Prologue
Death was on the cards that day. Blood dripped down the walls like thick paint; bodies were strewn about like play dolls left to rot. There were no moans of the dying, only the steady silence of the dead. Great sin hung in the air, catching in the lungs and choking the only conscious being left. It was here that fate would take its course.
The man was shaking, but that didn't matter. Ignoring the blood, he rivaled the dead in their silence, picking his way through. The tears streamed down his cheeks, even though he promised himself that he could do this, that he would stay strong. But maybe insanity was the better option. And it was his strength that caused him this pain…
He was almost to his destination. And it was one of the things he had dreaded most. The door to his target was now in view, the house without the red stain of sin. Unlike all others, this house was untouched. But soon it will bear the greatest sin of all. Hazily, the man slowly pushed open the door, and it creaked softly, as if trying to protest the goings on in its threshold. A valiant effort, but all in vain. There was no going back.
The man sluggishly pushed his way in, stumbling through the halls as his exhaustion finally caught up with him. The tears clouded his eyes and it was all he could do to keep going. The hall wasn't very long, but for the man, it was an eternity unto itself.
He was there. And it was time.
He pressed his ear to the final door at the end of the hallway and heard the shallow breathing, the delicate life that it held. The life that he would have to end. This door didn't creak as he stepped in the room, didn't put up a fight. The room itself was dim and bare. Empty and hallow save for a bed and a desk. Maybe it was more cheerful with the smell of dinner cooking and the echoing laughter of children jumping on the bed and climbing on the desk…
On the bed lay a woman.
And she is very important.
The man approached the woman, whose breath came out in weak, shallow pants. Border lining hysteria. She clutched something close to her chest, a small thing made desperately to look even smaller. He admired her effort.
The woman looked up at him, beautiful even in her weakness, the tears trickling down her porcelain skin and night velvet hair.
"Please," she whispered. "Please…"
The knife was drawn in shaking hands, made bright with the tears of the murderer. The tears of the damned. He did not say a word.
"I love you," she said, reaching out a desperate hand.
He averted his gaze. Couldn't bear to look into her eyes. The tears helped him not to feel, clouding his vision from her and the outstretched hand.
She retracted it. Choosing instead to clutch her bundle closer.
The knife was raised. And the realization that there was no hope for her made the woman determined.
"Keep her safe," she said, her tears were there, streaming, but they were ignored because there was work to be done and life to be saved. "Keep our daughter safe."
The man looked her in the eyes. And nodded.
The knife was lowered as blood mixed with tears. It was done.
The bundle started to cry.
The woman, choking and coughing, took one last look at her killer, her only love. She smiled.
"You cannot run away from the things you have done," she whispered. And died.
The man gently picked up the bundle and turned. "I'm not running," he said.
Itachi Uchiha left. And he did not return for three long years.