Written for hewhoistomriddle. Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.
There weren't many things that could scare Uchiha Itachi; having grown up in war and entering the shinobi career at a very young age, he had seen and done more things than a sole person should be able to endure experiencing. All these things, his entire life, had hardened him, made him void of most emotions, including fear. He cared little for his own life; he was not afraid of pain, he was not afraid of death. So when the day came that he knew would be his dying day, he was not afraid of death itself – it was something he had long since accepted.
It was what came after death that had him terrified. The night of the massacre was what had haunted him in nightmares, night after night after night, despite all the years that had passed. Living through the killings again and again was bad enough, but the prospect of coming face to face with the members of the clan, – his clan, his family – all the people he had slaughtered, made him feel nauseated.
He knew why he had done what he had done, but sometimes he caught himself wondering whether it had been the right thing to do. He found himself contemplating what would or could have been had he acted differently. The biggest, more logical part of him knew that there had been no other way, but the nagging doubt was always there, in the back of his mind, and endless, cruel whisper of guilt.
How would he face his father in afterlife? His mother?
Shisui?
In life, it had always been so easy to tell himself they wouldn't hate him. That they would forgive him. The human mind is a delicate thing, and easily deceived and corrupted. In reality he knew that he could expect no kindness from those he had killed. Nor could he expect forgiveness. Not even understanding. When he would have to answer for all his sins, no one would speak in his favour at the Last Judgement. All of them, every single one, would speak against him.
He was going to hell, and he'd be going there alone. He knew it the moment he entered Heaven's Gates. His clan stood assembled to receive him, blood still dripping from their clothes and bodies, looking at him with angry eyes. He recognized Inabi and Tekka, their faces twisted into an ugly sneer of disdain. His father, stony-faced and cold, Mikoto by his side, and the sadness and disappointment in her eyes made his stomach clench.
There was no actual trial, no high court of justice, but the dead didn't need to voice their accusations to have his ears ringing with their silent screams. Traitor. Murderer. And more specific ones: You sliced my throat. You drove your sword through my heart. You crushed every bone in my body.
He was surprised to find that one voice is missing. One he was sure to hear. You lured me to the river. You put a genjutsu on me. You held my head under water until I stopped moving. You didn't even go to my funeral.
You loved me to death.
Seeing Shisui was, of course, the hardest thing; there was no expression on his face at all. Itachi would have happily gone to hell if that meant he'd never have had to see that look He looked at, no, he looked through Itachi, as if he'd never existed, as if all of it meant nothing; the days hiding in the cave while waiting for the war to be over, his hand in Itachi's, looking for a tiny spark of hope, a quantum of comfort. The endless battles fought together. The days spent at the riverbank. The nights of holding each other close to chase away the other's nightmares. All worthless. All lost.
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