#Its about not Understanding because UNEXPECTED TIME TRAVEL is involved but also they’re idiots

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding Part VI - Star Wars Time Travel AU

Part I - - - - -  Part II - - - - - Part III - - - - - Part IV - - - - - Part V 

Anakin watched Obi-Wan through the stalks for several minutes. He could see him kneeling at the base of the waterfall, occasionally glancing around, as if searching for someone. Just when he was about to break and interrupt him, Obi-Wan stood and walked over. They sat together on the low bench, surrounded by the carefully cultivated colored fungi. 

“Obi-Wan...maybe we should talk about what’s going on with you. Whatever it is, I’m here for you.” Anakin offered hesitantly.

Obi-Wan tensed, hands clenching in his lap. 

“No.” 

“Master Windu and Bant both seemed to think this isn’t a drug thing. Please, let-”

“That wasn’t what I was saying no to.” 

Obi-Wan stood and began threading a path through the mushrooms, careful not to step on any of the smaller ones. Anakin was forced to follow directly in his footsteps, not wanting to risk damaging something Obi-Wan clearly seemed to care about, but wishing he could look at his Master’s face.

“Did I ever tell you about Bruck Chun?” Obi-Wan asked.

“No. Who’s Bruck?” Anakin responded with deliberate patience.

“He was an old crechemate of mine, quite gifted, though he had a temper. There have been times you remind me of him. We were rivals.” They were approaching the end of the alcove, a large stone overhang throwing them in to shadow.

“Were?”

“He died. When we were twelve.”

When they reached the rock face, Obi-Wan started climbing straight up. Anakin followed. Several clicks above the floor, Obi-Wan squeezed his way into a narrow crack, invisible from the floor below. Anakin followed. They awkwardly shuffled along the passage until Obi-Wan suddenly dropped out of sight. Anakin followed.

They landed in a hidden alcove. It was half lit by sunlight filtering in from cracks above, and half lit by the glow of mushrooms and crystals tenaciously embedded in the rock face around.

“Oh.” Anakin said softly. “Is this where you go when you visit the fountains to meditate?”

“No, I hadn’t been here in years.” Obi-Wan answered wistfully. “I started getting too big, didn’t want to damage the passageway too much. I figured some other younglings would stumble upon it someday like I did. I’m sorry. I avoided this room for the first year or two of your padawanship. By the time I even thought to share it, you had already grown so big...”

He sat down, legs stretched out in front. Anakin sat next to him, mirroring his position.

“I’m glad you’re sharing it with me now.” Anakin smiled reassuringly, but Obi-Wan was staring ahead blankly.  

The young knight swallowed nervously. “Did you...come here with Bruck?”

Obi-Wan let out a snort. “Gods, no! I hid here from him. Before we were rivals, he bullied me relentlessly.”

“And...this is the guy you said I remind you of?” Was he being insulted?

“At times. Math lessons, saber practice, none of that ever came easy to me. But you and him...you never even needed to study. And you do have a vicious streak, Anakin.”

Rather than try to argue in vain against the slight hurt, Anakin just asked, “How did he die?”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. “He fell.” 

Anakin jerked in surprise, “Wait, you mean-”

“We were fighting at the top of the waterfall- it- he had nearly killed Bant. He was angry that we both had been chosen by Masters, and Xanatos used that to manipulate him into helping with an attack on the temple. Bruck was lashing out. He was a better swordsmen, but his anger made him unbalanced. I knocked him back. And he fell. I’ve forgotten a lot of details about him as a person, but I still remember his body at the bottom of the falls.”

"That’s...awful. I’m sorry.” Anakin said helplessly. He had known the bare basics of Xanatos’s fall, but clearly not the full story.

Obi-Wan sighed, leaning slightly to press their shoulders together. Anakin scootched over to try and provide a little extra silent comfort.

“I thought I had learned to live with my guilt over my part in what happened to him, but I suppose recent events have torn open old scars, so to speak.”

Anakin held his breath, Obi-Wan didn’t add anything else. 

“Obi-Wan” he tried to nudge gently. 

“Hmm?”

Anakin lost his patience, jumping up. “Master, please!” He half yelled, looming over his Master. A flash of fear crossed Obi-Wan’s expression as he looked up, which immediately halted the fit of rage. 

He knelt down penitently, “I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, I shouldn’t have yelled, but please, let me help. I won’t get mad like that again, I swear. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

“You’re not.” Obi-Wan whispered, expression blank. He shuddered all over, fists clenching tightly.

“You’re NOT here for me!” Obi-Wan shouted, suddenly offended. “How can you POSSIBLY claim to be there for anyone after what you-” Obi-Wan seemed to choke on the words. He let out a strangled cry and pulled his knees up to his chest. Tears welled, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Anakin stared wide-eyed, cold all over. “This...this is about something I did. I don’t understand. You... told me a few hours that I’m dear to you, what...what could I have done since then to make you...I don’t understand.”

“You know what you did.” Obi-Wan let out. “And the fact that learning about it didn’t stop me from caring about you doesn’t help, it just makes the heartbreak a thousand times more painful.”

Anakin racked his brain wildly. This couldn’t be about his marriage with Padme, right? He told him this morning that he didn’t mind the sneaking off. There was only one screw-up big enough that could possibly warrant this severe a reaction, and only two people alive knew about that, both sworn to secrecy.

“The younglings,” Obi-Wan whispered. “You - you didn’t even spare the younglings.” Obi-wan looked gutted, terrified. 

Anakin felt like he had been dropped in ice water. This was- this was his worst fear- that Obi-Wan would learn about his darkest failing as a Jedi and be ashamed of him, angry at him, would abandon him. He had already made his judgement. How could he have even learned about about the Tuskens?

“Padme-” he breathed out. “Padme told-”

“No!” Obi-Wan denied desperately, lurching forward. “Padme would never betray you! I would never betray you! We both love you, Anakin. Please, some part of you must know that! You must!”

His master seemed frantic, fingernails digging painfully into Anakin’s arm.

“You love me?” Anakin asked brokenly, heart cracked open.

Obi-Wan let go of Anakin to curl in on himself again. He seemed very small. It hurt to look at.

“I think its safe to say at this point that there’s nothing you could, no betrayal or atrocity you could commit that would make me stop loving you. Despite what you’ve done, you’re my brother, my son- of course I love you. The fact that I led you to doubt my love for you might be my greatest failing, though there are so many its hard to really say.” Obi-Wan sounded utterly defeated.

Anakin’s heart was pounding. This was a nightmare and a childhood dream. Obi-Wan loved him unconditionally, but he knew about his slaughter of the Tusken's and was ashamed. This couldn’t be real. He can’t know.

“Palpatine-” Anakin tried to ask.

Obi-Wan growled. “I do not need to talk about how that power-hungry liar systematically worked to tear us apart. I want to know why you would-” he cut himself off again.

Palpatine told Obi-Wan- that was more than he could even begin to process.

"I’m sorry, Master. I’m so sorry for failing you.” The words came desperately tumbling out, “I was just- I was so angry about my mom’s death and-”

“Your mother’s death? You killed innocent children for the sake of your Mother?! I don’t- how could anyone possibly rationalize-” Obi-Wan hissed out, truly angry for the first time that day. He took a deep breath and pulled himself upright.

“Your mother’s death was a terrible tragedy and I will forever regret my role in it. I should have tried harder to free her, for her own sake. I was so afraid that if I pushed for permission with the council they would think I was failing you, and they would take you from me. I made- so many decisions out of attachment, out of fear of losing you, and in the end I hurt you so badly you couldn’t trust me. You didn’t trust me with the truth of your visions, so I gave you bad advice born of misunderstanding, and your mother died horribly. I- I can see how you would blame the Jedi for that, even if its not rational. I certainly understand why you would blame me for that, why you would hate me because of her death.”

Obi-Wan scrubbed at his face mercilessly, practically tearing skin in his haste to wipe away snot and tears.

“But why, if you were getting revenge, would you kill the children and not me?” “Why couldn’t you just kill me and be satisfied?” He finally looked straight at Anakin, asking like it was a real question.

Anakin was horrified. After a few false starts he finally choked out, “Master, I love you. I told you, you’re the closest thing I have to a father. You’re the last person I could ever kill.”

“The last person you could ever kill,” Obi-Wan echoed back, looking pained.

“Please, Master, tell me how to fix this. I want to make things right. How can I fix things?” Anakin begged.

“That’s not a fair question. You can’t unmurder people. You can’t put them back together like a- an engine or a droid- ”

“There has to be something I can do to make you forgive me!” Anakin said desperately. “You can’t just tell me you love me and then say I’m an irredeemable monster!”

“Well that’s an entirely different matter, though no less cruel to think about.”

He leaned into Anakin’s side once more, the press providing a hint of warmth even in the unshakable cold. “Anakin, it isn’t very rational or fair of me, but it wouldn’t really take that much to get me to forgive you. Kriff, if you just acted sorry for what you had done.” Obi-Wan sighed.

“If you told me that you regretted the lives you took and swore you were going to stop murdering, force help me, I’d probably take you back in an instant. All I ever wanted was to help you be the best version of yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” Anakin said immediately. “I’m so, so sorry for what I did. I lost control of myself because I was scared, and angry, and suffering and, and then I was so scared that you would hate me that I pretended it was ok, and I told myself that they deserved to die, but how could children ever deserve to die and please Master I’ll throw away my lightsaber just please, please don’t leave me, I need you, please-” and the rest of the words dissolved into large, ugly sobs.

Obi-Wan keened and pulled Anakin into his lap like he was a child again. Anakin scrabbled at his cloak, desperately trying to hold on. The terrible chill that had been haunting him slowly started to fade away as he was rocked back and forth. 

After a minute, Anakin got enough of a hold on himself to consider trying to stop blubbering like a crecheling on his Master’s robes. But he quickly realized that Obi-Wan was also crying, so instead threw his arms around the older man and let himself go.

An uncertain amount of time passed before they both slowed from heaving sobs, to dry hiccups, to quiet whimpers. Eventually they ended up laying in a heap, boneless but for their hold on each other. And finally, the cavern was more or less silent.

Anakin felt physically lighter, mind clear like he had just completed an extremely successful meditation session.

Without a word, they slowly shifted so they were leaning on the wall instead of sprawled on the ground. Obi-Wan pulled his robe off, first using it to wipe his face, then tenderly cleaning his Padwan’s. 

Anakin just chuckled. 

Obi-Wan threw the robe so it covered the two of them, which was a little gross, but that only made Anakin snort giddily. 

They sat there peacefully for sometime. The shadows from above started shifting, and Obi-Wan sighed, “I really should go eat something.”

Anakin sighed back at him in agreement. They both stretched in the small space, joints popping.

“Do you need to walk through the rest of the gardens first?” Anakin asked.

“No,” Obi-Wan replied, tenderly fussing with his kid’s hair and robes so they looked presentable. “This was...more than I could have hoped for.”

Anakin beamed, giving Obi-Wan one last quick hug before gesturing upwards. “Time to get back to the real world?” he joked with a hint of regret.

“Time to get back to the real world.” Obi-Wan repeated heavily.

Part VII

[nanawritesstuff]

of war and peace | December 27th, MadaSakuWeekend

it’s here, y’all. MadaSakuWeekend, Day 1. Thank you, Captain @madasakuweek​, for organising and motivating the madasaku stans!!!! 

Prompt: soulmate au

Fandom: Naruto

Pairing: Haruno Sakura/ Uchiha Madara

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Word Count: 4051

Summary: For Sakura, soulmates have officially lost their charm and she’s never felt more disillusioned. But when the only chance to look deeper comes to her, she still takes it. | sequel to of love and war 

Warnings/Tags: angst, ooc sasuke cuz I like soft friend Sasuke, ooc madara cuz I need some fluff

a/n: I really wasn’t sure if I should write this, but this is the only way I wanted to write it lol

Sakura has always known what dead soulmarks mean. 

She thought she had accepted it-the bittersweet feeling of being surrounded by people meant for each other, knowing there was no such person for her, not anymore. She's been ready for the weddings, the children, and the anniversaries since she was twelve. She's crafted herself an armour of acceptance and resolution. 

She hadn't been ready for this. 

The first glimpse of the infamous Uchiha had shaken her to the core. Despite the distance between them, she knows that he had sensed her presence. Sasuke's hand had been firm in hers as she trembled, as her mind and body refused to cooperate. And then that wild hair vanished from sight, leaving behind an odd longing in her, which she has been trying to fight down ever since. They've retreated back to camp to for a brief respite, and she takes this time to come to terms with the current situation.

She hadn’t been ready for the part of her she’d thought long buried to awaken and unfurl in the deepest parts of her, for it to sense its other half and prod at her very being as if to say: hey, look, there they are!

Despite knowing there was no happy ending written for her, she had indulged in the occasional daydream of somehow meeting her soulmate. They usually involved tears and soft kisses, apologies and tight hugs. When she heard people were being resurrected, her mind had spun out of control for a moment. The hope had been nearly overwhelming, and the subsequent disappointment had crushed it. 

What she feels now is pure despair. There are no teary first meetings in the works for her, because the man fate has deemed fit for her is the worst enemy they have ever faced. And judging by the reports coming in from the fourth division, he is also an overpowered killer. The desperation and desolation merge as they rush through her, forming a leash around her heart. What does it say about her, if that is who is marked for her? Not every marked pair ends up together, but that’s still rare.

How is it that someone she has never even met has managed to break her heart? Or is it the absolute disillusionment that has her struggling to breathe?

Sasuke's arms are steady and warm around her as they stand in the empty tent. His brother stands guard outside, talking to his partner in low tones. The two make an odd pair, but there is a certain confidence in the way they move around each other that speaks of faith, and trust. Her eyes squeeze shut as the tears spill over and her fingers dig into Sasuke's skin as she buries her head in his shoulder. 

"I've got you. Okay? We don't have much time, but...I'm here with you. You're not alone," he murmurs, hugging her closer when she starts shaking. "I'm here." Sakura sobs harder at the warm words, cursing herself for crying over this, over him. She should be out there, shrugging it off, keeping her head held high. Instead, she's hiding away, crying like a child. 

"W-why him?" she blubbers, taking in shaky breaths as Sasuke wipes her cheeks dry. “What the hell did I ever do to deserve that?

"Well, it's definitely unfortunate. But...you could've done worse. You could've gotten Danzo." 

The complete disgust on her face makes him grin. 

"He's not much better." 

"Hey, come on now. I know he's our enemy, but your soulmate is one of the most feared shinobi in all the nations," Sasuke tells her, handing her a cup of water. "Right up there with the Shodaime." 

"Sasuke."

"I'm just saying...it could've been Danzo."

She can't help but laugh at that, pulling him into another hug. "Yes. And now I have to watch my soulmate die without ever getting a chance to speak to him." 

He shrugs, watching her as she nearly dunks her head in a bucket of water. "I mean, you'll get a chance to meet him. Even a monster wouldn't kill his own soulmate." 

Sakura isn't so sure of that, but she knows it doesn't matter either way. She won't get a chance to find out.

She gets her chance. 

Naruto turns to her when Madara leaves, declaring his intent to wait for the Shodaime. She knows she doesn't imagine the way his eyes flick in her direction before he turns away. She tells herself it was Naruto he was assessing, but her heart doesn't stop pounding. He's terrifying. He kills as naturally as he breathes, as if he was born to fight, to defeat. And yet, she had heard him call out to Hashirama. She had seen him nearly crash into the ground in his haste to get to the man, his eyes lit up with excitement at the mere prospect of getting to fight his old friend. 

She had nearly smiled at the way his face fell when Hashirama rebuffed him. 

It doesn't matter–she can berate herself all she wants, but she couldn't stop her eyes from finding him, from greedily taking in every move he makes. It's dangerous to be this distracted, and it takes her every ounce of the self-control she possesses to stay focused on healing Naruto, who is still trying to check on her.

The sound of heavy footsteps grows closer, and she looks up to see Hashirama smiling at her. There is chatter all around her as they all watch the four Hokage in action, getting ready to jump into the fray themselves, and one of the Shodaime's clones has come to her instead.

"I'm going to him. I know it's important to conserve chakra but...I'd say this is important too, in a way," he says softly, the way he looks pointedly at her neck leaving little doubt as to what he means. Of all the people in the world, he's probably the one person who is as familiar with the symbol as she is. She turns to look at Naruto and Sasuke, who look back at her with no trace of judgment in their eyes. She squares her shoulders and walks to them, her hands coming up to form a symbol she's rarely ever had to use, unlike her blond teammate. 

As Team 7 steps up to join the battle, her clone leaves with Hashirama's.

She's afraid–of being rejected, even though she tells herself she's not looking for acceptance. Of him being worse than she believes him to be, even though it can't, in all honestly, get much worse than mass-murdering psychopath aiming for world domination. She feels no small amount of guilt for going to meet the man who has taken so much from this world, from her friends. 

They slow to a stop just before they reach the spot, and Sakura looks at him questioningly when he just smiles sheepishly. His eyes indicate his unnatural state, but they’re still gentle in the way they settle on her.

"It's Sakura, right?" 

"Um, yes."

"Hm. You know, ever since I first saw it, I've been curious–just what kind of a person would give that brute such a pretty mark?" he muses, and she flushes under the weight of his gaze. "But it's subtle in its beauty. The one he's given you...well, it certainly doesn't leave any doubt, does it?" 

Sakura looks up at the rock where her supposed fated one waits. "Not anymore. This mark, it's given me a lot of grief. But it's never felt like a burden...until now." She turns back to him, her smile wobbly. "No matter who it belonged to, it was my soulmark. There was someone for me, even if they were out of reach."

"To find out that you're Madara's soulmate...he's definitely a handful," Hashirama guffaws as he pats her shoulder sympathetically. A part of her can't believe she's just standing around, chatting with the Shodaime Hokage as the war rages on around them, even if they're clones. But, despite her initial fears, he isn't disgusted. There's no sign of pity in his eyes. He seems to sense her uncertainty as she tries to find the right words. 

'Handful' seems to be the understatement of the world. The man is trying to cast a genjutsu over the entire world. 

"He's...not someone I expected. Ever." 

Hashirama nods, seeming to understand what she doesn't say. "I'll get to the point, then. It may be hard to believe, and I'm certain everyone else would disagree if they heard this...but then no one ever really knew Madara like I did, like I do." A finger under her chin tilts her head up when she can't meet his eyes. "He's an idiot. A severely misguided one. He has a terrible temper and his way of resolving things is to beat them." 

'Is he trying to tell me that I dodged a bullet?' Sakura thinks, wondering if the Shodaime thinks she's an idiot. 

"But Sakura...despite his utter idiocy and thick-head...he has good in his heart. I know this, and I believe this even now. He is not an evil man." She blinks at the unexpected words.

"Then why is he doing this? Trying to create some perfect world? What happened?" she asks quietly. Hashirama sighs, running a hand through his hair as he tries to put it in words. The sky has settled into a shadowy disposition, a precursor of the darker things to come and–she can’t tell if it’s afternoon or evening.

"The Uchiha, they...they love deeply, to a fault. To the point where it can destroy them. This trait was always especially apparent in Madara. He loved his family so much, that losing them broke him apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but anguish,” Hashirama’s eyes lose focus as his mind travels to a time when Konoha was just a dream. “Losing his brother was the final straw, although I didn't know it at the time. Izuna took a big piece of Madara with him, when he was killed by my own brother."

"But...you still founded the village after that?" 

"I was able to convince him. And I've always believed that even then, Madara had hope." 

"For Konoha?"

"Yes. And for finding you," Hashirama says, his soft smile edging with sorrow. His words take root in her heart, robbing her of breath and words. "He never admitted it, but I knew he wanted to meet you. Sakura-san, when we were kids, he used to go on and on about you. He was so sure you would be a kunoichi–beautiful, powerful yet kind were his exact words if I remember correctly.” His laugh is soft as he shares this piece of his past, of cherished memories. “A woman who could send shinobi flying with one punch. I'm sure he's very pleased to know he was right." 

She knows he's teasing, but she can't help the warmth that extends to her ears. “Oh...”

“Uchiha Madara’s soulmate, apprenticed to a Senju, my own granddaughter. I suppose the fates do have a peculiar sense of humour,” he mutters, appearing a bit smug.

Sakura, however, is stuck on his previous words.

"He really said all that?" The almighty Uchiha, fantasizing about his soulmate?

"He did. In his defence, we were children. His vocabulary was rather limited at the time. But, as I was saying...well, he never did find you. The situation became more hopeless, and...then it ended. Or so I believed." 

“And he betrayed you.”

“And he believed he was meant to walk a different path, yes.”

"Why are you telling me this?" she asks as they begin to walk towards their goal.  

"Because I know he won't. And as his best friend, I believe it to be my duty to tell you your soulmate isn't the monster everyone believes him to be." Hashirama's sincerity shines through in every word. "And, because the gods are cruel. If Madara had met you back then...I truly believe things would have been different." 

'But we never had a chance.' Her eyes well up once again, but Hashirama's look suspiciously shiny as well. It's in this moment that it really sinks in–the man people believe was Uchiha Madara's greatest enemy still calls himself his best friend. Perhaps he's too optimistic, to actually believe there's still some good left in the other man, but he would know better than most, wouldn't he? Better than everyone else.

It may be naive of her but Sakura chooses to believe him–because she wants to believe it. She wants to believe there's more to Madara than the homicidal demon he's known to be, even if she might not get the chance to see it for herself.

And now, as he waits for Hashirama, she finds him.

She doesn't see her mark on what little skin she can see, but that only makes sense. Most Shinobi don’t leave their mark visible for everyone to see, and this one has more reason than most to hide his. Her own mark seems to pulse in sync with the quickening beat of her heart. Her breath catches in her throat as he moves, as he slowly turns to face them, her muscles locking up when he tilts his head, the spiral pattern of his eyes dizzying in his otherworldly beauty.

She doesn't move as he refuses to fight Hashirama's clone, and then proceeds to destroy it. She waits for him to do the same to her, but he only goes back to his seat with casual indifference. Ino and Shikamaru's faces spring up in her head–the apprehension is cast aside in favour of anger.

And then, she pounces. 

He blocks every attack, never countering, only parrying and twisting gracefully. His expression doesn't shift in the slightest, but she can see the amused glint in his eyes and it sends anger burning like fire through her veins. As he turns slightly to step back, her fingers slide into his coarse hair, clenching tightly and yanking him to her. The surprised look on his face is almost comical, and she only gets a glimpse before she drives her fist into his cheek. The way he crashes through the rocks has vindictive satisfaction thrumming in her, even though she knows it was a lucky shot.

"That was dirty," he grumbles. His voice is deeper than she expected, and there is none of the rage she was expecting. Instead, as he sets his gunbai down,  he looks like he’s trying to fight a smirk. 

"That was for my friends," she replies firmly. 'Nothing in the world will ever make up for what you've done.'

"Friends, hmm?" He tilts his head curiously, brushing dirt off his armour. "The nine-tails is one of them, is he not?" 

The look she gives him is dangerous, and her only response. The little smirk that curls along his mouth is knowing. He has the striking features common in the Uchiha, but where Sasuke and Itachi are lean, lithe and delicate–Madara is broader, sturdy, and rugged, but still limber which is apparent in the way he moves.

"So you haven't come to join me, little soulmate?"

"And betray my people? Of course not," she says dismissively. 

“Your people? Shouldn’t your soulmate be included in that list?”

“Not if he’s trying to ruin the lives of every other person on it,” she snaps, her irritation rising when he only looks amused. Where is the temper the Shodaime mentioned? 

"Then why have you come?" 

His question gives her pause, makes her nervous. "Because of the Shodaime..."

"Did the meddling fool force you?" 

"No! I just...I was curious,” she admits, shrugging lightly despite the nervous feeling fluttering in her stomach. 

"Hm."

She watches him for another moment. He sits with his legs crossed, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. He looks as if he doesn't have a care in the world, but his eyes are intense in their focus, in the way they linger on her mark. His mark. She wonders what he thinks of her, with her soft hair and bright eyes. With the thick lines sweeping down her face to her body. 

In all her daydreams, she had never thought she’d look this roughed up when meeting her soulmate. There are no sundresses and bright nail polish; her skin is cleaner than her real body’s by virtue of being a clone and her flak jacket is snug around her torso. The image of a faceless man with a gentle smile has been torn to shreds, replaced by this man who she thinks is–in the deepest parts of her mind–of a wilder sort of beauty than she could’ve ever imagined. 

She thinks he’s beautiful, and she hates herself for it. 

"I came because even though you're clearly insane, this is the only chance I had to meet you," she says honestly. "So I took it."

"Insane?" he repeats, his eye twitching. "Bold, aren't you?" 

"I'd have to be, with this blasted mark on my neck!" 

"Listen here, girl, that's the Sharingan you're insulting! My Sharingan," he says, and she tries to ignore the possessiveness colouring his tone. 

"Well, your Sharingan has been an endless source of annoyance my entire life!"  

"And your mark..." he begins heatedly, only to trail off. Suddenly, she feels awkward. What is she doing, arguing with this man? 

"And my mark?" She watches him cautiously, watching for a hint, a sign that would indicate the location of her mark. She’s been curious about it all her life and Hashirama hadn’t given her any clues beyond ‘pretty.’

He doesn't respond, his head turning towards the direction of the battle. Her heart restarts it's panicked thumping as he moves to stand, his gaze focused on some distant point. He glances at her once before turning away to leave. 

"W-wait!" 

Madara stills, looking over his shoulder at her, and she ignores the voice in her head that calls her a sentimental fool. 

"M-my name...it’s Sakura," she stammers, her mouth dry, feeling like a complete idiot. At the same time, something in her is finally quenched. She doesn’t regret it. And then–the all too familiar scent of forests and smoke fills her senses, and her heart attempts to leap out of her mouth when those hypnotic eyes meet her own and he's too close too close. He leans over her, his expression unreadable, and she feels something warm on her neck before she discovers that it's his fingers. His skin is warm, and she's startled further when she realizes his glove is off. 

Madara strokes the bright mark on her skin, his touch gentler than she would’ve expected from a man like him, his gaze unwavering. "Sakura, huh?" She doesn't understand why her knees shake at the way he says her name, as if he's savouring sweet wine. They shake harder when his mouth curves up, even though it's tiny. It softens his harsh features and stills the pounding of her heart. "Of course it is. I'm...Madara." 

He’s close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off of his body; she could reach out and touch him, and she might be losing her mind because she thinks he would let her. She wants to explore, dig deep and see what parts of him he’s hiding, and how they would fit with hers.

“...It’s nice to finally meet you, I guess,” she whispers. She’s embarrassed to find that her eyes have grown wet again but before she can swipe at them his hand is there, brushing a tear off her lashline. 

“I should be the one saying that.” But he doesn’t sound annoyed. The air is warm and still between them as they both search the other's face. They both know where the other stands. There’s nothing more to say. She feels something tug at her as he steps back, slipping his glove back on. There's something on his wrist, but it's covered by the cloth before she can get a clearer look.

"Well, Sakura. I'll see you on the battlefield." 

She still doesn't quite know how, but things got worse.  

The battlefield is quiet around them, as everyone slumbers in their cocoons. In this moment though, her mind strays from her worry for her people. Her eyes, instead, remain glued to the form on the ground, the form Hashirama is now walking towards. Her mind flashes through the events that lead to this. Gai-sensei. Obito. Naruto and Sasuke, who have now disappeared along with Kakashi-sensei and the creature, the woman who had put an end to Uchiha Madara. The thought doesn't bring the triumph it should. Instead, they now have something much worse on their hands.

She feels numb, because of the unknown evil they now have to face. Because she had to watch her soulmate nearly explode and be turned inside out in a most horrific manner, and she knows it's going to give her nightmares for the rest of her life.

And, because...this is it. This is it for him, for the little bit of them.

Naruto realized it before she did, and pushed her to safety before they vanished. He made the decision for her because he knew she would have followed them. And he wanted her to have this. 

As she walks towards him, his form grows blurrier. The confusion lasts for but a moment before she realizes her body has reacted before her mind could, in the form of the tears that flow freely down her cheeks. He’s empty, drained of life and chakra, the bleached look gone and his hair back to its inky ferocity.

His words, spoken in low tones, reach her ears. "War buddies...huh? Well, I guess that's fine...by me..." he trails off as Hashirama turns to look up at her. "Ah, that's...right. One of my dreams...did come true." 

She sinks to her knees beside him, reaching for his hand. It's still warm, and she squeezes it tightly. He looks frail, all the rage in him finally hushed. He doesn't look at her, but she realizes quickly that he can't.

"I always told you, didn't I?" Hashirama teases, although his smile is more wistful than amused. "In this, at least–you were right."

"I...know..." His fingers twitch around hers as his mouth perks up slightly. "Sakura."

"Hmm?" She's unsure if she can manage to speak through quiver in her throat, through the emotions bubbling up and choking her. "I-I'm here." 

"My...wrist..."

She catches on quickly, reaching for the hand still shielded by a glove with trembling fingers. As she slips it off, her eyes stay trained on his wrist. On her mark. And her heart aches at the sight of it, at the unfairness of it all.

"Oh."

"Beautiful...isn't it?" he asks, almost serenely. She laughs quietly, running her fingers over the cherry blossoms inked on to his skin by fate itself. "Forgive me. I'll...be going...ahead first." 

"Again," she murmurs, sighing at the position they've found themselves in after all this time.

He seems to find it amusing, his mouth curling up further still despite his unfocused gaze. "Ah. I guess...this just wasn't...our time...huh?"

"Not this life," she agrees, leaning in to press her mouth to his forehead. He’s nearly gone, so she knows he probably doesn’t feel the tears that drip down her chin and onto his ashen skin. "Maybe in another, if we're lucky." 

"I'll...look...for you, then..." he agrees, his smile fading slightly as his hand goes in limp in her grip. She takes a moment to close her eyes, to let herself feel. The loss. The bitterness. The unravelling of that tense, bitter knot in her chest that had wound itself tight throughout the years. In the end, she got to be by his side, in a small way.

Hashirama's hand is steady on her back as she takes in deep breaths. There will be time to grieve–later. For now, she has teammates to find and people to save. Despite everything the world has thrown at them, they've survived. And she's going to keep it that way.

[asoftervirge]

between the salt water and the sea strands

RATING: PG, may increase as the story goes on PAIRINGS: R. Sanders/P. Sanders (main); T. Sanders/OMC (mentioned)

FIC WARNINGS/KINKS: Drinking, Near Death, mentions of drowning FIC SUMMARY: Roman, a young sea captain, is rescued by a mysterious person

TAGLIST: @backatthebein, @levy-the-b00kw0rm, @ierindoodles, @rosesandstuff, @notveryglittery, @patchworkofstars (if anybody else wishes to be tagged, please let me know!)

CLICK HERE IF YOU READ IT ON AO3 INSTEAD!

“And we’ll roll the old chariot along, we’ll roll the old chariot along, we’ll roll the old chariot along and we’ll all hang on be-hind~”

Roman smiled as he listened to his crew finish their shanty before clanking their tankards loudly and raising them to the high heavens, then laughing jovially as they spilled beer and ale onto the deck of the ship. He didn’t mind it of course, as he had his fair share of being a sloppy drunk and spilling everywhere. Besides, the ship’s deck also had her taste of sea water, blood, and fish guts, so a drunken sailors’ mess is just something else that makes her unique.

The young man made his way to the front of the ship, gracefully maneuvering around the swaying sailors that are mere seconds away from collapsing, gazing out at the view in front of him. The night’s sky was black and dark gray with no stars twinkling amidst its thick clouds, while the water that surrounded the ship was a eerie mix of dark green and blue. With how beautiful it was, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the sea began.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of salty water and feeling the cold wind blow harshly in his face, then exhaled slowly opening his eyes as he did so (which he didn’t even know were closed in the first place).

“Lovely, isn’t Logan?” he asked the mysterious person walking up to him from behind. He knew it was Logan due to how loud his footsteps were against the deck. That, and Logan wasn’t much of a drinker of ales and beers, stuck-up wine connoisseur.

“In seascapes and literature? Yes. But actually going out on a sea-faring travel? I’ll pass, thank you.”

Roman pouted. “You’re just a ripe old fuddy-duddy, aren’t you?”

Logan pondered that thoughtfully. “No. More like, someone who’d rather not become a victim of the sea’s cruelty and become feast to the creatures that call her their home.”

“In other words, a fuddy-duddy.”

“To each his own, I suppose.”

Roman groaned and dragged Logan closer to him. “Look at her, Logan! How can you call her cruel? She may be a wild thing, but she still as her moments of peacefulness!”

“And we have yet to see that since we left earlier this afternoon,” Logan reminds him, completely focusing his attention on un-wrinkling his sleeve rather than at the sight of the sea in front of him. “Remind me again, why we’re still out here? You know what your Father said—”

“That I shouldn’t be out at sea when it’s dark and dreadful out,” Roman mocked while rolling his eyes which, in turn, made Logan roll his. “Listen, we’re not that far off from port—”

“Nearly 20 nautical miles.”

“—My men are happy—”

“Because they’re drunk to the gills with beer and singing shanties.”

“—So why not enjoy the sea just a little while longer?”

“Firstly, a storm is on the horizon, so it would be best to sail back to port now. Secondly, I don’t understand how you became a thalassophile in the first place. You always liked riding your horse across the mountains, yet you suddenly develop a love for the sea a few years ago. How is that?”

(Truth be told, Logan knew the answer, and Roman knew he knew the answer.)

Roman had always loved the sea. Ever since he was a child, he always called the sea his second home. He loved her personality, her energy, the way she caressed the shore of the beach on her good days, and raged with fury on her bad. The way she stretched on for miles and miles. Empty, open, free. He loved the feeling of the wind blowing in his hair, the salty spray on his face, the sound of the waves lapping against the side of his ship and crashing in his ears.

He’d grown up in the capital city of Alexandria, which was also the largest port town in the country. You would think as someone who grew up near the sea, he would eventually get tired of it, but he never did. He didn’t have the heart to, his love of the sea remained to this very day.

His father Thomas was an actor in a theatre troupe, while his papa Alejandro was a sea merchant and a sailor. Whenever his papa came home from his travels, he would always tell little Roman story after story about what life was like on the sea, the places he had sailed to, and the people he had met during his trades. It would always bring a excited sparkle to the boy’s eyes, proudly declaring that he wanted to travel the sea with his Papa one day.

Unfortunately, that day never came because Alejandro was killed in an unexpected pirate raid when Roman was a small child. While Thomas wanted to forbid his son from going out onto sea, that only increased his desires. He couldn’t stand being so close to his calling, yet he wasn’t able to answer her. From morning to night he could hear sing beckoning to him, yearning for him to control her tempestuous nature and explore her mysterious, adventure-bound waters.

(And bless Poseidon, Amphitrite, Triton, and any other deity of the sea that gave him that opportunity.)

Being from a sea port town, he was used to having the occasional visit from pirates, usually making trades or wanting to get smashed at the drinking house, rarely did the town get pillaged due to it’s importance in sea trading, but that doesn’t stop pirates from being idiots.

One night, Roman and his boyhood friend and future navigator, Logan Faraday, found a young pirate captain swindling the residents out of coin and weapons, along with any other trinket they happened to have bet on. That, was when Roman decided to strike. He decided that he was going to challenge the captain to a bet; this time, through a coin toss. The rules where simple: if Roman won, he’d take the captain’s ship. If the the captain won, he’d take Roman’s most prized possession, a necklace that his papa gave him before he died.

Roman chose heads, the pirate captain chose tails. The coin landed on tails, yet it was Roman that was the real winner.

(Let me explain, both Roman and Logan noticed the captain cheating during all of his challenges. With Logan’s knowledge, and Roman’s papa teaching him about pirates and gambling, they were able to figure out the captain’s trick. Even one as petty as swapping a real coin for a fake.)

(With a chill and humbled smile, the captain surrendered his ship to Roman. Turns out that the young pirate captain was secretly hoping someone would notice his cheating so he could give up his life as a pirate. Wasn’t all that fun for him anymore. Fortunately, he managed to find fun with his handsome, sellsword of a husband.)

And that, was how The Crimson Prince was born.

“You do happen to know The Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, by any chance?” Roman asked after a long period of silence.

Logan quickly snapped his head towards him, the redoing of his cufflinks coming to a screeching halt. “You mean the book of seafaring and maritime history poems by John Masefield?” he asked, making sure he heard Roman right. Once his friend nodded, he only guffawed (not that he would admit that) and exclaimed, “Of course I do! It is, after all, the only poetry book you’ve ever read in your life.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Then you know what I’m going to recite.” he tells him, standing proudly now, pretending to hold a tankard in one hand and gesturing to the sea in the other as he begins to quote:

“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.”

Logan sat down, not actually caring about how dirty his clothing will get, and propped an elbow on one of his knees, resting his chin in his palm. He couldn’t help but shake his head fondly because even if he’s heard Roman recite this poem hundreds of times over the years, he secretly loves hearing Roman loudly proclaiming his love for Mother Nature’s cruelest mistress.

“I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.”

Logan gave a miniature applause when Roman finishing reciting (even if he intentionally leaves out the third verse). Roman smiled and bowed dramatically, laughing heartily as he helped Logan to his feet.

The sea was his home; she loved him and his father as they loved her. If there was ever a life he lived where it didn’t involve the sea, it wasn’t a life worth living.

A flash of light suddenly made the sky glow for a second and Logan grew worried. For as much as Roman loved to talk about the sea’s beauty, he knew she held as much fury as she did serenity. Logan knew her wrath as well as her comforts, her storms as well as her gentle waves, and he knew to fear the darkening of the skies above and the enlivening of the water below.

He knew to avoid the sea’s wrath— and he knew how hard it was to escape it.

“Roman,” he began calmly, not wanting to raise alarm in his friend and captain. “Now do you believe me when I say we should head back to port?”

Roman nodded. “You’re right.” he said, quickly making his way back to the ship’s helm. “Alright men, enough lollygagging! Get sober quickly and raise the anchor, we’re retreating to shore!”

Soon, rain began to fall across the deck in sheets of freezing cold, and violent waves tossed the ship from side to side; Roman shivered as he clung to the ship’s wheel to keep from tipping the boat over, his knuckles stark-white as he desperately tried to steer out of the raging storm. Logan stood to his side, snapping rapid-fire commands to the crew below, his grim face illuminated by the lightning crackling above and his sharp voice carrying over the deafening rumbles of thunder.

Roman shoved his dripping hair from his face and grit his teeth, yanking the wheel to the side. The ship rocked dizzyingly beneath him as the ocean battered it from below with all her might.

Crack, boom!

He whirled around, a desperate cry tearing from his lips as lightning suddenly slammed into the deck, sending his crewmates, his family, flying. The rain fell but did nothing to stop the flames the lightning left behind, growing bigger and more monstrous with every inch of Roman’s ship they devoured. As the embers flew and the heat licked at Roman, he turned and gripped the wheel once more, desperate to steer them out, to save them…but it was too late.

The water filled his lungs the moment he fell beneath, and though he chocked and struggled, he couldn’t find the surface in the midst of the chaos, couldn’t escape the darkness and the whirling, churning waves. The sea engulfed him at all sides, sending him tumbling, and darkness crept at the edge of his mind as the sea dragged him below.

He’d always known he belonged at sea, and now, like his Papa before him, he was coming home.

When Roman finally regained consciousness, his head hurt and lungs burned from the salt water he coughed up, he heard a singing voice. A singing voice that sounded like it belonged to an angel, hymnal and otherworldly, but he couldn’t understand any of the words. He considered it to be one of the most beautiful voices he had ever heard. He blinked wearily, the high sun shining directly in his eyes, wanting to see who the enchanting song belonged to.

Vaguely, he could see the silhouette of his savior’s face, the sun illuminating around their face, almost like they were carrying a halo. Due to this, he first believed them to be Papa coming to take him to the Great Kingdom in the Sky (he wouldn’t have minded that if he was honest). He gave them a gentle, appreciative smile, but before he could uttered a word of thanks or even a question as to who they were, they disappeared.

“W-Wait! P-Please!” Roman’s voice was raspy and it broke a little when he called out to them. He began pushing himself upward, ignoring both his head and body aches as he tried to stop the person from leaving. When he had fallen into the ocean, he was certain he was sinking to his grave, but here he was, still alive and breathing. All thanks to this mysterious savior who wished to remain just that, a mystery.

When he was finally able to sit up completely and all sunspots had left his vision, they were gone, no sign of them whatsoever. He frowned as he began to look around, wondering where they’ve gone.

For a few moments, Roman was afraid he imagined the entire scenario…but here was no way he could’ve come up with something that creative, could he? But if he did…why did their sweet voice and warm touch continue to linger in his mind. Why did it seem so realistic?

The young captain’s overthinking was soon interrupted by another voice calling out to him, followed by the loud crunching of footsteps on the sand.

“Roman!” the familiar voice yelled. “Thank the Gods you’re alright! We thought you’d died!”

A pair of hands carefully grabbed his shoulders as their form came into his field of vision. As soon as Roman was able to fully recognize their face, an enormous sense of relief washed over him as he let out a shaky breath.

“Logan,” he whispered hopefully, becoming overwhelmed with emotion. When he was thrown off the ship, one of the other thoughts that flooded his mind (aside from his Father and Papa) was Logan; how his beloved friend and navigator was also to meet a watery grave because of his pride and stubbornness. “I…I’m so sorry!”

“Shh,” Logan soothed softly, his voice strangely calm and gentle. Even if it went against his usually cool demeanor, he pulled Roman into a protective embrace. One that showed that everything was alright, and that he was alive and feeling Logan’s warmth encompassing him. “We believe you drowned. Some of our crew tried to aid you, but the currents were too strong. How did you manage to swim against them, surely your nose and lungs would’ve been filled with water.”

“Someone…someone saved my life.”

“Oh?” Logan asked, voice tinged with curiosity as he looked around the cove. “If so, then where are they? And how did they manage such a feat?”

“I don’t know…they’ve gone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“They’ve gone,” Roman repeated. “I woke up to the most gorgeous singing I’ve ever heard— what it was, I don’t know since I couldn’t translate the words— and then I saw them, or almost saw them, but then…they were gone…”

“Roman, I’m sorry but that doesn’t make much sense.” Logan tells him. “Are you sure you weren't hallucinating?"

“Logan, you— you have to understand I’m not making this up!” the young captain protested strongly, glaring at his friend with firm eyes. “I saw them, I heard them! I know they’re real!”

“You nearly died from drowning. It’s quite common for seafarers to have hallucinations, especially when they’ve nearly drank themselves to oblivion." Logan placated, resting the back of his hand on his friend’s forehead. "You also know that we’ve heard similar stories at the bars we’ve been to, sailors saying they’ve been saved by mysterious folk to draw in a crowd.”

Roman growled and violently shook his head to the point where another wave of pain rushed to him. He wasn’t even drinking on the ship, Logan knew that! And why would he make something like this up?! He was known to tell an exaggerative story, but nothing of this scale and grandeur.

This person, angel, whomever, was real! The vague, sweet-looking face, the angelic voice, the feeling of soft skin lightly brushing against his own. It couldn’t have been a hallucination, Roman was convinced of that.

Where had they gone when he tried to thank them? How could they have disappeared so suddenly and without a trace? Who were they? Maybe it was Papa, Roman thought with a sad chuckle.

But if it was Papa, he would’ve known; he would’ve called Roman “his little hijo del mar” and affirm that “the seas have called us home”; he would’ve sung to him in a deep voice, rich with passionate experience, not light with a calm gentleness; and he would’ve held a guiding hand and led him to the Heavens. So who was it that saved his life?

“Come, Roman. Let me take you home. I’m sure Thomas is worried sick about you.” Logan wrapped his arm around his friend’s waist, leading him back to port. After a few moments of trying to convince Logan his story was true (and the navigator remained in denial), Roman begrudgingly ceased his protests and allowed himself to be lead home.