Rain fell on a village holding its breath. The pitter-patter of the rain on each rooftop was the singular sound of the afternoon, as man, woman, and child held their words to themselves and waited, patient and together, for their leader to reappear, his final words ringing in their ears: "Don't follow me!"
The Rokudaime had walked out the gates, determined and head held high, his red and white robes blowing in the wind as the first thunderclap sounded overhead. As he leapt out of sight, the rain had begun to fall on the village; slowly at first, but with a steady intensity that drove all the villagers into their homes, an eye to the window and a prayer in the back of their throat.
The wife of the Rokudaime sat in his chair in their home, her hands clutched together in silent worry and her eyes closed, letting her long raven hair fall in front of her face. Her friends, knowing they could do nothing but wait, merely sat by her, heads bowed and eyes on the floor.
She had been the first supporter of her husband as he came into the discussion for the mantle of Hokage. She had argued tirelessly in favor of his merits, persuaded as many as she could of his power, kindness, and virtue. And the village had listened to her, her speeches drawing more ears with every impassioned appeal. Yet, even with all her confidence in his ability, she couldn't help but feel he wasn't strong enough; she pushed that thought from her mind and squeezed her hands, wishing that they were his and that another man had been chosen as Rokudaime, so that he could be here with her and be worrying about someone else. A selfish thought but, she reasoned, a natural one, as the man she loved put his life on the line.
Lightning flashed just outside the window, and the man sitting closest to the window stood, nearly pressing his nose against the glass as he gazed out over the village.
The heat of the summer had not dissipated with the coming of the rain, but the smell had changed considerably; the weighty smell of thunderstorm had replaced the fainter aromas of flowers and dusty wind. Still, sweat ran down his cheek and collected on his forehead as he looked out the window, clenching his fist and gritting his teeth.
It was unusual to him, to feel as useless as he did right now. He had been one of the strongest in his genin class, but as time had gone by and his friends grew by leaps and bounds, he had more and more had to reassure himself of his strength with knock-down, drag-out training. He had always been the first of his team to volunteer for the dangerous missions, and had done a stint with the ANBU Black Ops after making Jonin at 17. But despite his power and growth, he had always been towards the middle of the pack. During the war, he had fought tooth and nail to prove himself to his village, but mostly to prove it to himself. He had received a very ugly scar across his cheek to prove his dedication, and he had been passed over for Rokudaime to thank him for his determination to protect the village.
He reached up and touched his scar, feeling it all the way down from his ear to his chin. He had been bitter, at first, but he understood why he wasn't chosen for the Hokage seat. And now, as he stared out into a thunderstorm that was stronger than any he had seen in years, he was thankful that he wasn't the bearer of the red and white hat.
As he did so, a couple sat on a loveseat together, holding each others hands bowing their heads. To anyone who didn't know them, they might appear to be two halves of the same person, with their chests rising and falling in unified breath, but to those who know them personally, they were almost as different as they could be.
Their minds were both racing, millions of ideas and postulations being suggested in milliseconds and debunked immediately. The two of them were used to being hailed as geniuses, the brightest of their village, but their minds could not settle on one particular matter, the definitive answer that every soul in the village was waiting for.
He ran his other hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. He had fought side-by-side with the Rokudaime for years, they had grown up together and graduated from the academy in the same year, but this was the only time he had seen him so stoic before a battle. When the news had arrived, the two of them had been talking in the Hokage's office, discussing the upcoming chunin exams. A messenger had burst in the door, out of breath and a black scroll held in his hand. As he had read it, the Rokudaime's jovial face had slowly fallen until he could no longer be read. He had stood up quickly and rushed out of the room, stuffing the scroll into his pocket and leaving behind more questions than were answerable. And then he had found himself here, in the living room of his leader and friend, clutching the hand of his wife and trying to stay rational in a time where he felt irrationality attacking from all sides.
She, on the other hand, was much less secure in that fight against fear. This had happened to her once before, the leader of her village storming away to fight a mysterious battle, and the last time it had happened, she had nearly lost a brother. She was grateful for the hand she was holding on to, an anchor to hold her thoughts in reality and keep her from drifting into an ocean of doubt and fear. Her reassurances of his strength and power could not keep the waves of paranoia away, and she tried to lose herself in the sound of the rain. She took a deep breath, and leaned on her husband's shoulder. He smiled and looked at her; she was as beautiful now as she had been when they first met, all those years ago.
Next to the couch that had been inhabited by the man at the window, a man in a long coat leaned against the wall. He kept his eyes to the ground, his arms crossed in front of him, and he was thankful for the silence that had enveloped the room. Silence meant that he wouldn't be required to speak, and he doubted that he would have been able to keep his usual aloof tone. There was no doubt in his mind that the Rokudaime was the strongest ninja of the village, but all the same... He shook his head lightly and pushed his sunglasses up his nose.
Across the room, the doorknob turned. Everyone in the room turned to look as the door creaked open, the noise startling them as it broke the silence of the rain. An old woman limped into the room, leaning on a black cane and adjusting her graying hair. The woman in the chair looked at her, hope in her eyes as she stood up. The old woman met her powerful gaze for a second, then shook her head slowly as she made her way to the couch that the man had recently vacated. The wife, disheartened, sat back down, closing her eyes again.
The old woman took her seat very slowly as a thunderclap shook the window, resting the cane next to her and leaning back. She hated feeling so old, but Father Time was undefeated in the battle against youth, and there was nothing she could do to stop him anymore.
Her age may have slowed her, but her mind was as active as it had ever been; her thoughts were racing with worry, and she had not been able to be alone with her worry anymore.
At first, she had been slightly offended when she had received his offer to live in his home; she wasn't elderly, she could care for herself. But as time passed and he took the Hokage job, she realized just how much toll time had taken on her, and with little to do in retirement, she had quietly moved herself into an upstairs bedroom of his home.
She was grateful for the faces around her, even if the silence was thick enough to smother an elephant. Despite her worry, she knew that he would return; she had bet against him enough times that she knew he was undefeated in fights where he was the underdog.
As each person worried, the rain began to lighten, slowing to a soft patter on the roof and against the window. The man at the window turned around and strode over to the couch. He sat down gingerly and folded his arms in his lap.
Just as the silence grew too deep to bear and as a lightning bolt streaked through the sky, there was a rush of air in the room. Amid a whirlwind of leaves, the Rokudaime appeared in the center of the room, sporting a black eye, a broken cheekbone, several twigs stuck into his spiky blond hair, and a wide grin.
"Why you looking so down, Hinata-chan?" he asked, pulling his wife out of his chair and into his arms.