The forest had begun to change with the season. The once-green canopy was now streaked with crimson and gold, leaves falling in slow spirals with each gust of wind. The air was colder too—thinner, biting. But Itama barely noticed.
He sat on a high ridge overlooking the valley below, the rogue's makeshift shelter a fading silhouette behind him. Takeshi was inside tending to salves and scrolls, but Itama had slipped out earlier. He needed space.
He needed silence.
In his lap rested the old forehead protector Takeshi had given him—the Senju symbol barely legible in the frayed fabric. He turned it over and over in his fingers, his thoughts turning with it.
The past days had stirred something in him, something deeper than pain or grief. Something that lingered longer than the wounds on his skin.
Questions.
Doubts.
Seeds of something dangerous.
He stared into the horizon, the sun casting long shadows between the trees. Somewhere beyond those hills, the war still raged—Senju against Uchiha, wood against fire. The same story told again and again, written in blood and loss.
He had always believed in it.
The cause.
The necessity.
But now...
Why?
He closed his eyes.
---
Flashback
He was nine when he first saw an Uchiha up close.
It was a mission. He hadn't been meant to go, but he'd followed Tobirama into the woods against orders. Hidden in the trees, heart pounding, he'd watched the skirmish unfold.
An Uchiha boy, not much older than him, had been cut down by a Senju blade. Tobirama's blade.
The boy had tried to run, his Sharingan blazing in terror, not rage.
His last words had been for his brother.
And Itama had stood frozen behind the trunk of a tree, watching the light leave the boy's eyes, bile rising in his throat.
He hadn't told anyone.
Not Hashirama.
Not Tobirama.
Not even his mother.
He had buried that memory deep, locked away with the other fractures in his faith.
---
Present
Itama opened his eyes and exhaled slowly. The air fogged in front of him.
He remembered his clan's teachings—stories of Uchiha cruelty, their burning eyes, their cursed blood. He remembered Butsuma's cold words: "The Uchiha are not like us. They don't value peace. They lust for dominance."
But what had he seen in that boy's eyes?
Fear.
The same fear he'd seen in Senju eyes.
The same fear he'd felt when the Uchiha ambushed him weeks ago.
He clenched his jaw.
Takeshi's words echoed in his mind.
"It's about fear… passed down like heirlooms."
Was that all it was?
Generational hate?
Unquestioned vengeance?
He looked down at his hands, stronger now from weeks of recovery and training. But strength meant nothing if it was used blindly. If it served only to keep the wheel turning.
He stood, the leaves crunching under his feet. His limbs still ached, but the pain was dull now—manageable.
The rogue had taught him well.
Not just techniques, but questions.
He descended the slope, slowly, carefully, until he reached the stream that ran near the edge of the woods. Kneeling, he stared at his reflection. His hair was longer now. His eyes, once wide and youthful, had sharpened. There were shadows beneath them. Scars on his cheeks.
He was not the same boy who had charged into the woods with a kunai and a fire in his chest.
And maybe that was a good thing.
---
Later, inside the shed, Takeshi glanced at him between tasks.
"You've been brooding," the rogue said. "More than usual."
Itama didn't answer right away. He sat cross-legged near the hearth, watching the flames dance.
"Do you think peace is possible?" he finally asked.
Takeshi raised a brow. "Between who?"
"Senju and Uchiha."
Takeshi scoffed. "You're asking if two clans built on generations of slaughter can just shake hands and walk away?"
"I'm asking if it's possible," Itama repeated.
Takeshi sighed, sitting down across from him.
"Maybe. But not today. Not tomorrow. Not until someone decides to stop answering death with more death."
He leaned back.
"You thinking about someone?"
Itama didn't respond. He was thinking about Hashirama. About Madara.
About the dream they once shared—peace between the clans.
Was it just a child's fantasy? Or could it be more?
"I used to think Uchiha were monsters," Itama said.
Takeshi waited, silent.
"But I saw one die. Just a kid. Scared. Alone. I keep thinking… if I'd been born with different eyes, would that have been me?"
Takeshi nodded once, solemn. "Now you're asking the right questions."
Itama looked down at the old protector in his lap.
"My clan wouldn't understand."
"Maybe not," Takeshi said. "But maybe you're not meant to follow their path."
Itama looked up, eyes hardening with quiet resolve. "Then I'll make my own."
The rogue grunted in approval. "That's the first step. The hard part's walking it."
Itama stood and crossed to the back of the shed where his pack and gear rested. He began checking his tools—kunai, rations, bandages.
Takeshi watched him. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm not leaving," Itama said. "But I need to start seeing things for myself."
Takeshi's eyes narrowed. "That kind of thinking gets people killed."
"Not seeing clearly gets more people killed," Itama replied.
There was silence between them. The fire popped softly, embers leaping skyward like dying stars.
Takeshi finally stood and walked to a shelf, pulling out a slim scroll. He tossed it to Itama.
"A map. Marked with neutral zones. Patrol routes too. Stay low. Stay fast. Don't let your emotions write your end."
Itama nodded and tucked the scroll into his pouch.
The rogue studied him, eyes narrow.
"You've got questions," Takeshi said. "That's good. But be careful who you ask them to."
"I will."
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, casting a pale light over the forest.
As Itama stepped out into it, he wasn't sure where the road would lead.
But for the first time, he wasn't walking someone else's path.
He was searching for his own.
And that search began with a single question:
Why do we fight?
And more importantly—
Can we stop?
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