Chapter Text
The battlefield was quiet.
Not silent—never truly silent—but that kind of eerie quiet that only came after death had finished its feast. The smell of scorched flesh, singed leaves, and iron hung heavy in the air, clinging to Tobirama’s skin like guilt.
He stood alone.
Blood still dripped from the edge of his kunai, but he didn’t feel it anymore. His hands were shaking, though not from the cold. Not from the pain, either.
He was numb.
“ Izuna, ” he whispered.
The name fell from his lips like a prayer, like a curse. The man who now lay bleeding on the ground had been many things to him—enemy, rival, secret friend, alpha. Mate.
Tobirama’s knees buckled, and he sank beside the body, his fingers brushing against Izuna’s cheek, now cold.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Their fights had always been rehearsed, calculated. They had perfected the dance of violence and survival for years—each strike choreographed, every dodge practiced. Because war demanded a show. And no one could know the truth. That Tobirama had never wanted Izuna dead. That they had chosen each other, in the shadows, away from the eyes of their brothers and clans.
They had promised each other peace.
But this time - this time, Izuna hadn’t moved when he should have. His reactions had been slower. Wrong.
Tobirama had pulled his strike. He was sure of it.
Yet here Izuna lay, torn open, bleeding out from what the world would call Tobirama’s hand.
And now, Tobirama was alone—truly, utterly alone—with the one person he could never mourn out loud.
He placed his hand on his abdomen, chakra flickering softly as he reached inward. There. Still there.
The child.
Their child.
Tobirama’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes burned.
He hadn’t even had time to tell Izuna that already chosen names. There had been no space for joy, no chance for fear. Only the growing awareness that something within him had changed.
That something had begun.
Now it would end before it began, if Hashirama’s fury was anything to measure by. His brother had looked at him with disgust, with heartbreak, with rage.
“You killed him,” Hashirama had spat.
But Tobirama hadn't. He couldn't. He would never.
He didn't even know how it happened.
It was supposed to be a performance.
What had gone wrong?
He’d never heard of anything—anyone—that could make a person act against their will. No jutsu he knew could explain it.
But that didn’t matter anymore. Izuna was dead.
Tobirama closed his eyes and bowed over the body of his alpha, letting himself grieve in silence.
—
He remembered the river.
It was the first time he and Izuna had met outside of battle, both boys stumbling upon each other on accident—or so they claimed. Their brothers had just been caught meeting secretly, and both Tobirama and Izuna had charged in to stop it.
“You’re a fool if you think peace will ever work,” Izuna had snapped, standing across the narrow river with a glare sharp enough to cut.
“Then we agree on something,” Tobirama had replied coolly, arms crossed. “I came here to make sure Anija never sees your brother again.”
“So did I,” Izuna said.
That was how it started.
What should’ve been a clash turned into an odd agreement—two little brothers shadowing their elder siblings, making sure friendship didn’t ruin years of carefully cultivated hatred.
But somehow, in all the meetings and secret surveillances, they started to talk. About their brothers. About war. About how heavy it all was.
They insulted each other at first, veiled jabs over politics or power or ideology. Then the jabs turned into debates. Then into grudging respect.
Then friendship.
And when Tobirama presented as an omega—too late, too sudden, too violent—he hadn’t told anyone. Not Hashirama, not his clan. He had fled into the forest, instincts blaring, panic rising.
Izuna found him.
“You reek of fear,” Izuna had said, but there was no mockery in it. Only concern. “You didn’t tell anyone?”
Tobirama shook his head. “They’ll treat me differently.”
“I won’t,” Izuna had promised, crossing the river for the first time, kneeling before him, reaching out. “You’re still you. That doesn’t change. But now you’re mine to protect, too.”
It was the first time anyone had ever said something like that to him.
And Tobirama had believed him.
—
He remembered telling him.
The moon had been full. They’d met in secret, tucked behind a waterfall where chakra masked all traces of their presence. Tobirama had been quiet all night, nervous.
Izuna had finally pulled him close, brow furrowing. “You’re trembling. Are you ill?”
Tobirama took his hand and placed it over his abdomen.
Izuna blinked.
And then, slowly, his eyes widened. His breath hitched.
“You’re—?”
Tobirama nodded.
A beat of silence passed. Then Izuna laughed—a full, open laugh, unguarded and bright. He kissed Tobirama, forehead to lips to jaw to neck. “You’re carrying our child,” he murmured. “Our child.”
For once, Tobirama had smiled.
—
But now all that joy had been reduced to ash.
He didn’t flinch when Hashirama approached him after the battle.
“What did you do?” Hashirama demanded, voice raw. “You knew how much peace meant to me! How could you take that from me?”
Tobirama didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
“Izuna’s dead. You struck him down in front of everyone, Tobi!”
Tobirama’s gaze stayed on the ground.
“You knew how much Madara loved him. How could you—”
“I didn’t,” Tobirama whispered.
Hashirama froze.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said again, more firmly, though his voice cracked. “I couldn’t.”
Hashirama’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Then what happened?”
Tobirama had no answer. Just a child in his womb, a mate now gone, and the weight of an entire war on his shoulders.
—
The wind blew softly through the field, rustling what grass remained.
Tobirama leaned down and pressed his forehead against the cold hard ground, the place where they usually meet.
“I’ll live,” he said, voice barely audible. “I’ll protect our child. I’ll survive, even if I have to burn the world to do it.”
His chakra pulsed gently across his skin as if sealing that vow.
He stood, spine straightening despite the heaviness.
He lost his mate, his peace, his home. But he would carry Izuna with him always. In his memories. In his blood. In their child.
And no one—no clan, no war, no gods—would take that legacy away from him.
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The dead didn’t speak, but their silence rang louder than screams.
Hashirama stood in the ruins of the battlefield, eyes fixed on the distance where Tobirama had last been seen. His brother hadn’t spoken a word since Izuna’s death. Not during the funeral rites. Not during the debriefings. Not even when Hashirama had yelled at him with all the pain of a man who had just watched peace slip through his fingers.
He regretted it instantly. Every word. Every accusation.
“What did you do?” he screamed, “You knew how much peace meant to me! How could you take that from me?”
But he hadn’t meant it—at least, not like that. He wasn’t angry at Tobirama. He was angry at the world, at the war, at fate for tearing them all apart again just when he thought peace was within reach.
He was angry at himself.
Because all this time, Hashirama had dreamed of peace not just for the world, not even for Madara… but for Tobirama.
People often assumed his desire to end the war was because of his friendship with Madara, and Tobirama had said as much more than once. “You’re only doing this because you want to play friends with him again,” he’d snapped, half in jest, half in bitterness.
But that wasn’t the truth.
The truth was, Hashirama would burn the entire world down if it meant keeping Tobirama warm. He would walk away from peace, from Madara, from the dream of a unified clan alliance, if it meant Tobirama would live and smile and not carry the weight of their family name like it was a noose around his neck.
That dream was for him.
Peace was always for him.
And now… he might lose him, too.
Because if Madara believed Tobirama killed Izuna—if Madara came for revenge—Hashirama wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t plead.
He would kill Madara himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the night, not expecting an answer. He sat alone beneath the branches of a half-burnt tree, the moonlight painting everything silver and cold. “I just want you to live.”
His thoughts were interrupted by the rustling of footsteps. One of his scouts dropped to a knee before him, breathless and dirt-streaked.
“Lord Hashirama,” the scout said. “News from the Uchiha border. There’s been… an incident.”
Hashirama straightened, tension spiking.
“What kind of incident?”
“We’re not sure, sir. But there was a fight—internal. High-ranking Uchiha elders were found dead. Some say Madara himself struck them down. Others say… he’s changed.”
Hashirama’s frown deepened. “Changed how?”
“He’s… different. Quieter. Sharper. And the hawks, sir. He sent one of his personal messengers.”
As if on cue, the scout handed over a tightly bound scroll, marked with the Uchiha crest and sealed with Madara’s signature chakra flare.
Hashirama broke the seal and began to read.
To Hashirama Senju,
In light of the recent tragedy between our clans and the irreversible loss of my brother, I write to address the future.
I will not pretend civility where there is none. My heart is bloodied. My trust is broken. My clan demands vengeance.
However, vengeance does not bring back the dead.
I believe you still seek peace. I believe your brother’s actions—whether intentional or not—have cost us both something we will never recover. Yet, despite this, I extend to you a single, unwavering offer:
Tobirama Senju.
I know what you’ve tried to hide. He is an omega. Rare. Desired. Powerful. And mine, should you accept this proposal.
I am willing to lay down arms, to broker peace, to unite our clans under a new banner. But only if he is given to me—as mate and as the future mother of my children.
You know what this will mean. You know the traditions. Do not insult me with false delays.
You wanted peace, Senju. Then give me the only thing I want in this world.
Choose wisely.
—Madara Uchiha
Hashirama’s jaw clenched so tightly he felt his molars grind. The audacity. The cruelty hidden beneath formality. Madara had lost his brother and now, in that grief, he reached for Tobirama not as an act of affection, but as a move in a game of power.
And yet… there was something else in the letter. A subtle shift in tone. Not just grief. Not just calculation.
It sounded like Madara knew. Knew something deeper. Something personal.
How did he know Tobirama was an omega?
Only the Senju knew.
Hashirama’s stomach twisted with unease. Had there been a traitor? Someone who sold his brother’s secret for coin or favor?
No. He would deal with that later. Right now, he had a brother to protect.
He went straight to his chamber and called for a scroll and ink. If Madara wanted to play games with blood and politics, then Hashirama would play back—with rules of his own.
His brush flew across the parchment.
To Madara Uchiha,
I have received your letter and acknowledge your loss. I mourn with you—for our dreams, for our brothers, and for what might have been.
You speak of my brother as though he is a commodity to be traded, but he is not. He is my flesh and blood, and no proposal, no matter how diplomatically wrapped, will blind me to the danger you pose.
However, for the sake of peace—and to spare the world more bloodshed—I will agree to a union between you and Tobirama.
But not as you command.
According to Senju tradition, before an omega is claimed, the alpha must undergo the Rite of the Hunt. It is a sacred pursuit—a test of strength, devotion, and respect. You will chase him through the forests of our land. He will be free to evade, to fight, to test you. Only if he allows himself to be caught will the bond be sanctioned.
I expect no less than your full compliance. Any attempt to violate this tradition will be seen as a declaration of war.
Should you succeed… then peace shall be ours.
—Hashirama Senju
He sealed the scroll and sent it off with his own hawk. The reply came back within the hour. It was fast, short, and simple. Brutally simple.
Then I will hunt.
Hashirama stared at the message, heart pounding.
He didn’t know what Madara’s endgame was. He didn’t know how the man had learned about Tobirama’s secret, or what had truly happened in that battle. But he knew one thing for certain.
He would not let his brother be used.
And if Madara laid even a finger on him without consent—without love—then Hashirama would rip the Uchiha clan down, root and stem, to keep Tobirama safe.
Because peace was no longer the dream.
Tobirama was.
And this time, he wouldn’t fail him.