None of the Usual Questions
The tarp is laid out and the three sit stooped a few feet away, asking none of the usual questions. They know how, they know when and they know why. So there they sit, taking it all in as The Next Logical Step.
None of them had known, or could have even guessed it was coming. Or maybe one of them did, but cared too much about the team to warn anyone else. After all, the Village had been at peace for close to a year; the war was over it's last casualties taken and buried when the leaves were new green, the air warm and fragrant.
The air now is crisp with the genesis of autumn, the trees first fallen dancing their way down around them in a slow rain. One by one they seem to cluster around the pyre, as if offering to immolate themselves in grief. Finally noticing the leaves, one of the three vaults from her place, little wisps of hair coming lose from their buns, and throws herself against the unlit pyre. She claws at the linen wrapped around his face, weeping into a still chest.
" Stupid old man!" she screams, "why didn't you tell us?! Let us take more of the burden...why?! You didn't need to prove yourself to us you moron! We knew, we always knew how good you were...stupid..."
One of the three—the spitting image of the man on the pyre—steps forward and gently but firmly tries to lead his friend away. One look at him, one good look, spreads an expression of sick horror across her face so powerful that he gives up and backs away almost immediately. The other tries and succeeds, and for the next few minutes they sit apart watching the preparations.
It's a visible relief when others arrive.
The gathering crowd makes it less awkward to stand apart although there are more than a few whispers and odd looks from other teams. Some are reserved in their respects, others greet them with open arms, already weeping. The prevailing atmosphere is one of general confusion and disbelief.
Someone comes up behind the lone young man and wraps a pair of strong arms around him—clutched in her fist is a single white lily. The young man leans into the odd embrace and thrills at the odd mix of antiseptic and medicinal herbal smells. There is so much he wants to say to this girl but as usual words fail.
"I'm so, so sorry," she says. Years of working with the dead and dying have steadied her voice. "I can't imagine what this must be like right now...if we'd lost anyone..."
He puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles. The edges of his eyes crease and his barred teeth gleam as though the spirit of the dead man were shining through him. The girl gulps down a sob and smiles sadly back.
"You didn't have to come this early," he says, "the ceremony is still hours away."
There's a weight to his words that suggests she has other places to be and she knows it.
"I know. I have someone else watching them, and they'll send word if anything happens."
He shakes his head.
"Sakura, if you're not there if one of them...you'll never forgive yourself."
"Do you think I would come if I hadn't made my peace with that? Or have you forgotten that we fought together too?" She motions to the pyre. "Maybe not the exact same battles but if it wasn't for him--
"I'm sorry, you're right," the young man admits. "I just know how much they mean to you and I thought--
"--That you weren't as important?" She unwraps her arms and walks to face him, her hands cupping either of his flushing cheeks. For a long, impossible moment their heads hover closer and closer until their lips meet in the warmest, saddest kiss.
"You were there for me at the end of the war. You were the one who convinced me to wait for them to recover, you were the one who made me believe they could—and you're not as important?" She whispers as they stand there, forehead to forehead, arms linked around each other's necks.
"Sorry," he replies, the smile once vanished now slowly returning. She ruffles his dark bob of hair and releases him.
"That's better...now sit tight while I go work on TenTen." She kisses him on the cheek, turns gracefully on a heel and strides purposefully though the crowd towards a small huddle of mourners clustered around a distraught looking young woman. Lee turns away back towards the pyre, just as the gong starts to sound. Thin whorls of incense carry languidly through the chill air, sweeping away the sterility that clings to him like an afterimage. One day, she too will burn out of his life just as the man before him did. But until then, he will take all she is willing to give him, and give back the only way he knows how—with a smile.