[ closed starter for @sarcasm-muses ]
The Summit had failed. Despite the offer of power to the other villages, despite the willingness to share what prosperity there was to be had, peace seemed, once again, an impossible dream.
Or maybe it had never ceased to be that, and Hashirama had lived the last years of his life caught up in an illusion. Konohagakure was still not free of the struggle of violence, still did not have a future that would see no death come at the hands of men and their quarrels.
Was it all a fruitless toil, after all?
Had he been right about the nature of shinobi, of mankind? Madara was long dead, but not forgotten. He haunted Hashiramaâs every decision, questioned his approach to this terrible war, argued with every other voice that influenced Hashiramaâs thinking. A terrible, cursed memory of someone who, after all, may have been right about the world.
But he couldnât surrender to that depressing notion. He was needed, still. Hashirama had so hoped to pass on the mantle of Hokage by now, to Tobirama who was every bit as capable as he. And perhaps, more realistic, too.
His brother, who still stood by his side after all these years. The one who would follow him into battle on this very day.Â
His brother, who was waiting for him to lead the way, as always.
âAre you ready, Tobirama?â