Important Note: So this is set after the war, but there is canon divergence within it:

~The moon bitch didn't come up and doesn't exist.

~Kyuubi and Naruto don't get along

~Madara did come back to life. (as in canon) but did not become the sixth-sage thing

~The death toll was higher.

~Gai didn't help defeat Madara

-0-

Trepidation encompassed him upon each dismounting step, wrangling wired strings of doubt pulling upwards towards the taunting light of noon behind. It stung at his sensitive corneas, burnt at his clothed back and bare hands; it mattered not, sunlight made an invisible laceration within his skin every second exposed. The cellar hatch shut with a loud echo over ancient stone walls; he automatically closed his eyelids to the sound, gripping at the menial wooden railing only recently placed. The wooden door rattling within metal, as his steps descended each with a soft tapping reverberation against the -carved, stone staircase. A torch was alit before him, one of two within the staircase, both emitting a gentle illuminance, enough to show the way and give a slight warmth when near the dim fire. The entire zone near promulgated a caliginous aura; as if, descending into the lair of a malicious demon, as he well knew. 

The tapping of his shoes upon the stairs, of course, would have alerted his arrival to any current occupant. Not that he bore a particular concern of his presence being known, still, the grasping wires pulling him upwards would have brought blood to fore should they have existed; as it were however, the daunting -bloodied- grip of his subconscious was ignored in favour of flickering morale. In reaching the smoothened rock walkway he grasped the only torch alight at the bottom of the stairs, to guide his way through the tenebrous hall. However, bile arose in his throat as the accursed smell of putrefied decay reached his nose, and he pinched his nostrils in a hope to divert the aroma, without success.  

Walking was measured, each cell door glinted only marginally under the firelight; as most were rusted by age and wetted by the moisture seeping ever slowly from aboveground soil, they were covered in grime. Thin fingers shook for the decrepit sight, his hand both loosening and tightening in grip of the wooden torch: Knowledge of plausible outcomes to the war continuing to dance within the forefront of his -normally, ardent mind, now pessimistically made. Still, in a vehement determination, and in despite of his perfervid despise of the so obvious abusive treatment unto the prisoners within, he shone the light of his torch into each cell, often finding no one. Yet, upon occasion, there was a person; dead or alive, their positioning indicated neither, hung limpin from shackled chains secured to the dampened -molding, walls, unto some their flesh was rotting inside the cuffs blackened outlines around their wrists made visible even only under the dim fire's glow. Skeletons with a margin of bloodied bone and rot tendrils of muscle lay in many cellars.

To reach the end was where he found the man he sought. A step further downwards, hidden within an alcove to the left was a cellar, a curved rockway supporting iron beams. A light was needed to see the man hung from ceiling mounted chains, as of course, the entire imprisonment was dark. Yet, the alcove possessed a type of morose aura; lugubrious, perhaps from the man shackled afore. Uncertain, Naruto placed the torch in the divot within the wall beside the bars, and in spite of their mismatching height, he sat down on the dampen floor before the cell door, neither expecting response nor awaiting one. Listening intent unto the crackled sounding of embers from the fire, relishing himself to the introverted space. 

Watching the figure so limp in front of him, he found his brows furrowing upon the sight: He knew little of his own body, never having taken the necessary medical training at the academy in a serious mind, passing the test merely in formality. Though, knowledgeable enough to comprehend, in personal witness, that retaining all strain from the limbs was supposed to save potential energy from being unnecessarily used. So he saw, as the head was hung low without movement, the arms did not strain against the tightened chains binding him to the wall, nor did his hands move. So tightened were the wall shackles, that they upheld the man; his legs were limpen as his feet were oddly postured onto the ground. His breaths were shallow, slow rising and each obviously forced as they stuttered his chest each exhale. Naruto brought his knees to his chin, already discomforted by the sight, he held himself in the same minimal comfort which used to spare him from the temptation of escape as a small child; far prior to having left the academy as a genin. Lips thinning while watching. 

Until, by his own unpredictability, he stunned himself with speech. Voice shaken under the banes of emotion, so plainly alain as his own fingers dug into his knees for assurance. "Hello." There was little else for an instinctive mindset to contrive, though he wished his presence known as he sat within the dirt, staring upon the man whom had shattered the balance of his reality without a qualm. He gained nary a reply, save a hitch of breath which could be contrive as mere coincidence. 

To stare: Sends a shudder through the blond's body, recollections triggered by the vision of scattered, matte, inken hair befallen; all, covering a pale visage and nearly obscuring the sporadically twitching ivory abdomen, pectorals, biceps and even strong thighs -retaining some muscle- though they each remained mared in blackest grime. 

~0~

Such a sight intertwined; with his own egregious -ever repeating-  memories of a crimson leaking sluggishly over pale lacerated flesh, wide open obsidian irises staring into the shuttered heavens as a trail of blood flows slowly from matted onyx hair, trailing between a pair of sharpened, furrowed, eyebrows. All from a body lain to nothing, within a barren, tormented, battlefield of rocks, ash, and trees unrouted. Yet still, the body had not perished, breaths were slow, a beating heart erratic and uncooperative with the slight medical ninjutsu he'd known, still, Naruto could clearly recall his feeble attempt to keep the dying man alive; though with a type of jutsu he was entirely unqualified to preform; he'd gained a simper, a true cast smile for his pathetic effort, and five whispered words: "a willful fire turned so bitter." Then, gone. The recollection bit at Naruto each day; a dagger upon every ideal he'd kept whole until the sky turned grey and illuminated red.

The rest faded within already misted memories; the dirt scraping at the palms of his hands, wetted by the ever-flowing tears he'd been incapable of controlling. The battle had continued unyielding, not for the loss of one soul, and though integral to the flow of victory; Naruto had elected himself to sit in somber for each passing moment, one-to-another refusing to see himself stand for just another second more. Coiling his own arms, surrounding himself similar to the comforting embrace he had never known; hollow in essence and feeling. There were no heavens to cry unto and his yarnful scream for mercy went unregarded. Perhaps, that is the reasoning for its continual resonance, least until the burn of his throat began to crackle his voice as an ember's. Still, the crying continued in baleful silence. 

Perhaps, within the fragmented memories were covered by a fog of such thick emotion that the feeling within had been lost. Bitterness, had grasped upon a heart of fired loyalty, anger upon a want for revenge as scorn infiltrated his mindset temporarily.       

Upon moments of contemplation, he wondered how they had emerged victorious. For still, the sunlight figuratively burned upon his skin, it still stung within his corneas, and a bitter truth still rang within his ears every day. A blight remained as his life, upon each day passed: The sorrow had yet to fly, it still grasped deep upon his chest with each exhale, inhale, with every swallow of water or food, stung at his eyes as the tears visited at all hours, every hour they might find weakness. 

To look upon his newfound peaceful world; in conjunction with his failure to keep a promise, losing love, and though they had won an egregious war; it only came unto him... as a fraudulent victory.   

~0~

No glare impeded him as he sat, though his lips had thinned in a fogged ire, his fingers trembled in grieven sorrow upholding his knees. Yet, any resentment which may have provoked a response was lost to the mourning blond asat by his former enemy. Instead, there was no malice befallen upon the injured Uzumaki, as it were, and in keeping unto his own profound morality, empathy shone embrightened from cerulean irises as he stared in waiting. 

There wasn't a concern for the man hung neither, but rather, an awareness for the woe which had befallen the previously prestigious man; an awareness, which invoked his sympathetic nature into response. His own childhood came to mind frequently as understanding impeded his anger; now -presently- so far flown that fools could fathom it had never been. Though, Naruto had never been a man to pledge himself onto hatred's overcast banner for long, with any men or women, regardless of crime.

Afore him, a head raised, slow and only by a mere millimeters in comparison to what it had been. Rasped, choked, came a scoffing chorkle from the man, softened by a dehydrated vocal muscle. Despite such imperfections, it was still not the type Naruto had awaited, or indeed, expected; given their own history and the persona he so knew of the man to behold. It were his words however, which gave pause, not for malicious intention, but for the truth inlayin upon him whilst spoken, "does Konoha pay you a copper?" Cough followed the hanging man then, his cords already strained from such a minimal sentence. Naruto shut his mouth to silence, comforted by the knowledge that he need not answer. 

Though the fact remained within himself: They paid him three coppers, for any rank mission, a job which might entail four or a silver, earned him rent and food money unto that week, which was all, further pay would indicate favouritism, lack of precaution, and at worst; charity. The Citizens's Council would find reason to strip him or Tsunade of rank, whilst the Shinobi Council would see him bound under a summoning seal and trained as a tool for senior shinobi to use in battle. His danger had been shown prominent during the war, despite his honor in service to Konoha- the people feared him, his power had been showcased as too great a threat to be made respectable under Konoha's vigilant eye. He was paid by necessity, one copper further then he had been as a child, though still not an income which would allow him the luxury of new clothing, or even the added aid needed for one of his make. 

It was a gal to know that a criminal, an enemy, whom did not belong within their fragile time could understand his bane; could comprehend the fact that he would be paid less as punishment for harbouring an unwanted bane, disregarding the fact that it had not been his decision as it were, a punishment unto his quality of life, for the mistake of a father he'd nary known. Indeed, the man afore him knew that, without speculation, without a need for investigation, he simply understood the prejudice integrated within Konoha. It brought forth the historically mysterious question within the understanding that victors write history: what would the Uchiha have written in their volume of events, should they have won? Naruto found himself in the midst of an unsummoned sigh, to look only at the obscured vision of a broken man covered in grime before him, hung limpen by the chains of his own village. It was brazen, imprudent, empathy clouded over an already misted mind allowing action; "three." His head tucked ever further into the shelter that which was his knees, it weren't for warmth, neither shame, nor ire: Rather, the uncountable humiliation of an enemy understanding his poor standing within his own village, and indeed, what that said in candour of Konohagakure as a whole.

"Indeed. How generous." The same chorkle came from the man, near mocking in nature, though vexed by sound. Naruto daren't look at the man for the sight of his laughing express -if it should be visible at all for his hair being a blockade, the man was sagged, he could not find strength to hold posture, and Naruto knew this well. In truth, it was his own fear of the sight, to be seen in such frequency was enough. His eyes stayed upon the vaguely gimmering floor reflecting torchlight, as opposed to gaze upon the man of whom he could -but had no desire to- empathize with. Worse still, retained the fact that he too -indeed, his situation as a citizen- was understood by the criminal as well.

He remained in his silence. Conscious bore down upon his mind as each memory recoiled, as if scandalized for his actions. This was the very same person responsible for the death of all upon the battlegrounds. Front, back, ramparts, every life lost within a fight against the ideals he portrayed. Naruto, breathed in a suffering inhale, wondering once again; what those morales, what those ideals had been, for the words had been lost in the fight for survival: What morality -what wrong,- had led a man of prestige and valour to fight against the village he had helped found, to tarnish his legacy further? Without consideration, the mournful Uzumaki found that he might understand, might empathize, might sympathize, with a candid response as to why; and that comprehension had him shut his lids against the thought, bite his lip to bleed; all in a bitter refusal to be alike the man afore him. 

His arms tightened once more around his knees, however, withheld tears passed underneath twitching long eyelashes. Once again, consciousness tormenting his mind, split, as he considers those he was betraying by fathoming his likeness to the nemesis of the village he'd fought to protect. The understanding; painful, as his thoughts rested upon dead friendships... and their plausible opinions unto his traitorful opinions.

"My friend died by your hands." Hesitation lingers in his voice as he becomes soft-spoken, not out of fright, though grief lingered upon him as he spoke. Dehydration forces the prisoner to speak in rasped whisper, however, his tone even with such a handicap was lined finely with a mocking irreverence in reply. 

"Unfortunate: I have come to comprehend that you are not one of inexperience; thus you of all should understand the deadly dance made by each shinobi of Konohagakure. I may have danced with your friend, perhaps I slit his throat. Still, had he a will of fire -as I assume all you meretricious shinobi possess, it would not have been my hand which slayed him. Merely his own." It was a mockery, a plain one, no attempt was made to conceal the derided tone he bore, nor the scoffing chorkle made thereafter. 

Madara, made his amusement known, riling up the previously dormant anger kept so barricaded under cerulean eyes. Though the words were obviously made to ire, Naruto missed the clarity of the intention. Too focused upon the insult so slyly spoken upon a dead man, that his teeth ground together and his eyebrows made to shape knives upon his forehead; he lost his marginal, calm, rationally; and indeed, no thought was given to the question; why, had Madara said he was experienced in comparison to his generation- a group of shinobi even he viewed as more -intellectually- talented then him. Therein, why had he said the will of fire was the killer? 

Too encompassed in a child's emotion that he did not pause to give the sentence proper thought. Indeed, the walnutblond was too swarmed with the tydfil feelings of villainous grief and mourning to acknowledge any inlaying truth unto the enemy's words. A determination was brought upon him however, to defend the honour, the valour filled death of a man who would never have thanked him in life. As if in opposition, in a proof he had no connection to the man afore him, Naruto stood, and stomped his foot so hard into the stone floor beneath him that it sent a stinging pain throughout his leg as if rattling the bone, his hands became fists, and his face coiled into a visage of injury, his entire body strained against the tension of his legs, arms, and chest, even his neck pained; yet still, he shouted, with a crackling voice hiding a scream underneath the words, distantly echoing upon the walls: "Don't make fun of him! He died by your hands! You killed him! You- killed him- you..." and indeed, all energy which had come, faded with the outburst. Instead, Naruto sunk onto the floor once more, his legs oddly obscured in a kneel which would only pain the knees, his hands were no longer fists though his fingers dug, and bleed, as the last of his strength seemed to coil them into the rock. Now, his head hung, his hair was too short to obscure the sight entirely -unlike Madara's before him,- though one could easily contrive that he was sobbing without seeing the tears upon his reddened cheeks. Whimpered came the strangled sound, through the grime of solem tears and the strain of gritted teeth, "...basterd."

It was a weakness, plainly portrayed before an enemy of the country itself, and Naruto knew it, even whilst his head bent in sorrow. It was a breakdown of himself, and one had not occurred since he had been a mere boy; a determined, unpredictable, prankster wanting for attention. He rubbed at his eyes, though the dirt upon his fingers stung a slight for the action, and wished that he could be an innocent boy once again. In coming to himself once more, he took notice, a vague, confused, notice. That even though witness, and recipient, to the anger he had screamed out Madara had said nothing, had nary twitched nor laughed at his fragility; the man was silent. 

Naruto sat himself a little straighter in comparison to his previous numbing posture, staring with tear scintillating irises at the hanging villain afore him, the quiet man: Whom, to the Uzumaki's knowledge, would gladly make a mockery of his grief and meek stance. Instead, as opposed to the proud shinobi he had seen on the cliffside staring down his foes. Opposed; to the legend whom had betrayed his village and cast a demon upon his best friend in spite. Madara had raised his head, his face still not fully visible -obscured by his matted hair- though by the light of the torch, one glinting obsidian iris peeked through the grimeful bangs. The line of his lips was barely visible, though they bore no smile, no mocking twist, they were dry, chapped, and they were thinned into an obvious line of stoicism. The man was tall, so even shackled to the wall, he bore over him in an intimidation, though the plain mockery which had flooded his words was completely gone. Currently, they only sat, or stood, staring at each other in the quiet. 

~0~

It was an hour before either spoke again. The exacting silence was a peaceful atmosphere unto both of them, in spite of the coloured history between companies it seemed to have no personal effect, after the obvious. Indeed, Naruto kept himself sat in a quiet contemplation. While Madara hung in his own silence, contriving of possible political constitutions, delegations, and even councils, which would never take shape. 

Naturally, being the most extroverted individual amongst the two, it was Naruto who came to speak first; an opening attempt at conversation, disregarding his own ire against the man he spoke too. "This place, I heard, was built by the Nidaime before the second war." It was a slow sentence, backed by his own hesitation to speak, still he continued as Madara gave a scoff unto the information. "Apparently, the senior jounin these days call it 'Shi no Machiaishitsu.' I don't know if that's its actual name but..." Another scoff, though edged with a cough, it was one made of plain irritation, and Naruto glanced up to the man once more at the unexpected turn of his voice; still mocking, but a deep anger lingered within the tone, one Naruto was certain he had heard before. 

"Should Tobirama have ordered the construction; it is expected that he would make a title to induce fear." The response came off -upon the uneducated ear- as bias, the opinion of a wronged man still agrudged against the topic of conversation. For in knowledge, a Hokage was a person required to secure the faith of the shinobi, and the respect of citizens; to induce fear did neither, but inflicted a conflict of morality amongst each fraction of person. Naruto could see no reason for such an action, nor why Madara would have expected such a damaging choice. As it were, in apparently reading his conceptions, upon the confused expression betrayed upon his face, Madara responded with a muted explanation: 

"Tobirama believed that a traitor lay dormant in every man: He trusted only his brother and given pupils for the entirety of his menial life. However, while he was a tyrannical man: he managed to portray his own skeptical perception as the ideal mindset unto the entire village, thereby twisting his own opinion into an advantage:  He exalted anyone whom questioned the inlain laws of Konoha, which he or his brother had already proclaimed - and exemplified your proclaimed 'Will of Fire,' as a test of loyalty. Or, upon occasion, he cast a profound doubt upon those not entirely pledged unto Konoha; such as my kin. Thus; he secured his position as Hokage; by portraying himself to be a superior and necessary figure of power, uplifting loyalty as a necessity and showcasing his own. All while invoking a fear of retaliation unto those who might question his choices." It was made spoken as a statement, an historical fact lain unto one who might be ignorant, though an obvious detest was shown; a splenetic manifested underneath a stoic masked voice, a personal begrudgement. Naruto narrowed his eyes, watching the man; he had spoken so plain as if reading words from a letter; the perfect vision of neutrality and stoicism, an example of a shinobi, manifested. Obsidian eyes were a detriment unto the act, least under his gaze, for they narrowed in a glare so familiar the blond had nearly looked away, though it had only lasted a moment; the similar glare so duplicated revealed unto the blond; bitterness, that as which he saw each morning in the mirror. Perhaps it was a grudge of sorts, a needless want for revenge, but within his own privy; Naruto saw only the wanting for freedom, from that feeling.

He had only briefly met the Senju who had been second Hokage, he could not make a judgement as to his character. So he pursed his lips to the statement so plainly made, and refused to make comment as to its accuracy. Madara had known Tobirama, though Naruto wondered how tinted his lens had been, and how it had been coloured, for it was plain to see that the man had no affection for the Nidaime nor his choices. His eyes still gazed upon the man however, they did not move despite the crusted blood and worn muck upon the tall man's figure. 

Originally, Naruto had held no true purpose for his coming into the cellar. He had asked his Hokage for permission 'because there was something he had to confirm,' and in spite of his questionable reasoning and the assured backlash which would befall her from the Shinobi Council and Citizen's Council alike for allowing 'the jinchuuriki' into the secret prison of Konoha. She had still -reluctantly- granted him permission. Naturally, not without crossed arms, an exasperated sigh and a paired hazel eyed glare, to convey her knowledge -and annoyance- of the consequences which would inflict her, and him, for the decision. He had not known his own reasoning then, other than a driving instinct to see the man in person once more. 

Madara, even upon the battlefield, had not been what he expected- for though the entire purpose of the war had been lost upon him while fighting. Naruto knew that the man had spoken of peace, of a better world without war and unnecessary bloodshed; and that in itself, had sparked his curiosity, for it had matched his own idealizations so well that his determined morality had wavered upon hearing the possibility. He fathomed that perhaps, that was why he had wanted to enter the cellar. It was not for the satisfaction of obtaining a revenge for his buried friend(s); though a bitterness for their unnecessary deaths still clogged at his chest and stuttered his heart. He retained no hatred towards the man hung before him, thus he had no desire to kill or harm him. Naruto knew he had never managed to hold onto hatred for long as it were, for it always twisted into empathy or sympathy, and at worst, an acrimony, but any hatred he pertained left quickly: He found he could not bare a true grudge against anyone, and he had never managed to determine if it were a gift or a bane to possess.

Once again they both remained in their silences. That is, until the young Uzumaki choose to stand, and take his leave, he was watched, naturally. His hand flickered to grasping the torch in the crevass beside the cell, but it retracted without it. Not saying a word upon his decision, he once more glanced to the Uchiha afore him, the eyes very much above his own, though somehow the man portrayed a curiosity for the action with a flicker of his sharpened brow. Naruto gave no response, as a smile twitched his lips upwards for a mere moment. Then he turned, and used the dim glow from the firelight to guide his way through the hall, still gifting him with fright at the dismal sight of rotting bodies in cells unkempt, the water trailing down the stonemade walls, a shiver shuttered through him knowing that the place was a valid prison within a village of proclaimed nobility. Indeed, at how cold the cave must be once dusk arrived. To comfort he listened once more to the sounds of his steps against the damp floor. The place was dismal, it could be fathomed for a dungeon, fit only for torture by the Intelligence and Interrogation Unit, and then the victims were left to die without light, without food, water, or the comfort of time. Naruto found it a detestful thought, but even without his consent, his mind wandered to the man he had just seen- spoken to. He balanced his hand against the wall of the alit staircase, choices freely flowing through his mind, both bitter and sweet, kindness or a strike of malice. His head hung, and though not at the shine, he prayed for a moment in complete silence; to those friends who might listen to his guilted apology, as he chose to aid a guilty man, their killer. 

His steps echoed differently as he walked up the stone, they rang less as he neared the top, he hardly listened as his mind conveyed an echo of its own. Split decisions of which he had already chosen the path for. He closed his eyes against the empressing sound, and opened the hatch to grant himself freedom, sunlight stung at the back of his hand as he climbed outwards. It burnt upon his hair and he blinked in frequently to stop it from gaining entry into his sensitized corneas. As it were, he currently despised the sunlight; only thinking of it as a cruel reminder, and he disliked the metaphor altogether as it was, but now it bore a further bitter tang. The grass shone in a glimmer beneath, stark contrast unto his emboldened blue sandals of regulation, the air crisp upon the cliffside of the Hokage monument; less tarnished by the vile scents of humans which sat heavy in the village below. He found it a satisfaction as he had as a very young boy, to sit aparted from all those who may look upon him in quandary of his intentions; regardless of his already mounted faith unto his village, he was seen as a continued risk, a prolonged allowance within his own home. 

Still, it was his home, thus he straightened his posture to one recognizable unto any who knew him. The grin he so frequented, absent, for it did not carve onto his mouth today, with no familial smile upon him, he nearly appeared to be frowning in vex. Although in grace, his visage remained relaxed in comparison to the trepidation beating steadily within, all underneath the brightened orange jacket which displayed in such a profane colour, that it were impossible not to recognize a longing for attention hidden within the cloth. Unsightly, as he turned his eyes to the gravel beneath, lids narrowed carefully over such embrightened cerulean irises, only to avoid the sunlight, while his hands remained inside the pockets of his orange trousers, the vision almost a melancholy one, when in compared to the same man who had once cast a grin for the mere sake of joy, nary anything else needed.