

His initial panic and fear that something had happened to Madara and Yuki subsided rapidly. Nothing and no one could have overcome Madara fast enough to move them both out of Tobirama’s incredible range.

After that revelation, the cogs of Hashirama’s mind had come to halt. He couldn’t understand what had happened, why his lover and his child vanished into the night, and why Madara hadn’t bothered to contact him somehow about whatever happened.

Tobirama shed some horrific, clear light on the situation and offered an explanation that only now sank into Hashirama’s bones.

Madara left him. After all they’d been through together, after the fantastic highs and the terrible lows of their relationship, Madara had left him behind. His reasons were beyond Hashirama, but the evidence of his decision were indisputable. 

And yet, as if having his heart ripped apart wasn’t enough, Madara had taken Yukirama. His son. His child. His miraculous baby, the very proof of love being a great force in this life. The child he’d pulled from a tree, the child that conquered the two most powerful shinobi this world knew with just one smile.

His body ached. He’d never known pain this deep. Even losing his brothers hadn’t cut him apart like this. Madara had carved all of Hashirama’s guts out and scattered them into the dirt.

He felt as hollow as this house, filled with nothing but questions, regret and grief. 

Hashirama couldn’t begin to understand, even when he tried to put his pain aside to think coherently. All he could remember was how happy they’d been in the few moments they could steal out of Hashirama’s busy life. How fulfilled he’d felt with Madara at his side, overlooking the home they’d built, the village they’d raised, with their child, their combined flesh and blood in Hashirama’s arms.

The eagle cracked. Hashirama looked down, immediately feeling an unreasonable amount of regret for breaking the toy. He let the pieces roll out of his hands and onto the floor. A sorry pile of old wood.

The confusion and grief was numbing, but it couldn’t truly snuff the rage building deep in his chest. Hashirama was a forgiving man, and he believed in the better spirits of men, but this was too personal, too intense for him to accept.

Bitter anger overshadowed the love once felt. As much as his patience had always extended to extreme length for Madara, this was a step too far.

Who knew where he’d gone, and what he was doing with the son he’d ripped out of their peaceful home. Who knew what sort of fear and thoughts drove Madara, and what he was inflicting on Yuki in turn.

If he’d left alone, Hashirama wouldn’t have understood either, but he doubted he would be wrestling the notion of hate as he was right now. He didn’t want to hate Madara, but it was hard to resist the forceful pull of emotions.

Maybe things hadn’t been perfect in Konoha. Maybe he hadn’t spent enough time digging into Madara’s every thought. But none of that justified tearing their family apart. 

Madara and Hashirama shared a long history of hurting one another, be it on the battlefield or in the precarious spiderweb of the emotions they had for one another. But this time, Madara had struck all the way down to the bone, ripping away every ounce, every drop of Hashirama’s faith in this world and the people he loved most. Tobirama tried to stem the onset of a depression after convincing Hashirama that he could not simply abandon Konoha now to search for a man who didn’t want to be found. But even he couldn’t return the brightness to Hashirama’s eyes, or the smile that had vanished on the morning of the discovery of Madara’s deed.

Madara, who had betrayed their future and dream for reasons unknown, reasons never shared with Hashirama, whom he supposedly love. Madara, the only man to make Hashirama feel powerless in this world.

Madara, who stole the stars from the sky and buried them in lies and deception.

The walls creaked, the house coming to life and grinding the furnishings to dust between thick, writhing, furiously growing trunks.

It didn’t stop until the entire house was torn apart and turned into nothing but a monument to his anger, a tree bearing no leaves or life, only ragged lances of wood.

  //as soon as I went to bed things got wild here...

in my hour of greatest need, you weren’t here :,,,,,,,<

you say that as if I wouldn’t too have bullied you for your caveman habit.

Well, he does feel better hearing that. “Anija. I would though prefer if you didn’t die.” He knows the saying is that; the elder should pass before the younger, but in this case he will simply ignore that saying.