Chapter Text
In moments like these, when the radiant sun’s light reddens his pale skin and the river’s water becomes his most comforting companion, Tobirama enjoyed thinking, letting himself be carried away by the confines of his mind while his feet were gently rocked by the current of the Senju River.
He had never been particularly philosophical or reflective in his few years of life, but these moments of serene solitude were when his mind assaulted him with memories of Itama and Kawarama. His little brothers, rest in peace, couldn’t leave his thoughts. Tobirama couldn’t help but miss them, not when the sun reminded him of Itama’s radiant smile, or when the water, calm yet untamed, mirrored Kawarama’s personality.
It was in these moments that his hatred for everyone twisted and grew to grotesque limits. He hated the Uchiha for killing his brothers, hated the Senju for not protecting them, hated his family, and hated his father for sending his little brothers to a war over something as foolish as honor and pride.
But above all, he despised himself for not being able to protect them. If only he hadn’t been born vile, with those red eyes that bastard goddess had gifted him, he would have gone to the battlefield without hesitation, would have taken his brothers’ place. He would have cared for them.
That stupid goddess must have read his thoughts because a ray of sunlight fell on his face, even as he sat in the refreshing shade of the trees, as if scolding him. Tch, what a bastard.
The river continued to flow, swaying his feet with every passing minute. His father was likely gnawing his nails, interrogating his retinue of guards who had lost him hours ago. Tobirama could not understand Butsuma—a father who claimed to love him yet wouldn’t hesitate to send his other children to their deaths in favor of his struggle.
What kind of father lavishes one child with bodyguards but sacrifices the others without mercy? Why favor one and be indifferent to the rest?
Tobirama knew the answer but didn’t even want to think about it.
Hours passed, and when the bastard goddess finally hid behind her brother to make way for Tsukuyomi’s bright moon, Tobirama moved. His steps, always silent, made no noise—a sign that, despite the confinement imposed by the clan, he was still raised as a ninja.
He calmly followed the uncertain path of the forest. Tobirama saw the Senju houses and camps in the distance, along with several ninjas running to and fro, no doubt searching for him.
Only when the distance narrowed to a few meters did they begin to notice his presence. It was easy with his skin as pale as a cruel winter and the silver hair of the Hatake. He was an unpleasant white blot.
Tobirama sometimes wondered what would have happened if he had been raised as a Hatake, if instead of bearing the symbol of the forest, he bore the symbol of fertile land. 'The Hatake would have had mercy and killed me as soon as they saw my eyes.' Tobirama thought with certainty.
His guards inspected him for a few seconds, looking for injuries on his body. When they found none, they grabbed him by the collar of his yukata and carried him to his father’s office, like a scolded puppy.
Yuta held him roughly, not wanting Tobirama to escape again and force another hours-long nighttime search. Maiko gave him an exasperated look, sighing in resignation.
When they arrived at Butsuma’s quarters, Tobirama found him rigidly polishing his weapons—a nervous habit he recognized instantly.
They placed him carefully on the ground. Tobirama watched with an impassive expression, anticipating what was to come.
Butsuma let the weapons fall with a loud clatter, motioning for the guards to leave. Once they were alone, his father dropped the mask.
“Where did you think you were?” Butsuma strode over with heavy steps, grabbing Tobirama’s thin arms with his scarred hands. “Haven’t I been clear enough? I don’t understand how I can make you understand the danger you’re in every time you sneak out of the compound.”
The desperate expression on Butsuma’s face stirred feelings of guilt in Tobirama, but he quickly crushed them.
“If one of those child snatchers sees you, they wouldn’t hesitate to take you far from your family, from me.” Butsuma loosened his grip, and the lines on his face seemed to deepen by a decade. He looked tired.
The child snatchers, as his father always called the Uchiha, had been seen abducting anyone with red eyes in the Land of Fire—men, women, children, adults. No one escaped their tyranny. These people, allegedly blessed by their bastard goddess, were mostly civilians, and thus, the other clans cared little for the Uchiha’s “peculiar traditions.”
His father thought the same until Tobirama was born. Since then, he had repeatedly denounced the Uchiha’s actions to the feudal lord, calling them immoral and abominable. Of course, rumors about his father’s newfound sense of justice quickly spread, alongside increasingly bloody battles between the Senju and the Uchiha.
Absurd rumors, such as Butsuma having taken a red-eyed lover, or speculations that he hid red eyes behind a powerful genjutsu, caused the Uchiha to pay special attention to the Senju leader.
His mother, after a huge fight with Butsuma over his carelessness, resolved the issue with more rumors. She spread the story that Butsuma once had a childhood friend—a sworn brother he deeply cherished but who disappeared one day, never to be seen again. This fictitious friend, of course, had red eyes. According to her, this was the origin of his insistence on denouncing the Uchiha’s atrocities.
That little rumor, as his mother had slyly said years later, made the common folk view Butsuma favorably. After all, “someone was finally standing up for the humble,” solidifying his image as a just leader.
Naturally, her secondary goal was to negotiate with wealthy merchants. Her primary goal? Protect her newborn son.
Tobirama didn’t understand how such a lethal and intelligent woman had married his father. If she saw that of the four children she had borne, only two remained, she wouldn’t hesitate to turn against the Senju clan.
Butsuma knelt in front of his son, placing his scarred hands gently on both sides of Tobirama’s face—a tenderness unbefitting someone like him, a hardened leader of one of the most powerful clans in the land.
“I know you hate this. I hate that you have to live like this too. But, my son, it’s the only way,” said Butsuma as he stroked Tobirama’s short hair.
Tobirama wanted to bite his hand until it bled, wanted to curl up in his warm embrace. But in the end, he merely watched him with his disgusting blessed eyes.
When his son gave no response, Butsuma pulled him into a firm hug.
“Will you ever forgive this father?” Butsuma tightened his grip; both knew the answer to that question. “Please, my son, speak to me.”
Tobirama averted his gaze, finding the scattered papers on the desk suddenly fascinating. He knew that if he said anything—anything—he wouldn’t be able to stop and might do something crazy like yell at his father. Or worse, cry.
Silence was better—not saying anything and just moving forward.
“At least don’t wander too far from the forest,” Butsuma finally said. A tender kiss was placed on Tobirama’s head. His father looked at him with exhaustion, but never resignation. Never resignation.
Tobirama understood this as a dismissal. He nodded to his father and left the room, heading to his quarters.
The next day, Taiga, a distant cousin, joined his retinue of guards.