The late evening sun cast long shadows across the Senju camp, bathing it in a warm, orange glow that clung to the canvas of tents and the bark of surrounding trees like a memory half-forgotten. Children's laughter occasionally pierced the soft hush of rustling leaves, though even that seemed tempered, as if the whole clan were holding its breath between moments of quiet before the next storm.
Itama stood near the edge of camp, facing the horizon. The border forests stretched out before him, where war had taken too many, and peace had yet to grow roots deep enough to hold. The encounter with the Uchiha ambush still lingered in his bones, not just as pain but as weight—something carried behind the eyes, in the muscles of the shoulders, in the breath between thoughts.
Behind him, Tobirama approached, his steps precise, his presence unmistakable. Though his footsteps made barely a sound, Itama sensed him like a sudden wind.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," Tobirama said, arms folded. "You're not fully recovered."
Itama didn't turn. "I needed the air."
A pause stretched between them—too short to be tense, too long to be idle.
Tobirama stepped up beside him, his gaze matching Itama's across the vast woods beyond.
"We've reinforced that section of the border," he said. "More sentries. New traps. They won't try something like that again so easily."
Itama gave a small nod. "Still… it won't end. Not like this."
Tobirama's brow furrowed. "No. It won't."
They stood in silence, the kind that only brothers could share—neither warm nor cold, but filled with understanding born from shared history and different convictions.
"You saved me," Tobirama finally said.
"I know," Itama replied.
Another silence. This one deeper.
"You used Mokuton," Tobirama added, voice quieter now. "Controlled. Reflexive. You're getting closer to something."
Itama turned toward him at last. "It's not just the jutsu I've been working on."
Tobirama raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"
Itama let his gaze drift back to the horizon. "Peace. A real peace—not just a ceasefire or tactical win. Not a future where we build walls between us and call it safety. Something different. Something lasting."
Tobirama exhaled, slow and steady. "Peace isn't built on ideals, Itama. It's built on leverage. Control. Deterrents. You think you can reason with people who raise their children to hate us? Who worship power as truth?"
"I think we have to try."
"You think that because you haven't seen what I've seen."
"I've seen enough," Itama replied. "I've bled. I've watched friends die. I've fought the same enemies. But I haven't let that blind me. Hashirama still believes. And I see why."
"Hashirama is a dreamer," Tobirama said. "So are you."
"And you're a realist," Itama answered. "But maybe both have a place in the future. If we ever want that future to be more than just endless war."
Tobirama didn't argue, not immediately. He looked ahead, eyes hard but unreadable.
"You think the Uchiha will ever lay down their hatred?" he asked, his voice low. "That they'll ever accept coexisting with us?"
"I think some already do," Itama said. "I think others could, if they're given a reason to hope."
Tobirama clenched his jaw. "You don't make peace by hoping. You make it by making war so terrible that peace becomes the only option left."
Itama shook his head. "You make peace by giving people something more to live for than revenge."
The brothers fell quiet again. But now, the quiet felt different—like two blades resting on a table rather than drawn in conflict.
"Then we disagree," Tobirama said.
"We do," Itama replied.
"But we understand each other," Tobirama added, almost grudgingly.
Itama's lips curved into the faintest smile. "That's a start."
They turned back toward the camp together. The sun had begun to dip lower, brushing the treetops with its final golden light. As they walked, they passed young shinobi training in the clearing, sparring under the watchful eye of a veteran.
Two of the boys stopped to salute them. Itama gave a small nod, and Tobirama acknowledged them with a glance.
"You're still teaching them healing?" Tobirama asked after a moment.
"Yes," Itama said. "And more. Chakra control. Battlefield awareness. Compassion."
Tobirama's eyebrow twitched faintly. "Compassion won't block a blade."
"No," Itama agreed. "But it might stop one from being drawn."
Tobirama didn't respond, but his expression betrayed a flicker of thoughtfulness before returning to its neutral mask.
As they entered the heart of the camp, Hashirama stood by the central fire, giving instructions to a group of messengers. He spotted them and smiled wide, waving them over. Itama hesitated.
"I'll join you later," he said. "I need to check on the injured from yesterday's patrol."
Tobirama regarded him with a long look, then gave a short nod and moved on without another word.
Itama exhaled as he watched his brother go.
They were not aligned, not truly. Not yet.
But they weren't enemies either.
And sometimes, that was the narrow space in which the first seeds of peace were sown.
He turned and made his way toward the medic tent, each step purposeful, steady. The path was long, the journey uncertain, but his resolve remained firm.
In a world shadowed by war, the smallest flame of understanding was still a flame.
And Itama—forgotten by history but burning still—carried it forward.