The early morning mist curled through the trees, clinging to the underbrush like secrets not yet ready to be spoken. Inside the shed, the small hearth crackled with modest flames, casting a dim orange glow over the walls, worn and splintered with age. Itama sat cross-legged on a straw mat, hands outstretched to the warmth, bandages still wrapped around his torso and shoulder.
Across from him, Takeshi was silent, as always. The rogue shinobi had just finished boiling water for tea, and the scent of crushed herbs filled the room, earthy and bitter. There was an unusual stillness in him today, not the typical guarded silence, but something weightier, heavier. Itama sensed it even before the man spoke.
"You ever ask yourself why people fight?" Takeshi finally said, voice low, gravel-edged.
Itama blinked. The question felt out of place—but something in Takeshi's tone held him still. "Because… they want to protect something. Or take something. That's what my brother said once."
Takeshi let out a soft grunt, neither agreement nor denial. He poured the tea into two chipped clay cups, pushing one toward Itama.
"There was a time I thought the same. That every war was just a battle over land, revenge, pride… But that's only half the story. The other half? It's about fear. Fear of losing what you have. Fear of what the other side might become."
Itama stared at him. "You talk like you've seen it."
"I've seen more than I ever wanted," Takeshi said, staring into the steaming liquid like it was a portal to another world. "Fought in more wars than I can count. Cut down men I never even knew the names of. All for a clan symbol I was supposed to wear with pride."
"You were part of a clan?" Itama asked cautiously. "Which one?"
Takeshi didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened. His eyes, dark and hollow, lifted to meet Itama's.
"Senju."
Itama felt the words strike like a kunai to the chest. His breath caught.
"You're—?"
"I was," Takeshi cut in. "A long time ago."
Silence wrapped around them like a noose. Itama's thoughts swirled—confusion, disbelief, recognition. There was something in Takeshi's chakra, something familiar, even if faded. He had never truly sensed it until now, but the revelation pulled all the threads together.
"Why did you leave?" Itama asked, voice barely a whisper.
Takeshi leaned back against the wall. His shoulders sagged with a weight Itama couldn't yet imagine.
"Because I couldn't stomach the blood anymore," he said. "The Uchiha. The Hyuuga. The Inuzuka. All of them—caught in a loop of hatred passed down like heirlooms. I watched my cousins slaughter children with eyes full of madness. I watched my comrades die screaming while our elders called it 'glory.' I followed orders until my hands were stained and my soul was hollow."
He paused, his hands tightening around the cup.
"And then one day, I walked away. No fight. No farewell. I turned my back on the clan and vanished."
Itama swallowed hard. He had never heard of such a thing—someone leaving the Senju. It was unthinkable. Clan was everything. It was your name, your strength, your reason to live. To abandon that… it was to abandon yourself.
"They must've branded you a traitor," he said.
"They did," Takeshi said. "My name was burned from the scrolls. My face, forgotten. Just how I wanted it."
"Then why save me?" Itama asked suddenly. The words leapt out of him before he could stop them. "If you turned your back on all of it—on us—why save me when I was dying?"
Takeshi didn't flinch. He held Itama's gaze, steady and unwavering.
"Because I saw myself in you," he said. "A kid thrown into a war he didn't start. I saw the same look in your eyes that I used to see in mine before they hardened—confused, angry, broken."
He exhaled slowly.
"And maybe I thought… maybe if I could help you find a different path, I could make up for everything I did. Or didn't do."
Itama looked down, his fingers curling in his lap.
All this time, he had thought of Takeshi as some shadowy, reclusive wanderer—an outcast living by survival. But now, he saw something else.
A man still haunted.
"You don't have to carry it alone," Itama said quietly.
Takeshi smiled, bitter and distant. "I've carried it so long, I wouldn't know how not to."
They sat in silence for a time, letting the past hang between them like smoke. The fire crackled again, sparks rising lazily into the air before vanishing.
Itama finally broke the stillness. "Do you regret it? Leaving?"
Takeshi tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Every day. And not at all."
Itama frowned. "That makes no sense."
"It will," Takeshi said. "One day, when you're old enough to realize that choices don't always come in right or wrong. Sometimes, they're just the least awful answer to a question no one should have to ask."
He stood and walked toward the shelf where he kept his scrolls and tools. From a small wooden box, he pulled out an old strip of cloth—dark green, faded, and frayed at the edges. Embroidered into it, though barely visible, was the symbol of the Senju: a stylized leaf burning at the edges.
He tossed it onto the table.
"My forehead protector," Takeshi said. "The last thing I took before I left. Thought about burning it more times than I can count. Never could."
Itama reached out and touched the fabric, tracing the edge with his thumb.
"Why give it to me?"
"Because you're the only Senju I've met in years who might actually earn the name," Takeshi replied.
Itama looked up, stunned.
"I'm not strong enough," he said.
"Not yet," Takeshi agreed. "But strength's not what makes you Senju. It's what you do with it. That's where everyone's gone wrong."
Takeshi turned away, his voice lowering. "You want to honor your family? Then break the cycle. Be more than the war they left you."
Itama closed his fingers around the cloth and nodded, slowly, deliberately.
"I will."
Outside, the mist began to lift. The first rays of sun pierced the trees, lighting the clearing in hues of gold and silver. The day was beginning, and with it, something else.
A promise.
A spark in the ashes.