The midday sun filtered softly through the open paper windows of the Senju compound, casting lattice-like shadows across the polished floor. A breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth from the surrounding forest, but inside the walls of the clan's great hall, the air was still—thick with the weight of silence.
Hashirama Senju sat alone beneath the large canopy of the main hall, his back straight, eyes lowered. In his lap lay a folded strip of crimson-stained cloth—torn from the hem of Itama's uniform. It had been delivered to him that morning, along with the news that had turned his world on its side.
Itama was dead.
Killed in a skirmish near the southern border, ambushed by a group of Uchiha shinobi during a solo patrol. There had been no survivors from his unit. Only remnants—ashes, scattered weapons, and the blood-soaked earth as testimony to the violence that had erupted there.
Hashirama hadn't spoken for hours.
Tobirama stood a few paces away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched. He had tried to say something—anything—but the words died in his throat. Even his sharp tongue could find no edge to wield in the face of this loss.
"It was my idea," Hashirama finally whispered.
Tobirama looked up.
"I told Father that Itama should take that patrol. That he was ready," Hashirama continued, voice rough. "I said he needed the experience. That he could handle it."
Tobirama said nothing.
"I was proud," Hashirama went on, hands tightening around the cloth. "He'd been training so hard. So eager to prove himself. And I let him go."
His voice cracked, the syllables shattering like porcelain. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, trembling.
"I let him go."
Tobirama's expression darkened. He stepped forward. "We don't know everything yet. The bodies were burned. We have no confirmation—"
"There was blood. His blood." Hashirama looked up now, and there was something in his eyes—something rarely seen. Despair. "His chakra signature faded near the site. He's gone, Tobirama."
He stood abruptly, turning away, the cloth still clenched in his fist. The hall felt too large, too empty. The absence of Itama was a void—a gnawing silence louder than any battlefield. Hashirama walked to the edge of the veranda, gazing out over the compound grounds where young shinobi trained. The trees in the distance swayed gently.
"He used to train just there," Hashirama murmured, nodding toward a ring of dirt near the sparring yard. "When we were younger. He would sneak out at dawn and swing that broken sword of his like it meant something."
"He wanted to be like you," Tobirama said softly.
"No." Hashirama's voice was quiet but sure. "He wanted to be stronger than me. He used to say it—how he'd protect the clan better than I ever could. That he'd end the war so I wouldn't have to."
Silence followed.
Tobirama shifted his stance, uncomfortable. "He was too young to be out there."
"So were we."
"That doesn't make it right."
Hashirama exhaled slowly, as if the air itself burned his lungs. He sank down onto the veranda's edge, his legs folding beneath him.
"I promised Mother I'd protect him," he whispered. "I swore it at her grave. That I'd keep our brothers safe. And now…"
He trailed off.
The trees rustled.
Tobirama lowered himself beside his brother. "Itama died with honor."
"I didn't want him to die with honor," Hashirama growled. "I wanted him to live."
His voice cracked again, and his hand shook as he placed the bloodied cloth on the ground before him. His fingers lingered on it, as though afraid letting go would make it real. That it would mark a finality he wasn't ready to face.
They sat in silence.
Minutes passed.
Footsteps approached. A younger clan member bowed before speaking, careful not to meet Hashirama's gaze.
"Lord Butsuma requests your presence. There is talk of retaliation."
Hashirama didn't look up. "Tell him I'm not coming."
"Hashirama—" Tobirama began.
"Not now."
The messenger hesitated, then bowed again and departed.
Tobirama stayed silent.
Eventually, Hashirama spoke again, softer than before. "Do you remember the stories we used to tell him? About what the village would be like?"
Tobirama nodded.
"He believed in it," Hashirama said. "More than anyone. He truly thought we could make a place without bloodshed."
He fell quiet.
Then, almost to himself, he added, "What's the point of building peace if we lose everything before we get there?"
Tobirama looked at his brother—really looked. The great Hashirama Senju, the man who carried the dreams of an entire generation, now bent beneath the weight of grief.
"Then we honor him," Tobirama said firmly. "We build that village. We stop this war. And we make sure no more brothers have to die for it."
Hashirama didn't respond. But he reached down and picked up the cloth again.
Held it to his chest.
As if to keep his brother close.
Even as the world drifted further into shadow.