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.
- Anais Nin
She's falling, falling, falling, and she doesn't even know it.
He's not there to catch her, because he's so far, far, far away.
She looks up at the midnight sky and holds a kunai in one hand; ponders of what this could all mean. She is alone, but it is normal.
Ha, she tells herself. They don't know what they are missing.
The kunai glistens in the moonlight, and she finds herself hypnotized by the patterns. She stands there, silence enveloping her. Her heart beats fast and loud as she scrutinizes the trees in front of her; which one looks strong enough, good enough?
She finds one, and her right foot goes forward, then left. She does not stop. Step, step, step. Tonight is the only night she finds herself grateful that she is alone. She can work at peace. The wind picks up, leaves swirling down. Like snow, only better. It is imperfect, not pure. No more innocence left. She laughs bitterly.
So, so stupid, she mutters.
He is surviving, barely. He opens his eyes, closes them, then opens again because he thinks, he actually thinks it is Her he is seeing. Caring. Worrying. But the face warps, changes into a different one. One he does not really want to see.
He's alive, he's alive! She cries out. The voice is so different, very, very different.
His whole body aches in pain. Physical, emotional. Is he bleeding?
Say something, anything, she breathes.
He ignores her, caught up in his own thoughts. He misses Them, but needs to destroy Them. So messed up, his life. If it weren't for him, the older figure, this wouldn't have happened. He curses him. Curses Them all. Himself.
Her artwork is done carefully and patiently. Every curve, every line, perfect. She concentrates, then drifts off into her dreamland. Dreams, she wishes, she still had.
I don't deserve to do anything perfect, she repeats absently. She is cracked, broken. Her hand becomes shaky; the letter she is carving into the tree is ruined. She convinces herself it is on purpose and she creates something beautiful with the mistake.
She thinks about Him, the mistake. He is the mistake. She stabs the tree angrily, full of loathing. Not hate, because she can't hate Him.
I can't, I can't, she cries inwardly, but continues carving.
He recovers quickly and sets off to destroy his Home, his origin.
She finds herself adding to the carving everyday, every night.
He takes every moment of his life as experience.
She befriends her enemies.
And when They come face to face, They cannot bring Themselves to make eye contact. He kills, slaughters the Konoha shinobi charging at him. She defeats the outsiders one by one. They do not come in contact with Each Other.
Soon it is only Them. He is fast. She jumps. They dance an original, unique dance. She sprints to the forest. He follows after, not knowing. She panics; tries to remain calm; crying inside. She stops, turns to Him. His face is blank, no emotion.
Why? She asks.
I do not care, He replies. So cold.
Liar, liar.
She cannot control her heartbeat, and They run through the trees, ducking, jumping, a game of Tag. Shuriken are embedded into the trees next to Her. He is doing it own purpose. To mock Her. She breathes deeply, angered.
No more teasing, she whispers.
No more running, he mutters.
They charge, head to head. He cuts, She bruises. They can't hurt Each Other, because it will hurt Themselves.
They keep at it, nothing more, nothing less. They do not want it to stop, for this is the only time they will ever see One Another again. Her heart breaks a little, slowly, piece by piece. His is already shattered, but now has turned into dust.
Wonderful, She lies.
Beautiful, He deceives.
They Both go down, down, down, to a darkness that didn't exist until They made it.
The last kunai thrown goes right in the center of the precious tree, splitting the carved 'ONE' on it. The tree is suppose to be powerful, strong. It topples over, dead, lifeless. She stares at it from the ground, He doing the same next to Her. They are lying on Their backs.
Their fingers Touch, but only for a moment before His team carries Him Away.
Even in Death, They are Worlds, Worlds Apart.
She who wrote this piece regrets nothing, except maybe not having a bigger vocabulary, in which she deeply apologizes for.
I don't own! Anything, except the plot.