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Chapter Text

Kakashi’s gaze lingered on the setting sun as it faded behind the horizon.

He had always loved the sunset, how the sky bled to hues of orange, pink, and purple. It was the simple beauty of the smaller things that brought him peace––hope. 

Once again the call for war had darkened the village. Once again, his clansmen had been summoned to the frontlines where the fighting was thickest. His fists clenched around the red scroll––the color of sacrifice. They had asked for ten of his men in his stead. 

As the future clan head, he was granted impunity from the horrors of war, but he always heeded the call. As it was his duty as a leader to fight alongside the others—his men, his comrades––the so-called lesser-born shinobi.

His lip curled at the thought.

Lesser born , as if every life wasn’t precious.

"Hatake-san, don’t you think it’s time you considered taking a bride?"

Kakashi didn’t turn towards the voice. Grandfather, one of the Hatake elders. He was the oldest of their clan––their only centenarian. The clan was always pestering him, begging him to settle down, find a wife, have a few pups—as if twenty-three was the age to start worrying about such things. But the clan saw it differently. Twenty-three, while still young by most standards, was considered edging toward old for an active shinobi. 

‘You never knew when tragedy might strike, and an heirless clan is a vulnerable one’ they’d say. 

Kakashi sighed, gesturing lazily to the training field where small children tumbled in the grass and grizzled veterans perched nearby on their walking sticks. Out of the whole lot, he wondered which of the ten the village intended for him to send.

Wryly, Kakashi teased. "Grandfather, look around. We’ve got more than enough—."

"Pups and fossils, but nothing with real teeth," the old man interrupted dryly. “You and I both know none of those boys are wolves, just sheep in a wolf's pelt.”

Kakashi bowed his head. His blood freezing in his veins. The old man’s words were as heavy as a ballast on his shoulders. While Kakashi evaded questions, with silver-tongued quips, and a silent plea to the kami for more time. 

He knew. 

They all knew.

Their clan was dying, no new blood, just old men and babes. The closest able bodied men were those above his father’s age, and children–– babies. Babies his father had refused to send to the slaughter––sending his only son in their place. 

The village had scorned the man as he, unlike the other clans, sent few men. But the Hatake were a small clan, unable to provide the dozens of soldiers like some of the other larger clans.

The first time they had seen Kakashi, they had treated him as if he were another privileged heir, meant to die too soon. Until they saw what one Hatake on the field truly was like.

Then they demanded more and his father refused. 

Not all clansmen were made alike––made equal—Kakashi was rare, and he was all his father had to offer, other than himself. His clansmen, not yet ripened or well past their expiration date––were not suited for war.

He turned, squinting at the elder the pack simply called Grandfather, Kakashi was not sure the plf man had a name. "If it came to that, I’m sure father could still sire a few more."

The elder’s wizened face remained unimpressed.

Kakashi chuckled guiltily at his poor attempt at a joke and scratched the back of his neck.

His father hadn’t shown his face in the village since the day he brought shame upon himself and the clan—publicly challenging the Hokage and insulting the village elders. He’d accused them of poor leadership—of sending children, babies , to war, to early graves before they'd even lost their first tooth.

Kakashi sighed.

The man had been stubborn, tactless—but he wasn’t wrong. What Kakashi feared most was that his father’s retreat into darkness had been an admission of defeat. A quiet surrender to the will of the village and its antiquated beliefs about life and war.

Deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, Kakashi feared that shame would be the end of his clan… and his death, the end of his father.

There was a time, in his rebellious youth, when Kakashi had tried to fight what was expected of him—to become more than what the village had already decided he was—another one of their prized studs.

He had wrestled with the tangles of life and the weight of his fate. But one truth remained,  continuing the bloodline of the wolf had to be—if only to keep the pack alive––s afe.

"Alright, how about this, old man—I'll marry the first beautiful maiden who proposes to me during the Shinobi Farewell," he said with a smirk. "As tradition has it… she only needs to offer me a flower–– our clan’s flower ––the dogwood."

Grandfather shot him a withering glare.

Kakashi laughed, playfully at first, then the soft sound of his voice trailed off somberly. They both knew the bitter truth, not a single shinobi or civilian would dare hand a flower to a Hatake—even if she were paid to.

Not since his father's fall from grace. 

Not since Kakashi refused to rebuke his father’s claims.

Kakashi’s smile faded. "We’ll begin clan marriage proceedings after I return from the frontlines. Perhaps a match from a neighboring village..." 

Kakashi didn’t tear his gaze from the setting sun. His fists clenched around the fabric of his steel-gray haori. It was his last, stubborn cling to defiance.

He was confident he’d make it back. 

“So be it, foolish boy.” The old man nodded somberly.  “Try to survive. This next battle won’t be easy. I hear these kumo-nin have been fed well… and your lightning will be nothing special to an army of natural lighting users.”

Kakshi’s lips curled into a smile as the last sliver of light dipped past the horizon. 

“Then good thing,” he murmured, shifting his gaze to meet the oldmans. “I am proficient in all five chakra natures… isn't that right, Grandfather?” 

Silver eyes met old weary ones that had seen too much bloodshed.

Unaware of Kakashi, his once grey eyes glowed with a pale amber light hidden beneath. 

The old man clenched his cane.

Off in the distance, a cluster of small children howled in unison between bursts of laughter. Their joy whispered against the wild fields of the Hatake compound, as the sun traded places with the moon. Kakashi felt it then, a stir in his chest––the will to protect those most precious to him. Like a drum, beating behind his ribs, it was the silver wolf.

The blood of the Hatake would march to war again.

***

Sakura clung tightly to Ino, her best friend and lifeline in a moment that felt far too big for her. It was her first time attending a Shinobi Farewell. Bodies crowded a small road, leading outwards to the forest. Konoha had been at war for nearly three decades. Now, once again, it was time to send off more of their warriors with the village’s blessing, with heavy hearts and the weight of countless silent prayers.

Sakura’s heart felt like a stone lodged in her chest as she gazed out over the procession. Young men and women lined up in their shinobi gear, mixed with the crowd were those of smaller stature––genin––eyes forward, faces calm and resolute, but Sakura could see their faint trembles. Her eyes tracked their movements, small bodies with their new, shiny forehead protectors, their bodies so small. 

The civilians—mothers, sisters, wives, and children—walked among them, offering flowers from woven baskets. With trembling hands, they accepted their wishes. 

Wishes for safety. 

For strength. 

For a return that many would not make.

Ino gently tugged her closer, her sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces, some of her cousins, and the boy she was currently swooning over. 

Reluctantly, Sakura  tore her gaze and followed, quiet and reverent. 

As a civilian-born girl, raised in the Land of Tea many of the clan and village traditions were still unfamiliar to her. Her parents were merchants and it was through their business she met Ino, ever the proud Yamanaka heiress, who had accepted her into her circle and the world of flowers. 

She had guided her through the meanings behind each bloom. 

“Flowers had a language” , she'd said, each petal a symbol. 

A prayer. 

A promise.

Sakura's own basket had been overflowing that morning, but now only a single bloom remained, a deep violet iris—strength and courage.

She searched the crowd and soon spotted the one person she had been looking for, Obito Uchiha. He appeared calm, collected, almost too composed for someone about to march towards war and possibly his death. He caught her gaze in the crowd and she smiled softly.

As a merchant's daughter, she had become familiar with a lot of shinobi. Obito was one of their regulars and he was cheerful, a kind man. 

She shoved through bodies to reach him. She handed him the iris and he offered her a grateful smile as he slipped it into his green vest, with the other roses and buds. 

Her gaze flickered towards the man standing beside him.

A silver-haired shinobi, quiet and still as stone, eyes fixed ahead, hands and breast pocket empty.

Unlike the others, no flowers adorned his vest or decorated his light hair like spun moonlight. The crowd seemed to overlook him completely. He continued forward.

Ino rejoined her, she had found her crush and granted him a flower crown. The pale boy's cheeks were still burning pink with embarrassment and hidden delight. Sakura’s gaze once again found the silver-haired man. Sakura's chest ached, as he seemed to fade away into the darkness. Before she could think, before sense could stop her, she broke from Ino’s grasp as if some unseen force moved her and she pursued his retreating figure. 

Perhaps he didn’t want a flower.

Perhaps he was allergic.

Perhaps—

Her feet carried her forward, slipping through the line of civilians until she was running—running toward the trees where his figure had nearly vanished into the forest's shadow.

She reached out, tapping his shoulder with trembling fingers.

He turned slowly.

Their eyes met.

Gray.

Stormy.

Guarded.

It was as if time stilled.

Without a word, never breaking eye contact Sakura reached up and removed a single dogwood bloom from the flower crown Ino had woven for her that morning. The beautiful work of her friend's craft fell to the forest floor and her long pink hair unraveled into loose waves. 

She had once remembered her telling her the significance of the dogwood––it meant endurance in the face of hardship.

“I-I just felt like you deserved a flower too.” Her voice was quiet, shy.

She offered it to him.

He stared at it.

Then at her.

Tentatively, his hand closed over hers. His fingers wrapped around the flower as though it might break. His eyes were wide with something unreadable—wonder, perhaps. 

Or disbelief.

“Please,” she whispered, “be safe. Come back home to us.”

She poured everything into her gaze. Gratitude. Hope. And something softer, more fragile. Affection for one of the nameless men who bore the weight of her village on his back.

Even if he was a stranger.

She cared that he came home too.

Their fingertips touched, and suddenly the forest blurred. The world slowed to a hush. Moonlight caught his hair, painting it silver and smoke, and in that breathless moment, she swore his eyes glinted gold and then—

So fast! 

His movements a blur,  he pulled her forward, an arm slipping around her waist, and then he brought their bodies close until they were flush and then… he kissed her.

Gasps rippled through the trees like wind through leaves, but Sakura heard none of it. Felt nothing but the warmth of his lips against hers, the quiet desperation in his touch, the unspoken meaning behind that kiss. When they finally parted, it was reluctantly. 

Their eyes met in the dark, and something passed between them.

A vow.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, his voice low, like a melody only meant for her.

Then he turned, disappearing into the trees.

Sakura stood frozen, the scent of earth and dogwood thick in the air, her heart thudding like a drum.

Slowly, she lifted her fingertips to her lips.

The kiss still lingered.

Sakura stayed there for a long time, staring into the trees. The world had not changed. But she had. She sank to her knees cradling the hollow space where her heart was, when he had turned around to disappear back into the forest,  it felt as if a piece of her heart had gone missing. 

Somewhere, deep inside her chest, a vow had been made—and she wasn’t even sure who had made it.

***

Later, in the years to come. 

When people spoke of the silver wolf, the one who vanished into the forest after kissing the beautiful, pink-haired maiden––a yokai, some of them called her. A spirit who granted him impossible strength. 

Sakura would say nothing. 

Because what could she say? She was just a girl, who gave a man a flower and in return received a curse… a curse of melancholy.  Every spring, when the dogwoods bloomed, she would wear one behind her ear. 

Waiting for him to return.

Waiting for him to fulfill his promise.

But he never did.

Yet every child who went to war returned—

Because he had ended it.

Chapter Text

Kakashi awoke in a meadow of flowers.

The world was still, save for the whisper of wind weaving through the blooms—delicate things that swayed like sea foam on open waters. A strange weightlessness tugged at his gut, as if the earth had forgotten him. Slowly, he sat up. The ache in his chest throbbed, not with pain but with the unbearable quiet of peace.

A sweet scent hung in the air—honeysuckle and firewood. It led him to a small campfire where Obito crouched, roasting skewered meat over the flames.

“About time you woke up,” Obito said around a mouthful. “Chicken?”

“Is this the Pure Lands?” Kakashi muttered dryly.

“If it is, why’d they let you in?” Obito smirked.

Nearly five years had passed since Kakashi tried to end the war. He remembered steel and fire and a promise whispered in a forest. And then… nothing but light. Obito had thrown himself in front of him, and the Sharingan had flared. When the dust cleared, they had been somewhere else entirely.

“Any news on getting back?” Kakashi asked, taking a stick.

“Still working on it.” Obito’s tone was far too cheerful for someone stranded in nowhere.

Kakashi exhaled, sinking beside him. “Of course you are.”

He bit into the meat, barely tasting it. His mind was far away…caught on the memory of a pink-haired girl standing in a field of dogwoods, offering him something no one else had. 

A flower. A promise of love.

He closed his eyes, the scent of dogwood still lingering where memory had bitten deep.

If the world was kind, she would have forgotten him by now.

But a part of him still listened for her voice, as if one day, it might call him home.

Come back home to us.