In the dust of the streets

lie the young and the old;

my young women and my young men

have fallen by the sword;

you have killed them in the day of your anger,

slaughtering without pity.

(Lamentations 2:21)

"What do we do in peacetime?"

The question caught him off guard. He turned to look at the chuunin who'd addressed him. A tall, skeletal wraith. Her pale face was solemn as she picked dried blood out of her neatly trimmed fingernails with a kunai. She must have been the only one in the entire regiment who still bothered to maintain her nails. He thought better of chiding her for such a glamorous use of their dwindling weapons supply and smiled gently at her all the same.

"I mean," she said pensively, curling a piece of hair around a clean, white finger. He stared at it in consternation. It was an anomaly, an impossibility where everything was a dull grey. Wet grey skies. Wet grey earth. Wet grey bodies. He would have thought she was a newcomer if it weren't for the fact that they'd stopped receiving fresh recruits a year ago. "I think about it a lot," she continued. "What I would do when the war's over, but I don't really know. I was drafted after the war started, so I don't know what it's like as a ninja during peacetime. We just eat and sleep? Is it even worth it? I can't think of anything that's worth all… this." She grimaced and gestured vaguely at the carnage. There was no need for her to be so specific. It was everywhere. Her eyes lingered on a pair of severed hands brought together as if in prayer.

Acid rain didn't make for pretty corpses—not that it particularly mattered. Once the swarms of hunter nin finished plucking out eyes and secrets, the dead would be thrown indiscriminately onto a great pyre where some unfortunate Uchiha would fulfill his noble duty by creating a great bonfire that could survive the rain. It wasn't an enviable task, but it was the first jutsu every Uchiha learned. The first time, the smell had forced him to leave and vomit as respectfully as he could in remembrance of the honorable men and women who had given their lives for their country.

"We do those things, yes," he began, leaving the battlefield and running through the soft, fuzzy memories of his childhood. It had been a while for him too, so it was difficult to conjure up a past during which he'd lived in an actual home rather than a tent, did mundane things like read and shop and fall in love.

"And so much more," he went on. "We eat, yes, but food that doesn't come in packages. We don't eat rations during peacetime. I miss fresh rice a lot, actually—I think the first thing I'll do is go out for some sushi. We sleep in our own beds. We walk in the street without expecting an ambush. We spend time with our families and our loved ones. We train for our own enjoyment, to make ourselves stronger, not because we're afraid of dying. We go on missions that we can actually expect to survive. It's… nice."

She watched him expectantly with round eyes too big for her face, wanting more. "Sure, it's not always wonderful. People still die. It's different for everyone," he said. "But I remember I liked carving wood figurines. There's time to do that during peacetime. It rains too much for me to do that here. And, well, there's a war going on." He shrugged. "That doesn't help."

"It sounds… nice," she repeated wistfully. He watched as she dragged a hand through her long, wet hair, perhaps for the sake of doing something with her trembling hands. Nothing ever dried here. The rain itself was a formidable enemy in the absence of trees to cover them. It was a wonder they weren't walking mold infestations. The food, on the other hand, was usually a lost cause.

There were many soldiers who looked just like her. Bags of bones, young and hungry, withered skin stretched over hollow cheeks. Dead men walking on borrowed time. That was the look worn by those who'd been drafted. They hadn't had the time to build up a tolerance for hunger, cold, damp. Nor had they learned that the war was waged primarily on psychological terms where the victor was determined by one's mental fortitude against the creeping sounds in the night, the gluttonous rats gnawing greedily at one's body, the feeling of lice crawling stubbornly over one's scalp, the acrid odor of burning flesh, the foul taste of unwashed mouths broken only on occasion by moldy ration bars, the sight of bloated, waterlogged corpses.

"Maybe you could teach me sometime," she said, giving up on trying to brush her fingers through her hair and returning her attention to that section she'd been playing with earlier. His eyes were drawn to the way it sprang from her finger, drier and curlier than the rest of her straight, black hair.

"Alright," he agreed for no other reason than her refreshing optimism. He didn't tell her he thought it was impossible for them to go back. But even if it was impossible for them to lead normal lives and return to the world they had torn apart so cruelly with their own hands, there would still be trees in Konoha. There would always be trees in Konoha, and that belief gave him comfort. "Paulownia trees are my favorite," he said with a small smile, for it didn't hurt to indulge an innocent fantasy.

She smiled back at him—a genuine, brilliant smile that felt more precious and rare to him than a laughing Uchiha. "My parents planted a Paulownia tree when I was born. They say they'll cut it down and turn it into a table to send with me when I get married. So I hope you know how to make tables." Her smile dimmed a little, and he found himself wanting to bring it back. Perhaps it was selfish, but bright things were hard to come by in this infernal part of Rain. "I wonder if—when I'll see them again."

He nodded, thoughts returning to his childhood. His parents were dead and he was the last of his clan. "Write to them," he suggested. "I regret not doing that."

"I've been trying all year," she said. "But it's hard. I don't know what to write about. The war? The rain?" She raised a finger to write letters in the air: "'Dear mom and dad, it rains all the time here and the person next to me got his head melted by acid today. He was a nice man who once gave me a leg from the chicken he stole from a nearby farm. In return, I stole the boots from his dead body because mine had holes. It could have been me, but it wasn't. Thank my lucky stars, I guess. I hope you're doing well. Love you,'" she recited sardonically.

Her finger faltered and dropped. "I want to let them know I'm alright and that they don't need to worry," she said in a low voice. "But that's not entirely true, is it? I just got lucky. I didn't even see it coming, to be honest. It could have been me, but it wasn't," she repeated dully. "It just wasn't."

She stared blindly at her white, trembling hands. He felt a rush of guilt for having admired them earlier. It was clear now that she'd achieved the color not merely through the power of good hygiene, but because she was cold and afraid. "I killed someone today," she whispered so quietly that he had to inch closer to hear her over the rain. "With a kunai. I stabbed him—or her, I don't know—three times. That's all it took. I didn't know it would be that easy." She took a shuddering breath and reached frantically in her pouch for a worn pack of cigarettes.

The first response that sprang into his mind was that it would only get easier and easier until it didn't even register that you were doing something as vile as killing. Until the enemy was reduced to a pest, a nuisance, a chore. How many people had he killed? It didn't matter because he hadn't killed enough and there would be more coming tomorrow. Maybe even tonight. Maybe even now. He watched as she struggled to light a cigarette in the pouring rain, cursing under her breath. "Here," he said quietly, stepping closer and lighting the cigarette with a spark of his own chakra.

She laughed a high, quivering breath tinged with insanity as their eyes met over the warm glow of her cigarette. "I could learn a lot of things from you," she remarked with a shaky exhale.

He remained silent as she devoured the cigarette until the bright cherry was flickering on her white fingertips, smudging them a dark grey that matched the drab landscape. "The last letter I wrote them was stupid," he finally said. That was before he'd learned that anything other than despair was arrogance. "I wrote out of duty. Something about how many people I was commanding at the time. But now that they're gone, I think of all the things I should have told them."

"Like what?" This close, he could see himself suspended in her luminous eyes.

He looked away, afraid to open up to a stranger but craving human contact so much that it almost hurt physically. "That I resented them," he admitted at last. She nodded thoughtfully, and more confessions came forth unbidden.

"That I would have done anything for my mother's cooking," he continued, "but that I was too afraid of her to tell her it needed more salt. That I left to cry in another room the first time my father told me he loved me, but that I hated him for never letting me have a real childhood. That I'm grateful for their sacrifices. That I wish I knew more about them. That they were right about the girl I wanted to marry when I was a teenager. That they were wrong about my hair…"

He swallowed hard. "That I love them and that I'm sorry for resenting them when they did everything they could to keep me alive."

It wasn't closure, per se, but it felt good to confess. He watched, fascinated as various emotions flitted across her open face and found himself relieved by the tender look that settled in her eyes. It felt even better to admit imperfection and be accepted.

"What were they right about? What were they wrong about?" she whispered.

"They were right that she didn't love me back. But they were wrong about my hair being impractical," he replied.

She tilted her head, considering the long ponytail hanging over his shoulder. "I like it."

He felt the flush on her face reflected in his own and sheepishly rubbed his neck, which she seemed to find endearing judging from the way she smiled at him.

They parted without exchanging names, as was the custom in those times. It was much easier to operate by titles that could be refilled than by unique names attached to real bodies that never returned no matter how hard one wished or prayed or wanted.

When they found each other again, they were both orphans. By that point, the war had followed them back into the Land of Fire and the tiny villages sprinkled around the coast. Her village had been swallowed up by the sea, for there were true monsters clothed in human skin who could summon tsunamis on innocent children and civilians on nothing more than a cruel whim.

She had never gotten a chance to send that letter and he had never learned how to soothe tears away with words. So he had brought her a humble leaf carved out of Paulownia wood and earned the name White Fang with the lightning he brought down upon the Mist's bloody armada.

It had been exactly 17 days since Jiraiya had returned home and he had yet to see either one of his teammates. Tsunade was nowhere to be found—he'd checked the bathhouses and the hospital as soon as he'd arrived—but there were plenty of rumors about her abrupt resignation and departure. When he had asked his old teacher about it, Hiruzen had just lit his pipe and sighed. His Sensei often looked disappointed—especially with him—but that disappointment was usually accompanied by a list of flaws Jiraiya was supposed to fix. Jiraiya didn't know what to do when there was disappointment but nothing to fix. There wasn't enough pestering in the world to get Hiruzen to open up about Tsunade and Jiraiya was left feeling that he'd missed out on something he could never catch up to. An inside joke? Or perhaps it was the opposite.

It was on the 31st day of his second attempt at living in Konoha that Hiruzen finally called him back into his office.

The greeting fell dumbly from his lips as he took in the smiling blond waiting for him. His heart leapt rudely to his throat. A joke? Something to fill the brilliant blonde hole Tsunade had vacated?

His new student was bright and beautiful and talented and so, so young, and it broke Jiraiya's heart. What are you doing with your life, he wanted to ask. Don't throw it away, he wanted to say. This was Konoha, the most developed of the hidden villages where children shouldn't be plucked out of childhood and thrown into combat. This wasn't the frog-shaped hut he'd built out of necessity to shelter three wayward orphans from exposure to the cruel rain and even crueller bandits.

He stared questioningly at Hiruzen, who only nodded as if everything was unremarkably okay.

His name was Minato; he was brilliant like the sun and he was the biggest idiot Jiraiya had ever met.

If Jiraiya's young student followed him to the brothels and bathhouses, he simply let it happen because women usually made better company than knives. His student was a quick learner: he caught on to the fact that Jiraiya looked at him with a comment only when he did something truly outstanding. But on his off time, he sank underground below Minato's notice to look for his other teammate.

Orochimaru was supposed to be somewhere in Konoha. But all his usual haunts were empty, and Jiraiya was annoyed that his teammate had left him no other choice than to hunt him down like the slippery snake he was. It wasn't unusual behavior, exactly, but the Orochimaru he knew had come up for air and food every few days at the very least.

He was even more annoyed when his efforts were rewarded by a raised eyebrow and a sharp, "What are you doing here?"

Jiraiya huffed and crossed his arms, taking in the strange assortment of objects and smells Orochimaru had collected in this dinky little lab in the deepest catacombs Konoha had to offer. "The question is," he said, "what are you?" He strolled around, undeterred by his teammate's slanted eyes.

"I wouldn't smell that if I were you," Orochimaru said mildly, sweeping his hair back and returning to the files he'd been perusing when Jiraiya had walked in.

Jiraiya paused before carefully setting down the vial of purple liquid in his hand. The small grove of trees in the corner of the lab was more interesting, he decided. And quite strange, he thought, circling a tree that almost seemed to have a human face carved on it. He reached out to trace the mouth opened up in a silent scream. His hand jumped as the tree seemed to respond with a strum of chakra.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," Orochimaru repeated, his voice just as silky as his glossy, black hair.

"What's gonna happen? Is the tree going to bite me?"

"Perhaps."

Jiraiya squinted at his teammate's back, wondering if Orochimaru was fucking with him as usual or if he was giving a genuine warning as usual. He reached back out anyway. That foreign chakra vibrated as his hand approached.

A hand closed tightly around his wrist. "I didn't think you'd need babysitting, Jiraiya," Orochimaru said, his lips curled up in a tight smile. "After all, that's what you've been doing these past few years, isn't it?"

Jiraiya returned the smile. "Philanthropy," he corrected. "That's what I was doing."

"You must be mistaken," Orochimaru replied, eyes glittering. "Philandering is the correct term, my dear teammate."

"Same thing," Jiraiya snorted. "At least when I'm doing it."

Orochimaru took a step back, lips curled down distastefully.

"There he is." Jiraiya grinned. "That's the face I was looking for." He watched his teammate's elegant nostrils flare delicately and punched his shoulder with his free hand. As usual, it felt like Jiraiya was hitting a very skinny rock. But he couldn't help his relief. He knew this person. He knew how to interact with this person. Here was Orochimaru, the same prickly snake he'd always been. Maybe he was more secretive and anti-social than before, but the war had made recluses of them all. Even Jiraiya had stopped drinking in public bars where it was all too easy for someone to take advantage of another—something he'd enjoyed before. But he was too conscious of every rustle, every movement, every exit, every concealed item to enjoy it now.

Jiraiya jerked his chin at the trees. "What're those?"

Orochimaru exhaled a long suffering sigh as he released Jiraiya and began to walk towards the exit. "As usual, you prove yourself incapable of basic induction." He glanced over his shoulder. "Those," he explained very patiently, "are trees. We have many trees in Konoha."

"Cute," Jiraiya returned dryly. "You'd make a great Academy teacher if it weren't for the fact that little children cry when they see your ugly face."

"I could say the same about you, dear friend," Orochimaru said. He didn't have his usual silver tongue, Jiraiya noticed. Nor did he seem to be very interested in his current projects since he was leaning against the doorway, waiting for Jiraiya to join him. The files and specimens were scattered in disarray and the only clean thing in the lab was Orochimaru himself.

"These don't look like any trees I've seen," Jiraiya muttered half to himself, finally placing an open palm against the tree in front of him. "What is this chakra?" Under the rough bark, there was something beating steadily. If he were touching something besides a tree, Jiraiya might have sworn it was a heartbeat. He pushed back with a little chakra of his own. Nothing happened.

Orochimaru watched him lazily through lidded eyes. "That's precisely the problem. They're Hashirama trees, but something went wrong as they were growing."

"Were?" Jiraiya asked. "They're only saplings."

Orochimaru shook his head. "Were," he repeated. If his voice sounded tired and defeated, Jiraiya didn't comment on it. He was tired too.

"What happened to Tsunade?"

"I don't know. She left without saying goodbye."

"You should have been there for her."

"Yes."

"I should have been there for her."

"Yes."

They walked in silence to the highest point in the village where they could see life blooming in the bustle of the tiny ant-like figures down below. Jiraiya wondered if this is what Orochimaru saw on a daily basis: a scientist looking down, detached from his objects of study. It was strangely comforting. He thought he could understand now why Orochimaru had retreated into the most remote pocket of society. He thought he could understand now why Tsunade had left the village altogether. The village was there, alive and thriving because they had done their duty, but they were no longer a part of it. They were a whole generation of dying men and women, quietly succumbing to irrelevance and extinction.

Their lives could not be understood just as they could not understand the lives of those who had never been in the killing fields.

"Welcome home, Jiraiya," Orochimaru said quietly, almost overpowered by the wind.

AN: Thanks to my lovely beta, WesDunne!