Kakashi had been called many things.
Prodigy. Genius. Copy-nin. Son of this. Student of that. Sensei of this and that.
But, perhaps, the most accurate way of putting into words the very essence of who Kakashi Hatake truly is, is to describe him as a "legend."
Though it took him many years and countless numbers of broken dreams and corpses to be littered at his feet, he has finally learned to accept such a fact. Not with pride but with profound resignation, as if he had no choice in the matter. It is one of those facts that, once recognized, is impossible to refute or even ignore. And Kakashi, being the genius that people think he is, has opted to take the higher road by choosing to end the battle he was sure to lose, saving himself from inevitable consequences he would have been forced to take had he chosen to take a stand. He is a ninja after all-a strategist of the best kind. So he laid down all weapons, accepted defeat with grace, and walked across the blood-strewn battlefield towards the enemy not unknown to him.
Clad in blood-soaked anbu uniform, his enemy takes off his mask to reveal a face he once knew, a face he sure never wanted to see again. In front of him stood his younger self, the cold killer he once let himself become, accompanied by all his other selves. The very ones he's continuously running from. Oh how far he has gone only to find they were never left behind. An eight year-old Kakashi, refusing to show the slightest indication of his ability to possess emotion, sitting right next to one whose tears threaten to drown him along with everyone else for all eternity ten times over. One signifies his rebellious days, one where he insisted he was strong, too strong to be brought down by such useless things such as emotions. The other, signified the start of a frightening realization and a nasty wake-up call, a horrible nightmare he lived through everyday. One's gaze can only see his dead father, his dark eyes seemingly two-dimensional and flat with nothing to even remotely convey life; and the other his dead friend, his sharingan glaring at everything as if in silent mutiny against being owned by the very person who caused the death of his true owner.
Surrounded by all his regrets-all the different facets of himself that he's tried so hard to forget-he could only stand, unable to walk away or avert his eyes from the glaring truth before him, wondering just how his life had come to this.
When exactly did his path change? He couldnt have made a wrong turn somewhere, espeially since his path has always been a one-way road. Or at least that's what it seemed like to him. He had no control over anything, least of all himself. Or was his obsession for control what led him here? Try as he might, he couldn't even fathom to begin what sort of answers lie ahead of each question that plagues his weary mind. Choosing instead to drift from question to question, his musings never lead to anything substantial. Instead of doors to lead outside of such an intricate labyrinth, his questions seem to only lead him towards walls and limitations. Towards solitude and pain.
Stumbling through each twist and turn, he continued to venture onward, still wondering what had led him here. Fate? Perhaps. Chance? Maybe.
Or was it simply him?
Putting each foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, has he subconsciously been seeking this end for himself?
Maybe he never had a chance against himself then.
It was as he travelled through his life's labyrinth that he finds himself accepting his 'legendary' status. No, it was not for his strength, he knows better than that. After all, what kind of a strong person can't even outrun himself? It wasn't his sense of justice, courage, or moral beliefs either. Especially for a former Anbu like him, the answer wasnt quite so elusive this time around. Unfortunately fortunate, it seems. Just as there is shadow to every light, the meaning of being a legend have both its own light and dark feature, his only mistake was to fall in the latter category. So far immersed was he in the shadows that even his white hair could not salvage him. Well, at least amidst all the differences between the two meanings of being a legend, there is one constant that he could count on, one fact that all legends share: they die early.