He took a deep breath, trying to maintain control. Riki stirred in his arms, small and vulnerable.
— Akemi... you knew, from the beginning, that I was loyal to my clan. To my village. I never hid that from you.
— The Uchiha, Tekka? — She stepped forward, eyes flashing. — The same ones who stood silent while the Chinoike were exiled here? Where were they when people said the Uzumaki blood was cursed? You weren't cast out like we were just because you were born on the right side of politics. Because Hashirama was tolerant. But even knowing the past, you pretend neutrality, as if you weren't accomplices!
The silence that followed was thick. Tekka looked down at his son.
— I want Riki to grow up in a world where he can choose his own path. But if I don't fight now, there may be no world left for him. — His voice was grave. Tired.
— In the past, the Chinoike sought power and failed. We paid the price. That's not the Uchiha's fault, Tekka said, pausing. — As for the Uzumaki... they chose the wrong allies. Had they allied with the Uchiha, neither Danzō nor any village would've dared attack them.
Akemi looked away, biting her lip.
— I fought my whole life without a village. My clan only wanted to survive. Our mistake was believing in promises. That's why we were left alone. Now you'll let him grow up like I did? Alone? Afraid?
— Not alone. Never alone, — he stepped closer, took her hand. — I'll return. For you. For him. For us.
She looked at him, her eyes brimming with everything she couldn't say. And then stepped back.
— That is... if you return, Tekka. I hope you make it back.
Despite the differences between his parents, Riki grew up happy. Tekka spent little time at home, but always returned when he could. Time passed. Five years. The Third Shinobi War neared its end. Talks began. Both sides were exhausted. Thousands had died — many children among them.
Tekka now spent less and less time in Konoha. Danzō exploited his absence, launching accusations of "negligence" against the Uchiha, trying to undermine their reputation with the village elite. In one meeting, he even suggested the clan step down from leading the police force, citing lack of commitment.
Fugaku, however, stood firm. He assured the Uchiha were still worthy of their duty. Hiruzen always supported them, even when Danzō insisted. He knew giving Danzō control of the police would be like making him Hokage.
The Third, despite his fondness for his old comrade, knew his limits — and his dangers. Whenever Danzō brought up the topic, Hiruzen quoted the Second Hokage: "Protecting Konoha is something the Uchiha were born to do." And dropped the subject. In secret, he allowed Tekka's absences so he could spend more time with his family, and together with Fugaku and other allies, plotted a plan to lure the Uzumaki and Chinoike back to the village.
Snow blanketed the Valley in a cold, silent layer. The wind howled through twisted trees. Tekka walked slowly, his body still stiff from days of battle. His new mission was already awaiting — an assassination with a one-month deadline — but first, he'd decided to spend a week with Akemi and Riki.
Upon reaching the house, he ran his fingers along the recognition seals on the door. He felt the chakra vibrate as it recognized him. Akemi still didn't trust him enough to say it aloud, but the fact that her chakra was registered there said plenty.
He entered in silence, guided by the dim light. Climbed the stairs like someone afraid to break a fragile enchantment. In the room, he found them sleeping together. Akemi with a protective arm over Riki, the boy curled up against her.
Tekka stopped, motionless. As if time had ceased. He watched them. The peaceful breathing. The lightness of that moment contrasted brutally with the chaos of the outside world. He didn't know how long he stayed there.
Then, Riki stirred. Moved slowly, his closed eyes frowning, fingers searching for something in the sheets. A murmur escaped his lips — a low complaint, a subtle shiver. Nightmares?
Tekka stepped forward. His heart tightened. Was he dreaming of war? Afraid of his father's absence?
He knelt slowly beside the bed. The movement woke him. Riki's eyes opened gradually, hesitating between sleep and wakefulness.
— Daddy...? — came the weak, surprised voice.
The word pierced him like a kunai. Tekka swallowed hard, trying to hold back the emotion.
— I'm back, — he said softly. — Just for a little while.
Riki reached out. Tekka held his hand gently. The boy snuggled closer.
And there, for a moment, the world stopped. The war, the secrets, the shadows… all silenced by Riki's calm breathing.
Tekka didn't know what the future would bring. But he knew this: he would do the impossible to protect that child. Even if he had to face his village, his clan… or fate itself.
Riki's small body settled. Tekka remained there, seated by the bed, as if his son's presence grounded him. He wanted to hold on to that moment: the warmth, the sound of breathing, the peace that only existed there — with them.
But then, beside him, Akemi stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, before she even registered who was there. Instinct came first — muscles tensed, breath caught for a second. Only when the dim light revealed Tekka kneeling did she relax slightly.
— You came back, — she said without moving, her voice hoarse with sleep, but still tinged with the ever-present alertness.
Tekka nodded, looking at her.
— I wanted to see you both before I leave. I have a mission that will keep me away for a while.
Akemi propped herself up on her elbows, the blanket slipping down to her waist. There was tension in her gaze, even in that domestic moment. She observed him for a few seconds in silence — as if still deciding whether he was welcome there or merely tolerated.
— I didn't think you'd be back so soon, — she said, restrained. — The border's unstable.
— I needed to... Tekka began, but the words died. They seemed too weak to express what he truly felt.
Riki stirred between them, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He sat up with a sigh and looked at his parents.
— I'm going to my room, — he mumbled, already slipping out of bed. — You two are way too quiet.
Akemi and Tekka exchanged a brief glance. There was something comical — and tender — in that remark. The boy walked off, stumbling over his own feet, dragging a thin blanket behind him. The door closed softly.
Alone, the silence between them grew heavier. Akemi sat up, arms wrapped around her knees.
The room fell quiet again after Riki left.
She remained seated, her gaze lost somewhere on the floor, tangled hair covering part of her face. The faint light from the window cast sharp shadows across the room.
— How long? — she asked, voice low and firm.
— One week, — Tekka replied. — After that, I leave.
Akemi let out a short, dry sigh.
— One week to pretend this is normal, — she murmured. It wasn't a question.
Tekka frowned but didn't answer. He didn't know how to break through that armor of sharp words — maybe because it was more truthful than any promise he could offer.
— I came because I wanted to see you. You and Riki, — he said with effort.
Akemi finally raised her eyes. Her gaze, red as clotted blood, pierced him.
— You don't have to justify anything to me, Tekka. — Her voice was cold, but there was a subtle crack there, a faint flaw in the wall. — I know how the world works. You're no different. Just... a little less cruel.
For a moment, Tekka felt the weight of it. There was no hatred in her words — only bitter acceptance, resignation.
She shoved the blanket to the other side of the bed with a sharp motion.
— Lie down. We don't have the luxury of wasting time.
Tekka slowly removed his cloak, his movements heavy, as if the air between them had thickened. He lay down beside her, keeping some distance. Akemi closed her eyes, turning her face away.
There were no promises that night. No illusion of a future. Only a brief truce between two survivors who knew too much about the nature of war.
And there, in the fragile warmth they shared, Tekka found a strange kind of comfort: the comfort of those who, even broken, still choose to stay.
Dawn would bring back the weight of seals, orders,