Rain patters against leaves, loud in comparison to the quiet emptiness of the forest in the dark night. Clouds coloured with the darkest ink painted the night sky, blotting out the stars and moon. The only things to be seen were the raindrops streaking down through the air, green leaves, and damp bark. And the man watching it all, black cloak and red clouds circling his frame in the silent wind. Black hair drifted--unbound--about his stoic features, framing pale skin.
On nights like this, he'd often remember things. Things he'd prefer stay resting would awake with the rain to haunt him and drench him in nostalgic feelings, to soak through his clothes and skin and deep into his core, leaving behind that stiff ache in his chest that he despised almost as much as his brother despised him.
(Almost)
His body remembered as well. If he let his mind drift, he could still feel the feather-light weight of the sleeping child on his back, small arms loosely wrapped about his neck. The faint warmth seeping through his back. The quiet breathing in his ear.
But that was a long time ago.
The man had asked someone once, asked them what in nature they thought was most destructive. He didn't know why he'd asked. It was a pointless question, fueled by a pointless and unfounded curiosity. Still, the answer had been quick. The one asked hadn't even needed to think about it: fire. Fire was the most naturally destructive, above everything. Fire could wipe away this entire forest and leave nothing but ash to be blown away in a breeze.
Complete obliteration of what once was. Of what was a beautiful painting in the midst of the bustling humanized world.
But. . .
But what if this beautiful painting was only smoke and mirrors? What if it was all a hoax, and plan to hide the dark and horribly twisted reality of a land of death, despair and hopelessness? What if the peace and happiness encouraged by this 'beauty' was based on lies and crooked truths?
These questions were pointless, of course. No one would know if the painting was real and perhaps, perhaps that was a good thing. If people lived in a peace that wasn't real, and given a happiness that was falsely created, wasn't it still happiness?
The rain kept falling, washing away everything. Now, the rest of the world did not exist. It was just the man, his memories, and the painting around him. It was a nice feeling, and eased the ache in his chest somewhat. Perhaps the rain would never stop. Perhaps this painting would be preserved forever, dampened to the point that flames could never catch fire. Perhaps he could stay in the brighter world that lingered in his memories forever, the world where betrayal and despair were merely a vision of the future. Perhaps he could stay in the world where things were simple, where he was. . .happy.
But he knew better.
In a few days, Itachi would die. He would be killed, and by the memory he desired to return to. That was the harsh reality. But, at least that memory would be the last thing he saw, the last thing he felt. Because he knew this would be the last time to live that memory. Itachi knew.
No matter what lie beyond death, it would not be this twisted forest in the rain.