Echoes of the Sun
I wrote something. I can't believe it. It's been more than two years since my last attempt at writing anything serious. I'm so happy !
Okay sure this wasn't the best way to say hello but well, Naruto's ending put me in a trance-like state and I needed to evacuate my negative feelings. Hence, the story of Naruto's death, which eerily resemble my own perception of those last few days. I gotta say it was quite carthartic.
oOo
It starts as a rumor. Like white noise from a broken TV. The vague echo of thunder rolling miles away from your bed, loud enough to wake you up from your slumber, yet faint enough to let you wonder whether it belonged to the land of your dreams.
Then comes a chill, quick and silent, travelling through bodies at the speed of light, from bewildered mouths to unsuspecting ears. Tiny flakes of winter sprinkled on the emerald fields, catching the sunlight for an instant before they disappear. Disbelief prevails, laughter can be heard.
After that, a blast wave spreads. The dam cracks open and the water flows, untamed, violent, flooding hearts with oceans so deep the things that swim inside won't and can't be named. Oceans so vast they are deemed to overflow somehow, before the Earth itself implodes. Disbelief remains, laughter is gone.
It ends with a question, "Why ?".
And then, silence.
ooo
There is a child in the garden distractedly playing with a sunflower, tearing its petals off like a lovesick idiot. His eyes are dead and his hands covered in red paint. His mother calls from inside the house. He doesn't answer. Gets on his feet and walks away.
There is a woman in a bright white room with her forearms plunged in somebody else's chest. A single tear runs down her cheek. An assistant wipes it clean without even asking. She's got no time to waste with this. This is a life she can save. And will. This one she will.
There is a man sprawled on a wooden floor, his eyebrows twiching from the familiar pain that slowly increases behind his eyelids. The old lady next to him is smiling and the joy he feels knowing that is overwhelming, as always. Yet, it's not right. He's bleeding. Something's missing.
There is a wife waiting in an deserted property she can no longer call home. She has to stay strong. You have to stay strong, she says, and drops the thin blade she was pressing against her stomach. Her daughter is safe. She calls for her son. He doesn't answer. Then again, he never did.
ooo
Multitudes mourn, as expected. The days still in a frozen daze. Duties suspended and soldiers summoned back. The days turn into weeks and nobody cares. The ability to care is lost among the shreds of both innocence and happiness torn apart.
Multitudes don't understand, though. The weight of knowledge is thrown upon a selected elite that went through hell as one and came back from it, not always in one piece, but blessed with the rare gift that is hope. For better tomorrows. For an healthier world to live, and not survive, in. It takes them less than a minute to realize that nothing has been done and that the shadows hiding behind the sun will no longer be waiting to swallow them whole.
Multitudes bathe themselves in ignorance. They will never know he basically screwed them all.
ooo
It's a beautiful morning, sunday-like, warm and inviting. The kind of weather warranting well-deserved laziness, introduction to forgotten books and hushed confessions beneath the sheets. Strangely enough, today not a soul lies in bed and buildings are empty. A few people wander aimlessly down the streets, black ghosts trying not to look behind their backs. Those won't show up. They can't.
The rest of the village is huddled in ranks so tight the crows gathering in the sky can't see the road underneath. They move, a huge dark mass slowly crawling forward, swallowing the pavement to feed its need for closure.
They reach the cemetery around midday. The cicadas' cries do nothing to soften the scorching heat poisoning the air. The elderlies are panting, raising shaky fingers to their burning throats. Water bottles are passed over to them without a single word.
The ceremony itself is far from moving. It feels quite rushed, or rather would if anyone in attendance actually wanted to be here. Inane speeches are uttered and all forgotten as soon as the next one begins. None among the closest ones had expressed the wish to speak up, anyway.
They stand in a circle, the fantastic Twelve, now Nine, of Konoha. Drapped in that kind of dignity that can only be perfectly faked. They stand together, several meters separating them from the crowd, like they never belonged. They never belonged. Not even their families dare to approach and shatter their harmony. They are above and beyond and so desperately alone.
The first man leaves and others follow. Soon, only those who matter remain. The stamped on grass is no longer green and benevolent ninjas discreetly killed all the cicadas. The wife collapses but is caught before her rounded belly hits the hard ground. The son's whereabouts are still unknown.
Rivers of golden sand appear out of nowhere and start filling the gaping grave. The soothing sound is drowned by the woman's sudden howl of agony. It takes her entirely by surprise and for a second she is so sure someone did plunge their hands into her chest and reduced her heart to a bloody mush. Hell, it's not like she doesn't know the feeling.
He's not even here, dammit. All those years in exile and he never got to grow a pair and face his responsibilities.
What a a fucking waste.
Except he's there. The man, he is. Coiled in the only corner of obscurity he could find like a wounded beast. You'd think he'd be watching the scene but he's bleeding. The holes that used to be his eyes are bleeding. There's nothing left... Except void. The destiny of the moon when the sun is destroyed.
Eventually, they're all gone. Night falls.
That guy shows up late, as usual. His head is hung low and he looks older than his age. He sighs, puts something on the tombstone and pops off the scenery like he was never there.
The stars shine bright tonight, the atmosphere is crystal clear.
And the Hokage hat sways gently in the wind.
oOo
For those wondering what it is Sasuke is doing exactly in this fic, well I've got this persistant headcanon about him travelling the world to help mentally ill or impaired patients heal using his Sharingan and genjutsu capacities. It suits him well, I think. I plan to explore this idea in later works but feel free to use it if you like it ! Everyone needs more positive plots about Sasuke :)
Thanks for reading anyway ! I know I'm a monster for doing this but I hope you'll be able to forgive me. (Also english isn't my mother tongue so sorry about possible typos, grammatical errors etc... I did my best to proofread it but please tell me if I missed anything. I'll correct it ASAP !)