Through the Lilac Haze (Naruto)

ii. the blood weeps for naught

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"How many times are you going to make me say it? You're in the way."

     "Oh, get over yourself!" he yells back, sword swinging wildly to fend off his attackers. There are three surrounding him, another four in front of her and two standing guard before a hooded figure. They're pathetically outnumbered. "Even you can't handle so many of these!"

     Can't she? She can sense another half dozen melting out of the trees. She's had worse odds. Her blade slashes cleanly through a white body and her chakra leaps from her skin in twisting chains of fire. She can. They're a bit more resilient than the ones she remembers from the war but they're still weak. The problem is-

     "And having you here is going to help? What a joke." She sneers because that's all she's ever known and that's all that's ever worked. He hates her and she knows he does, knows it in the way he betrays her again and again, in the way his chakra screams for blood at the mere sight of her. Even so-

     "I'm not weak!" Maybe he isn't. Maybe he is. It doesn't matter.

     He can't die. She can bleed and bleed and bleed some more and she can greet death like an old friend and she can laugh at the gates of hell but- he can't die. She won't allow it.

     "Enough already," she says. "If you want to be useful that bad, get help."

     She can sense Sasuke's team in the distance and she's sure he can, too. They're not close enough to provide reasonable support, but he doesn't need to know that.

     This is all I can do for you, she thinks, and she hates how miserable that feels.

     "Fine," she hears him say. "Fine! You better wait!"

     She grins, bold and fearless and already dying. "Sure, I'm not going anywhere."

     She's always been a good liar.

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At first, there's only a dull throbbing; an ache at the back of her mind and clawing at her chest. Then it splits and grows and her whole body burns. Vaguely, she remembers a sword over her heart - her sword, the last of a series of gifts never earned, a promise never fulfilled, the weight of her birthright - and manic laughter akin to the one that once haunted her waking days.

     She remembers dying.

     (Weakness is inherent and a trait of all born under the sun. Gods and demigods are exempt from such miserable generalisations, in the same way she never will be. Hers is the blood of traitors and mystery never solved. Hers is the blood of the weak. It was inevitable.)

     Then, why is she here?

     With her eyes closed, she scans her body. Her chakra feels heavy and uncooperative, a cloud of smoke burning through her lungs. She probes outwards, to the skin of her fingers and the ground beneath them. There's no one around. No enemies, but also no allies. (What allies?) The more aware she is of her surroundings, the more pain surges into her. Endure it, she thinks. Aren't you a shinobi? Slash and stab wounds in varying degrees decorate her skin, blood dripping to the ground in a puddle around her.

     (She remembers distinctly the disjointedness in her right arm from moments before her consciousness faded, but despite the blade stabbed into her wrist the bones are fine. She's bloodied and bruised, but not broken.)

     She breathes slowly, reigning in the unruly chakra that fills her system. The seal on her arm is a gaping hole, an abyss once filled. It won't save her. Healing is a delicate art and her injuries extensive - Shizune could heal this in moments, but can she?

     The answer is no, but she plugs up the wounds at least enough to move her arm without wanting to cry. And, finally, she draws her chakra inwards and opens her eyes.

     Crystal clear clarity greets her, a depth to her vision that even blood seals couldn't grant. The thought flickers away, chased out by the scenery it offers. The blood she lies in is not only her own - just next to her, a hand reaching for her own and mouth parted in the final vestiges of an unheard scream, is a woman. She sees empty eyes set in an unfamiliar face and her head throbs.

     "How dare you!"

     Her heartbeat is loud as thunder in her ears, drowning out the voice - whose voice is that? - and stirring her blood into a frenzy. This person- this person is-

     "Mother! NO!"

     That can't be; she doesn't have a mother. Her hand moves and it's not hers, not ink-stained and with the callouses of a swordsman. Not twenty-four and long past her time. It's small and stubby and the skin is smooth, untouched. Young.

     She touches the woman's hand and it's cold.

     The smoke in her lungs rises into a billowing cloud, choking and furious. I don't know you. And, yet-

     Faces appear in her mind and she knows. Her blood sings with anger that drags her to her feet and away from the woman (mother), her memories singed at the edges and burning up quicker than she can save them. (Whose memories? Mine or yours?) Nothing is concrete but the rage that pushes her forward, sends her tumbling through a forest that is foreboding and unfamiliar, and aches for blood.

     (But, she thinks, voice quiet and lost in the sea of white-hot fury, who are you?)

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