He
Now that he's on the ground, motionless, the monster has changed. He looks like a human being, breathing raggedly, covered in the blood of your men. All those dreams you had of conquering this nation – of conquering the world – he crushed them beneath his burning fists and feet as he descended from the sky like some vengeful god. You were supposed to rule them all, now you only rule over the dead.
How can someone like this exist?
You move slowly with heavy, sluggish footsteps. Still in a haze of disbelief. This battle should have been yours. It shouldn't have been like this, blue fire blazing on the horizon and then it… him.
When you heard there were Konoha shinobi in the area, you weren't worried. You knew they wouldn't get involved. That cowardly village only ever sent their pathetic four man squads to take care of the civilians, to deliver food and water for those wretched farmers that lived in your country. The Konoha shinobi weren't for hire, not for greedy tyrants, or so you were told by that sneering big-bosomed blonde bitch calling herself the Hokage.
You take the last few steps over the muddy, blood-soaked ground, the earth sucking at your feet every time you lift your legs. Trying to suck you right into hell, you think. But then he's in front of you, facedown, brown with mud and blood. Green catching your eye, flecks of it. The last wisps of blue smoke rise off him like the souls of the dead. They're distorted and carried away by the breeze, never to return again.
His strength, whatever it was, is gone. That inhuman power has vanished into thin air. What's left is a man, inert and quiet except for ragged breathing. A man. A single man.
It was your mistake. You commanded your troops, you gave the order to wipe out that pesky pack of Konoha dogs, just because you could, to teach her a lesson for turning you down, for wrinkling her nose at you in disgust. Tyrant.
She thought she was better than you, that they were all better than you. And he, the one in front of him now, he probably thinks the same. Better than you, stronger, more powerful.
You draw your sword, gleaming steel without so much as a drop of blood on it yet because your men kept you away from the actual battle, protected you with their lives, and you grab the man by the scruff of his neck and start cutting. He groans but nothing more. There's no fighting now; his body is as limp as the old meat they used to sell on market day in your by now long destroyed home village.
You should kill him, you know that, but you don't. You slice the fabric at his back and then you rip it with your hands, rip it all off until he is lying naked in the dirt and he really is just a man. All muscle and sinew and bone but still just a man and for a second you can't think of what to do next. Except you know, low in your gut, what it is you have to do, what you need.
You know that it would be wrong for him to die because then he would never understand, he would simply cease to exist and that would be terrible. What he needs to understand, what only you can teach him, is that he is not better than you, that he is yours. Yours to possess, yours to use, to do with as you please, and, thinking that, you feel a hot thrill running down your spine. A jolt of liquid lightning embedding itself below your abdomen.
You bend down; you touch him. Your hands run down his back and he groans in discomfort. He's not quite there, barely conscious, mostly unconscious, his eyelids flickering under thick eyebrows. He's a strange, ugly creature, even his face is all bone, high cheekbones, prominent brow, wide jaw. Nothing like the plump girls your men would bring you.
It doesn't matter. He's yours now. And whatever happens, he will remember you forever. You'll make him remember.
(His body is as hot as a furnace, so hot that it hurts. Blood makes for bad lubricant, even if there is a lot. You push hard, as hard as you can and his scream feels like a reward. His eyes are open now, his fingers clawing at the dirt. They leave deep grooves, as he struggles to find purchase in the soft mud. There's no point, no strength left in the body beneath you. So you push into him again and again and he doesn't fight. His eyes are wet and blank and when his jaw unclenches and goes slack, it's like another offering to you.)