The arrow had pierced her throat cleanly; it cut through the flesh as if her skin was made of rice paper. Itachi ran the pad of his thumb along the lip of her wound, collecting the blood that had escaped. A thin trail of red was trickling from between her plump lips, falling down to stain the crow's feather that hung from some string around her neck. His finger fell down to caress that feather.
She had wept the day Itachi pressed it into her calloused palm, whispering promises that he would not be able to keep. All their foolish love was gathered into this small object, and Sakura had clutched it to her chest like it was a jewel.
A silent sob caught in Itachi's throat. It was his arrow that had killed her. His mind tried to insist that she had already been half-dead from the sword in her stomach, that the wound had already ended her story, but he knew that he was lying to himself. Itachi had been aiming for not-Sasuke, but a moment of grief, of hesitation, had caused the arrow to end Sakura's suffering instead.
He had been unable to bare her pain; Itachi's weakness had killed his sweet, bloodied cherry blossom.
Not-Sasuke was standing stone-faced a few feet away, the last remnants of baby fat doing little to soften the cruel sneer he wore as he watched the show. He had been so close to killing the bitch. He had wanted to. Of course, he had wanted to. Love had no place inside him now.
Itachi kissed Sakura once, briefly but deeply, before laying her back down on the soft grass.
Goodbye, and forgive me.
I love you.
Glancing at the face of his poor, poor baby brother, Itachi disappeared in a swarm of crows. One last mournful cry for the loss of his lover ripped from somewhere amongst the broken pieces of Itachi's soul and echoed around the silent forest as black feathers floated down like rain, or tears.