Waking up this time was different than the others. Previously all he had been able to focus on had been the pain. It was an all consuming, tearing, shredding pain that left absolutely no room for any other thought than 'IT HURTS'.
But now, shifting groggily from the depths of unconsciousness, the pain has receded some. It's still there mind you, good god it's still there, but compared to the world shattering agony that had held the entire right side of his body captive, this was nothing.
Questions that should have been asked days, weeks, months ago finally floated to the front of his mind. He was lying in a bed, that much he had been able to deduce even through the pain. The blankets pulled over his prone body were smooth and virtually wrinkle free, the edges of the sheets still tucked under the mattress. He hadn't been moving much, after all.
The room smelled stagnantly of unwashed body rotting wound and medical balm. It was far too hot under the restricting bedclothes, and suddenly the itching of his healing wounds was unbearable. He decided to venture movement.
Rolling his head to the side proved attainable, and it renewed his sense of optimism. Slowly, he cracked open his eyes.
Oddly enough, this induced a hundred times more pain than moving his neck had. A piercing twinge shot through his left eye the moment he had clenched his facial muscles. Waiting a moment, he tried again, this time only opening his right eye.
After the initial adjustments, the room appeared dimly lit, the only light source a squat candle sitting on a wooden table directly across the room from the bed. Other than a dark crimson wall hanging behind the table, he chamber was sparsely decorated. A shadowy archway to his left revealed a flight of stairs curving away into the dark unknown above.
He was terribly thirsty, it felt like the walls of his throat were stuck together with paste. There was a water jug sitting beside the door, but the thought of the labors his battered body would be put though to drag him there eliminated any chance of helping himself to the liquid inside.
Letting his head thump back to the pillow with a moan, he slowly brought his left hand to his cheek. His fingers met the rough texture of gauze, it swathed his whole face, leaving only his right eye and mouth uncovered. The skin under the bandages stuck with what he assumed to be the healing balm. It itched like crazy.
Where was he? The room and everything in it was utterly unfamiliar. He couldn't remember how he had gotten there. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten injured either. Thinking hard, he winced. His head throbbed and caused tears to well in his uncovered eye. Why couldn't he remember? His mind seemed to be completely blank when it can to his past. Where was he? WHO was he? What the hell was going on?
A thump from above interrupted his internal panic attack and set him instantly on guard. The bandages covering his ears made everything muffled so he struggled to sit up it bed in order to get closer to the door. After a moment of rather pathetic struggling, he managed to prop himself up. Another thud, followed by another. Footsteps coming closer, down the stairs. Every aching muscle in his body was tensed, his senses-though impaired-were set on high alert. It appeared that whoever he was, he was trained to respond to high-risk situations.
A shadowed figure came into view on the stairs, feet appearing first, then the rest of his body, slowly, as he walked with a limp. He reached, on instinct, for the weapon that had long ago lain at his side. His fingers curled around empty air.
When the candlelight finally fell on the figures face, he didn't relax, not even when he saw that it was an elderly man. Very elderly, stooped with age, wizened and shrunken and feeble looking. Scraggly white hair clung to the wrinkled skin like lichen, falling away from his temples to leave the rest of his head bald as an egg. From deep within the pale folds of its face shone two milky excuses for eyes. This figure was quite blind.
It stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He continued to call it 'it' only so that he could distinguish this other human being from himself. He was 'me' 'I' 'him' because he had nothing else to call himself. It scared him to not have a name, so for now he claimed those pronouns as his own. This new person, for now, would remain an 'it'.
The old man cocked its head to the side, he appeared to be listening intently. The only sound that filled the room were his irregular breathing as he struggled to fill his throbbing lungs. Apparently this was what the man was hoping to hear, for a joyous, borderline psychotic grin fixed itself onto the wrinkled face. "You're awake" the voice that rattled from between the thin lips was weak, but it held more emotion than if he had shouted it off the rooftop.
Dropping the armful of towels he had been carrying, the old man limped to the bedside and reached a shaking hand towards his face. His first instinct was to edge backwards as far away from the claw-like appendage as possible. Adding to the desire to escape was the fact that the hand only had two fingers and a thumb. Where the other two digits had once resided there were only long-healed scars. Nevertheless, it was a rather unappealing sight.
The reason why he didn't draw away was because he suddenly found himself incapable of doing so. His entire body was paralyzed, as a matter of fact, he couldn't even feel the his injuries anymore. All he could do was stare into the old man's eyes, eyes that looked back and saw, no longer blind and white. They retained their milky quality, but had regained some colour. They were now dull pink around the black pupils. Three black tomoes were located in the iris, and they were transfixing. They took away the pain, relaxed his tense muscles, eased his scrambled thoughts and made everything better. These eyes were amazing.
"You like these?" the voice creak. "The sharigan is truly an amazing thing, even on a useless cripple like myself." The water jug was pulled with a scrape across the cement floor and the ladle raised to his mouth. He drank deeply, no longer perturbed by the mangled hand. Yes, he liked the eyes. They took away all the bad things that had been nagging at his no longer aching head.
And then the eyes were gone. The old man had his eyes closed, he had blinked and the influence of the eyes was gone. In the split second of clarity, he lunged forward, ignoring the agony that ripped through his broken body and punched the man in the face with enough force to send him reeling off the bed.
The strength in the blow surprised even himself, and the momentum carried him forward to sprawl across the mattress. He screamed in pain and nearly passed out again.
The old man had gotten to his feet. But instead of returning the blow as one might have been expected to do, he remained smiling. "Good, good, I see your strength has returned significantly." Dipping a towel into the water jug, the man leaned in to wipe his face. When he flinched, the man smiled reassuringly "Don't worry, I'm a friend. I know you may not remember, but I am an ally, you can let me take care of you."
He allowed the man to dab the cloth along the un-bandaged side of his neck. He was still weary to trust this guy, but he was crashing badly. The fatigue flooded his limbs and threatened his mind in the form of black spots dancing in front of his eyes.
The creaky old voice droned on, talking about his injures and the rehabilitation process that he was in the middle of. He didn't listen until he caught an unfamiliar word; 'Madara'.
"What was that" he interrupted "Was that a name?"
The old man squinted at him unseeingly. "Why yes of course." He smiled "It's your name."
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Naruto belongs to Masashi Kishimoto and CO.
Unfortunately I wasn't into Naruto when the Tobi/Obito theory was still valid. But I still think it is a really interesting idea, with tons of evidence backing it. I mean, Same hair style, the only right eye showing, the sharigan, the similar names, even the orange motif! It would explain a whole lot, and be an awesome, if not predictable plot twist. So here I am, a little late, but that doesn't matter. The first page of a comic trying to keep the Tobi-is-really-Obito theory alive.
This is based on my little Doujinshi that can be found on my DeviantArt account (link in my profile) if anyone is interested.
