The things that truly bind us are the things we leave behind us.
Home Again.
Droplets laden with rain fell graciously from the sky and fell to his head. The rain did not weigh as heavily as his heart did. It ached. The soaked earth undertow squelched, making for slippery footing and copious amounts of mud clung to his boots. Faintly familiar trees crept up on either side of him, making him feel unwelcome rather than at home.
He supposed he was to feel at home at his birthplace, but had never felt further from it. He was anxious. He'd never felt anxious. Hell, he hadn't felt in a long time.
He kept his sword close and slung tightly at his back, always wary, always suspicious. It had been drilled firmly into his programming and was a natural survival instinct for him now. What he was doing now went against his programming. He was treading familiar trails and walking under the foliage, most of all he wasn't running. Not running away, merely walking to fate. To home. What he'd left behind him on the trail.
It was ironic that after all the running and denial, he was returning. Power had not abandoned him, but did not hold the same fulfillment and rush it once had. Revenge had not quenched him, it was all done, but left him feeling empty rather than victorious. The things he had craved were ash to his lips, and loneliness filled the void.
It was human nature to look back and wonder about what ifs, it was normal to return to places of importance. Places that had once felt warm when all else was cold. He let his mind wonder the possibilities of this future. He missed the warmth of friends, people he had once grown close to, people who had cared for more than power. He missed the warmth of a home, familiarity of having somewhere to be safe. He missed being able to sleep an entire night through without the fear of being assassinated.
He was significantly older than when he'd left, he was no longer a boy. His hair was already graying slightly and his joints pained him more and more each day. Age did not wait His days had meshed together quickly and he found himself quickly approaching fifty. He was surprised he was able to even recall his past home, but nostalgic triggers never left ones mind.
The smell of rain mingled with the scent of earth and trees and was a fond reminder of old missions and training in the forest. They were a reminder of wet days that were perfect for bed, yet he'd been dragged into the wet by an unyielding sensei. Not all his memories were fond, many were painful to recall. He remembered rain pattering his window after the slaughter; he remembered crying as heavily as the pouring rain. He remembered funerals in the rain for comrades, perhaps not friends but part of his endeavor. It seemed like the sky had been weeping for them.
And he could not shake the inkling that perhaps the sky was weeping again.
Nevertheless, unbidden, he continued down the soggy path. What lay ahead? What was of his home and friends? What was of the world?
When the gates of Konoha loomed above his head, the gates that had once held safety, he wept. Not from sadness, but of strange joy and fond feelings. He felt apologetic about all he had done and said. These moments could never be rewound, or the damage completely undone, but he could try.
A smile graced his lips, he was home.
He could hear their voices still, the familiar voices. He could hear the life of the village, when the streets were filled with people on market days. He could hear birds, he could hear laughter.
Home had waited for him.
And so he sat, perched on a bench inside the town and waited for his friends.
He didn't not hear the laughter of the gods above as he sat, an old man, in the ruins of his home. He remained unbidden to the hundreds of new names carved into the shinobi memorial.
Time waited for no one, Sasuke was years too late.
(A/N): I tried writing fluff, I really did, but this angsty one wouldn't leave me alone. Angst is love. Review what you thought, pleaseeeee.