Purpose

 The night was cold and bleak, soft winds blowing steadily over the treetops as the moon observed from its perch in the stars. On the far wall stood a solitary figure, gazing off into the solemn darkness of the forest, his mind carefully stalked by memories of the past that he thought were long forgotten, discarded as the novelty and devotion of his new objective had swamped his life. But now, as he craned his neck to look back, he found that the remembrance of his childhood world still remained, tucked beneath the war-like instincts that had been sewed into his mind many years ago. The flashes of the worn and bloody battlefield would remain, doomed to stay by his side like invisible scars as he watched on, flinching as they replayed in his mind, utterly reminding him of the fighting and needless bloodshed, of the deaths and severed heads, of his crime. Yet still, these thoughts were not what crept in the back of his mind, tensing to throw him off the axis and onto an empty plane, leaving him open and exposed. No, it was the his utter failure in the Kazekage's hall, when he succumbed to the sickness that had been plaguing him since that day in Kusagakure, when he used his gifts to kill for his master, the strain of his muscles making the illness accelerate. From that day forward, his bloody cough had remained, worsening as time wore on, eventually becoming such a burden that he had to put effort into concealing the intensity of his illness, in fear of becoming an annoyance to the man who held his life in the palm of his hand, who shaped his destiny only because it was what Kimimaro wished, who meant the world to him; who was his purpose, his motivation to live and to serve.

How many days had it been? He wasn't sure. Time had no essence anymore, not after he had let his master down, after he had been tossed away without a second thought, a regretful glance, as if everything he had done for the man, all he sacrificed, had never even taken place, never even existed. After his quick dismissal, Kimimaro spent his days in a fitful slumber haunted by nightmares, and his nights were spent exactly as he was now, gazing out into the forest, seeking answers.

His vivid green eyes bulged as he felt his chest convulse, instantly causing him to let out a series of violent coughs, each breath allowing more blood to stream out of his burning throat as he struggled to compose himself, attempting to silence the wheezing sounds of weakness that echoed through his ears, repeating into an endless cycle, screaming his failure as if he would forget. As the pain in his chest subsided, orbs teared and vision blurred, he thought back to the days of his usefulness; when the weakness holding him down was non-existent, when he was unprepared for the dark turn his life of servitude would take. The thoughts of darkness drew his attention to Jugo, the beast of a man whom he shared a unique kinship for, the only person of the living and of the dead that he could consider a friend, and the only one he was certain who would mourn for him in his passing. The mention of the man made Kimimaro think, would the others miss him if he went? He thought of the rest of the Sound Five, now renamed Sound Four, after his removal; Tayuya's dirty mouth that incited his temper, Ukon's detours, Sakon's impatience, Jirobo's consistent feeding habits, and Kidomaru's tendency to 'play with his food', and as he pictured the most violent and painful misfortunes falling upon them; he felt nothing. Taking sense from his own reasoning, Kimimaro suspected that if one day they woke up to his limp corpse draped across this very wall, none of them 'would give a fuck', he absentmindedly quoted from one of Tayuya's rants.

Kimimaro's bleach white hair plastered to his face, cold sweat covering his forehead as he gasped for breath, his lungs refusing to comply to his silent plea for air. He wheezed out, reflecting on his failure once more as death flashed before his eyes, and he felt a sample of the painful transition between life and death, knowing that soon the sickness would overcome his will to live, and he would die as a useless tool. And he knew, the fear of it laying dormant in the back of his mind, that when a useless tool dies, it dies without a purpose.

But when Kimimaro looked Kabuto in the eye the next morning, as he awoke to the smell of anesthetics, hearing him dictate his master's command and final request of him, the Kaguya's spirits brightened for the first time in many years.

"I must agree… I no longer have the capacity for metempsychosis… in fact it's quite difficult to discover my purpose now that I've lost everything." He stated blankly, his voice devoid of emotion. "However, I finally understand… although he may not be me, I will bring the new 'container' here… even if it costs me my very life. This is how I show my thanks to Orochimaru-sama," Kimimaro's orbs slightly darkened as he made the resolve, "and my way of repaying my uselessness."