The funeral is small and black. A light rain falls, in a drizzle, like a gray veil. His photo is framed, beset by black ribbons, sitting atop the offering table in the front, on the little stage. In the photo, Sakumo is smiling. It's a half-smile, a polite smile. A rare dimmed light in his eyes, which are almost perfect circles. And his spike of gray hair, the edge of his mask reaching pas this chin. Stony-faced, almost. Amused. Sardonic, the way he watches his mourners. But there are so few.
His son, now an orphan, only nine years old, stands so short and stiff in the front line. A mask covering his mouth and nose. His eyes lifeless, empty. He looks almost annoyed. Next to him, a small wrinkled pug with coarse brown fur. It wears a forehead protector, the symbol of hidden leaf etched into the metal. Its eyes are big and watery, sad but unashamed, and something like certainty, too, a kind of conviction for the future. A boy and his dog, two orphans, the two sons of Hatake Sakumo, remain.
There are others, too, at the funeral.
A man with deep, sharp scars in his face. A spiky bushel of jet black hair. His arms crossed, his frown prominent. Sharp black eyes that brood with intelligence. Next to him, another man. This one has a mane of sandy blonde hair. Clear blue eyes, a blockish chin. Their third, the other one, the one with red hair, could not come to the funeral.
The rest of the crowd is composed of people Sakumo knew in his personal life. People outside of the shinobi system. His barber, who, when they first met, broke a pair of rusty sheers on Sakumo's wiry, tough hair, and since then went out for drinks as often as possible. His landlord, a pitbull of a man, with a sweaty mustache, and the landlord's wife, a former debutante. A shopkeeper, who once caught Sakumo's son attempting to shoplift. And, two older women, former lovers, possibly, who knew him in the days of the Second War.
No teammates. No comrades. No senseis or pupils or captains or subordinates. The only active Shinobi present are the soon-to-be Jonin Commander, the owner of a local flower shop, and Sakumo's son, a Chunin already.
The Hokage is not here. It would have been bad politics. Considering how he died, and his failed previous mission, the elders decided it would be best if the higher ups did not attend. Not to create a scene, they said. But, instead. Instead of the Third, there is someone nobody recognizes. A young man with a wispy dark goatee, a red armband, dark lines around his eyes. He stands in the back, stolid, unafraid, but keeping a respectful distance. Nobody seems to notice him. When the prayers are spoken, he speaks them too. And when it's time for eulogies, he departs after burning a single incense on the offering plate.
Who else is here? Someone is going to give a speech. A speech for the White Fang, the fallen hero of Konoha. The crowd, a small crowd, stands quietly in the sleet, shifting stances, someone coughing openly, nobody weeping, a stiff and rigid quiet to it all. His son does not seem to notice anything. Just staring forward, into the air. Nobody wants to speak.
Then, a light turns on somewhere. A young confident man steps in front of everyone. He wears the Konoha flak jacket, along with the traditional black funeral garb. His hair is a shock of bright blonde, almost like it was bleached. His eyes a sharp and blue. His skin pale, unblemished. He is smiling, almost. A small sad smile. He stands in front of everyone, the murmuring whispering crowd - and when he speaks his voice is soft but loud.
"Hatake Sakumo, the White Fang, former Chief of the ANBU, once celebrated Elite Jonin of Konoha, hero of the Second War, and - in the past - a Hokage candidate. He was many things. He was a true killer shinobi. A hunter, a predator. The names of his enemies, his targets, reach far and wide. The famous Red Scorpions of the Sand. The Iron Lady of Iwa. The Third Mizukage himself. These were enemies, shinobi, our White Fang battled and defeated. Earning for himself a name that would be hunted, feared, and respected. His ruthlessness on the battlefield was well know, renowned, and has inspired countless young Leaf ninja, such as myself. However, it should be noted that despite his expertise, despite his great power, his most important traits resided in his compassion. Compassion for his wife, who died nine years ago. Compassion for his son, who is here today, and has a great future ahead of him. And compassion for his comrades, who never, not once in his illustrious long career, did he let die meaninglessly. He was a member of the oldguard, the strongest generation that won the Second War, his comrades he battled alongside of - The Legendary Sannin, Kato Dan, Aburame Shikuro, Uchiha Yashiro, the list goes on. Every generation has names the light up, that will be recognized for years to come. His, we can say, was the brightest. Hatake Sakumo. The White Fang. Feared and respected all throughout the shinobi world, in each of the five great nations. Um - thank you."
And it ends. Suddenly. In a moment, amidst the falling of rain. The young shinobi lingers on the podium a bit longer, fumbling with his hands, looking sheepish. A small chorus of applause. A whistle blown somewhere. The rain picks up, howls - and the funeral ends.