Ignorance is Bliss
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. That copyright belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.
Don't look.
Don't glance.
Just stare at him. Ignore her.
This was not in his plans. When he had envisioned this moment---the pinnacle of his existence; the day he declared his superiority over the one person who always seemed to be ten steps ahead---this is not how it went. In all of his dark fantasies of spilling his familial blood, of handing back the suffering that had been dealt to him, never had this twist presented itself.
He is a shinobi, with broken loyalties to two villages; a defender of neither, an enemy of both. Like all good shinobi---and that is good, as in skilled, for he certainly is not considered a respectable shinobi any longer---he has run through scenario after scenario in his mind of how this epic final battle will play out. He has clashed with his opponent hundreds upon hundreds of times in his mind's arena; the landscape ever shifting, the foe's tactics ever adapting. He has made allowance for every conceivable circumstance and worked out every kink that they entail.
She is not one of them.
This girl. She isn't supposed to be here. She is not part of his plans. His perfectly strategized scenarios never held a trace of her interference. Not once had he theorized the possibility of her showing up at a time like this; in that condition, no less.
She is wounded. Blood covers her clothes and skin like a jacket that offers no protection. By the slight lean in her stance, he can immediately tell that she has, at the very least, a sprained left ankle, possibly broken. A medic she may be, but a good patient she is not---apparently she had expended the majority of her chakra on the battle that won her those wounds, leaving little to heal herself with.
Stupid girl
But, if she is here, then where is the dead last? That idiot has to be nearby, since he was always vowing to protect her and all such nonsense.
No matter. It is best that he isn't. Things would just get loud and annoying if he was.
Dobe.
He doesn't know how or why she has come here, at this crucial moment---the moment he swore that time itself would cease its perpetual journey through the hourglass and watch his life's ambition either come to fruition or become his downfall; or both. Never had he wanted her to be a spectator. This is wrong.
But, why should this be a problem? In their days together as Team Seven, he had always ignored her. Now is no different.
Glare at him. Ignore her.
That's all he has to do. So simple. It's so frustratingly simple a task, that it seems to forcibly mutate itself into something impossible in his clouded mind. Because, what if purposely not looking at her gives the same impression to that man as it would if he did look at her? No, that's stupid.
I'm not looking at her because I don't care. I can't be bothered to spare her a glance. He sees my focus on our battle, not this ridiculously insignificant confusion. No, it's not even confusion. There is no question here. I don't want to look at her. It doesn't matter if she's okay or not. This is my battle; my ambition; my existence in full swing.
He narrows his eyes on the man across from him. He has noticed her as well, those dead-as-stone eyes scraping over her quickly, only to shift back to his opponent, that frozen façade masking sinister calculation.
A chill slithers down his spine, though he does not let it show. He does not like the look his eyes have taken on; like he has discovered a precious secret; like he has the trump card in his hand.
Don't underestimate me, nii-san.
"Aren't you going to help her? Sakura-san looks a little worse for the wear," he says, in that maddeningly monotonous tone, that makes him want to rip his throat out.
"Don't change the subject," he hisses. Old Snakey may have rubbed off a little on him. "We are ending this now!"
"Foolish little brother," that man says slowly, elusively; a panther on the prowl. "What did I tell you about bonds? Was I not clear enough when I told you that bonds only make you weak? Did my actions nine years ago not properly illustrate just what you needed to do to become strong enough to surpass me?" he speaks, in that bloody calm-as-death voice.
This has him ticked off. Just what is he playing at? He wants to fight, he wants to kill. But that girl and his words are playing the imp with his strategy.
Yell at him. Not a word to her.
"I've done what you told me to do," he says, controlled rage swirling about the edges of his voice. "I have done nothing but hate. I have trained so that I could one day---this day---act on that hate, and kill you, just like you said."
That man casts another dead-eyed look at her. She stands there, breathing slightly faster than normal, whether from fatigue or fear, he doesn't know. Probably both. She is in no condition to fight, and just had the misfortune of stumbling upon their impending battle unawares. She can't fight, but nor can she leave; the moment she limped into the clearing, disoriented from chakra exhaustion and her wounds, she became part of what will transpire next. They all know that.
Glare at him. Ignore her.
He looks back at him, and when he speaks, his voice holds the tone of a long-suffering parent, who is disappointed in their child's lack of obedience. "I told you to hate. It was a simple enough task. But even that, you failed miserably at."
He is ready to tear that man's spine out and shove it down his throat. How could he possibly know how much he hated unless they fight? If they would just begin their battle, he would show him just how much he hated.
"I hate plenty enough." His voice is frozen venom. "Now stop stalling. It's annoying."
Hate him. Ignore her.
"You don't hate," he replies, words smooth as ice. "In order to hate something completely, one must hate everything completely. There is no room for any form of affection or bond if one means to hate. Those things make room for other emotions and split devotion from your hate. They weaken your resolve to hate with all of your being, which is what is required of you in order to defeat me. It must be all you live for. Your only bond must be one of hate, nothing else."
"Shut up!" he yells, rage flowing in lava streams through his body. "I have done all that! Just shut up and fight me!" He settles into a fighting stance, ready for both defence and offence. But the attack doesn't come, and for some reason his body doesn't go in for first blood like his mind so desperately wants to.
"If you truly hate, then you won't care if, say, a kunai were to find itself lodged in her chest?" that man spoke evenly.
A splash of red tears his eyes from him to her. She is on her knees, one hand planted on the earth, the other clutching at the hilt of a kunai that protrudes from her chest. Realization dawns on him as he watches her struggle for breath. The harsh metal of the weapon has punctured her right lung, likely severing the main bronchus in the process.
This is how he has decided to test his hate. If he passes this test, he can fight him. He will accept that he has enough hate within him. If he passes the test…
Sick freak.
Get ready to attack him. Ignore her.
But sheis badly injured…
Ignore her. She is fine. She is a medic, after all…
…whose chakra is next to zero.
Ignore her. Don't show any reaction. He wants to see my hate. I can't react. He'll accept it if I just don't react. Ignore her.
His opponent is eying him with a slightly livelier gaze. He is gauging his response to what has just happened. If he so much as twitches a hair, he will know. He will know that it is not all right. He will know that he is reeling with invincible feelings that he has hidden beneath hate, but never truly eradicated.
Bonds… How he wishes it were as easy to do away with them as it sounds when he says it. But it has always been that way. That man has always been able to master things far faster and far easier than he could.
But, all he has to do is make him think he has destroyed all his bonds; that he truly hates with all of his being. He must be made to believe that.
That man has a ghost of a smirk on his lips. He seems pleased.
"How cold of you, Sasuke. Your comrade is near death and you do not even bat an eye."
His eyes narrow imperceptibly on that man.
The test isn't over yet.
She is in need of help now.
Ignore her.
That man is going to use her again.
Ignore her. It will be fine if I just ignore herHe is looking for a reaction. I won't give him one. He will be satisfied and abandon this test so we can finally fight.
Unless he wants to take it a step further and kill her.
Ignore her!
He has his emotionless gaze on him, never wavering, poised to catch any miniscule reaction that he might be attempting to mask from his sight.
"She is not my comrade. We have no association, no ties," he speaks evenly, lying with an ease that only comes from having a conscience that has been slumbering under heavy anaesthesia for years. "Consider us as being alone here."
Don't look. I don't want to see the look on her face.
Too late.
Ignore her.
She has a pained expression on her face, and it is clear that it's not only from the wound in her chest. The flash of hurt that occupies her eyes is enough to let him know that she still holds hope that he still cares for them; his old team-mates. That he would someday return. That his betrayal had been committed out of a feeling of necessity, not because they meant nothing to him.
How foolish.
How right, though.
But that cannot come into play now. Later, perhaps, but not now.
He trains his hardened gaze solely on him. Distractions and flaring tempers have kept him from achieving his ambition in the past. This day will be different. He will not let that man live to breathe the same atmosphere as he does. He will begin his new profession as a rotting corpse today. There is no more waiting. All holds have been unhinged. It ends now. It has to end now. He can't---he won't---keep going like this any longer. He has given too much to this one thing; hisMeisterstück; his bloody masterpiece. It has to culminate today. It just has to.
With those thoughts to drive him, he makes the first move, striking out at the man he hates more than anything else in the world. The man who had destroyed his life in a single night of bloodletting. The man who he has further ruined his own life for.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that it was completely illogical to have effectively killed himself in order to deal death to another. To have ruined himself so he could ruin him. To throw back what he had so gracelessly dropped upon him by smothering his own life.
Perhaps he has not heeded his nii-san's instructions as well as he thought. Oh, he hates that man with a vengeance no demon could ever top. That is certain. But did he cling pitifully to life, as he had told him to. Did he survive in an unsightly way?
No. He did not survive at all. He killed himself to get to this point. He is not alive. He is merely a corpse still twitching in its death throes, feigning life, but possessing none.
It did occur to him in the recesses of the murk that is his thoughts, that if he succeeds---no, when he succeeds, for failure is not an option, remember---that it will all mean absolutely nothing. In the end, it will change nothing. His pain, his loneliness, his anger, and his sorrow will still remain, ever clear.
And so the question rises in his mind, as he throws his all into attacking that man---what is the point? It is not for happiness, for he knew from the beginning that revenge would never bring him such a thing---she knew that as well. She had told him that just before he left her on a bench. Her words had not made a difference though. He had already been fully aware of the fact. It is not about happiness.
So, if not for happiness, then what? Peace of mind? He is not so naïve as to believe that his nightmares will vanish with the death of him. They are far too deeply ingrained within his subconscious, he is certain that they can never be scrubbed out.
Is it to put to rest the souls of the slain? He could snort at the thought. The spirits that haunt him exist solely in his fractured mind. They fall in with his horrifying dreams, as they too are etched into his being with acid from red spinning eyes. Those marks cannot be smoothed out.
So what is it about, then? he asks himself, in a hidden corner of his shrivelled---and he is quite certain, nonexistent---soul. The answer evades him, if there is one at all.
Not that he cares. He chose this path. It is his to walk and see through to the end, whatever that finale may be. No one could accompany him with this. Not the dobe. And certainly not her. That is his one absolute in all of this; what he chose to become, what he chooses now to complete, it all has to be done alone. Her laying there with a steadily gushing wound in her chest, her breaths quickly becoming shallower, is perfect proof of that vital fact.
Stop looking. Focus on the battle. Ignore her.
But why?
Just do
His battle is not going as he has always envisioned. It is supposed to be epic; a clash of gods that shakes the foundation of Heaven and the sky of Hell. It should be glorious; a righteous crusader hell-bent on taking down the great deceiver. It is to rage with indelible attacks and stratagems, all to culminate with the dimension-shattering climax of the Avenger slaying the Betrayer, who utters with his final breath, the words that will give the Avenger his entire reason for pursuing this "life" and ignite his burning need to carry on in a new one.
But it is not like that. Their vicious spar carries on with the same atmosphere of any other fight. There are neither grand tactics, nor a sudden turning of the tables just when one seems to have the upper hand.
And it all ends with a simple katana through the chest and spine, chidori rippling through it for good measure. Thebody doesn't hang there in static for heart-pounding moments before it floats down to the marred earth in slow motion. No, it plummets like a stone dropped from a cliff, the life powering it having left the instant the sharp, crackling metal severed its spine.
Profound confessions do not sprout amidst staggered breaths, from the mouth of the defeated nin. Only a thin trickle of blood and possibly saliva creep out of the corner of the slightly parted lips.
Red eyes do not stare up at their slayer, ceding defeat and weakness. They are a dark shade and stare lifelessly up at the gently swaying treetops, never to gaze upon their opponent again.
He stands there for a few seconds, unsure as his mind processes what has just happened. He watches as blood flows out from beneath the slain form in a slowly growing pool, lacking a working heart to force it out any faster.
To his right, barely a metre away, another vermilion lake is forming. He watches it grow for a moment, his dazed mind not immediately grasping what his eyes are seeing.
Then it dawns on him. And his weakened and heavily-wounded body drops to its knees, a show of strength no longer necessary.
The situation makes itself known to his lethargic mind. He is dead. He finally killed him. She is dead. He killed her because he wanted proof of his hate, of his severed bonds.
She is dead.
I couldn't stop it.
Look at hershe's dead.
No, don't look. I don't want to see that.
I could have stopped it.
No, I couldn't have. She shouldn't have been here. I couldn't accommodate her involvement in my strategy. I couldn't deal with that. I was supposed to do this alone.
I didn't even try. I didn't even try…
But try what? Any attempt to save her would have made him believe me unworthy of fighting him and still left her as a target.
I could have helped her; prevented him from throwing that kunai or blocked it. I could have tried. He would have deemed me unworthy of fighting him, but I could have just attacked anyway and forced a fight and won that way. Instead of like this
Different circumstances might not have resulted in the same outcome. If I had helped her, that would have changed the whole battle dynamic. I could have lost that way.
Instead, I won and she died. If I had died in this, then that would have been fine because it was my choice. But she is dead because of a life I chose, though I don't know why anymore. I can't justify this life and so I cannot justify her death with it. This is a pointless death.
Stop thinking about it. Ignore her. I'm not supposed to care.
But I do…and he knew. I hid it well, but still…
He saw that the bonds weren't cut completely. But he saw my ambition had come to the forefront of it all. He knew I wouldn't back down for anything and if I won, this would be his final blow to me. A spiteful taunt to remember him by.
He knew. Even when I didn't, he knew. Always ten steps ahead…
He just sits there between their two cooling bodies, knees caked with mud made of dirt and blood. He stares at the tousled earth between the corpses, watches as their blood pools flow together, forming a red sea that joins the two bodies. One he hated, still does, always will. The other, he feels something different for. He is not sure what, but he knows it is not hate. Not hate, but strangely, it is a lot more challenging than that. It is maddeningly difficult to ignore, especially when coupled with those limpid green eyes and steadfast smile.
That smile.
It doesn't matter how much he ignores it, it never wavers; it doesn't fade. An insult doesn't scratch it; a cold shoulder doesn't faze it. It remains ever faithful, even when he is not. Even now, as she lays in an ocean of her killer's and her own blood, that smile plays ever-so faintly on her paling lips.
And it bothers him that she still smiles for him. After so long, she still does this for him. Only for him. So, he looks away.
Don't look at her. Ignore her.
Ignorance is bliss but, a faint smile floating on a sea of red seems so blissfully ignorant of its situation, it makes him wonder who would be idiotic enough to believe that saying…
Don't look.
Don't glance.
Ignore her.
…Apparently, he is.
The End