The Memento

By Imafish

A oneshot featuring Akasuna no Sasori.

A/N: This just randomly popped into my head while I was browsing some Harry Potter and Naruto crossovers. This isn't a crossover, though. This is pretty dark, but I like it.

Disclaimer: Ok, by now you should know that I think disclaimers are the stupidest things ever.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of withering, of tarnishing.

It starts with a frantic race through the woods. Breath is spurting into crisp night air like tiny beacons of smoke. Branches crack, twigs whip into tense faces, and obstacles shoved out of the way. Silence is no longer important.

A howl bursts through the trees behind them and the fleeing shinobi reach out for each other as they race desperately to the outpost ahead. To safety.

With a flare of hideous snow-white chakra, a weapon hurtles through the air and buries itself up to the hilt in the woman's unprotected back. She stumbles and falls from the massive tree, branches reaching out in a futile attempt to catch her as she falls. Her dark hair cradles her head tenderly as she falls limply to the ground, propped up by the weapon in her back. There is no sound. The silence is sacred. The silence is comforting.

The pursuer and his prey square off in the trees. The hunter pulls a knife from his pouch and lunges, his hounds baying for blood. The hunted, grieving man merely raises his arms woodenly to protect himself and is thrown brutally to the unforgiving ground, which pushes the air from his lungs as he lands next to his dead wife.

He pulls himself up and rests on his arms so that he can see her beautiful face. Then he throws back his head and howls with grief in a voice that shakes the heavens and dislodges the stars from their fragile perches in the sky. They fall all around him, holding onto each other as they plunge to their deaths. And he lifts his gaze to find that one has landed in front of him.

And it has his son's face.

Suddenly, he shakes his head, red hair flying around him. His son! Little Sasori, only five years old! He realizes his purpose in an instant. He has to return alive.

A heavy weight lands on his back as he tries to scramble to his feet, and from the smell he knows that it is one of the hunter's hounds. Footsteps approach and stop in front of him. With a horrible ripping sound that resonates in his ears and bounces around his tormented mind, the sword is wrenched from his wife's body.

The hunter crouches down in front of him and grabs a handful of crimson hair, pulling up cruelly. The helpless man stares up desperately into the White Fang's cold gaze. "Wait," he gasps breathlessly. "My son…"

Hatake Sakumo stares down at him impassively with black eyes. There is no mercy in those eyes. "I have a son too," he says in a harsh voice as the white flames flare up around his legendary blade.

I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken -- and I'd rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.

Firelight reflects off large brown eyes as the child peers around the carved mahogany door. "Baa-san?" the quiet voice is barely heard over the crackling of the fire in the grate. "Kaa-san and Tou-san are sup-supposed," he stumbles over the word, "to be back by now, aren't they?"

The old woman looks up as her grandson pads quietly across the red carpet. Her wrinkled cheeks are wet, and he gazes up at her in surprise as she hastily wipes them. "No, Sasori," she tells him softly. "They are on a mission."

"I know, Baa-san. But isn't it supposed to be over now?"

"No," she lies again. "But they did such a good job that they are going on another mission that will take a very long time."

He is standing at her knees now, one small hand clutching a handful of her skirt for comfort. "They aren't coming back for a while?"

She looks down at the angelic face, tears dripping down her cheeks. "No, Sasori. You won't see them for a long time."

The child thinks for a long moment, cherubic features full of puzzlement. Then he walks to the fireplace and picks up a piece of wood, holding it in his arms like a treasured toy. "Baa-san?"

"Yes, Sasori?"

He turns, holding out the piece of wood. "Doesn't this remind you of Kaa-san?"

The old woman sniffs in surprise. Then she gets up and lowers herself onto the carpet. Taking the piece of wood, she runs her tired hands over it softly. "I don't know, Sasori. Maybe we had better make it look more like her." Then she takes a knife from the table and wraps his small fingers around it. She covers his hands with her own and they begin to carve.

There is a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go.

It is twilight and behind the closed shutters of the large house, two angry shadows face off.

"It's been ten years, grandmother. Don't you think that ten years is an awfully long time for one mission? The war has been over for years now."

"Sasori, I know what you're talking about. But I told you that this mission would take a long time. They'll be back-"

"Don't insult my intelligence. They're dead, aren't they?"

"Sasori-"

"Tell me the truth! I've known that they died since I was little! I want to hear you say it!"

"I-I didn't know what to tell you! You were so young!"

"How could you lie to me about that? How could you!"

"Sasori, please-"

"SAY IT! Tell me that they're dead! Tell me that they're not coming back! Tell me the truth for once in my life! You owe me that!"

"I can't. Because I'm still living in the past… Because I still haven't accepted it."

"…That's just like you. All right then. I'll say it for you. They are dead, Chiyo! They died when I was five! They are never coming back. So you can sit in your rocking chair and stare at the door for the rest of your miserable life, because they are not going to walk back in someday. And neither am I!"

"Sasori, listen to me-"

"No! No more listening! I am sick and tired of hearing you lie to me! From now on, you live your own miserable life, but don't you dare drag me down into it again!"

Silence. The slamming of a door.

The empty sobs of an old woman whose past had finally confronted her.

The walls we build around us to keep out the sadness also keep out the joy.

"I thought you weren't coming back." The old woman looks up at the powerful young man as he comes to stop in front of her chair. "Why are you here now?"

He reaches inside his vest slowly, vermillion eyes piercing hers to the soul. Withdrawing his hand, he places two scrolls on the table alongside her chair.

She reaches a trembling hand out to brush them softly. "These are…"

"My parents, yes." The man pulls a chair around and sits down in front of her. "Or rather, the puppets."

The old woman shakes her head, a tear dripping over her lined cheek. "I should have told you."

"It took you fifteen years to realize?" His voice is sarcastic.

"No," she looks up at him through her blurry eyes. "I realized when you were six. Do you remember?"

"Being six? As I recall, I spent most of my time at the doorstep waiting for my parents to come home."

She takes a shuddering breath and shakes her head, grief pushing down cruelly on her thin shoulders. "You were in your room, playing with these." One paper-thin hand reaches out and rests on the two scrolls. "You were- you were making them hug you." She stops and steals a glance at him, but his expression is unreadable. "Then you lost control of your chakra strings, and they… they fell down on either side of you. Like corpses. You just stood there and looked at them. That was when I realized that you knew. But it didn't stop me from trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" His voice is low and cold. "How was making me believe in a future that wouldn't come protecting me? I fail to see the logic in that pathetic assumption."

"I understand what you're saying, Sasori," her voice gains strength and she manages to raise her head to gaze at the handsome young warrior. "But what's the good in crucifying me? I thought that we lived different lives now."

He stands and shoves his chair away so roughly that it falls onto its back. Making his way to a window he clenches the windowsill with both hands so tightly that his knuckles turn white. However, when he turns, an easy smile is present on his pale face. "I agree. There's no good in crucifying you. I came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

"For good this time." He turns quickly and makes his way to a large painting that dominates the wall and stands in front of it for a long moment.

The painting is the only decoration on the wooden walls. It shows Chiyo, Sasori, and both of his parents. It had obviously been painted very long ago, for Sasori was very young, little more than a toddler. His parents were sitting side by side on a red sofa, with Chiyo standing behind them holding the small, red-haired boy.

Sasori rests his forehead against the faded painting, allowing his eyes to wander, taking in every detail. Chiyo watches in silence, tear tracks still glinting down her face.

"They're so alive," the man breathes, still leaning against the canvas. "I barely remember them."

He leans back suddenly and Chiyo jumps in alarm as the corner of the painting begins to burn. The flames crawl higher, destroying the dusty painting inch by inch and scorching the wall behind it. All of a sudden, Sasori reaches for a glass of water that sits immobile alongside Chiyo's chair and pours it over the burning painting.

The bitter fumes fill the air as Chiyo stares at her grandson in shock. He presses his sleeve over the smoldering edge of the ruined painting and smiles in satisfaction. "You can keep me your dark secret for now, Chiyo. But one of these days, I'll just be another regret."

With that he turns on his heel and makes his way to the door. But he pauses suddenly and turns back to look at the stunned woman. "They say that eyes are windows to the soul," he tilts his head, eyes sparkling maliciously. "I wonder… What do you see in my eyes, Chiyo?"

And then she was abandoned again.

Death comes to all. But great achievements build a monument which shall endure until the sun grows cold.

The sun hangs in the sky over Sunagakure like a golden pendant, throwing its brilliance down onto the face of the man standing on the rooftop of the Kazekage's tower. He is a powerfully built man with black hair and slanted eyes. Behind him, the door opens slowly, but he continues gazing out over the calm village.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, turning finally to look at his guest. "Isn't it?"

The younger man merely shakes his head. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh?"

"Such sights no longer hold any meaning for me."

"You talk like a man centuries old. How old are you?"

He shakes his head again, red hair falling into his eyes. "I don't remember."

The black-haired man turns back to the village, and lifts his face to the sunlight. "Why are you here?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"You're a dark man, Akasuna no Sasori." He watches the younger man out of the corner of his eye. "A man would have to be deaf to not hear what they say about you."

"I'm fascinated, Kazekage-sama," his voice is full of bitterness. "Do go on."

"They say that you've changed. That you have immeasurable stamina, power beyond belief, and that you gained it all overnight. The shinobi and the villagers believe that you sold your soul to the devil." He turns suddenly and locks eyes with the puppeteer. "I am the leader of this village, Sasori. It is my responsibility and I will protect it from any threat."

The other merely laughs, a hoarse, cracking sound that sounded like it had been forgotten for many years. "You think that I am a threat, Kazekage-sama?"

"Yes, Sasori, I do." His voice snaps like a whip. "Why are you here?"

Sasori keeps on laughing, one hand pressed against the wall for support. His body is twisted and shrunken, and he hunches over like an old man. His wide, child-like eyes stare unblinkingly at the Kazekage. It is almost horrific to witness.

The third Kazekage watches the young man in alarm. "Sasori," he says in a softer voice. "Why are you here?"

The other keeps laughing, bent over at the waist as if his leader's words are the funniest thing that he has ever heard.

"Does Chiyo know that you're here?"

"No," the redhead finally gasps out, clutching his sides as the laughter shakes his thin body. "She doesn't- she doesn't know me."

The Kazekage strides over, and grasps the puppeteer's arm, pulling him up. "Sasori, you need help."

"No!" The word bursts from his lips as his hand locks onto the Kazekage's arm. Sasori looks up and suddenly he is completely sane again. The Kazekage twists his arm in an attempt to break the other's grip, but it is already too late. He stares down at the blade imbedded in his chest as blood sprays from his lips. And then he notices something even stranger. The blade protrudes from under Sasori's cloak, but neither of his hands is holding it. The blade seems to have a mind of its own.

The Kazekage looks up into Sasori's smiling eyes, his own gaze full of shock. The puppeteer lets go of his leader's arm and allows him to fall limply to the ground. Then, still smiling, he opens his cloak to show the dying Kazekage his secret.

The third stares up at his killer in shock. "What-what…"

"Being human makes you vulnerable," the redhead says coolly, buttoning his cloak up to his chin. "It makes you feel loss, pain, hurt. I grew envious of my puppets, because they felt nothing."

"You're insane."

"Are not all great artists insane? It is a price to pay for our art. Rest assured however, you will not be forgotten." He claps his hands like a child with a new toy. "I plan on letting you join my collection."

In the great scheme of things, what matters is not how long you live, but why you live, what you stand for, and what you are willing to die for.

The street is dreary and filthy. Alcohol spills discolor the grimy pavement and a streetlamp flickers mournfully at the corner of the street. The narrow street is nearly silent, save for the far-off rumble of thunder and the drunken laughter of two men who stagger from a cramped little bar squished between two rough stonewalls.

They lean tipsily against each other, laughing uproariously. The thunderclouds begin to creep into the gray sky as the two men stumble off into the distance. As the street grows silent, a cloaked man appears at the entrance to the squalid alleyway.

Unlike his intoxicated predecessors, he walks with purpose and conviction. His long legs eat up the distance between himself and the tiny bar and with only a second of hesitation, he ducks through the narrow entranceway.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The bar is cramped and filthy. It consists of two narrow booths squashed against one wall, several rickety tables and a narrow bar complete with wooden crates to make up for the lack of barstools. A muscular barman squints suspiciously at the newcomer out of his one functional eye as he wipes a grimy glass with a corner of his dirty shirt. A woman wearing a ragged dress eyes the man from her seat the bar and winks flirtatiously, but he ignores her in favor of scanning the rest of the room.

Two shinobi converse in low voices at one table, each clutching a bottle of sake like a lifeline. He watches them both for a moment, but neither of them is the man whom he seeks. A quiet cough catches his attention and he turns in its direction.

A man occupies one of the booths, his back to the doorway. His most distinguishing feature is his head of flaming orange hair that stands out in the dingy establishment like a bonfire in the ocean. He wears a black cloak designed to look like the night sky shot through with red clouds.

As the man in the doorway watches, the redhead raises one hand and without looking, motions him over.

He walks to the booth warily and slides into the seat across from the redhead. With a clear view of the other's face, his apprehension grows, but he masks it effortlessly. The red-haired man's face could have been called quite handsome once, but now it seems much to feral to be considered attractive. His features are dominated by small black studs that run over his lip, up his nose and over his ears. Another, larger spike runs clean through his forearm. His eyes are every bit as barbaric as his face. Cold and stormy, they contain a strange gray rippled pattern that added greatly to his wild appearance.

For a moment, the two men merely stare across the table at each other. Then without so much as a greeting, the pierced man begins to speak.

"Do you know why you are here?" His voice is deep and powerful, utterly in control of this strange meeting.

The other shakes his head silently, averting his eyes. The barbaric man's eyes seem to peer all the way into his heart and it makes him uneasy.

The pierced man leans back against the scarred wood comfortably.

"I am in the midst of forming an organization…"

Of criminals.

"…Known as the Akatsuki."

You are the fourth.

"It will be formed of only the strongest shinobi…"

What is strength without a cause to fight for?

"…A group that will follow my orders."

And a group that will be thrown away when I am done with them.

"Great changes are coming to this world, Sasori,"

Changes that can never be undone.

"We will harness the power of the demons…"

We will become stronger than they are.

"And power beyond your wildest imagination shall be at our fingertips!"

Power enough to take on the five nations!

"I have traveled far and wide to judge shinobi who might be capable of joining the Akatsuki…"

This is not a blessing. This is a curse.

"…And only the best shall join me."

For as long as they live.

"You are the best, Akasuna no Sasori."

Your heart is so easy to control.

"Join me."

Serve me.

"Become a part of my vision, a knight in the war we will wage!"

A knight today.

"We are making history, Sasori…"

A pawn tomorrow.

"Will you go down in it with me?"

Will you help me bring peace to this world?

"Yes, Leader."

Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong.

Sasori-san, there is something that I must know.

I've been expecting you to ask. My 'immortality', I presume?

I have sought such power for decades! I have mastered millions of jutsu, and yet I am defeated to the prize by a boy! A child, one could argue.

A child? Don't insult me, Orochimaru. I grew up many years ago.

Then how?! How are you immortal?

Don't hope. You could never follow the same road to immortality.

And why ever not, my dear Sasori-san?

I don't understand your motives. You claim to want to live forever, yet you have nothing to live for.

And you do?

…More than you could ever understand.

You avoided my question. Why can I not achieve immortality through your means?

Because, Orochimaru, you are simply not willing to sacrifice what I have.

However long the night, the dawn will break.

The screams from the battle resonate in his ears like music. He smiles, perfectly motionless save for the rapid darting of his fingers that seem to conduct the orchestra of shouts. His crimson hair dances around his face and his cloak hangs open, with tiny blue strings emerging from his chest to give life to the sea of puppets.

The villagers are losing. He has been told to wait for his back-up before attacking, but why should he wait when he can win on his own?

He tilts his head back contentedly, eyes still whipping from side to side in order to protect his puppets and overwhelm his enemies. He lifts one hand and aims his palm at the nearest building. Flame spurts from his hand and the building is alight in seconds. Turning, he begins to torch the small village, relishing the screams from the massacre.

He doesn't know how long they fight, only that the sun begins to fall from the sky and the moon rises to take its place, gazing down sadly at the growing pile of bodies. The wind whistles and the remaining villagers shiver, but he laughs in scorn for he hardly feels the cold that pierces them to the bone.

He only feels it sink into his heart, a frigid, black scar in his otherwise perfect chest.

He turns his head and there at last are the others, watching as the last villagers fall. He raises one hand and unfurls his scroll. The puppets all come to him and he seals them away proudly, harsh eyes surveying his work with pride. When he is done, he walks to them and together they turn away from the burning village.

"You were supposed to wait for us," Orochimaru comments, his gothic features twisted in distaste as he steps over a mutilated corpse.

"You kept me waiting too long," Sasori fires back, narrowing his eyes at the older man.

Itachi and Kisame say nothing, merely continuing to pick their way through the sea of dead. The former pulls his cloak tighter around himself, but his indifferent expression cracks for a moment and Sasori remembers that the Uchiha had massacred his own clan merely a week beforehand.

He slows slightly to walk alongside the younger man, and taking the hint, Kisame speeds up to match Orochimaru's pace.

Itachi glances at him for a moment before turning his blazing red eyes ahead. In a voice so low that Sasori barely hears it, he asks, "How did it make you feel?"

Sasori hides his surprise at the question, even though they both know that you do not talk about your feelings in the Akatsuki. It marks you out as weak. "I don't feel anything anymore," He replies softly.

Itachi stares ahead blankly and Sasori has to remind himself that the boy is only thirteen years old. "Me neither," Itachi whispers. "Me neither."

Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all.

He is already moving to kill them when he catches a flash of movement on either side of him.

His parents. They lunge towards him as if in slow motion, and he would have to be blind not to see the swords that they draw back. He prepares to move to safety, when their arms open simultaneously as if to invite him in for a hug.

One second of hesitation.

But one second is all it takes.

They colloid with him and he feels a sharp, agonizing pain rip through his heart. For a moment he believes that it is longing, and that he is simply so overwhelmed by an actual feeling until he looks down and sees the blades protruding from the casket that houses his tired, broken, finally beaten heart.

He looks up, feeling his parents' arms around him, not caring that he is dying because he feels safe for the first time in thirty long years.

Chiyo and the girl stare back at him in shock. The girl's gaze is full of relief, that this ordeal is finally over and that they are both still alive. Chiyo's eyes are full of regrets.

Her gaze meets his.

You did it on purpose, they accuse.

Yes, he answers equally silently. I did.

Why?

Because what is a better way to die than in the arms of my parents? Because this was my only chance to redeem myself.

Why would you care about redeeming yourself now?

…Because I never wanted to be a monster.

You're not a monster, Sasori. You're just a man.

…No, Chiyo. Not even that.

How ironic that even after fifteen years, they could still read each other so well.

He spits weakly and blood dribbles down his chin. His proud head drops onto his chest. Then, suddenly, with a strange grace, the trio falls to the ground.

Chiyo makes her way to group and stands over them for a long moment with her head bowed. Sakura rolls over weakly and closes her eyes to give the old woman a moment of privacy. But she starts when a rasping, tired voice speaks weakly.

"They say eyes are windows to the soul," Sasori's head rests against the ground limply, staring up at the beautiful blue sky. He rolls his head to look at his grandmother. "You never did tell me what you saw in my eyes, Chiyo."

Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.

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