Requiem for Hope
He chooses a routine life because routine is all that keeps him rooted within the bounds of once easy balance. Deviation tips him off the path and discordant memories swallow him up. They mostly consist of lips and skin and moonlight hair, but occasionally of blood and tears...and a team, once, but no more.
He deals ruthlessly with the council, exacting the price of a young man's life easily from tired bones, and forcing change and righteous realignment even as he acknowledges that he has lost something he can never regain. Kakashi's death, the circumstances preceding it, the betrayal, have extinguished his will. His will of fire. He had foolishly hoped to pass that responsibility on to his student. But then, hope is always foolish, trusting in a shaft of light that filters in through the top of a box, blinded by its brilliance. And so, too, is Minato, hope-incarnate and foolish to the end.
Except he never did open it; the box sits on a shelf, sealed shut.
He gives the title back to Sandaime as if it were a soldier pill that he can do without. There is no ceremony, only a token protest from the council who are, in truth, relieved, and the sound of an office-nin noting the exchange in his ledger. The scratch of the pen on parchment is rough and hints too closely at the ragged edges of Minato's heart and mind for it to be borne. His sudden, yelled dismissal is met with gaping shock, but when the proper Hokage suggests it, the young clerk retreats.
He retires completely when the decision is taken away; he is barred from missions pending psychiatric evaluation. A passing chuunin smiles and urges him to enjoy the time off, and Ryuu—steady Ryuu whom Sandaime-sama has charged with his fallen successor's life—restrains Minato's arm and the rasengan already half-formed. He'll proudly wear the scar on his forearm for the rest of his life, testament to his dedication to a worthy leader, to Minato-sama, who will always be the Fourth in his eyes. There is no helping it.
He walks the long road from the opium house to the memorial.
He stands before the stone, fingers numb and raw from tracing their names on the rough surface—particularly the newest, which is still sharp and fresh, as if placed there only yesterday. Minato's sluggish laughter fills the clearing, and when it melts into quiet tears, Ryuu frowns from the dark shade of the forest, but says nothing. It has all become routine.
He shuffles slowly back and the patroness opens the door, welcoming him in with the same deep bow and humbly murmured, "Minato-sama," that greets him daily. The blond's reply is lost in mumbled words, but assuredly consists of "Don't call me that" and "Not anymore."
He finds some kind of peace in the opium house, staring up at the brocade ceiling and the desert motif that calls to mind a younger self and a war he barely remembers—or has tried to forget, along with everything else. Everyone else. For all he sees are pawns of the council, including the Hokage, and each will play their part in turn, a sacrifice for the greater good of greed and opportunity and free trade.
He assures himself it is better not to get involved in the affairs of a village he no longer recognizes. The landmark faces have fallen away.
Instead, he chases a silver dragon without any hope of catching it, for he has long misplaced the sound of its name, and he stares and stares at the beautiful painted clouds.
[...]