Itama sat alone beneath a crooked tree just outside the small clearing, knees tucked to his chest, arms draped across them. A cold wind whispered through the woods, scattering brittle leaves around his feet. The firelight from the shed flickered dimly behind him, casting long shadows that swayed like ghosts in the dark.
He had not spoken in hours.
Takeshi had said nothing, merely handing him a bowl of stew before returning to his own work, as if sensing something in Itama's silence. The boy had barely touched the food. His hands, though stronger than before, trembled faintly as he stared into the distance—unblinking, unseeing.
Then, like a ripple across a pond, a memory returned.
At first, it was sound.
A laugh.
Soft, high-pitched, innocent.
Then came the smell—woodsmoke and warm broth.
And suddenly, the forest around him was gone.
He was no longer crouched under a cold, lonely tree.
He was home.
---
Flashback
The Senju compound bustled with life. The courtyard rang with the laughter of children chasing each other between the wooden houses. Adults moved with purpose—shinobi discussing missions, healers tending to wounds, smiths sharpening kunai on stone wheels.
Itama stood barefoot on the veranda of his family's house, arms crossed, grinning as Hashirama playfully tossed water from a bucket at Tobirama, who ducked and retaliated with a splash of his own. Their sister watched from the side, shaking her head, half amused, half exasperated.
"You're both ridiculous," she scolded.
"You say that now, but you'll beg us for help when the well runs dry," Hashirama teased.
Their father, Butsuma, emerged from the house, eyes narrowing.
"Enough games," he barked. "If you have time for water fights, you have time for kata."
The laughter died quickly.
Hashirama sighed and muttered under his breath. Tobirama scowled but obeyed, stepping into formation with practiced ease. Itama, the youngest, hesitated.
Butsuma's sharp gaze fell on him.
"You, too. Even the smallest flame must be forged."
Itama nodded quickly, scrambling into place beside his brothers. His small hands formed the basic seals as he copied Hashirama's movements.
He remembered feeling proud when his father nodded—not with affection, but with approval.
It was rare, and it meant everything.
---
Present
A rustle of leaves brought Itama back to the present, but he didn't move.
More memories surged forward, crashing over him like waves.
---
Flashback
He was seven. His legs burned as he ran through the forest, chasing the scent of plum blossoms. Hashirama had taken him to a hidden glade after training—just the two of them.
"You tired already?" Hashirama asked, grinning.
"I'm not tired!" Itama puffed. "You're just fast!"
Hashirama laughed and slowed his pace, letting his little brother catch up. "Come on. I've got something to show you."
They arrived at a small pond ringed by white-flowered trees. The air was thick with fragrance, and fireflies danced lazily above the water.
"This is my place," Hashirama said, kneeling by the edge. "When I'm tired, or angry, or confused—I come here."
Itama sat beside him, kicking his feet in the water.
"Why do you get confused?" he asked.
Hashirama plucked a leaf and spun it between his fingers. "Because being strong doesn't mean you always know what's right."
Itama blinked. "But Father says strength is everything."
"Father is wrong about a lot of things."
Itama had stared at him, shocked by the boldness of that statement. Hashirama had just smiled.
"When you're older, you'll understand."
---
Present
Itama pressed a palm to his chest as if trying to slow the beating of his heart. The ache was sharper than any wound. His family—their faces, their voices—felt both near and impossibly distant. His world had been torn apart in a matter of seconds.
He tried to recall his mother's face.
He couldn't.
He could remember the sound of her humming at night, the warmth of her hands as she checked his forehead when he was sick. But her features were fading.
He clenched his fists.
"I won't forget," he whispered.
---
Flashback
A bloodstained battlefield.
The screams of dying shinobi.
He stood over the body of a comrade—no older than twelve—his own hands shaking, stained red. Hashirama stood ahead, surrounded by a swirling storm of wood release, cutting down enemy Uchiha with desperate fury.
Itama had barely held his own. The enemy's fire had scorched the earth and turned the trees to blackened skeletons. They'd been surrounded. It was Tobirama's barrier technique that gave them the edge—but it was Hashirama's will that pushed them to victory.
He remembered the moment it ended. Hashirama collapsed to his knees beside a fallen Uchiha, eyes hollow.
"We shouldn't have to kill them," he said, voice raw.
Itama had stood behind him, too afraid to answer, too confused to understand.
---
Present
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, surprised to find it wet. Not from the cold.
He didn't remember crying.
The memories came faster now.
---
Flashback
Training in the courtyard again. This time it was Tobirama's turn to teach.
"Precision," he snapped. "Don't just throw kunai—aim them."
Itama had fumbled again, sending the weapon clanging into the wooden fence.
Tobirama sighed in frustration, kneeling beside him.
"You're thinking too much," he said. "The kunai is an extension of you. Not something separate."
"But—"
"No buts. Again."
Despite the harsh tone, Tobirama had helped him adjust his grip. Quiet moments like that were rare. Tobirama was never soft, but he wasn't unkind either.
He simply expected more.
Expected greatness.
---
Present
Itama looked down at his hands.
So much smaller than Tobirama's.
So much weaker.
But they were stronger now than before.
And they would grow stronger still.
---
He stood and turned back toward the shed. The fire inside had died down, but Takeshi still sat at the table, grinding herbs into a paste.
"You done sulking?" the rogue asked without looking up.
Itama walked in, voice soft but clear. "I remembered my brothers."
Takeshi's hands paused.
"That so?"
"I remembered everything," Itama said. "The good. The bad. The moments that mattered."
Takeshi gave a short grunt of acknowledgment.
"You gonna let it weigh you down?"
Itama shook his head.
"No. I'm going to carry it."
Takeshi finally looked up, eyes narrowing. "Good. Because memory's a weapon. You learn from it—or you let it break you."
Itama nodded and walked over to sit across from him.
He took the grinding tool from Takeshi's hand and started working the mixture himself.
The past still ached.
But it was a fire that could forge him.
Not consume him.
And he would make sure that when he returned to the world that had forgotten him, it would be with every lesson, every face, every ember of memory burned into his soul.
They had taken his life.
They had not taken his will.