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The campfire crackled and popped, its heat a small comfort in the cool darkness of a high desert night. Despite the creeping fog that had enshrouded the plains in the early morning, the night sky was clear enough that all the stars winked down at the ragtag posse huddled around the flames. It was too early to think of curling up to sleep just yet, but the lonely night felt ominous, falling as it did over the open plains of the west.
“Y’all hear the tale of the one-eyed horseman?” one of the men asked, his voice a quiet rumble barely heard over the snap of the fire.
His question was met with groans.
“I heard it enough I could tell it back in my sleep,” one of the others complained. “Is that the only tale y’got that’s fit to tell?”
“‘Course it ain’t!” the first man defended.
“Could’a fooled me,” muttered a third man. He turned to the fourth member of their band, nudging to his right. “D’ya know a story not about a one-eyed horseman?”
“I know a story,” broke in the fifth man, his voice quiet yet commanding authority. Despite the bandanna he always wore tied around his face, his voice was clear and unmuffled. “About a man who borrowed the eye of a devil.”
The approving murmurs around the fire indicated a greater level of interest than could be said for the story of the one-eyed horseman, at the very least.
“What about ‘im?” asked one of the posse, leaning forward, the light of the fire dancing across his sun-spotted cheeks.
“Well,” drawled the fifth man, leaning back slightly and settling in for a long tale, “The man with the eye of a devil was a man who fell in love with a ghost.”
“A ghost?” one of the others interrupted. “So’d he use that eye to see the other side?”
“Not exactly,” the fifth man said, shooting the other a mildly irritated look. He gazed up at the sky until the bright afterimages of the fire faded from his vision, and he could see the small pinpricks of light looking down on their band of naer-do-wells. “He used the eye to become the greatest sharpshooter in the west. Love was never in his plans.”
“If it weren’t his plan,” protested the first man, still a bit annoyed that his one-eyed horseman had been rejected in favor of the devil-eyed sharpshooter, “why mention it?”
The fifth man continued to stare at the sky for a long moment before he answered, dropping his chin, his eyes meeting the first man’s. “Because, when the devil-eyed man lost his great love, he sold his soul to the devil and tore down the gates of the valley of death just so they could be reunited.”
The sun is hot and relentless the day the drifter first comes to town. Iruka steps outside the schoolhouse for a moment - only a moment, he promised himself - to wipe his face and cool off. That’s when he spots him, wandering down the main road. Iruka sees the oozing bullet wound just over his heart, the blood trickling down his chest, and feels his heart squeeze in sympathy. Without quite knowing what he’s doing, Iruka takes a step forward, reaching out to touch the man’s shoulder as he drifts past. “Sir,” he says softly.
The man grunts, and swats Iruka’s hand aside with a six-shooter that appears in his hand so fast Iruka doesn’t even see him draw it. “Stay back,” he snarls. The nose of the gun wavers, but does not lower as his two-toned eyes meet Iruka’s own gaze.
“New in town?” Iruka asks softly.
The man’s face contorts briefly, a frown tugging at his brow. “Yeah,” he admits. He looks surprised, as if he hasn’t quite realized where he is, yet. Iruka knows that look.
“Goin’ up the hill?” Iruka asks, glancing up to where it rises above their little town. It is the highest point of the valley, a landmark that’s hard to miss no matter where you stand.
The man looks confused, almost dazed. “I don’t… mayhaps I should?” he asks, turning to Iruka for guidance.
Confusion is good. It means he’s new enough that he just might be able to pass through. Iruka glances around anxiously, hoping no one else has spied the man. “Come on inside,” he says. “School’s just about finished and I can take you there myself.” Hide you from the others, he doesn’t say. Even if he wants to explain, he doubts the man has ears to hear him. It’s very hard to convince a man he has died if he isn’t ready to hear it yet.
“A’ight,” the man agrees, finally returning his gun to his hip, following Iruka into the little schoolhouse.
It doesn’t take long for the children to take notice of the man, and less time still for them to see the sluggishly-bleeding injury. One of the children, the most rambunctious of the lot, darts forward.
“Hey mister!” he greets. “Did you get shot?”
“Naruto!” Iruka hisses. Not only is a question like that insensitive, it could be dangerous. If the man panics and leaves now… there might be no saving him.
“I,” the man glances down at his chest with a frown, “guess I did. Not rightly sure when that happened.”
“Probably before you died,” Naruto concludes with a nod.
“NARUTO,” Iruka repeats, this time his voice well above a hiss. The boy jumps in surprise. So does the new stranger. He glances between the boy and Iruka.
Iruka chuckles, scrubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck before turning to Naruto and hissing, “Back to your desk!”
Naruto wrinkles his nose at Iruka, but does as he’s told.
“Now,” Iruka says quietly, once he’s ensured all the children are politely reading their books and no longer staring at the strange visitor, “I don’t have much to offer, but if we’re careful, it should be enough.”
That said, he steps over to his desk, rummaging in the back of the top drawer, eventually withdrawing a small coin purse. It lays heavy in his palm, and when he turns to give it to the stranger, he struggles to open his fingers for a moment, before finally allowing the money to drop into the waiting hand of the stranger. He’s spent years now, possibly even decades (time gets to be funny here at the bottom of the valley) scraping together what he can towards paying his own toll, but he is so deep in debt by now he doubts he’d ever save enough to spare his own soul. Better to give the money to someone who can actually use it.
The stranger stared blankly at the coin purse. “What is this?” he asked.
“A toll,” Iruka says, “to get through the gate on the other side of town.” He forces a chuckle, though it doesn’t sound as mirthful as he wants it to. “Folks don’t pass through this town without paying.”
“I have money,” the man protests, reaching for his belt. His fingers spasm, and he glances down, a look of consternation crossing his face. “I… had money,” he corrects himself, appearing sheepish.
“Whoever shot you probably took it,” Iruka says solemnly. “It’s not uncommon. Most people die with very little to their name.” He’d been one of them, after all. It’s part of why his debt is so large now - he’d needed to take out credit for years and years just to stay in the town. He knew little of what lurked beyond the town walls after dusk, but he’d heard tales and he’d seen things he hoped to never see again. He had been terrified of what lingering beyond the walls of the town might mean for him. For his soul. These days, he worries more for what lingering within the walls means for his soul, and the souls of everyone else in this town yearning to move on, but unable to afford it.
The man’s eyes narrow again. “That’s twice now,” he says, his voice growing a little stronger.
Iruka blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Twice,” the man says, “that I’ve been declared dead.”
Iruka grimaces. Here he’d been trying to keep Naruto quiet on the matter, and he’s gone and done it, too. “Well-”
“Don’t lie,” the man says, leaning forward, his eyes snapping with sudden intensity. “Am I dead?”
“Probably,” Iruka answers. “It’s rare for us to get visitors from the land of the living, here in the valley of death.”
It wasn’t until later, when the two of them are crouched along the side of the schoolhouse, waiting for the beginning of dusk, that Iruka thinks to ask the man his name. “I’m Iruka, by-the-by. And what name is it you go by?” he asks, glancing at the stranger.
Running a long-fingered hand through his dusty white hair, the stranger sighs. “To my friends or my enemies?”
Iruka considers him for a long moment. “Which one am I?”
“I haven’t rightly decided yet,” the man admits. “I don’t even know what we’re doin’ here.”
“We’re getting you up that hill,” Iruka says firmly.
The stranger looks at him for a long moment, and seems to come to a decision. “Kakashi,” he says softly. “You can call me Kakashi.”
Iruka smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Kakashi.”
The posse sat around the fire, leaning forward in rapt attention.
“So the devil-eyed sharpshooter met the ghost in the valley of death,” the second man breathed. “And the ghost paid his toll to pass on? Why didn’t the ghost buy his own passage, then?”
The fifth man huffed. “Because the ghost was trapped there as surely as all the other residents of the town. He’d been locked there against his will, eternally indebted to the Prophet of Souls.”
Several gasps followed this declaration.
“Who is the Prophet of Souls?” one of the men asked quietly.
“An evil man,” the storyteller answered easily. “He was in the business of the darkest deeds in the dead of night, but preached only goodness in the daylight. As if he ever knew what good was,” he added with a scoff.
“How did he trap the ghosts there?” asked another member of the posse.
“Well, he owned most of the town,” answered the storyteller. “He charged the lost souls who passed through that town more than they could afford to reach the hill, and then demanded more still for them to stay.”
“Why didn’t they leave? Try to find another way up the hill?” asked a third listener.
“As it goes, the Prophet of Souls was a wily man. He’d long since filled the area around the town with the darkest and most vile traps and trials. The sorts of things that swallow pure souls alive - or worse, turns them into monsters. The ghosts in his town had no choice but to stay as he bled their pockets dry.” The storyteller sucked in a sharp snarl through his teeth, as if he were a hound straining at the leash. “He kept those spirits there for years, spending what passed for lives as little more than slaves. He never allowed them to see that the only thing keeping them bound to that town was their own fear and despair.”
“Then how did the devil-eyed man get up the hill?” the first man asked.
The storyteller chuckled darkly at that, his eyes sweeping around the campfire before answering in a low voice. “I never said the devil-eyed man went up that hill.”
Kakashi pauses, mere steps away from the gate, where the toll collecters stand with dour faces. He turns to look at Iruka.
“Why…?” he asks slowly, “Why don’t you go up there yourself?”
Iruka laughs sheepishly. “Me? I’ve been living here for years now. I can’t afford it. No one here can.”
Kakashi’s frown deepens. “Why not?”
“Debt,” Iruka answers simply. “A schoolteacher’s salary is barely enough to cover rent here, much less the toll to move on.”
“Why don’t you leave, then?” Kakashi asks.
“And go where?” Iruka spreads his arms to indicate the town around him. “Once you pass through these walls, it’s dangerous for someone like me to wander. Thats how you become a restless spirit.”
Kakashi frowns and murmurs something under his breath. His gaze shines with sympathy. He turns, pressing the coin purse back into Iruka’s hands. “It’s not fair,” he says. “I’ll find another way to pay.”
Iruka feels his heart stutter. “You won’t,” he says, feeling hollow. “No one ever does.”
Kakashi’s frown deepens. “No one?” He looks around. “Not even the wealthy?”
Iruka laughs at that. “The only wealthy man in town is the Prophet of Souls.”
There’s a look on Kakashi’s face that Iruka can’t quite face. “A profit of souls,” he says back, but there’s an emphasis on the title that sounds different to Iruka. “Surely he’s keeping the money somewhere,” he says.
“Well, in the bank, most likely,” Iruka says, feeling a bit confused.
Kakashi’s eyes sparkle, and he tugs the bandanna hanging around his throat up until it conceals his mouth and nose. “Iruka,” he says quietly, “do you know how I died?”
Iruka shakes his head. “No.”
“I was being chased,” Kakashi explains. “For robbing stagecoaches.”
Iruka blinks. “...and?”
“And,” Kakashi says, stepping closer to Iruka, clutching them in his own larger, more calloused ones, “we’re robbing your Prophet’s bank, just as soon as I work out how.”
“Wait, I thought this was a story about lost love, not a bank robbery!” complained one of the men, leaning back to spit outside the circle and onto the rough ground behind them.
“Did I say it was a bank robbery story?” challenged the narrator.
“Well no, but-”
“Then perhaps you’d best listen and save your comments for the end,” the storyteller interrupted sharply, then continued.
Kakashi ends up as the town’s newest resident, and Iruka sees how quickly he comes to understand the pressure the town is under. Both he and Kakashi commiserate now, seeing how hard it is to eke out a living under the ruthless power of Danzo, the Prophet of Souls. Everyone fears him, even the Mayor, who should have more power than Danzo. Nonetheless, they all bow their heads to the man who has the power to set the prices in town. They have no other choice.
Kakashi and Iruka grow closer in that time, too. Kakashi helps Iruka when he can, and Iruka tries not to be afraid whenever Kakashi talks again about robbing the bank. For a time, Iruka would even call himself happy.
Then, one night, he hears the clanging of bells, and he rolls over to feel an empty space in his bed.
Kakashi!
He bursts through the door to see a commotion at the gates of the town - not the gate to the hill, the gate that leads into the valley of death, where all souls wander lost and alone for eternity.
“Kakashi!” he howls, his voice lost in the shouting of the men that are pressing him ever closer to the gate.
At the front of the crowd he sees him - Danzo Shimura, the Prophet of Souls. He stares at Kakashi with dark eyes, a cruel curl to his lip. He is going to send Kakashi away, Iruka realizes with horror.
He’s going to send Iruka’s love away, and Iruka won’t even have the chance to say goodbye.
He shoves forward as best he can, hearing the cries of “leave” and “you’re not welcome here” and “get out” as he does. He stills when he sees the Prophet of Souls lift his hand, the entire crowd falling silent.
“You,” he says sharply, “have betrayed my mercy. You have taken advantage of the generosity of this town and its people. You are no longer welcome here.”
Kakashi turns, a wild look in his mismatched eyes. He scrubs at the blood running down his face, a smear of scarlet across his hand. His voice rumbles like the sound of running buffalo. “I’ll be back.” His eyes turn away from the prophet, searching the crowd for someone. Iruka shoves his way forward again, and their eyes meet.
“When you least expect it,” he says again, stronger this time. “I’ll be back, and hell is coming with me.”
Iruka nods. He doesn’t understand, but he hopes. He has to hope.
Kakashi nods, too.
The Prophet of Souls makes a sharp gesture with his hand, and Kakashi is shoved through the gates into the darkness beyond the town, left alone to wander the valley of death. The gates are closed with a foreboding crash, and Iruka sinks to the ground where he stands, weeping bitterly.
“And did he come back with hell on his heels?” asked one of the listeners.
The storyteller sighed, and nodded. “Years passed. So many years, the ghost almost forgot the name of the man he loved, forgot his face. But he never could forget those eyes - one, bright and red as the fiery blazes of hell, the other as gray as the ashes that remain at the end of the world. He remembered, and he hoped, and he lived there, still trapped in the town at the bottom of the valley of death, longing to go up that hill where all souls should go when they die.” He paused there, a heaviness falling over the group as they contemplated the lonely misery of the souls caught in a perversion of purgatory.
“Then what?” asked one of the others, unable to bear with the weight of it any longer.
“Then there was fire,” the storyteller said, “and there was smoke.” His eyes sparkled. “And the prophet was found, hanging, by a rope.”
“He was dead?”
“He should have been,” the storyteller answered. “The tolls he stole, he used to buy himself a life he didn’t deserve, didn’t earn. He was alive, for years and years, and he stole that miserable life he’d made for himself from the efforts of the ghosts he trapped there.”
“How’d he die?”
“The devil-eyed man,” the storyteller said, “did not wander the valley of death. Instead, he went to hell, and he traded back his eye for an audience with the devil. There, he made a deal. He offered the devil twice as many souls, if he would just agree to take the soul of the Prophet.”
“Twice as many?” echoed one of the listeners.
“The prophet’s soul,” the storyteller said heavily, “and his own.”
Another silence descended on the men seated around the fire as they all thought about what they’d be willing to sacrifice, for love.
When the fire descends, it’s madness. Iruka has no idea what’s happening as he runs out of his house, into the chaos of the streets. There’s wailing and crying, and someone says that the Prophet of Souls is dead. That’s such a strange thing to hear, Iruka thinks, because aren’t they all dead? And then he hears that the devil himself is at their gates, and he doesn’t know which way to run.
It’s not the devil at their gates.
He stands, tall, where once he was forced out. The prophet is dead. No more tolls. No more demands. He holds his hand aloft, and he declares freedom over the town. He is at once the righteous hand of deliverance, and the hand that curses. The devil is in his words, his fury, his fire.
Iruka loves him.
“Kakashi!” he cries, running forward as everyone else flees in terror, running for the hill to escape the terrible darkness that rises off of the man at the gates to the valley.
The walls around the town have been toppled, the gate to the hill is crumbling. There is no town, not anymore.
Iruka doesn’t care. He has Kakashi again.
“Iruka!” Kakashi takes a halting step forward, stops, as if sensing the darkness within himself for the first time. “Iruka, you have to go.” He glances up, up at the hill, where all the souls go when they die.
Almost all of them.
“You’re coming with me,” Iruka says firmly.
“I can’t,” Kakashi says, and the pain in his voice lodges like a bullet in Iruka’s chest. “My soul is not mine, anymore.”
“You can’t?” Iruka repeats, turning to look at the hill. He’s wanted to go for so long, and now that it’s finally in reach…
“It’s all right,” Kakashi says, a sad smile on his face. He reaches for Iruka. Pauses, his fingers flexing. “As long as you…”
“Where will you go?” Iruka demands, stepping forward, taking his hand.
Kakashi shrugs, trying to pull away. “Hell, most likely,” he says softly.
Iruka feels his confidence build, and he holds Kakashi’s hand tightly. “If hell’s where you’re headed, then I’m going there, too.”
The man’s eyes - both gray now, he notes - fly open. “You don’t deserve that,” Kakashi chokes. “You-”
“I,” Iruka interrupts, pressing his forehead against Kakashi’s, hand cupping the back of his head as he leans into him, “want to be with you. Forever. Wherever that takes us.”
“All right,” Kakashi breathes. He pauses like that, then leans away, a thoughtful look crossing his features as his eyes flutter open. “But maybe I can arrange a little time.”
“Time?” Iruka asks, curious.
“I may have promised the devil my soul,” Kakashi explains, his gaze hardening. “I never said when I was planning on handing it over.”
“And that,” finished the storyteller, a glint in his dark grey eyes, “is the tale of the devil-eyed sharpshooter.”
“It’s a far sight better than the one-eyed horseman,” grunted one of the listeners, “but I have a question. Where are the lovers now? Did they go down to hell? Are they still in the valley?”
The storyteller hummed thoughtfully. “Hard to say,” he said. “Some folks say they’re still there, in the valley. Some say they went down to hell together. And then there’s those of us who think they crawled up out of the valley of death, and made a new life for themselves out here on the plains.” A crinkle at the edge of his eyes hinting at a slight smile, the storyteller’s hand stretched out, catching the soft, tan hand of the man who sat beside him. “But you can decide for yourself which ending you like.”
The other men hummed thoughtfully at this, but did not speak, gazing quietly into the fire until, one-by-one, they found their way to their bedrolls to ward off the chill of creeping fog and wait for the dim light of morning to wake them from their slumber.