The fires of Kawa-no-Mura had died down, leaving only embers glowing faintly in the ash-covered soil. The villagers, weary and silent, had finally retreated to the intact structures and makeshift shelters pieced together by Itama and the few helpers he had rallied. The night sky stretched clear above, stars scattered across it like scattered shuriken, cold and beautiful. The wind carried a distant, solemn whisper through the trees—like the remnants of battle refusing to fade entirely.
Itama sat on the edge of a half-burned wooden porch, his legs dangling off the side, arms resting on his knees. His shoulders ached, and dried blood clung to his sleeves and hands, though none of it was his. The wounds were deeper than the skin—emotional, spiritual. They ran along the edge of the idealism he had tried so hard to carry.
Beside him, leaning against a broken post, stood Izuna Uchiha. The glow of a small lantern between them cast long shadows across their faces. Neither spoke at first. For warriors raised in rival clans, silence often said more than words.
But silence could not last forever.
"You didn't have to stay," Itama said at last, his voice quiet, almost uncertain.
Izuna didn't answer immediately. He stared ahead, his arms crossed over his chest, the wind stirring the edges of his dark hair.
"I didn't," he admitted. "But I didn't want to leave, either."
The admission surprised Itama. He turned to study the Uchiha, noting the faint lines under his eyes. Not from age—but from fatigue, the weight of a hundred battles and the burden of expectation. The same burden that often pressed against Itama's own chest like armor strapped too tightly.
"They were terrified of you," Itama said, nodding toward the villagers. "Even after you helped."
Izuna exhaled a short breath—somewhere between amusement and resignation. "They have good reason to be. I've led raids. Set traps. Burned encampments." He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Itama's gaze. "But not here. Not to these people."
Itama looked down at his hands. "We're not our clans' sins."
Izuna chuckled quietly. "Try telling that to our elders."
There was a long pause. The sounds of nocturnal insects and distant night birds drifted between them.
"Do you think your brother will understand?" Izuna asked suddenly.
Itama raised an eyebrow. "Hashirama?"
"No," Izuna said, shaking his head slightly. "Tobirama."
Itama didn't answer right away. The question hung heavy in the air, far more complex than it seemed on the surface. Tobirama had changed—had hardened into something sharp and cold after Itama's presumed death. And though they had found pieces of their bond again, there were walls now. Unspoken boundaries.
"I don't know," Itama finally said. "He still sees the world in angles and threats. But… I think he wants to understand. I just don't know if he knows how."
Izuna nodded slowly, seemingly lost in thought. "Madara's the same way. He hides it better, but I see it. Every day, he calculates everything—what's a risk, what's acceptable loss. And peace?" He scoffed lightly. "To him, peace is a dream he buries under armor."
"You think he still wants it?"
Izuna's eyes softened, just a little. "He does. But he's afraid peace will make us weak. And he'd rather die than let the Uchiha be weak again."
Itama considered that. The Uchiha and the Senju weren't so different. Both bore the scars of slaughter. Both had buried family and friends in blood-soaked soil. Both had leaders struggling to balance ideals and survival.
"We could end up killing each other," Itama said.
"Or," Izuna countered, "we could do something different."
The words settled between them like the first crack of dawn on the horizon—faint, fragile, but undeniable.
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was… reflective. A pause shared between two warriors who, for all their differences, recognized a kindred weight in one another's soul.
Izuna leaned forward, picked up a small pebble, and tossed it into the remains of a fountain. The splash echoed quietly.
"Do you remember the first time you faced off with an Uchiha?" he asked.
Itama smiled faintly. "Yeah. I was thirteen. Thought I was going to be some kind of hero."
"Did you win?"
"I lived," Itama said, with a wry grin. "That was enough."
Izuna gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "Same. Except I was twelve. Thought I could take down two Senju by myself."
"Let me guess—you didn't."
"I got my arm broken and ended up eating roots for two days hiding in a cave."
They both laughed softly.
For a moment, the weight of clans, history, and conflict fell away. They were no longer Senju and Uchiha. Just boys who had survived far too much and grown up with far too little peace.
The wind stirred again.
"I don't expect us to be friends," Izuna said after a while, his voice gentler. "But I respect you, Itama. That means something."
Itama nodded. "It means something to me, too."
They stood slowly, the night winding down.
Izuna adjusted his armor, his gaze drifting to the tree line. "I'll be gone before the sun rises."
Itama turned to him. "Then go with the knowledge that at least here… you did the right thing."
Izuna paused, then nodded. "Take care of this place, Senju."
"And you," Itama replied, "take care of yourself, Uchiha."
They held each other's gaze one last time—wariness still there, but now tempered with something else: understanding. Then Izuna turned and walked into the forest, his figure disappearing into the night like a shadow fading into dawn.
Itama remained a while longer, watching the stars shift slowly above.
For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel alone.