DISCLAIMER: I do not own the anime/manga series Naruto and any of the characters depicted within. The poem mentioned at the end and the title belongs to Edith Sitwell. I own nothing other than the plot line.
She sat in the building that was too aloof for her taste, in the room that was too practical for her taste, in the bed that was too hard for her taste. Her taste ran towards many different things, but sake always helped her adjust to what she was given. But then again, in a few hours, her taste would no longer matter – Konoha was at war with the Stone, Sound, and Mist. Lured by the promise of world domination and riches, the three villages joined together and were slowly wiping out the other villages, one at a time. She knew that she should be preparing for war, for the incoming battle, but given the sheer number and force, it was useless: everyone else knew it too. Sand's refugees had fled to Konoha weeks ago, bringing news that their Kazekage, Gaara, had fallen in the onslaught.
There was simply no time to mourn the loss of a young, promising kage that would have one day lead his village to greatness: a greatness that did not depend on the sealing of great demons into children. One day, some day, but the village was no more. There were hopes of course, but hopes mean nothing when the person that the hopes hinged upon fell on the battlefield. There was nothing left but to wait for the armies to come and hope that Konoha would not be like her allies, that Konoha would stand strong. The armies would strike quickly and before they could send for reinforcements, their village would be burned to the ground, or so the Sand refugees said. That's what would most likely happen to Konoha, all hopes aside. One village against three? The shinobi in Konoha, no matter how talented, could not handle those odds. The rain pitter-pattered in its agreement.
Tsunade sighed and looked out at the grey clouds kissing the earth in the distant horizon. If war was knocking at her door, she would smile at the thought of clouds kissing the earth, as if they were lovers; if war wasn't knocking at her door, she'd think about her lovers, or lack thereof; if war wasn't knocking at her door, she wouldn't be thinking about the fall of her village and all the
hopes and dreams held within, lovers and loners alike. Still. She wondered if it really all mattered now. She was tempted to take the villagers of Konoha and flee into the night and start anew. But where would they go? How could they build a new village when they could not even defend this one? It was tempting. It was also tempting to send the ones she loved, the ones with skills to pass to future generations, and all the people she felt deserved more from life, far, far away: but then she'd send away all of Konoha except for herself. There was also that the ones that she loved and the ones that she wanted to save from their fate on the battlefield would be the ones that would stubbornly stay to defend their home; so she kept her hopes that they would turn tail and run from Konoha to herself. But her thoughts of protecting everyone under her care always were the strongest in the rain.
She knew instinctively that her two students, all the shinobi, all the civilians and their loved ones were trying to make the most of the last few days, hours, minutes, moments, and any time they had left with each other. As she stared out her window at the small raindrops falling from the sky, the same kind rain as the day that she cried on the bridge when Dan died, she knew that her life, the lives of the civilians under her protection in Konoha, as well as the shinobi under her command did not really matter in the end; a single raindrop means nothing in the wild, wide expanse of the world. Whether or not a single raindrop falls or not does not matter. There will always be more rain: another gamble, another sake bottle, another life, another home, another family, another village, another country. Yet, there was always a quiet promise in each small drop of rain, a small gift of potential, a little, quiet, indomitable hope.
Despite her, she has suffered enough loss for her to know many things about life that people like Naruto didn't want to believe. She knows that things will come and go; she knows that even true love will fade into the past; she knows that even the best and the brightest and the most deserving might not make it to pass their light to another generation. She knows that despite all this, despite the brevity that was human existence, despite the perfect impermanence that was existence, there was one thing that always proves true – still falls the rain.
The End
A/N: The last line of this story, the inspiration of the story really, is a poem by Edith Sitwell, "Still Falls the Rain." This is more of a slight exploratory piece into Tsunade's mind on the eve of her village's destruction. Something more pensive than the fiery Tsunade, but I think it suits her. It's unlike her to just let it all happen, but I think there are times when even the most passionate are lost.
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