Tokuko*Forgiveness

On stage, the Taira once again returned to a seemingly peaceful life.

As the celebratory clamor subsided, the Rokuhara Residence seemed to have returned to its former order and luxury.

The audience also breathed a sigh of relief, temporarily escaping the intense battle and the incredibly moving breakdown of Yūki.

Many people, especially civilians and Ninjas who had actually experienced war and knew its cruelty, felt a pang of pity as they watched Koremori on stage, trying to appear spirited but unable to hide the confusion in his eyes.

The child's performance was so realistic; the discomfort and struggle almost overflowed from the stage.

"Oh, what a pitiful child."

"War is something someone like him shouldn't have to endure..."

"But given the current state of the Taira, do you think he can escape?"

This is a story, a drama.

Commoners may not understand the complexities of court intrigue, but they know that stories are only exciting when there is conflict, and with the Taira so arrogant now, there will definitely be more battles to be fought later.

It's just that seeing such a gentle young man, whom they've watched grow up, being forced into this situation evokes mixed feelings.

The stage lights and shadows shifted, and the perspective moved from Rokuhara to the depths of the Imperial Palace, to the courtyard where Tokuko resided.

It was autumn, and the maple leaves in the courtyard were beginning to turn a light red.

Shinrei was summoned to the palace along with Kiyotsune.

He understood that his aunt wanted to have a private conversation with Shinrei, so he respectfully bowed to Tokuko, nodded to Shinrei, and then went to the musicians' group on his own.

After the Cloistered Emperor was released from confinement, there was a frequent need for performances in the Imperial Palace, and Kiyotsune's Shakuhachi skills were highly praised.

Tokuko stood alone under the veranda, gazing at the yellowing and withering grass and trees in the courtyard, her expression somewhat dazed, a layer of unyielding sorrow shrouding her brows.

Shinrei was holding a brightly colored cloth tiger, teasing the toddler Little Prince.

The child giggled and reached out to grab it.

Sunlight streamed through the grille, falling on the unchanging red Butterfly at the back of Shinrei's head, and also on Tokuko's slightly pale profile.

"Tokuko?" Shinrei noticed Tokuko's absent-mindedness and called out softly.

Tokuko seemed to be startled awake, turned her head and forced a smile at her, but the smile lacked strength.

"You look so listless," Shinrei put down the cloth tiger and let the Little Prince go play by himself. She walked over to Tokuko and asked with concern, "What happened?"

Tokuko remained silent for a moment, her gaze falling on a maple tree in the corner of the courtyard, its leaves already mostly red. Her voice was as soft as a sigh, "His Majesty the Emperor... hasn't been visiting this child much lately."

Shinrei was slightly taken aback.

Tokuko continued, her voice tinged with undisguised bitterness. "I heard... he and Lady Shokushi have another child. Every time I think about it... I feel so sad," she pressed her hand gently to her chest.

Shinrei looked at her, her clear eyes reflecting Tokuko's suppressed grief.

She thought for a moment and asked, "Why? Didn't you say this isn't the marriage you wanted?"

"At first... that was indeed the case."

Tokuko's gaze drifted into the distance, as if she were looking through the courtyard and into a moment in the past. "But I don't know when it started... perhaps it was one time when a careless servant in the Imperial Palace accidentally swept up the fallen red maple leaves that His Majesty liked to warm the wine."

Everyone around was terrified, thinking they had angered the emperor. But His Majesty said, "Warming wine in the woods and using red leaves as firewood is truly an elegant affair," and thus let them go with a smile.

A wistful smile curved her lips, but her eyes were clouded with an even deeper mist. "He was such a gentle person."

"But compared to me, others... might make him feel more at ease. After all, I am Kiyomori's daughter, a daughter of the Taira."

She paused, then said, "Although they were not born of the same mother, Prince Mochihito... was, after all, the Emperor Emeritus's elder brother. And he... was killed by our father, by the Taira."

The air seemed to freeze.

A few soft gasps came from the audience.

Prior to this, many people might have viewed the "Rebellion of Prince Mochihito" merely as a successful operation by the Taira to suppress opposition forces, an inevitable outcome of a power struggle.

But at this moment, through the words of Tokuko, a woman who belonged to both the Taira and the imperial family, and was caught in the middle, the whole incident suddenly gained weight.

The Taira has truly killed far too many people.

In their pursuit of power, they trampled over corpses, including many of high status, even members of the royal family.

Shinrei also fell silent.

She looked into the deep pain in Tokuko's eyes, which was not just the resentment of being out of favor, but also a clear understanding of the bloody consequences of the family's actions, and the accompanying sense of guilt and isolation that she could not escape.

After a long while, Shinrei said softly, "... It really was a bit... excessive."

Tokuko slowly shook his head.

She took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound calmer:

But I choose to forgive them.

Shinrei looked up at her in surprise.

"Whether it's my father, His Majesty the Emperor Emeritus, His Majesty the Cloistered Emperor... I have forgiven everyone."

She paused, seemingly realizing her words were somewhat unbelievable, and gave a slight, wry smile, "Calling it 'forgiveness' might make me seem arrogant. But..."

Her voice gradually hardened. "If no one thinks this way, then this world... will only be filled with hatred and endless strife."

"But... I want to believe that this world is not just about suffering, not just about killing and betrayal."

Therefore, I choose to forgive—to forgive others, to forgive myself...to forgive everything.

Tears finally streamed down her pale cheeks, but she no longer tried to hide them, letting them flow freely, as if she wanted to wash away all her resentment and bitterness with these tears.

The audience.

Hashirama Senju sat there, and the expression on his face changed when Tokuko said, "I choose to forgive them."

A deep, empathetic sadness surfaced in his eyes.

He seemed to see in him the dream he had always believed in and practiced, yet which had repeatedly met with setbacks in reality.

A world where hatred is no longer a chain of conflict, where people can understand and forgive one another.

Tokuko's naivety and helplessness amidst the power struggles and bloody feuds, yet her courageous act of "forgiveness," tugged at his heartstrings.

It's as if I'm seeing my past self, powerless in front of my father.

There was a time when he, like Tokuko, helplessly prayed for peace, hoping to play with the boys from the rival family and for his father to change his mind, but those small wishes could not be fulfilled.

But things are different now.

Looking at Tokuko on the stage, tears streaming down her face yet remaining resolute, Hashirama silently told himself this.

Tokuko's forgiveness stemmed from her own weakness and self-reconciliation.

She was powerless to change the actions of her father and brothers, powerless to influence her husband's mind, and even powerless to protect herself and her children from the shadow of bloodshed.

Her "forgiveness" is more like a helpless resilience in the face of despair, a way of preserving a Pure Land for her soul.

But I am different.

Hashirama Senju clenched his fists, which were resting on his knees.

He forgave; he had been trying to forgive.

Forgive the employers who brought unnecessary sacrifices on the battlefield, forgive the hatred deeply rooted in blood and history, forgive those who, in the end, would rather perish together than endure the other's death.

But his forgiveness was powerful.

What he wants to build is not a fragile world that relies solely on forgiveness to maintain a superficial peace, but a world where forgiveness becomes less difficult, or even unnecessary.

A world where children are not forced to take up swords like Koremori, where women are not torn apart by pain like Tokuko, and where Ninjas no longer have to take lives for survival and missions.

As long as he's with Madara, Tobirama, and Izuna, such a world will surely come!

But Madara Uchiha, sitting next to him, had a completely different feeling.

As he looked at the powerless woman on the stage, weeping and saying "Forgive everything," the image that flashed through his mind was that of his younger brother, Izuna, with his pale face before his death.

Forgive?

How can he forgive him?

His younger brother died, but he didn't want to lose his best friend, so he reluctantly facilitated a reconciliation. However, the village was no longer the village he originally wanted to build.

The dream of protecting my younger brother in the village has long been shattered.

At that time, all he wanted was to destroy everything that brought him pain, to crush the enemy called war with even greater power, to avenge Izuna, and to find a new path for the other people in the world who were still suffering because of this.

But Izuna actually told him to forgive her.

His younger brother, Uchiha Izuna, who has experienced unknown hardships in another world and carries the scars of his past, is he truly yearning for "forgiveness"?

Have you forgiven him?

He could almost hear Izuna asking himself that question.

Ban's gaze was fixed on Tokuko, who was weeping on the stage.

In his eyes, Tokuko's face blurred, and a pale but gentle smiling shadow overlapped—his younger brother whose eyes he had closed himself, Izuna, who was gradually growing cold in his arms.

No, Izuna, I haven't.

I have not forgiven that stubborn Hashirama, who was willing to Sacrifice himself to build the Hashirama.

He did not forgive Tobirama, who had driven Izuna to the Tobirama of despair.

I haven't forgiven you either... for so easily abandoning me.

And then there's... that incompetent version of myself—unable to keep my brother, unable to bring myself to harm my best friend, and ultimately losing my own way.

How can I forgive him?

That death soaked in blood, that dull ache of betrayal by loved ones, that regret and loneliness gnawing at the heart day and night, that despair of burning oneself and the world to ashes for a sliver of hope...

How can these things be so easily erased with just the word "forgiveness"?

The clamor from below the stage and the dazzling lights on stage faded into a silent backdrop at this moment.

He felt as if he were back on the day he buried his brother, the cold rain soaking through his clothes and freezing his heart.

But...

Ban slowly, as if he had exhausted all his strength, closed his eyes.

If we don't do this... if we don't even try to grasp at the self-deceiving thought of "forgiveness".

At this moment, in this small space filled with the presence of Izuna, the Hashirama standing beside him, and the sounds of Yūki weeping and the joys and sorrows on the stage, he was afraid he would lose even the Yūki to continue sitting here.

The Infinite Tsukuyomi that he once clung to, which he wanted to burn away all suffering, was also a carefully crafted deception.

If he still wants to exist in this world, he has no choice but to stay here.

So, should we forgive him?

Forgive the unchangeable past, forgive the damage already done... Forgive this wounded, desperate self?

Is that so, Izuna?

Is this the kind of message you're trying to convey through this play, the scene you showed me?

With Tokuko's powerless yet incredibly courageous "forgiveness," with Koremori's figure choosing to move forward despite fear, with this stage you rebuilt, filled with pain yet containing a glimmer of light... tell me this?

Tell me, even in the deepest darkness, is there another path besides destruction?

"Spot?"

Hashirama's deep, worried voice sounded in his ear, and a warm hand gently covered his clenched fist, his knuckles white.

Ban jolted and opened his eyes.

He turned his Hashirama and met Hashirama's eyes, which were filled with concern and sincerity.

It's these eyes.

This is the person.

It was once his light, but later it became his deepest pain and confusion.

And now...

Madara looked at Hashirama, and saw his own slightly disheveled and pale face clearly reflected in Hashirama's eyes.

He did not pull his hand away.

He didn't say anything.

But those tense shoulders slowly relaxed.

On stage, Tokuko had wiped away her tears. Although her eyes were still red, she straightened her back and gave Shinrei a smile that, though fragile, was brighter than before.

Shinrei smiled back at her and gently took her hand.

The Little Prince stumbled over, hugged Tokuko's leg, and uttered in a muffled childish voice.

Shinrei and Tokuko laughed. Tokuko bent down and picked up the child, a happy smile appearing on her face.

Sunlight streamed into the small courtyard, making the red maple leaves appear warm and serene under the light.

It was as if that heavy conversation about killing and forgiveness was just a slightly chilly autumn breeze, which would eventually be dispelled by the sunshine.

Ban turned his gaze back to the stage, to the figure who was now sitting on the stage, his fingers gently brushing the strings of the Biwa.

Izuna seemed to sense his gaze, and turned her head slightly to look in his direction.

A distance apart, in the interplay of light and shadow on the stage, the two brothers' eyes briefly met in the air.

Izuna's eyes still held that sly, all-seeing calm, but beneath that calm, Madara seemed to see a cautious searching and an... indescribable expectation.

Ban did not look away.

He nodded very slightly, almost imperceptibly, in Izuna's direction.