A short Jiraiya drabble. Inspired by Rise Against's 'Hero of War.' Songfic. Kind of crappy, might edit over time.

He Said

"Son, Have You Seen the World?

What If I Said You Could?

Just Carry This Gun and You'll Even Get Paid."

I Said

"That Sounds Pretty Good."

Jiraiya can count on one hand how many people he cares for.

One, on his index finger, first and foremost, Hiruzen Sarutobi. Hiruzen is the only one who cares about him. Who else bothers to ask how his day has been? Who else tries to be there to visit him, despite being busy? Who else talks to him, the orphan?

Second, last only to the first is him, himself. Jiraiya.

No one else matters.

No one at the Academy, the orphanage, and the whole village gives a single thought to him lest they want to beat him up for his lunch money. Why should he care about them?

Yes, no one but Hiruzen and himself matter. Jiraiya has very little, but what little he has is granted to him by Hiruzen.

But Jiraiya knows that he's selfish. He knows he wants Hiruzen to be around more often.

What better way than to join him in his work? It is, after all, what consumes the Sarutobi's time most of all. If he graduates from the Academy, he'll become what Hiruzen is too; a Shinobi. A hero that hides in the shadows and battles bad guys to protect the village. As a bonus, too, as a ninja he can get stronger and rub it in the face of the kids stuck on the high horses in the Academy and the village that pretends he doesn't exist.

So now, he's determined. How hard can it be, anyways?

Black Leather Boots

Spit-Shined So Bright

They Cut Off My Hair But It Looks Alright

It's a perfectly normal, exciting day. Jiraiya's can barely sit still in his seat as the Tutor lists off names behind the podium, his shiny new forehead protector with the Leaf Village's symbol glinting in the bright sunlight peeking through the tall, rectangle windows to the left of the classroom's walls. Everyone pays attention from their places in the conjoined, log-like desks that raise in elevation like a civilian college's lecture hall. After tireless efforts and years of work, he's finally done it.

He's become a Shinobi.

He'll have to deal with two teammates, but he really can't find it in himself to care, but when the teacher announces Jiraiya's team, dread and rage builds in the pit of his gut.

Jiraiya's on a team with him.

Jiraiya despises him. He has everything. He's at the top of the class, and Jiraiya's at the bottom. He has excellent grades, and Jiraiya does not. He can throw blades and throwing stars dead-center in the target with his eyes closed.

Jiraiya cannot.

He is everything Jiraiya wants to be. And Jiraiya is not. He even has luck on his side.

Jiraiya does not.

"Teacher! Why do I have to be on a team with this... this loser!?" Jiraiya bellows to the unsuspecting tutor, his finger pointed accusingly at him. "Because, Jiraiya," His teacher groans, rubbing his forehead under the metal plate protector with the lead symbol emblazoned upon it, "Orochimaru has the best grades in the class. And you? You have the worst."

His classmates snicker at him in their benches, his face flushing red in rage and embarrassment. "We need to place you two in the same team to balance you out." The Teacher elaborates further, but Jiraiya wants none of it. He slumps back in his seat with his arms crossed and lip pursed, irritated to the highest degree as Orochimaru ignores him with ease. Even Tsunade, the third and final member of their team, appears a bit put-out by her new team layout. As Genin, the lowest rank in the Shinobi system, they would be stuck with an elite, otherwise known as a Jounin, for a good, long time unless they manage to snatch a promotion to Chunin.

Dealing with each other is not going to be easy, and Jiraiya's is not looking forward to it.

Then he sees who his Jounin instructor is.

"Jiraiya! Looks like we'll be working together." Hiruzen calls to him gleefully over the rows of the long desks.

Maybe he can look forward to it a little.

We Marched and We Sang.

We All Became friends,

As We Learned How to Fight.

Orochimaru is a pain. So is Tsunade.

Hiruzen is a slavedriver, too.

So, Jiraiya's is stumped with the question as to why he's come to love them all. Hiruzen is simple enough; he's a father figure to Jiraiya. He's always been there, the only constant in his life from the beginning. Tsunade's a bit easy as well. Despite his teasing when they were young, fresh Genin, she's grown and become beautiful beyond any other woman in the village. Anyone -males only, and some of the less vain females- you ask within the village will vouch for her beauty without batting an eye. Her hair has grown to her waist, the long, golden locks held in low-tied pigtails down her back, her honeycomb eyes framed by thick eyelashes and full lips, and as Jiraiya can't help but notice, she's filled out her shirt very well. It helps plead his case that he's smitten with her.

Orochimaru, on the other hand?

Jiraiya shakes his head. He truly can't fathom how his antisocial teammate wormed his way into his heart. He's an eerie person with his unearthly pale skin, long, flowing black hair and ominous yellow eyes. It doesn't help with the purple snake-like markings rimming his eyes. Jiraiya can't help but hypothesize that it's some sort of genetic clan marking- but, he finds it possible that Orochimaru's outward appearance may just be as outlandish as his cold, cynical personality.

Jiraiya never liked him in the Academy, and be still can't deal with his cruel and merciless persona at times, but somehow Orochimaru has become his best friend. Other than Sakumo Hatake, of course, his drinking buddy, but even he isn't as close to Jiraiya as Orochimaru has managed to become.

The Will of Fire, the Academy and Hiruzen himself have ingrained into his mind since day one in his life has remained a simple guideline in his mind, but looking at a horribly drunk Tsunade and disgusted Orochimaru, he can't help but think he finally understands what the Will of Fire means.

Word for word, the Will of Fire is the love for the village and willingness to give up everything and fight for it.

Jiraiya can't help but chuckle as he downs another shot of Tsunade's favorite sweet saké brand, listening halfheartedly to Orochimaru's chastisement of the slurring Tsunade, who threatens to punch him with her famously super-powered fist.

He remembers how he was always so indifferent to the saying that so many Shinobi keep close to their hearts, not a shred of patriotism to care nor the love in his soul to understand. Yeah, the textbook given to him said everything about the Will of Fire a Shinobi should cling to, but only now does he understand.

The Will of Fire isn't patriotism. It isn't propaganda or some catchy tagline.

Tsunade tries to stick her chopsticks up Orochimaru's nose, only to receive a thoroughly scandalized look in return and an irate, snake-like hiss before she finds herself dodging a knife at the courtesy of her wronged teammate. Jiraiya laughs loudly while Hiruzen sighs and long-sufferingly sips his preferred tea over the alcoholic beverage Tsunade indulges in. The tavern is oddly quiet despite the prattling between his teammates, the old bar with the dark green booths and low tables glowing with ghosts of memories haunting his vision. He can see them as Genin again, Tsunade giving him a whack on the back of his head for an offhanded comment about her pettanko nature, and Orochimaru scoffing at them with elegant ease. He can see Tsunade and himself guzzling down bottle after bottle as thirteen year olds just having their first kill, and Orochimaru begrudgingly picking up the pieces. He sees them cheering for a mission well done, their presence graced by the rare smile of the professionalistic Orochimaru. He remembers the time when Tsunade first hit puberty, and how she'd punched a hole through the wall next to his head, and how angry Orochimaru had been after the bartender demanded compensation.

Jiraiya's heart is lit aflame as he gazes at the people before him and the village so full of memories, determination from years of hardship and comraderie blazing as his heart is set.

The Will of Fire is the symbol of love.

And to be honest, Jiraya can't say he loves anyone more than his family and home.

A Hero of War, Yeah,

That's What I'll Be.

And When I Come Home,

They'll Be Proud of Me.

The Village Hidden in the Leaves, Konohagakure, is going to war.

Jiraiya doesn't think he's surprised. Tensions have been high for years, and only now has the tipping point flooded. Amegakure and Iwagakure, the Villages Hidden in the Rain and Rocks, have declared war. As Tsunade and Orochimaru run by his side, he can't help but remember the Great Toad's words.

His summons, the toads, had brought him before their elder on Mount Myoboku. There, the Great Toad had declared a prophecy unto Jiraiya, that in a time where he travels the world, the Child of Prophecy will be brought under his tutelage.

That's all fine and dandy with Jiraiya. To be the teacher of a great shinobi? What better would bring him the glory to make him shine like a star? It's the second half of the statement that makes a pit of despair storm in his gut.

Depending on how he teaches the Child of Prophecy, it will either bring great joy and peace unto the world...

Or destroy it all.

Jiraiya wants nothing more at the moment to sit and groan and drink at the moment. Why did he want to become a Shinobi in the first place? Wasn't it something like power and glory, and all sorts of cheesy stuff?

He was a fool.

With the prophecy in his hands and the fate of the world on his shoulders, he is in for far more than he bargained for. He was in over his head the moment he picked up that forehead protector, the brand upon his name that forever binds him to service for his village. Not to mention Minato, his cute little Genin that could very well be the Child of Prophecy. He can't imagine the squirt becoming the big bad that brings the world to his knees, though he can see the child becoming a great Shinobi in his future. Still, Jiraiya can tell, somewhere in the deepest trench of his blackened heart, that Minato is not the Child of Prophecy. He doesn't know if he is or not, but he'll trust his intuition, as he always has. But how will he know if it's the Child? Will it be a tingling feeling? A sharp, sudden realization? How can he hope to make the right decision?

He can only hope he'll live long enough to protect his world.

I'll Carry This Flag

To The Grave If I Must.

Because It's a Flag I Love,

And a Flag I Trust.

Jiraiya can count on both hands how many people he's killed, each finger representing a single hundred. He'll have to add in his toes, soon.

Because whoever caused Tsunade such sorrow has hell to pay.

They received the news quickly, the same way all casualties are reported to the staff. Tsunade, as the head of the hospital, received the news first. She hasn't stopped crying, clutching the accursed necklace to her chest as she howls in lain over the body of her little brother, Nawaki. The newest hero of Konoha on the Killed in Action stone.

He was murdered by Iwagakure ninja. It was supposed to be a simple mission in which he would deliver a message to Tsunade and stay for a while to aid her in healing the wounded.

He only survived long enough to deliver the message.

Orochimaru, the inhuman, emotionless Orochimaru had given Tsunade the birthday gift she'd given Nawaki, the Necklace of the First Hokage.

It is the most human thing he's ever done.

Jiraiya wonders why Nawaki had to die to become a hero. Is the title of hero only achievable within the grave? Before his death, he was only another Genin to the village.

Now, he's a brave hero who died for his country.

Too bad he can't celebrate it anymore.

Jiraya can't help but question, as Tsunade weeps over the cold husk of what was once her brother, if the life of a Shinobi means anything. He's a hero of war now too, dubbed a Sannin, one of the Three Great Shinobi to defeat Hattori Hanzō. But he's dead too, just of a certain kind. He can't remember why he wanted to become a shinobi anymore. His teammates are the only things tying him to this earth, binding him from becoming a tool in the hands of the village.

What does it matter?

What has he accomplished?

All he's ever done is add more bloodshed and chaos.

What does it all mean?

What does the death and destruction and despair amount to? He can only look forward and pray that he'll be able to keep his small, fragile world from falling further.

I Kicked in the Door,

I Yelled My Commands.

The Children, They Cried,

But I Got My Man.

Children. Nothing but children. Yet, Orochimaru suggests they kill them. Jiraiya feels himself die a little more, dig his grave a little bit deeper, as he can't help but actually consider it.

They're no older than he and his peers had been when they first became Shinobi, how they didn't know the death in the life they'd chosen.

They take the food from their hands like starved souls thirsting for light after years in the darkness of hell, crackers like crumbs in the caverns that contained the emptiness and weight of their hunger. They remind Jiraiya of the time he traveled the world searching for answers and turned up empty. He can't stop himself as he recalls the hopelessness and despair he felt each and every time the person he searched for wasn't the one that could help him, the loneliness that returned like an echo from a ghost as he was once again alone.

Perhaps this is what he felt so long ago on those lonely streets, where he only knew how to count and nothing in the world was worth more than the dirt under his nails.

Does Orochimaru feel this too, as a fellow orphan?

What is it like for Tsunade to go home to an empty compound inhabited only by phantoms of the dead that haunt her?

How do these children feel?

Jiraiya looks at them. This time, he really sees them. The weariness in their hearts as heavy as the war loot on their backs, muddy clothes as dirtied as the blood in his veins, eyes as dead as the soldiers he murders for the sake of his selfish love.

Something beyond human flesh and blood tells him to reach out to them, take them within his embrace and make them more strong.

But what for?

They're brats, worthless kids without a penny or achievement to their names.

It's the simplest, easiest option.

It wouldn't change the world. Not at all.

But it would change their world, wouldn't it?

Jiraiya decidedly hates himself.

They Took Off His Clothes,

They Pissed in His Hands,

I Told Them to Stop,

But Then I Joined In.

We Beat Him With Guns and Batons

Not Just Once,

But Again and Again.

Jiraiya can't remember a lot of things.

He can remember, however, that he is and always will be a coward.

He can't remember quite when the war began. He remembers coming home from the front lines for a well-deserved break, however, to find his friend dead.

Sakumo Hatake, on his birthday, has committed suicide.

He's not attending the funeral.

He can't stand the sight of Sakumo's little boy. He looks too much like his father with his white hair and coal eyes, lidded and sad compared to the bright shine his father had before the failed mission that set his life veering off course. The war took away many things from Jiraiya, but this is a blow too close to his fragile, feeble heart.

Jiraiya is a coward.

He can't even return to Amegakure to mourn the loss of his students killed in battle. Tears alone shed for them, not an action or a word to grieve over the loss of a prophecy, a destiny, hope, and something a little more.

Jiraiya is a coward.

His hand clenches on it's own as he stands, glaring at the black emptiness of the funeral attire before him, draped like a cloak of unavoidable despair.

Why is all the good plucked from this world?

What does Sakumo's death mean?

Why is death haunting him?

What does it mean for suffering to exist?

He tosses on the wreath of darkness with fire and rage, burning against the mark of defeat and decay within the graveyard, his red flower placed upon Sakumo's casket the only one of it's kind. They spat at Sakumo, they did. These people he and Jiraiya worked so hard to protect with their lives.

And they cursed Sakumo for it...

and Jiraiya did nothing.

The few that care to show up at the funeral glare at Jiraiya, the meaning lost on them of the fragile, crimson spider lily peeking through the never ending white of the roses. He can ask all the questions he wants, he knows, but if there is one thing that you learn living your life with death on your shoulder and his work in your hands, one realizes that death is far past the grave and live on, truths regardless.

Jiraiya doesn't know the answer, because he is a coward.

And he is sick of it.

But Then I Joined In

We Beat Him With Guns

And Batons Not Just Once,

But Again and Again.

Jiraiya can't find it in himself to hate the rain.

It beats down upon him mercilessly like hail from the heavens, drenching him through the flesh and weighting his bones. It's cold and dry, the grey world he lives in drowned by the tears of the world and familiar ghosts of Rinnegan ripples tiding over the water as each droplet falls like a dead man's corpse before they fade away. The crying of the rain drowns out any sound trying to whisper through the air and break the spell, but nothing adds a touch of color to the world muddled in shades of grey. The cold creeps to the bone as it seems to awaken old nerve matrixes in his dead hair that bring it back to life and feeling only to scorch it with frigid freeze. He feels as disgusting as the weather. He wants to hate it, but he knows that he can't. The rain has been much kinder to him than others. There's a distant ringing in the squalor, a cry in the distance as he stares at the dead man's body. He was a traitor- a high level one, at that- who'd gotten away with some precious scroll and a few murders. He'd seen Jiraiya coming, and before he could lift a pinky finger, the man had crunched down on a suicide pill stuck on the back of his molars.

Nightshade; Belladonna, 'beautiful woman'. He thinks, judging from the slight smell. He's been around Tsunade long enough to take a worthy guess. With a weary sigh he heaves up the corpse, fingers dangling lifelessly on his chest as something gold catches his eye.

He has a family.

But so does Jiraiya.

A Hero of War, Yeah,

That's What I'll Be

And When I Come Home

They'll Be Proud of Me.

Orochimaru has left Konoha.

Jiraiya punches the tree once more, shaking it from the leaves above to the roots and core. Another failure.

Was it his fault? Was it everyone's fault? He left Konoha. Tsunade abandoned the village. It's well-known that the civilians fear him for his abnormal appearance. How were the ninja treating him, when Jiraiya's back was turned? When had his friend begin to experiment on children? Unborn infants? Why hadn't he seen the signs? Why hadn't he dug deeper, or stopped by to go eat hard boiled eggs with him? Say hello, send a letter asking how he's doing? What kind of friend is he? He doesn't deserve to be a ninja- he knows it.

What kind of ninja could he ever be if he couldn't save a single friend?

I'll Carry This Flag to The Grave

If I Must

Because It's a Flag That I Love

And a Flag That I Trust

Naruto. It's a horrible, worthless, beautiful name. The kid will be named after a forsaken failure created by himself. Jiraiya wishes he could swear out to the world in praises and chastisement for his influence on the unborn child within Kushina's womb. Prophecy or not, he has a purpose now. "Hey, Naruto." He whispers to Kushina's swollen stomach, her face smiling gently and hand placed under his on her belly. "I promise you're gonna be the best shinobi. I'll teach ya everything- not sure what, but this old man's gonna do something." I snickered, earning a skeptical look from both Minato and Kushina, but neither protrude on the, albeit bizarre, rare and tender encounter for Jiraiya.

For Jiraiya, he, himself, has never amounted to much.

He was selfish, he was horrid at anything 'ninja' as a kid, he failed many people. He failed Tsunade with Nawaki (he knows it's not his fault but hell he could have done something-) and Dan, he failed Nagato, Yahiko and Konan, he failed Hiruzen with Orochimaru and he failed himself, because he is worthless. So what if he's part of a prophecy? So what if he's a Sannin? So what if he's the Great Toad Sage? He made the wrong choice to leave Nagato. He's truly weak, and he knows it (Sakumo was so much better-), he can't even complete Sage Mode.

But this little Naruto?

He's a blank, shining canvas like the open page of a new book; so full of promise and wonderful people to help fill in the blanks. With this little kid, he isn't a Sannin. He isn't the failure who couldn't save his friend from himself. He isn't Jiraiya the Gallant, a modern hero who beat up bad guys for the sake of something so frail and fragile as human-judged justice.

He's just him, and nothing more. A Godfather, and nothing less.

The old, jaded flame burns at the small, almost nonexistent heartbeat beneath his fingertips, the very beginnings of all men, the tiniest human being he has ever felt in his life. It was beyond his imagination- this tiny, feeble life beneath him is human.

And he'll give anything in the world to protect it.

She Walked Through Bullets and Haze

I Asked Her to Stop

I Begged Her to Stay

But She Pressed On

So I Lifted My Gun and Fired Away

Dead, dead, dead.

All because of you.

Minato, Kushina, and dear heaven Naruto-

He was away for all of it. The birth, the fight, the death-

He'd failed. Again.

Family broken apart the moment he looks away again.

How many more times will he suffer through it? How much longer must he dally and loose sight of those he loves all for bitter pleasure and fearful running?

For the sake of the village.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. For the sake of the village, he lost his innocence. He murdered a man with his bare hands and tortured so many more in gruesome ways that scars and blots his soul so foully that he's certain that there's nothing left but the void anymore. He's killed ten thousand and a couple thousand more, abandoned his teammate for the sake of the village while the other ran away and cut herself from their roots but he remained loyal (lonely) for the sake of the village. He's suffered worst blows to the heart, mind, body, and soul more than any normal shinobi all for the sake of the village.

Perhaps, once upon a time, that meant something to him.

Maybe, once, when he was younger, for the sake of the village he would charge out on the front lines to be cannon fodder in vengeful old mens' games. Foolish and mediocrity at it's best, to be nameless and personally unthanked for the fact he might have thrown his life away for the sake of the village.

At some time, it meant family. For the sake of the village, for the sake of family, he would do anything.

It's been twelve years, and Jiraiya thinks he can do it again.

If not for the sake of the village, then for his family. For Naruto, obnoxious and orange and completely akin to his mother.

And the Shells Jumped Through the Smoke,

Into the Sand

That the Blood Now Soaked

She Collapsed With a Flag in Her Hand,

A Flag as White as Snow

Naruto's growing faster than Jiraiya can count how many times he's said something not involving Sasuke Uchiha. It is all he ever talks about and what he swears upon outwardly or with an internal monologue that takes, arguably, twenty minutes to finish filled with Jiraiya suspects to be flashbacks and angst.

Ah, youth.

He can't help but smile when he sees Naruto squatting with his platoon of shadow clones, fire in his eyes and determination in his voice. It reminds him of the older times when he was as wide-eyed and bright voiced as him, when the world was exciting and a new day meant more tomorrows with each coming dawn. It kindles the sad old flame in his heart when he stares at him, pride deep in his gut and a sense of what he can call fulfillment. Perhaps this is how parents feel to see their children grow old or that feeling of acceptance to the inevitable when a master has taught all he can to his student, but he doesn't care. It never mattered, anyways. His time with Naruto has shown him that all his groaning and moaning was worthless.

Now, Jiraiya buries the dead and aids the living.

I sound like an old man. He chortles to himself, unplugging his gourd and taking a swig of sweet, stinging saké. It burns his throat and melts the pits of his stomach, but it feels darn good because he's alive.

It's that simple a reason.

Perhaps I am an old man. He thinks because he knows that he is. He's a ripe old age for a shinobi, older than over ninety-seven out of a hundred soldiers already given their lives for the sake of the village. It makes him wonder about the future with a sickeningly sweet sense of his death that he so often contemplates. Perhaps he'll die of old age? It's likely, but Jiraiya was never one to go out quietly like a flicker of light and to be mothered that comes with elderly problems.

No, he decides. It's just not for him.

Perhaps he'll go out with a bang, loud and with a great proclamation like the great Kage of the past, reveled for their bravery and strength even within their deathbeds.

Yes.

Perhaps it will do.

A fitting end for Jiraiya the Gallant is hard to come by, but he'll be prepared when the end day comes.

He caught the sun; now he can't let go.

He's caught the sun- he mustn't let it go.

A Hero of War,

Is that What They See?

Just Medals and Scars

So Proud of Me

And I Brought Home That Flag

Now It Gathers Dust

But It's a Flag I Love

The Only Flag I Trust

He failed.

The sun is drowned with rolling, raging rain clouds spreading teardrops into the ocean in which he slowly sways, ebbing and flowing in the ocean's current. Small, insignificant, and swallowed in the endless abyss.

He failed his people, his country, the village. Naruto, Tsunade, Nawaki, Dan, Orochimaru, Minato, Kushina- he failed them all.

He can count that, a few certain years ago, he dreamed about dying in a great, noble way. He doesn't think that such a thing is selfish; especially if Minato could get away with it. Still, he wanted and he dreamed. Perhaps it was a little too much want, because he had wanted and desired his whole life. He dreamed to be a shinobi. He wanted to be loved and recognized. He wanted to have a family- however brief and broken it now is. (But it's still good, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.) He wanted to write a book. To fulfill his prophecy and to see Minato's child grow.

Perhaps, he had wished one too many wishes, as every single other had been filled.

When he was living (or, well, not dying) he couldn't look back and see just how beautiful the world is. He has a family. So what if it's broken and full of a few wackos that he doesn't always like or get along with? So what if it's broken? They love him. He's recognized and everyone sees him.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. An answer for a question long ago. He almost snorts at the clear absurdity and reason it holds, but he does allow his grin to grow just a little bit wider. As his vision fades, the light in his eyes grow dimmer as death slowly takes hold, gently lowering him down to his grave on the sea floor.

Death, he thinks, is quite necessary for happiness.

He would've slapped himself, bitter and angry from defeat and lost loves, for saying such a thing. But now, experiencing it himself, he finds it irrefutable. Would he have given his life if he did not understand how he loves his family? Would he not hesitate to send a man to war like a chess piece if he had not seen the death and terrors himself? Would he not know acceptance and be able to surpass rage and bitterness if Minato and Kushina had not died?

Death opens the eyes to true beauty. It is ugly, as is this world, so that we may see the wonders and understand.

He Said,

"Son, Have You Seen the World?

Well, What If I Said You Could?"