Hey guys! This is my first new story in a while, so please be gentle! If there's demand, I might turn this into a two-shot, but for now it's complete.
Naruto raised his head from the ash, squinting through tears at the devastation that had become his world. Bodies littered the barren battlefield and Konoha-nin, Suna-nin, Iwa-nin, Kumo-nin, Kiri-nin were indistinguishable. They were all dead-nin. The air was deathly silent except for the scattered groans of dying men, who were few among the glut of fallen warriors.
How did this happen? How did I let this happen?
He reached forward with his left arm - his right humerus was clearly broken judging from its unnatural bend - and grasped at the stones in front of him, trying to slide over the small ridge that stood between him and salvation. Sakura had been there when Naruto fell, and the jinchuuriki had faith that his friend still breathed, not 200 yards away. If only he could get over this damned-
Naruto cried out in anguish as pain erupted in his abdomen and he glanced down at the dagger point protruding from his sternum. Stabbed in the back was no way for an Uzumaki to burn out. He could not reach the handle which had been jostled by his movement across the ragged surface and every twitch of his spasming body lodged the blade deeper in his back at a steeper and steeper angle. Naruto's body retracted and he curled up like one of Tsunade baa-chan's slugs, biting his lip until it bled down his chin and mixed with the steady flow of tears and carnage.
Never give up... that's my nindo…
Blindly fumbling for a handhold, Naruto dragged his broken body up the shallow incline and rolled clumsily down the opposing slope for what seemed like minutes, but was in reality mere moments of agony. Ignoring the useless legs that trailed behind him, Naruto grit his teeth, slowly making progress across the battlefield. Without the energy to weave around obstacles, he hauled his battered meat-suit of a body over dead comrade after dead comrade. Even among strangers, there was something so sickeningly intimate about smearing flesh and blood together, and Naruto cried for the nameless ninjas whose bodies became footholds and handholds in his fight for survival. Their bodies would rot here, disintegrating into bones, marring the earth with suffering for generations to come. If any more generations came after this destruction.
Kurama… help me…
The kyuubi was silent, and Naruto felt a void, a tear in his subconscious. However it had happened, and Naruto had no time to speculate, Kurama was gone. As the edges of Naruto's vision began to blur into unconsciousness, his eyes fell upon a head of wild pink hair that could belong to only one kunoichi. He doubled his efforts in one final burst of energy as hope flared in his chest and reached Sakura's body an instant before he collapsed. Naruto used every muscle in his neck to turn his head, now resting on Sakura's stomach, to his teammates face. Where Sakura had once been beautiful, fire had burned away the left side of her face and seared the hair from her scalp. Naruto's empty stomach heaved through his exhausted sobs and he could not tear his eyes from Sakura's melted, oozing skin. The fire had burned away much of the medic-nin's clothing and rendered her left arm useless. Still, Naruto knew, Sakura had fought until the end when the enemy had fatally planted four kunai into her chest. What was left of Sakura's face was contorted in fierce determination, a look that suited the kunoichi even in death.
Naruto knew that there was no hope left. While he had been the flame of Konoha, Sakura had been its pillar, and now the world had fallen. For a ninja who had burnt so brightly his entire life, Naruto's spirit died with his hope, leaving him feeling emptier and colder than ever before. And though his body still breathed, Naruto's Will of Fire had been extinguished.
He could not even raise his own kunai to his chest to end his pitiful suffering.
Naruto expected to find peace in death, but instead he found darkness and the overwhelming feeling of failure at the realization that his life's sole accomplishment was leading thousands to slaughter.
He never closed his eyes, burning the image of desolation into his blank retinas for eternity.
And the ash lacing his throat tasted ever so bitter.
