This has been in the back of my mind since I read about th eArlington Laides, very admirable group of women. I made the characters deliberately vague so that they could represent whatever/whoever you want them to. Let me know what you think!
Don't own Naruto or any of the characters.
He watched as she stood silently, respectfully, off to the side
He watched as she stood silently, respectfully, off to the side. The shinobi on duty had let her pass at the gates, several yards behind the family. She was a familiar sight now, bowed head covered by the shawl usually tied about her waist, quick smile absent as she mourned in her own way. Several times a lover, a mother had asked about her presence. Her reason was always the same-they couldn't go unmourned, these men and women of the village. Some were just children, some had no family, but none were mourned by any civilian except family. Skilled enough to be a kunoichi she chose to lead a civilian life. It had been three years since she began showing up at the shinobi cemetery, demanding to know the funerals each day. Three years ago there had been very few, but the Third Great War had begun this year, and she was a daily fixture. She had been challenged at first; after all, what person wanted daily reminders of death? She had answered the challenge: "No man deserves to go unmourned, no death unmarked. Their blood is spilled for us, to keep us safe. If no one else cares enough to acknowledge the sacrifice, I will mourn these fallen for all of us." The guards never challenged her again; they understood. She would stand for a while; offer a prayer for the departed soul, then leave. Occasionally she would rouse a mourner in shock and take them home, caring for them until they could function or until neighbors stepped in to help. More often it was the former, but she never seemed to mind. This time, however, the family left quickly, looking unfazed by the death; in five minutes she was the only soul at the burial save the guards. As the cold wind blew, lifting the hem of her skirt slightly and toying with the ends of the shawl, she stood motionless, silent, then swiftly bowed and left, a trio of clove, daisy, and hawthorn drifting to rest against the gravestone. Where she got the flowers in the middle of the desert or what they meant, only she could say, but she left them at each fresh grave, and the guards were grateful. At least one would mourn them when their turn came, if they returned from the War in body bags. As long as this woman remained in their village, no shinobi would be buried without honor.
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