Chapter Four: Ripples

Two men separated from the others, their expressions hard and closed. For them, death was routine. Inevitable. They were career shinobi. One put his hand on the cold stone, right beside the framed photograph. "I didn't expect this."

Genma grunted. "He was older than thirty." It was the normal life span for shinobi of his ability level.

"And yet somehow he seemed immortal," Raido said, a rueful smile straightening his lips. "I don't know how the village will face his empty seat in the mission room without breaking down."

Genma sucked in air so hard he came close to puncturing himself with the senbon between his teeth. "They'll just replace him," he hissed. He had never felt so old. Had he been there alone, he might even have turned away, but Raido put a hand on his bowed shoulder, creating a link between the men and the stone. Iruka's face smirked at them. Genma could almost see the wicked gleam.

Raido said, "No one is going to replace him."

Swallowing, Genma gave a jerky nod. He fingered the final offering he had been chosen to present on behalf of all those who were too jaded to weep. Those who Iruka had defied, commanded, comforted. Those he had taught, even the ones who outranked him.

Genma laid out the crisp new uniform vest of a tokubetsu jounin on the memorial stone.

Some shinobi chose their rank, while others had rank choose them. No one was sure which was true of Iruka, but in the end it didn't matter.

"Your reminded us all where true strength comes from, Iruka," Raido spoke in eulogy, and the silent agreement of the shinobi of Konoha radiated out behind them.

Teuchi stood with his daughter and her family. He wasn't wearing his apron, but the smell of ramen remained. He didn't mind. After all, that same aroma hung around so many fond memories. Ichiraku Ramen had been a refuge for many displaced souls over the years, warming bellies with the savory steam of broth and noodles. However, few had touched Teuchi's heart like a little blond scamp and his diligent keeper, both short on resources but generous in every other way. He'd watch the two of them, Iruka and Naruto, grow together over many seasons, and now he could barely keep from biting through his lip knowing that he would never see them sitting beside one another again.

'I never understood their cruelty toward that boy, but you saw past that, Sensei,' he thought, thinking of times when Iruka would tow in a sulking Naruto by the arm, plop the boy down, and call for food – loving him with his actions even when his words spoke admonishment. 'You were a good man, patient and willing to forgive. I know you were often lonely,' – And he did, because Iruka had sat alone on that stool far too many times – 'But you did your best to make sure he knew someone cared. I know you changed the world that way. I only hope I helped you do it, one bowl of ramen at a time.'

Not far from the ramen stand owner, a widow stood with her arms wrapped around her son's narrow shoulders. At twelve, he might have already been a soldier. However, when she was still pregnant, Iruka had gone with her before the Konoha Council to petition for her right to raise him without interference. While she trembled before the grave, imperative faces, Iruka fought for her child's future. She would always remember his words: "There is more than one way to serve this village." In the end, her son had been excepted from the shinobi mandate. She still remembered the heat of her tears. Now they fell again, burning down her face. 'You redeemed my boy,' she thought.

Nearby stood a man with leathery hands, rough from years of hard labor. He'd known Iruka because he came to town meetings, the only shinobi who attended. At first they hadn't wanted him there, but Iruka was unlike others of his kind. Iruka listened earnestly to their concerns and – when he could – represented them in the shinobi world. A new bridge which shinobi did not need because they could walk on water. Stronger penalties for violating the rules about breaking and entering without lawful cause. Provisions for better schooling for non-shinobi children. 'You showed us we had value, that those in power would listen if we spoke,' the carpenter thought. 'You gave us self-respect. Thank you.'

A bent old woman bowed her head over hands that were soft and thin with age. She let the tears squeeze out. After all these years, she couldn't believe she'd outlived the scrawny scamp that had taken up residence in her building when he was barely eleven-years-old. He'd been all ribs and mistrustful brown eyes back them, and she'd stuffed him full of rice and fish and eggs until he started looking a little less neglected.

"What would I do without you, Ooya-san?" he had asked innumerable times, and she would tenderly pat his cheek, even when it gained the sharp angles of a young man, one who was fully capable of taking care of himself.

"It's not every landowner who's lucky enough to have you as a tenant."

If she was fortunate, he would get that funny quirk at the corner of his mouth. She rarely saw the scar, it was so much a part of his face, but that little upward twist of his mouth always felt like a treasure. He had a pleasant visage, her Iruka, one easily shaped into friendly lines, but his true smiles were rarer. "Well, I do carry your groceries."

"And mend the roof, and put wards on all the doors, and keep a watchful eye on anyone coming back home in the dark –"

He waved his hand at her, flushed with embarrassment. "Stop. It's nothing for all the years you put up with my sour disposition. Honestly, I don't know how you didn't throw me out in those early days. I was nothing but trouble."

The landlady thought back to that little boy in a dirty apartment, always slinking home through shadows, too wary of adults to accept an embrace. How he had become a man so full of nobility and compassion, she would never know.

"I couldn't be prouder of a son of my own flesh," she'd sworn. And now she sorrowed, because no one should have to stand before the grave of their child.

It wasn't just the shinobi and civilians of Konoha who came for Iruka. Though in some ways his ring of influence had been small, the actual impact of his life was unexpectedly far reaching. That was why the Kazekage of Sungakure was there, pressing close to his sister while she glanced anxiously at her distraught husband, whose bandaged face – usually so stoic – did little to hide the pain he felt.

Gaara gazed ahead, watching Naruto's tall figure standing near the stone. While the two of them shared much history, the differences were glaring, and one of those differences was Umino Iruka. Gaara had often heard the story. Of swing sets and ramen. A birthday cake and a softly spoken word in an otherwise empty home – 'Okaeri, Naruto' – a popsicle and a reminder that time softened all blows, even the loss of a beloved mentor.

'How much would have been different, if anyone had stood in that place for me,' he thought, but even though there had had not been an Iruka, Gaara still felt the man's influence. Because if it weren't for Naruto's bright light, a light that this academy teacher had kept from being snuffed out, Gaara himself would never have been saved from his own demon.

Behind him were others, strangers from a dozen regions. He saw the dark skin of people from Wave Country, a few strangers wearing masks whose origin were only hinted at by the musky fragrance on their skin: brine and blood. A pair of teenagers wearing hitai-ate from the land of grass, flanked by a soldier with a half-mask and a long sword. An old woman with a necklace of pearls. A giant bear of a man, who didn't bother wiping his red face even though it ran with tears. Dozens of questions marks. Dozens of untold stories. Did anyone know them all?

'For want of a nail,' Gaara thought, remembering the old poem about how kingdoms could fall because one small link at the beginning of a chain was lost. Iruka's influence was probably untraceable, the ripples so wide they got lost in wide surface of the world. But there was a funny thing about ripples. As long as they kept bouncing into one another, they never died.

Author's Note:
[4] "For Want of a Nail" is a traditional poem with many variations. My favorite goes like this: 'For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe, the horse was lost; for want of a horse, the rider was lost; for want of a rider, the message was lost; for want of a message, the battle was lost; for want of a battle, a kingdom was lost, and all for the loss of a horseshoe nail.'

Assorted perspectives to round out the full spectrum of the shinobi world, and especially a few call-backs. Perhaps if you've read my other stories, you'll recognize some of the outsiders and civilians.