[NARUTO][Pillar Madara] short story

In another dream, he was walking alone in the forest, only his hands were heavy for no reason.He stepped forward and kept moving forward, until he was surrounded by the branches and leaves and couldn't take another half step before looking down at the thing in his hand.

It turned out to be Zhu Jian's head.

He was driven from one dream to the next.This dream is endless, and there is no reality to refer to.How easily he could be swallowed up by illusion at a time when all the world had forgotten him.

And at the bottom of all the illusions, he heard a heartbeat, beating persistently.

thump.

The heart born because of Izanaki has never experienced a knife wound, but the pain will come unexpectedly, or short, like a bird flapping its wings, or long, like a silk thread strangling On the wound of nothingness.

Because of the pain, he temporarily struggled out of the dream, raised his eyes, and looked towards the corner of the cave.At some point, a candle was lit.No, no one should come here.Slowly and laboriously, he readjusted the focus of his sight, and saw a man sitting one step away from him behind the candlelight, with a hearty smile he was familiar with in his eyes.

Sweating with weakness, he realizes that his plan has failed: the hidden truth is revealed, and all the painstaking efforts will come to an end.He wanted to say something, but the words disappeared before they could take shape.

At some point, Hashirama arrived by his side.Long black hair fell down to cover the candlelight that stung his eyes, and then something fell on his lips.

It was like a sheet of snow.A cold touch that doesn't exist in reality.

At the moment before he fell asleep, three syllables seemed to swim past his ears.

He wasn't sure if that was his name.

It is almost certain that latecomers will no longer think about the past.The past gradually fades away from the memories and narrations, the lifelike appearance will become flat and boring, the past events will be deleted and tortuous, and the original appearance will no longer be recognized, and the rich emotions will dry up like a river in a dry season. Only the dry veins remain.

Except for the resurrection of the dead, all the past is lost forever.

And those resurrected people, to what extent can they restore the truth?After all, the living themselves may not be able to understand their past selves, and they cannot understand why they love or hate.After a long time, Madara remembered those important moments in his life, but it was difficult to tell whether it was reason or impulse that supported his decision, whether it was after careful consideration, or just because he saw that person standing opposite him.But those are in the past after all.Neither success nor failure matters anymore.Losing and possessing are also short-lived.

He will understand—or think he understands—that nothing is made worse by hate, nor saved by forgiveness and love.The loop is endless.Neither birth nor death, neither dirty nor clean, neither decrease nor increase.Everything in the world is tied to the same wheel and rolls forward, as if entering the world.

In the silent darkness, he sat quietly, looking at the darkness that seemed to be alive.It was so close to him that one step forward would throw him into that cold, inorganic embrace, and only a man who has lost himself can bear the touch of madness.However it is necessary.One has to throw everything—from ties to names—to understand this answer, one has to be paranoid to the point of being an enemy of the world, one has to embrace madness to understand that madness and sanity are one.

He stayed on the edge of darkness for a long, long time.

Occasionally Hashirama would come to bother him.

It is always night when men come.He is wearing a white feather with the family crest, as if wearing a frosty moonlight, bringing important or trivial news.He always sat idly across from Madara, refusing to leave, watching the man with a smile, but there was a trace of uneasiness hidden in the depth of that smile.

Hashirama never lacked for sharpness.

He tries to fill the void with his presence, he tries to make up for the loss with the daily, the pain with happiness.He never doubted that no matter what request he made, Hashirama would put both hands in front of him-if he could do it.Like a migratory bird smelling the approaching winter, the man tried to melt away the deepening cold with the warmth of a hug.

this is not your fault.

It's not something you can change, it's not something you can redeem, it's not even something you can understand.

Madara thinks.But he wasn't sure if he had said that to Hashirama.

He should have said it.

Visions are harmless.

He quickly got used to the visions of the man, whether he appeared in the corner of the laboratory or the other side of the road.He wasn't sure if it was from his transplanted cells, his own memories, or both.

This Hashirama comes from the days when they just formed an alliance.Yes, he can still clearly recall the sworn wine of that day, the three stacks of vermilion cups and the exchange of three degrees and three degrees, sharing the wine and breath is like sharing blood and life, which makes them——and their The entire tribe behind it—all became inseparable brothers and sisters.Hashirama of that day has never been indifferent in memory: his smile seemed to be able to shine, as if he already had everything in this world, and nothing could defeat him or defeat him.

"Are you so happy?"

"It's like a dream."

"……up to you."

"Madara." Hashirama called his name from behind, his frankness seemed to burn people, "I'm very happy. I..."

What did the man say at the end?

He can't remember.Anyway it doesn't matter.

The pain in his chest would remind him of Hashirama's other face.

That memory is mixed with cold rain, flowing river water and blood, pain that cannot be described in words.At that moment, he only vaguely saw the face of Hashirama: in the darkness, in the exhaustion of failure and a certain certainty of "it should be".The man tried in vain to achieve the impossible, and for this he put on such a cruel face, completely unable to connect with the usual Hashirama.If there are bystanders, they will probably feel how similar they are.That frowning brow, the sullen face, the paranoid corner of the lips.All of this makes Senjujuma a mirror image of "Uchiha Madara".

That relieved him instead.

If possible, he wanted to embrace Hashirama at that moment, just as the darkness embraced him with coldness and loneliness, making him jump into the abyss of madness.

He could probably expect the same from Hashirama.Because once a person has seen such darkness, he cannot pull himself out of the darkness, just like a person who has spent too long staring into the abyss will always plunge into it irresistibly...

perhaps.

But Hashirama chose another darkness.

The first half of Uchiha Madara's life is magnificent, with heart-wrenching loss and parting, as well as vigorous battles that have left their names in history; while the second half falls into a silent waiting that is completely opposite to it.He occasionally left the crypt where he lived to inquire about the outside world. At the beginning, he tried his best to hide his identity, but later found that in the frequent wars, people had forgotten him along with death.And he gradually got tired of watching the same tragedy over and over again.When is there anything new in this world?

What the stele once promised is still far away.He didn't even know if he could still live up to that expectation.

Slowly he spent more and more time alone.The world had forgotten him, and he seemed to have forgotten the world.Hope is infinitely stretched over time, and in the end there is only a thread like a gossamer tied to the crumbling despair.

If he had been younger--yes, if he had been younger--he would not have believed himself willing to wait.At first he thought that one year was the limit.A year later he figured he could have waited twice—or triple—the time.He used to draw a mark with a stone on a stone wall in the cave at sunset every day.But before the stone mural was filled with paintings, he had already given up this act.The sun and the moon lost their boundaries, and the years lost their meaning. Time seemed to turn into a viscous resin to wrap him in it.

Gradually, his body became weak, his muscles gradually disappeared into nothingness and could no longer support his strength, his skin became loose and showed blue blood veins, and his joints would become stiff and difficult to move due to the cold when he woke up early.One morning he suddenly realized that his white hair had surpassed his black hair.

And his eyes were the same as ever.

He stood up from his shelter, and walked slowly through the intricate caverns into the only large void.A ray of dim skylight shot in from a crack in the rock, illuminating a small corner of the space where a short grass grew at some time.

He stared at that corner, and then, for the umpteenth time, he saw young Hashirama.

The man stood there, as always, smiling at him from the distant past, ignoring the slight pain in his heart that this smile made again.He is already familiar with this slight pain, just as he is familiar with every image of this illusion—still black hair, hearty smile, trusting eyes.

How wonderful.

Obviously he can't remember most of the past.He has long forgotten how they met by the river when they were young, and he has forgotten the repeated battles that ran through their youth.He forgot how he stopped Zhu Jian's attempt to kill himself, and he couldn't remember when they drank the wine of marriage in front of God.Even their one-time intimacy is only vaguely fragmented, like a cloud floating vaguely on the edge of the sky—were they ever that close?They used to kiss each other, exchanging body heat, as if