Human Talking
Flashback
Bijuu talking
He could see it.
The smoke that covered the once bright blue sky-the bodies that lay on top of each other faces distorted and would have been labeled as "unknown" if he hadn't witnessed their deaths-and the empty, emotionless eyes that were once full of hope and determination.
He could see the once living children's eyes; frightened yet full of hope for a new day. For a new future. Even in the last seconds of life, they held onto what little hope they had and asked for their friends' safety and peace for the future. When the parents found out about their children's death, their eyes would be filled with-not only tears-but betrayal. And they would mourn. Every single one of them grieved. They all yearned for their children's lives.
He could feel it: the warm tears that would run down his face when he grieved, the feeling of his comrades' warm blood that remained on his hands no matter how hard he scrubbed. And he could feel the betrayal in everyone's hearts after each, and every single one of his promises was broken.
The promises he made were never met. They were always shattered into pieces of broken glass.
Promises for hope-shattered.
Promises for peace-broken.
Promises for the reunion of families-torn.
"Those words, 'I'll never let my comrades die,'" Obito mocked. "Now look around you and say it again!"
The blonde did. Bodies piled on top of each other, thorns and bones impaled through their flesh.
He hated Obito, even more, that day.
He hated Obito for making him grieve, for killing his friends.
But after Obito's real death and the disappearing of a silver-haired nin's Sharingan, the Uzumaki forgave the old Uchiha, no matter how many crimes he committed.
That was when he believed everyone deserved forgiveness. That was before he became the hokage. Before the war that had killed millions.
"As the bodies of your comrades grow cold in your arms, take in their deaths!" He remembered those words as clear as day now that the bodies of his friends' corpses fell around him like dominoes.
He could hear it: the screaming of people giving it their all only to end up in the cruel hands of death. The stomping of feet onto the blood-soaked ground. And the whispers of his people begging for their loved ones to be spared, some weeping with a sad smile on their face to see their friends and families one last time before they fell into their eternal rest.
A cruel death that forced its way into the mind of his wife, Hinata, who had died in his arms while she whispered rambles of how she was proud of their children and how she wished to see them grow up into great shinobi, before slowly closing her eyes.
He couldn't bear it-seeing as they all took their final breaths they held regret. Always about family. Always about never-ending friendship.
He could feel it: the burning flames that wanted to reach out and engulf him in their deadly embrace; to punish him and send him to the depths of Hell for him to atone for his sins. But they never did. They never could.
He could feel it, see it, hear it all: the hellish screams-the whispers of death that threatened him in his sleep, replying his comrade's death-the pain that engulfed his whole body-the people of all the hidden villages reaching out to sacrifice themselves to save him and the many children that had yet to see the blinding sun, the green grass that used to cover most of the land, and the blue waves of the ocean that surrounded Umi No Kuni.
He almost remembered the cold touch of water that engulfed his hands when he reached down to catch a meal. That was before the river was mixed with blood; before all the ash and wood made the once clean water undrinkable.
He watched as his pink-haired teammate burn to ashes trying to save a child that was targeted by a fireball user. Of course, shortly after, the child had died from committing suicide.
The leader couldn't blame him; poor boy saw many things he shouldn't have at a young age, but at the same time, the pink-haired kunoichi's sacrifice was wasted.
Much like the other sacrifices from the other companions.
They would all rise up from the dead only to kill their friends. They would all be used as puppets.
And soon they burned the dead to ash and dust. They would carry off into the wind and mix with the charred soil.
The people around him were like pillars, holding him up so he wouldn't break apart and fall into insanity.
That was, what was left of the people important to him.
Then came the day when someone sacrificed themselves for him. The damn kusarigama was aimed at HIM. The leader. Not the teacher he cared about.
And yet again the lecturer sacrificed himself for the younger student.
The damn enemy-nin got a quick but painful death in the mere span of two seconds in the hands of a furious Hokage.
"Do not cry over our sacrifices," his teacher whispered, trembling in his student's arms. "Instead, be happy. Be the leader you are and lead the next generations with a smile. Lead them to a peaceful future. Promise me that." The father figure held back a flinch when the pain in his wound throbbed harshly, the adrenaline no longer numbing the pain. He pressed his hands against his student's tear-stained face, wiping away the warm drops of liquid that ran down his tan, scarred cheeks.
The younger man choked, "Sensei, you know-"
"Promise me!" the teacher yelled pleadingly, interrupting the blonde in the middle of his hopeless doubts only to wince in pain and let out a pained groan.
The blue-eyed male grimaced. Said man hated this. He never asked for this.
The younger male stared down at his former teacher. The scar that was cut across the older man's nose didn't compare to the heavily bleeding wound that was on his stomach.
The Nanadaime took in an unsteady breath before letting out a slow and quiet "I promise."
At that, the chocolate haired man grinned weakly and trembled as he reached for his student's hair to ruffle. The blue-eyed man gave his teacher a small smile, knowing that the older man would not want to see his student frown, especially when he was dying in his student's arms.
Calloused hands made contact with bright blonde hair, somehow messing it up even more. The tan man's blue eyes blurred. He blinked and felt the trickle of warm liquid slide down his cheeks, past his permanent whisker-like scars, stinging his laceration that was healing on its own.
"I am very proud of you," the older man paused, took a deep breath, then continued, "Please do not lose sight of what's important. The sacrifices we made are for the future generations. For you. Do what you must to protect what's left of the village. We are shinobi. We do not die in vain. We only die to protect and serve-" he let out a violent cough. He retreated his hand from the cerulean-eyed man's hair.
Said man shut his eyes, unable to stop his tears from spilling out from his orbs that had cried too many tears, that had adjusted to the smoke that had smelled of burning flesh, that had seen too many deaths of his village--his family--that had been forcefully pushed into the hands of death.
"My time is running out," the chunin murmured to himself, hoping the younger shinobi wouldn't hear; but he did. Cerulean eyes widened and eyebrows furrowed together as the shinobi concentrated, calculating solutions in his head to save at least ONE person in this cruel world. His eyes flashed with messages of desperation. The chunin mentally cursed at himself but smiled anyway.
"I'm sorry," he awkwardly chuckled, then winced when he felt his whole body being jerked into a tight embrace from the Nanadaime. Salty drops of liquid formed in his eyes. He slowly wrapped his arms around his student's torso, ignoring the pain from his heavily bleeding wound.
"I'm very proud of you, Naruto," he finally whispered.
The hokage's breath hitched. The blonde long since abandoned that name and now hearing it once more sounded so...foreign.
Was there really nothing he could do? Anything?
He tried medical ninjutsu. Nothing. No results. No blood was stopping no matter how much chakra he channeled to his hands.
He cursed at himself for not listening to the pink-haired kunoichi. If only he took the time to listen and watch. If only he hadn't slept during her lesson. If only he knew this war was going to last for two years.
This was his fault. Every scream, every wound, every tear, every death-all of the bad that came from this war-it was all his fault.
With short breaths and squinted eyes, his father-figure ordered, "Naruto, listen. Look at me."
The younger man hesitantly obliged.
"None of this is your fault. None of it," the scarred man said. "I believe-no-I know you will win this war."
"Iruka-" the jinchuuriki began but then was interrupted again.
"You will."
The younger man said nothing. He was still processing every second of this moment. He was even thinking about ways he could save his teacher that was like a father to him. The chocolate brown haired man was one of the few people who were kind to him. Who treated him like a person, not an evil bijuu that had tried to kill their village a few decades earlier.
"Naruto, I want you to remember us not in sorrow, but in happiness, pride, and honor," Iruka whispered weakly, suddenly feeling cold. "Although we are dead and gone, the memory and love we give you will carry on and stay inside your heart." Iruka felt tired and couldn't feel his limbs. It was getting harder to breathe.
Naruto smiled grimly, "You're right, Iruka. I just have to keep going no matter what. I will not put your sacrifices to waste." Determined, he narrowed his eyes, a fire burning inside for the first time in years. "I will absolutely win the war, no matter how close I am to death, dattebayo!"
Iruka chuckled hoarsely and whispered a final, "I'm so proud of you" before darkness consumed him.
The seventh Hokage felt Iruka's body stop trembling. The arms that were wrapped around his torso dropped limp. Naruto felt the bleeding body weigh down on his own and heard an exhale come out of his teacher's mouth one last time.
"Iruka-sensei?" Naruto called out quietly.
No.
"Iruka! Hey!"He exclaimed, smiling as if he were being played in a dirty prank, even though the jinchuuriki knew he wasn't.
Not now.
He pulled away from his teacher, hands gripping both of his former teacher's shoulders tightly.
Just one more minute. One more minute of laughing. One more minute of hearing his adopted father's voice. Only one more minute was good enough, goddammit, please!
Naruto's smile dropped as realization washed over him like a tsunami.
Iruka Umino was gone. Iruka Umino was dead.
And he's never coming back.
A shrill cry echoed through the air. It was lonely and desperate. The noise ripped through Naruto's throat as if warning him to be quiet. It was a warning that told him not to show any weaknesses because he was only a mere shinobi. It was when he clenched his teeth and glared at the sky he came back to reality. He failed another comrade. Another life that could have been saved if he had just paid attention.
The echoes of his teacher's words took over his mind.
"I'm so proud of you."
"Do not cry over our sacrifice."
Those words confused the young Hokage.
Confused his emotions.
He wanted to be brave, to fight for the children of the village; but at the same time, he wanted to cry, to weep for yet another failure. For another death that would forever haunt his dreams.
Once the blonde finally calmed down, he got up and laid his teacher down into a more comfortable position. It was more respectful this way, right?
The Nanadaime Hokage took one last look at the chuunin before turning his back. There was warmth in his chest, and there was a rush. A rush he hadn't felt for a long, long time.
The choice was made.
Determination flashed in his eyes like lightning. A fire was burning in his soul as he dusted himself off with a fox-like grin graced onto his face.
"Let's do this, dattebayo!"
The real hell had only just begun.