"Two roads diverged in a wood and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
----Robert Frost
Divergence
In the light of early morning, there stood a man. In the dawn, he wondered. His hands would tremble, his body shake. What was to become of him? On this early morning, the cold bit; a snake sinking its teeth in. Pale features before him drawn in pain, twisted with indecision gave him pause, if only for a moment. This was, after all, what they had both chosen, and they could not deviate from that path.
No matter what their friendship was.
And no matter that, from this moment on, once he took the first step down the path he now chose, neither he, nor anyone else would ever be the same. Fingers constricted around a slender throat, squeezing as gasps filled the silence between them. Why did he fight? Why did he insist?
Once, the man would have welcomed this fight. He would have welcomed it, nurtured it, and taken it into himself. Now, he was only tired. A life led, choices made, lay bare before him, and all he could do was watch as the two paths lay open, Death and Life, two sides of the same coin of Being, and he watched it spin through the air between them as another man gasped his last.
The scents of the day were those of war. Poisonous gasses filled the air, as well as the stink of sulfur, the copper of blood, broken earth, and the salt of tears for what might have been. The vaguest hints of perfume drifted on the lightest of breezes, tickling at his memories. A voice, not far off, was begging him. Begging him to spare an unworthy life, begging him not add another sin to the mountain of wrongs that lie between them. He could taste the bile that rose in his throat at the sound of those pleas, whittling away at his resolve.
But his grip was firm, his purpose strong. “The path lies before us,” he whispered, and watched glassy eyes widen with the recognition of it all. “The path to Destiny. It diverges, friend. One is worn. One is bloody, and trod by many feet. You and I have walked it before, and it is familiar. Do we walk it again?” His fingers tightened, bruising delicate flesh as a meek whimper escaped the throat under his hand, and he pushed, the body he held pressed further against the bark of an enormous oak. “Do we walk that path again? Or do we, like wanderers, test the new path, put our very souls on the line…and trust? Do you think that we’re strong enough for that?”
A hand clawed at his arm, having no more effect than a butterfly’s step on steel. The voice was in his ear now, pleading, begging, beseeching him to stay his hand. The blood of the day cried out for vengeance, as did the gore of thousands of other days, hundreds of thousands of lives, all wanting recompense, and lacking it all the same. “But I will leave the choice to you,” his voice trembled with emotion he wished not to betray. “Your word is bond, old friend, and will decide the fate of us all.” Blade in hand, pressed against flesh encasing a beating heart, his grip loosened, and breathing came more easily for both, if only for a moment. “Come, let us hear your answer.”
Eyes now less than glassy, his friend stood to his full height, a dark tower, beautiful and terrible as the Dawn itself. In the early morning light, surrounded by the poisonous fumes, a head was cocked to the left, a tiny smile graced pale lips. The sounds of the day overwhelmed, sinking in, grinding to a halt thoughts of all else but war.
Death.
They were deliverers of it, and they rode on swift wings.
Blood.
It flowed as a river, teeming with the souls of those they’d personally damned.
Life.
Better beings had given it, yet they, the base, low and cowardly, took it away.
The field became silent. No breeze blew, no birds sang. All was stillness. The faces of the faceless dead, names of those who would not be named, all rose up from the ground, swirling around them in a maelstrom of memory, and they staggered. But the present fell away, leaving naught but the two. Nothing. There was nothing, and would be nothing but them, until the decision was made.
“What would you have me say?”
“The truth of what is in your soul. Nothing more, and no less.”
“Does what I want even matter anymore?”
“It matters more than you will ever know.”
“The deaths of many surround us. Our kin, our countrymen, our loves. Is this merely another Death?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
A smile, a touch, a reassurance. “It is the road we do not know. Tread it with me.”
“But the dangers—“
“We will face them together.”
“But the fear—“
“We will feel it together.”
“I’ve never felt fear before this.”
The man smiled, his hand grasping that of his friend. “Give me your fear,” he said softly into the morning, and the sun rose pink on the horizon. “Give me your pain,” The light spilled over them, two opposite ends of a spectrum, two ways that Life could have gone. “Let it rest on my shoulders, and I will let you have mine.”
Sun shone down on them, bathing them in light, and thousands bore witness. “We are the path, you and I.” Came a darkling voice from a taller, darker, frighteningly beautiful and unearthly source. “One bloody, dark and terrible, and the other filled with light, love, and the promise of happiness…” Tears flowed. Sadness reigned.
“Not happiness. There cannot be true happiness for us. Not where we tread. But there can be forgiveness.” Thousands watched, witnessed, and would remember their embrace. Arms tangled, breath stopped, and in the end, the decision made. The sounds of the day were no longer those of war. The morning light fell upon the glint of blades laid down, the glory of a new and fragile peace.
When two paths diverged, human roads both, they seemed much the same, more so than ever before, and were yet different. The voice which had begged now only sobbed in joy. The sounds of the day were no longer those of war, but of men and women falling to their knees in reverence at the miracle they had seen. A small, personal miracle, but the significance outweighs the size.
Hands joined, three stepped onto the field. Voices raised on both sides in tentative celebration, begging that the peace be real, that their endless struggles may finally cease. “It is done,” the man said, “Our bloody argument is concluded.”
His friend’s voice rang out next to him, “And no man has been declared winner.”
The little voice next to him rose, strong and clear, and bright with a new hope and an old purpose. “Equal in all things, new allies, old friends. We share the blame, the responsibility, the hope for a future not filled with Death. Walk with us.”
Quieter voices whispered all around them, and the three looked at one another.
“What do we do now?” the voice of the woman asked.
Both men smiled. “We walk the path,” the dark one said.
“We walk together, in fear, pain, hope and love. In all things we stand united.” Light spilled over a face that could have belonged to the sun itself for brightness. For a long, long moment, no one spoke. No one dared in this silence, the sacred waiting before they took the first step.
No more words were spoken by the men, at least for now. “Let us work to rebuild what we have fought against each other to destroy.” The woman said lowly, taking each man by the arm. “Do you have any objections, Hokage-sama?” The blonde man shook his head. “Otokage-sama?” A similar motion from the dark man was followed by a smile.
Years later, they would all wonder, what if? What if they had trodden the old bloody path? At a large gathering of the leaders of men, a glass was raised, a toast given. “To the road less traveled. It has made all the difference.”
End
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Chapter notes: I don't think I've ever written anything like this. It's basically something that literally came ot me in a dream. I think that you'll be able to guess who the characters are, in spite of the fact that I don't name any of them. Apologies for the oddness of it, and for the strange imagery. I also apologize for using on of the most cliche, trite poems in the universe for this. But one cannot help their dreams, can they?
Legal Stuffiness: I do not own Naruto, or any of the characters therein. Kishimoto Masashi, sole proprietor. I do not own "The Road Not Taken", as it is the property of Robert Frost.