Red Drops
The casket was small. Too small. There should never be a need for something like it to be made, to even be thought of. It meant that a life had been lost far too early, far too young, before it had even had a chance to experience what life really was. That something warm and full of opportunity, with a potential for joy, for love, for sorrow, for pain, and for unending possibilities was now gone. Dead, cold, broken, an empty shell. A corpse.
The casket was light, logically Iruka knew it held very little weight as he and three others carried it to the plot of freshly dug earth, yet it sat upon the Chuunin's shoulder like a slate of solid dolomite. His shoulder screamed from the weight and pressure, pain spreading like poison through muscle and joints. Iruka found himself almost hoping that it would just fall off, that his shoulder would just fall away and take the overwhelming weight with it. He knew, though. He knew that the weight would be there long after the small casket laid buried deep in the ground and that over the years it would become much heavier.
He had no grand ideas about how he would bear that weight or shake it off. He did not think highly enough of himself to make boast of how he would hold his head high and move past the pain. He was too old to hold such illusions of strength. He would bear it or he would break. At the end of the day, it was as simple as that.
The casket touched ground with the lightest of thumps but it was still enough to reaffirm that it wasn't hollow. The weight on Iruka's shoulders grew heavier. He refused to acknowledge the memories. Memories of wide smiles and excited dancing eyes, happy laughter or shouts of frustration, tears cried in secret on his shoulder when the others weren't looking because everyone knows shinobi don't cry.
He refused to reanalyse what he taught the students. Refused to tear apart his lesson plans to find that one small lacking detail which might have saved this one child. There was nothing he could teach the children that would save them from an ambush by an enemy Jounin deep within Fire territory. A completely unexpected and unprovoked attack. They had only been searching for a missing rabbit, just a simple mission for new Gennin to help them learn stealth… it was supposed to be safe.
Taking his place in the line of silent bodies Iruka refused to acknowledge the burning behind his eyes as he looked at the too small casket. He absolutely refused to look at the framed photograph on the table behind it. He didn't need a photo, their face was long etched into his memory. He didn't need to hear the words spoken about the child, he knew what they had told him in the years they'd spent together, and that was enough. He refused to acknowledge the burning behind his eyes.
Shinobi don't cry.
His fingernails cut deeply into calloused palms and his knuckles turned white from the force. He pushed them deeper.
Shinobi don't cry.
Bitter blood dripped between his fingers to the ground. The only thing he could offer the wooden casket as it was lowered into the cold, hard earth. Dark red iron drops instead of clear salted ones.
Shinobi don't cry… but they're allowed to bleed.