"Sounds like a proper Uchiha battle to me," Shisui said with a lopsided grin.
Mikoto chuckled behind. Itachi merely shook his head — but for a fleeting second, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Shisui froze mid-step, eyes going wide with theatrical realization.
"He smiled." He clutched his chest. "He smiled! Someone write that down — no, chisel it into a monument! That's history!"
Tamamo gasped and jabbed a finger at Itachi like he'd committed a war crime. "That wasn't a genjutsu, right?! You saw it too?!"
"I want it documented," Shisui continued, fanning himself with exaggerated flair. "Archived in the Hokage Tower. Sculpted in stone. I need future generations to know we were here."
Mikoto cleared her throat. Arms crossed, her tone cut through their antics like a well-aimed kunai. "Bath. Now. Then breakfast. I'm not feeding a pair of dirt-smeared gremlins."
Tamamo glanced at herself — sweat-slicked arms, a bruise blooming on her shin, something suspiciously leaf-like in her hair. Sasuke looked even worse. She sniffed.
"This is not dirt. It's evidence of my battlefield valor."
"You smell like sweat and deeply questionable decisions," Mikoto replied, unamused.
Tamamo threw up her hands. "Fine, fine. But for the record, my footwork was flawless and my evasion impeccable."
"You almost tripped over your own foot and faceplanted," Sasuke muttered.
"Strategic collapse!" Tamamo said, with all the confidence of a seasoned liar. "It disrupted your stance!"
She stomped off toward the bath, muttering about tactical genius.
Mikoto shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "The Uchiha have survived many wars," she said quietly. "This one's just louder."
---
After a brief and overly enthusiastic bath that flooded half the hallway, Tamamo and Sasuke returned to the breakfast table smelling of lavender and soap.
With Fugaku out on police duty, and Itachi and Shisui already gone, it was just the three of them. Mikoto had prepared a simple meal: grilled fish, steaming rice, miso soup, and pickled vegetables.
Tamamo eyed the fish suspiciously, as if it might reveal secret truths. "I should learn to make this."
"You should learn not to set rice on fire," Sasuke said flatly.
"It was one time," Tamamo hissed, remembering the time she tried to reheat some leftover rice. "And technically, it was a ceremonial flame."
"Of what?"
"My innocence."
Mikoto didn't blink. "Eat."
They did. Sasuke devoured his food in efficient silence and vanished soon after, mumbling about sleep. Mikoto moved to clear the table, humming as she did.
Tamamo lingered.
The house felt... quieter now. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder.
No Itachi brooding from the shadows.
No Sasuke insulting her cooking skills.
Just her.
And questions.
She stood.
"All right, world," she muttered. "Time to see what your deal is."
She padded softly down the back corridor. The library door creaked open. Dust drifted like lazy fireflies in shafts of sunlight.
The room smelled like ink, paper, and seriousness.
Tamamo scanned the shelves until one book caught her eye:
"The Founding of Konohagakure and the Age of Warring States."
She sat beneath the window, flipping it open. The first image stopped her breath — a battlefield, scorched and broken, with two men standing amid the ruin.
Senju Hashirama.
Uchiha Madara.
She began to read.
"Before the Hidden Leaf, there was war — clan against clan, generation after generation. The Uchiha and the Senju, strongest among them, fought on every front. But two boys, born enemies, dared to dream."
"Hashirama and Madara met as children. Unaware of each other's lineage, they sparred, played, and imagined a world where children didn't die for the wars of men."
Tamamo blinked. "Children?"
"When their identities were revealed, they fought. They parted. But when the blood settled and they became clan leaders, that dream still lingered. Together, they forged a village:"
"Konohagakure. The Village Hidden in the Leaves"
She brushed her fingers over the Uchiha crest etched in the margin. "So we helped build this," she whispered.
But the next pages turned heavy.
"Hashirama was chosen as the First Hokage. The village elders trusted the Senju. The Uchiha were respected... but feared. Madara saw what the others didn't — a future where his clan would be sidelined."
"He warned them. Asked them to leave with him."
"But they were tired. They stayed. They chose peace. And Madara, betrayed by their silence, left."
Tamamo's lips parted in a slow breath. "They didn't follow him. His own clan... left him."
"He returned, no longer a founder, but a threat. He and Hashirama clashed at the Valley of the End. The land itself changed beneath their battle. Hashirama stood victorious. Madara was never seen again."
The final illustration showed the waterfall and the statues — eternal rivals locked in stone.
Tamamo hugged her knees, the book closed on her lap.
"What really happened between them?" she wondered. "What did Hashirama feel when Madara turned against everything they built? What did Madara see — betrayal, or a future already slipping away?"
She stared at the book.
What kind of bond survives war… only to break under peace?
Tamamo traced the engraved Uchiha crest on the book's cover, her fingers resting there as if it might pulse with answers. Madara and Hashirama — not just enemies, not just founders. Friends. Brothers in all but blood.
How strong must a friendship be to dream of peace together?
And how fragile… to fall apart the moment that dream becomes real?
She tried to imagine it. Not the battle at the Valley of the End, but the moments before. The silence in Madara's heart as he turned away from the village. The ache in Hashirama's when he realized his friend was truly gone.
Were they angry?
Or just… heartbroken?
Tamamo's chest tightened. She couldn't imagine raising a hand against someone who had once shared her hopes. But Madara had. And Hashirama had, too.
"Did either of you hesitate?" she murmured. "Did it break your hearts, even as you fought?"
They built something beautiful. And then tore it down.
Not because they wanted to. But because they believed they had to.
Tamamo leaned against the wall, staring at the final image burned into her memory — the statues, locked in stone across the waterfall, forever facing each other… and never reaching across again.
That was what scared her most.
Not the war.
But that even love like theirs hadn't been enough.