It was a lovely autumn day. The sky was an immaculate blue, and the air had a bite to it that bespoke of a harsh winter to come. But the sun was shining with all its might, and setting the reds and yellows and oranges of the leaves on fire.

It was exactly the kind of day one never expected to actually exist. The kind of day one saw in movies, where little kids jumped in piles of fallen leaves, where parents huffed in exasperation and shook their heads with fondness.

But also, it was a day where battle-hardened men and women gathered to say their last goodbyes to a respected leader, a worthy rival, a beloved father.

The funeral itself had been an immense affair – the whole of Italy, it seemed, had invited itself to watch the spectacle, to ogle at the grief of the deceased's loved ones. Such was the impact this one man had had on the world.

But when all had been said and done, and the coffin began its journey to its final resting place, the numbers had dwindled, the onlookers had scattered, leaving only the most deeply hurt, those closest to the man known as Tsunayoshi Sawada.

At the very front of the procession were the seven people closest to the deceased, the seven who grieved the most, the deepest.

They were the first generation in an immeasurably long time where all the guardians had outlived their sky.

Which only made it all the more tragic what was to come.

By the time the procession reached the Vongola catacombs*, the sky was already becoming a deep, bruised purple as evening dwindled into night.

The youngest of the pallbearers, a twenty-six-year-old with too-long limbs and too-messy hair, kept wiping his palms on his pant legs, nervously hoping that he wouldn't mess up this one most important job.

He looked around himself with red-rimmed eyes, trying to ignore the eerie feeling of being watched.

He had been in the Vongola Catacombs many times before, but never at night, when all was darkness and the very air teemed with the spirits of the deceased.

Suddenly, a softly wrinkled hand landed heavily on his shoulders, and he looked up.

"You'll be alright, Ieharu," spoke his uncle Hayato in a quiet voice, a weary smile turning up the corners of his lips.

Rather than being reassured at these gentle words from a man who had to be hurting a million times more than he was, Ieharu was shaken – he had to fight not to pull away.

Hayato – all of his father's guardians, in fact – seemed to have diminished over night until they were shells of themselves. They were all hunched backs and lined faces, creaking limbs and exhausted eyes.

Ieharu tried to ignore the very tangible air of death surrounding them all, smothering him until he was sure he would choke on it.

He smiled weakly back, and went to take his position at the very back of the coffin, opposite Lambo, the youngest of his father's guardians, and yet immeasurably old at the same time.

Together, Tsunayoshi's seven guardians and his son carried him into the catacombs, to his final resting place.

And the moment they set him down, Ieharu thought he must have imagined the rush that went throughout the whole tomb, the immense sense of relief, as if all those buried here had been waiting for this moment, as if they were welcoming their sky home.

Ieharu took a stumbling step back, breathing out all the tension.

But then another hand fell on is shoulder, and he looked up into exhausted, apologetic green eyes.

"It's not over," he said in a quiet voice, and if that wasn't ominous, Ieharu didn't know what was.

"You're kidding..." said a tearful young voice, bewildered brown eyes darting from one face to another, to another.

He'd only just lost his grandfather. His mentor. He couldn't bare to lose anyone else.

"It is a tradition," said Coyote, one of the Ninth's three remaining guardians.

"Well, it's a STUPID tradition! What about everyone who still needs you? What about me?"

Ganauche smiled and cupped the nineteen-year-old's face in his hand. "We love you, bambi. And trust me when you say that hurting you will be the one regret we have about this. But we need to do it. It's been too long already."

Tsuna swiped angrily at his eyes.

"Well, I'm going to get rid of this stupid tradition!" he vowed.

Ganauche smiled indulgently down at him.

He hadn't missed the looks Tsuna's guardians were exchanging.

Gazes glancing off each other, silent promises hiding behind determined eyes.

He knew the children understood, young as they were.

And he knew this was one tradition even Tsunayoshi would not, for the life of him, be able to overturn.

And that knowledge gave him great comfort.

The day after Vongola the Tenth was laid to rest, seven more coffins joined him in his tomb.

* The Vongola Catacombs referred to here are from "Vongola Catacombs" by Bleach-ed-Na-tsu. Read it. You'll fall in love. Make sure to have a box of tissues handy.