| [Mar. 26th, 2015|04:41 am] |
Raidou looked down at the floor.
“Four merchant ships, plus cargo,” he said. Shiratori’s list might as well have been branded on him. “Eight dead sailors. Property damage. Loss of trade. Something about the price of silk. Political consequences. And I just about got Ueno Katsuko killed.” He looked up. “So why haven’t they hung me? I’d hang me.”
Shibata gave a rough, amused snort. “Then I’m glad you’re not wearing the Hokage’s robes.”
It was actually vaguely offensive not to have his post-mission pessimism taken seriously. Raidou squinted at Shibata, trying to figure out how to put yes, okay, I don’t want to die, but it would be nice to have the village at least consider it into words without sounding insane.
“A youthful rush to judgement is a decent quality in a field commander, when snap decisions are all you have time for,” Shibata said, which made Raidou feel approximately eight. “But a Kage’s decisions have far-reaching consequences. Should a captain’s screw up in the field earn him the ultimate price for his mistake?” He turned his head, looking at Raidou through the cloudy, scar-cut mess of his right eye. “I’d have thought your experience with the legacy of such a decision would have nuanced your understanding of the problem.”
It took Raidou a second, and then he realized: Sakumo.
The captain who'd burned a mission to save his comrades, and killed nearly two hundred shinobi as a consequence. Raidou had been twelve, a genin running messages far behind the front lines. He still remembered the news trickling through the ranks. The gut-punch shock, because the White Fang was as good as the Sannin, three-quarters of a legend and dependable as the moon, and he'd failed.
The news of his death, a few months later, surprised no one.
A lot of people had been pleased, because the village was a root network: everyone knew someone who'd lost someone, and there was satisfaction in a blood price paid. Some had been indifferent: neither glad or sad, just relieved the business was done. Raidou remembered a few, though, who'd grieved. Older jounin, dark-eyed and grim, who'd gathered around a campfire at the edge of the battlefield, where it was safe to let a flame grow. There'd been a man, a shinobi with scarred knuckles and black hair, who'd sat with his hands over his face and cried until he ran out of voice.
The legacy was Kakashi, who'd grown up in shadow and stigma, cross-balanced between Sakumo's failure and Minato's shining future. Kakashi, who was a genius and a disaster, and still served the village that had slain his father.
What would he be like today, if Sakumo had lived?
And then there was the next thought.
What would he be like tomorrow, if Raidou died? |
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