Madara Uchiha in Twilight?

Nara didn't sleep that night.

The fire crackled softly, its light casting orange color around them.

Her fingers traced the gnarled curve of her mutated forearm.

Clawed, inhuman, but hers.

You are rare.

His words echoed—not with warmth, but with clarity of fact.

Just like everything he says.

She had come to recognize that tone, the indifference of him. Like he doesn't care about anything. But he did care, in his own way. Or does he?

But he hadn't let her die, and he was still here.

Dawn was approaching. The snow thickened underfoot, and the sky remained low and white-blue colored.

Madara led—silent as ever, but slower today. Deliberately so.

Letting her match his pace. Not commanding it. It was unusual.

It wasn't long before they reached a small ridge overlooking a stone monastery built into cliffs like a scar.

Its arches were crumbling and half-swallowed by moss and ivy.

"Another village?" Nara asked, her breath creating smoke from the cold.

"No. Not anymore." Madara glanced at her. "It's a waypoint, hidden between borders."

"For vampires?"

"For everyone. Refuge, trade, intelligence. But safe for no one except me."

"Yeah yeah, but why are we going?"

Madara stepped forward without replying, and after a few seconds he said, "Because we need something only they can offer."

They descended toward the ruins, and Nara kept close. The closer they got, the more she noticed.

Figures watching from narrow arrow slits. Unnatural eyes glinting in the dark with ill intent—but fear and cautiousness kept them away.

At the archway, a guard stepped forward. Not human, but not vampire either.

His eyes were empty, and his face was stretched and waxy as he stared at Madara and then stepped aside.

No words.

Inside, the air changed. Warmer, yes—but also heavy.

Madara walked in like it belonged to him.

They were led through shadowed corridors into a hall lit by hundreds of candles, and a long table stood at its center—but no one sat at it. Only one stood, waiting at the end.

A woman—statuesque, dressed in layered silk. Her skin was ash white, her eyes coal black.

Nara recognized power when she saw it. But Madara? His face—disinterested as usual.

"Itachi Uchiha…" the woman said, smiling slightly. "I'm surprised you visited me."

Madara curtly nodded at her—the barest gesture of acknowledgment. "Isara."

"You bring a guest."

"Off limits, unfortunately."

The woman's gaze slid toward Nara, experiencedly. Her eyes assessing her as if dissecting her without effort. "Ho?… A hybrid. Feral, but stable… That's rare. Impressive."

"She'll improve."

"I assume this is not a social visit."

Madara stepped forward, drawing an old-fashioned scroll from beneath his clothes and placing it on the table. "I want information."

Isara's smile deepened. "That's a rare thing for you to ask."

"It's rare that I care."

The woman opened the scroll, scanning its contents briefly. Her expression didn't change, but the air did—tightening, sharp as broken glass.

"Where did you get this?" she asked.

"A human "gave" it to me before I broke his spine."

Nara's eyes flicked to him.

Isara rolled the scroll back up. "This changes things."

"Good."

"It also attracts the wrong attention."

"Do you think I care? Let them come."

A pause stretched between them—cold.

Then, she sighed. "Very well. You have your answer. But there's a price."

Madara tilted his head. "Speak."

"I want the girl."

Madara, without a beat, said calmly and coldly

"No."

"You said she was yours. But I'm not asking to kill her. I'm offering sanctuary, study, and guidance."

"She's already being guided."

Isara's smile thinned. "And corrupted, I'm sure."

Madara's eyes glowered red with Sharingan while Isara just smiled wryly, fascinated by the eyes as she sensed the danger from them.

The message was clear.

Isara said, "Still impossible to bargain with."

"You're mistaken," Madara said calmly. "I've already bargained. I'm just not desperate."

Then she nodded, almost amused. "Very well. But the answer comes with risk."

"Speak."

She stepped to the far wall, drawing aside a faded tapestry. Behind it, carved into stone, was a door etched with ancient symbols only witches understand. She placed her palm to it and whispered something in a language older than any Nara had ever heard, and the stone rippled open.

A secret chamber. And inside it—full of scrolls, tomes, and relics.

Isara plucked one scroll from the wall and handed it to Madara.

"It speaks of a convergence. A ritual lost to most. A merging of essence, soul, and blood—but not for power alone. For transformation. Permanence."

Madara opened it. While Nara couldn't read the text, she saw diagrams.

Strange circles. Anatomical drawings. A creature with two faces, one screaming.

"What does it have to do with me?" Nara asked.

Isara looked at her. "Everything. That hybrid body of yours is unstable—but it doesn't have to be. You can become whole. If the ritual succeeds, that is."

"And if it doesn't?"

"You die."

Madara tucked the scroll into his cloak. "We'll be going."

"I hope she survives," Isara said as they turned away.

Madara didn't answer.

Outside, the wind had picked up. The sky was bleeding orange across the peaks, and Nara matched his pace now—not perfectly, but close.

"You think this ritual is the real deal?" she asked.

"I think it's dangerous."

"That's not an answer."

Madara looked at her.

"If it works, then you'll no longer be caught between forms. You'll be something new—and something stable. Something I did not expect like this to exist."

"Something like you?"

"No," he said. "Worse or better. That depends on how much of you survives."

They walked calmly for hours, heading into even rougher terrain. The path narrowed to a broken trail that wound along a cliffside, with the forest far below.

As they settled into another camp—this one beneath a jagged overhang—Nara took the scroll from him.

He let her.

She studied the diagrams. Symbols writhed across the page—living ink.

The words felt like they scraped against her bones just by looking at them.

But something in her responded.

Like a key slipping into a lock.

"Do you believe I can do this?" she asked quietly.

Madara finished tending the fire before answering.

"I believe it's the only path forward. Whether it breaks you or remakes you—that's your choice."

She wrapped the scroll back up, her fingers steadier now. Her claws didn't shake.

The ritual was dangerous. Ancient, obviously. And it might kill her.

But living like this? Caught between pain and hunger, flesh and fang?

That wasn't a favorable option.

The next day brought blood.

They were followed this time—not vampires, but something worse. Humans.

Hunters. Bandits, perhaps.

They came at nightfall, silent and armed with melee weapons.

The first arrow hit a tree beside Madara's head.

He didn't flinch. Rather, his eyes had followed the arrow the moment it was readied in the bow.

"This still exists?… Well, it's still 1851…"

The second came toward Nara—and she moved without thinking.

Her hand snatched it midair.

She turned toward him. Her eyes were smug?..

Madara glanced at her—indifferently. Not even impressed.

Then he vanished.

The forest, all of a sudden, erupted in screams.

She saw flashes crackling through the trees. Bodies flying. Blood sprayed across the snow as the bandits never had a chance.

But one reached her.

A man in a black cowl—fast and strong. But against a hybrid like Nara?

She roared like a wolf—primal—and lunged.

Claws met steel and sparks.

Then she was atop him, her hands wrapped around his throat. He struggled, screamed in pain.

But she didn't stop. And when she finally pulled away, her hands were red to the elbow. Her chest heaved, body trembled—but not with weakness.

Madara stood nearby, leaning against a tree, watching.

She met his gaze.

He nodded. "Better."

Madara incinerated the bodies with Fire Release while Nara's eyes were shining at it

Nara sat near the fire later, staring at her hands. They no longer looked human.

She didn't mind.

"Will there be more of them?" she asked.

"Who knows."

"Will we always run?"

Madara raised an eyebrow. "I don't run. That's called traveling. And neither will you run—not when the ritual is complete."

She looked down at the scroll in her lap.

Something within called to her.

Something old. Hungry. But ready.

Madara watched her, sharing nothing but his eyes—those endless black eyes… held expectation.

She would rise—or she would be a disappointment.

And if she rose…

A future opponent, perhaps.

To play with.