Jūmonji Giri
Left to right. Down. There was nothing but cold. A piercing cold and numbness that spread through his middle, across each broken muscle. His hand grew slick, and for a moment, all that Neji could think of was all of that blood. So much blood kept inside one person. When that blood was gone, all that was left was a husk. Pale, he had always been pale, alabaster skin, white eyes, but now it was as if all the colour had been drained from his skin. There was nothing. For a moment, just a single, blessed moment, there was nothing.
Then the agony hit. It was fire running through his skin, it was the mounting ache like nothing he had ever felt before. Blinding. All consuming. He shifted his hand from the cloth wrapped around the blade and wrapped his fingers tighter around the hilt of his tantō, clutching it like it was his last tie to his honour. No letting go. No releasing the handle and having it slide to the earth. His kimono grew stained, the white soiled, crimson flowers blooming and falling across the fabric. Warm. The blood was warm, and it soaked his skin. He clenched his jaw until he felt his teeth crack. No kaishakunin. He would not make a sound. He would die without a sound, upright, with honour. A warrior. He would regain the honour that had been stripped from him, reclaim the dignity of himself, of his clan and die with prestige and truth. Pain twisted his spirit, twisted his body. Almost.
Keep silent.
He would not die with dishonour. He would die silently, and reclaim the dignity stolen from him. Blood loss. Blood loss. Not long now. Keep silent. Keep silent. In the fading light, one thought pierced the darkness.
Otosama…I finally understand the freedom of being able to choose your own death.
A/N: Short drabble. Jūmonji Giri is the hardest form of Seppuku. Also, this is in no way cannon, as I am fully up to date with the manga. Thank you for reading!