Chapter Text
It wasn’t his greatest moment, Izuna confesses to him, bone-deep weariness in his voice as he struggled to breathe through the blood slowly filling his lungs. His best friend had died by the Senju’s hands and Izuna had drunk himself to a stupor. The next thing he knew, he was lying on a bed naked with an unknown woman.
“And the rest is history,” Izuna huffs, still managing to crack a sarcastic smile despite the blood on his lips.
Madara wants to tell him off, to grab him by the shoulders and scold him for keeping such a monumental thing a secret, but he holds himself back from doing so—it’s something he recently finds himself doing so often, holding back. Reigning in his strength against Hashirama, restraining himself from an outburst at the pesky elders, and now, he has to clench his fists to prevent himself from holding Izuna in his arms in a futile attempt of prolonging his only living brother’s life.
“And the child?” Madara asks, wondering if his brother would have divulged his secret had he not been forced to do so by virtue of being on death’s door.
“My daughter,” Izuna smiles, only to cough a moment later, rivulets of blood spilling down his chin. His hand rises, and Madara is quick to enclose his palms around Izuna’s cold one. “Nii-san, when I’m gone… take care of her…”
“Take care of her yourself!” Madara hisses, tears springing to the corners of his eyes as he watches his brother’s lips twist ruefully. “Live and bring your own daughter home.”
But Izuna doesn’t reply—cannot reply, amidst the pain of his own organs failing and the crimson that blooms between his lips as he opens his mouth.
“Nii-san.” With his last strength, Izuna squeezes his hand. “Promise me.”
Madara sucks in a breath, blinking back the wetness in his eyes.
“I promise.”
Izuna smiles.
“Good… that’s good. Take care of her… Izuko… her name. My Izuko…” His grip slackens, breaths slowing, blindfolded eyes seeing nothing. “My daughter.”
Madara watches him breathe his last, his chest heavy with the weight of his brother’s death and a promise bound by love and blood.
When Izuna’s body is nothing but ashes and bones, scattered along the winds to be carried to the Pure Lands, Madara makes his way to the nearby village where his last living family resides.
What greets him at the front door of the small hut is an old couple, familiarity shining in their aged eyes as they look at him and see the Uchiha clan crest on his clothes.
They lead him inside their small home, and Madara resists the urge to sneer at how unkempt and unbefitting it is for a daughter of the Uchiha clan, much less his own niece. He remains standing even when they urge him to take a seat at one of the ratty cushions on the floor, narrowing his eyes until they leave the matter alone.
“I am not here for pleasantries. I only came to take my niece and bring her back to the clan where she belongs.” His voice reverberates around the small space of the room they’ve decided to host him in, chakra flaring in warning to remind them that he is not here to entertain their attempts to make small talk with him.
The elder man stutters and assures him that Izuko-chan is safe and well, his wife will come and get her from her crib. Madara scoffs at the informal way of addressing his niece. Insolent civilians. He will hold himself back for now simply for the fact that they have been taking care of his niece in his brother’s absence. Though where the mother is, he’ll have to ask. Izuna never had the chance to tell him what became of the woman who carried his daughter.
“What of the mother of my niece? Is she alive?” Madara crosses his arms and stares thunderously at the man.
“Ah, my daughter…” The old man looks down, grief overshadowing his features. “She died while giving birth to my granddaughter. It was… I am only grateful that Izuna-sama remained. I cannot imagine how painful it would be for Izuko-chan to grow up without a parent.”
Madara’s breath catches in his throat.
“It is why I am wondering why Izuna-sama is not here to take his daughter back himself. Perhaps… has something happened?”
He closes his eyes, fighting off the fresh wave of grief and anger that rose to the surface of his chest. His eyes open and meet the old man’s, his niece’s grandfather.
“My brother… Izuna is dead.”
Silence reigns, nothing but the sound of shuffling from the other room to be heard. Madara grounds himself in the quiet, chakra coalescing around him like a protective blanket to shield his grief from others’ view.
And then, “I am sorry for your loss.”
Madara nods, not deigning to give the man a reply. He has conversed enough for today that it has begun to take a toll on him. Had it been Izuna, his brother would have made conversation and charmed the old man standing across him, managing to appear open and trustworthy, ever the bright flame that balances Madara’s darkness.
But his brother isn’t here to rescue him from his social blunders anymore.
There is only Madara and the faint sense of loss that he fears will always remain even if he lives to see his hair turn gray.
At last, the woman emerges from an open doorway with something bundled in her arms. It’s… tiny, frighteningly so that when the woman asks if Madara would like to hold her—hold his niece—his immediate urge is to leap away and retreat for fear of crushing something that small within his hands.
But this is Izuna’s daughter, and Madara had promised.
So, wordlessly, he stretches out his arms and keeps them steady as the bundle is placed in them.
And gods, she is so light, it almost seems like she’s only a minor wind jutsu away from being carried off by the breeze. Not to mention her size. What have these people been feeding her for her to be so tiny? She is small enough to be engulfed by his hands if he so wished.
“How old is she?” Madara demands, feeling ashamed that he doesn’t even know how old his own niece is—never mind the fact that he couldn’t have known because his brother deigned to keep it a secret even from him.
“She is a little over two months old.”
Two months old.
She is practically a useless, defenseless lump of flesh! A human being who can’t even support their own head, much less differentiate from friend or foe, family or assassin. He had hoped she would be a year or two old, at least then she would have the capacity to walk and speak, however ineloquent a toddler may be. Even six months was acceptable, seeing as they were not as fragile as a newborn baby.
But two months old?
He looks down at the face of his brother’s daughter and nearly drowns in a new bout of grief.
She has Izuna’s nose, and lips, and cheekbones, and face, and everything. Down to the wisps of dark hair that tickle at her forehead to the way her face scrunches when he leans down and accidentally brushes the tips of his long hair along her cheek.
She is so small.
Madara can barely even take care of himself. How did Izuna expect him to take care of a two-month-old little girl? His brother should have lived. Should have fought his way despite his injuries. Should have accepted Hashirama’s offer of healing him. Should have told him about his child sooner. Should have—
The child opens her eyes, and Madara is greeted by the eyes that he sees whenever he looks in the mirror after his brother’s death. A dark brown that almost seems black at a distance, the light dancing over them and giving off a glassy tint. They are Izuna’s eyes, the same eyes that were transplanted into his sockets that he now uses to look at the daughter of his dead brother.
It’s not until his knees hit the floor with a soft thump that he realizes that all his strength has fled him, leaving behind the husk of a man drowning in grief and age-old memories of brotherhood and promises.
Madara clutches her close to his chest, this tiny thing that so resembles Izuna, his final legacy. The only thing he has left of his brother.
“Izuko,” he whispers, and finally lets himself mourn.