Chapter Text
“How can you criticize
When you're not here to compromise?
Words fade as time goes by
Without you, without you “
(The Birthday Massacre, Sideways)
That task would be nothing but the same as all the previous ones that you performed if it wasn’t for this detail: your patient that time was the head’s eldest son, the little Madara Uchiha. And unlike the previous times when you were called by regular ninja to use your healing techniques, this time the boy’s father came in person to request your services.
Though you’ve had shinobi preparation since your youth, you were never seen so often at the battlefield alongside your Uchiha fellows: you were more of a doctor than a warrior, and your talents with healing and natural medicine were acknowledged by the whole clan, so that you would only fight when it was strictly necessary. You’ve saved countless lives with your abilities, and that was enough for you.
But there was something you just could not accept: the fact that children were still sent to fight the adult people’s battles, and now it seemed that their age has been decreasing. Knowing that the younger the child, the harder it was to save them was something that you never overcame, and sometimes you were too loud about it. This somehow contributed to your fame, and some people – elders specially – did not sympathize with you. Despite that, your work was essential to the existence of the clan, so no one had the audacity to lay their hands on you.
With Madara’s father, Tajima, things were even more complicated.
You were known to each other since you were little. You could say you were friends, as close as brothers, when you were children, but this feeling would turn into something deeper when you were teenagers. Since your parents were friends of each other, the idea of a marriage to unite both families didn’t sound strange to them; however, the circumstances separated your ways, and as you remained single and dedicated all your time to your work, Tajima married someone else, became the head of the Uchiha and fathered five children.
Knowing him as you did, you always carried some hope that things would be different from the moment he succeeded his father and the Uchiha – the adults and the children – would finally see good, pacific days with new politics and rules. But, again, destiny had other plans for you and your people: whether because he believed his predecessor’s ideals or because he hadn’t enough influence among the elders, Tajima chose to keep things as they were, and children were kept being sent to war, and with the constant conflicts with the Senju and other clans you seemed to work more than ever.
Those days the altercations with the Senju were causing you more damage than usual, and you’ve been occupied as you weren’t in months. You were also aware that Tajima’s kids – the ones who were left, Madara and Izuna – were fighting by his side, the example the other men needed to take their own kids with them.
That night you were trying not think of this and to concentrate in preserving your own chakra to use it in favor of the injured ones and to lead the group of medical shinobi that were there with you. However, all your efforts were thrown out of the window when someone came to your room.
You didn’t need to see the intruder’s face to know it was him. Just the way he arrived was enough to tell you: the fact that he didn’t mind knocking first, the loud, desperate steps, his heavy breath, a sign that something unexpected – and terrible – happened before his eyes.
You turned to him and need all your strength to not scream with what you saw.
The man you had there was the Tajima you knew, but somehow he looked like someone else. He seemed older than the last time you’ve met – well, he was older, just like you. There were some gray hair where once it was all black; on the tanned skin of his face, the sun seemed to have left deep marks, as he spent the last days under its light leading his people to war; the lines around his mouth and forehead, some inconvenient heirloom from his father, were now visible even in his blank face. Maybe his dark eyes, partially covered by his hair, were the only thing that remained unaltered, but you were afraid of looking into them for too long and find out that even them were no longer the same.
All of this was captured by your eyes in a blink, as a shadow of a thought instead of a conscious exam. And all were soon overshadowed by the shocking way in which Tajima appeared in front of you: his clothes, already dark, were soaked by something you knew it was blood, and so were his hands.
You didn’t need to hear his first words to see that the situation was urgent: the desperation was visible in his eyes, almost pushing you back to the chair from which you just stood up.
- What is it? – you required.
- It’s my son, Madara – the man replied, his voice disappearing between one sigh and another – He was severely injured! He needs your help, y/n-san! – he took an unconscious step toward you – Please… save him!
His words were loud and clear, but you acted as you didn’t understand them at first: you took a moment to take your equipment and follow him. It wasn’t that your feelings got in the way: to speak the truth, you didn’t feel anything at all when you heard them. Nor angry, nor fear, nor shock. Nothing. That man was just another person asking for help, and that boy was only one more victim that needed your services. Or this is what you kept telling yourself while you followed his father through the area of the compound destined to medical treatment of the soldiers.
You didn’t exchanged a word while you ran: it was a waste of time and energy. You had nothing to talk to each other. Not after all that time. Everything you had to say was already said, when he came to ask for your help and you accept it.
Tajima was just ahead of you. With good reasons, he was on a rush; if you slowed down just a little bit, he would leave you behind. He was at the same time near and far from you: at some moments, you were so close that you swore you could see blood staining the white in the Uchiha crest on his back or his hair growing on his nape, suggesting that he had no time to keep it shaved during that campaign; other times, he seemed to be nothing but a shadow in your way, one which you had to follow.
One from which you could not flee.