ATYP Take Two. Here we go!
As The Years Pass
Prologue
The sun beat down upon his back, the road rough under his feet. His skin crawled with sweat and unease as he stumbled along the barren road, his feet dragging tiredly. His breaths came in short gasps, and his throat felt parched; it was a fierce reminder. He hadn't had anything to drink for two days.
His head pounded out the harsh rhythm of a migraine, and he felt his head spin. He groaned and stumbled to a halt, clutching at his stomach as it turned queasily. With a choking gasp, he retched, feeling acrid bile force its way up his throat, leaving him heaving and gulping for air by the side of the road.
He sank to his knees as his vision swam again.
He coughed, and it felt as though his insides were on fire, his ribs tearing themselves apart as he hauled air into his lungs. His throat burned with every gasp.
Something warm and wet was trickling down his leg; he could feel it. With a groan, his gaze shifted and fixed upon the dirty, haphazard ties of cloth wrapped around his thigh. It was his pitiful attempt at a loose, makeshift bandage. Figures; he had never been the medic in their team.
The wound had opened up again, and refused to close. Blood was soaking through his torn clothes, dripping down his leg and pooling upon the ground; it was dark and sticky against his pale skin.
"Shit…" He couldn't do anything about it now. Instead, he just groaned, pulling himself to his unsteady feet. "Keep moving." He muttered through dry, split lips. "Just keep moving." He couldn't let them take him back.
As soon as he started to walk, he tottered dizzily as the blood began to flow faster. He pressed a hand to his leg, trying to slow the gush of his life's blood. It was a serious wound, he knew, but there was nothing more he could do.
"Just move."
He was a mess, he knew it. His clothes were torn and ragged; they were coated with dust, dirt and dried blood. He limped with every taxing step, and he left a trail of bloody footprints behind him. (Not much of a ninja. They would find him, no doubt.)
As he walked on with his failing strength, he could feel the blood drying and flaking against his skin, to be covered by a newer flow of that crimson liquid. He felt sick.
The road was deserted for the most part, with a person passing by only every once in a while. Some travellers stared at him, opened mouthed, and yet he refused to let them help him, even when they offered; they couldn't possibly know how to treat his kind of wound.
Other people just hurried past, glancing at him fearfully, and tried not to step in the wake of blood he left behind. He cursed them, being too cowardly to even approach him. He just passed them silently. His wound burned and throbbed; every fibre of his being ached with pain, with fever.
One man offered him a drink of water. He took it, hesitantly, gratefully, and nodding his thanks. Not two steps later, and he vomited the liquid back up. He didn't drink again.
It was poison, he reasoned. The wound was poisoned. That's why the wound wouldn't close; that's why his body rejected everything he tried to drink. There was nothing he could do.
He met the same man not an hour later, as the traveller was coming back the way he came. The man looked at him as he passed, sympathy in his eyes. He offered the injured youth some food, but was declined.
"Where are you going, lad?" The man asked, pity, worry, lacing his voice.
He paused in his step, faltering at the question, and fixed the man with a blank look. (He didn't know). After a moment, he answered quietly, his voice cracked and dry. Then, he walked on, leaving the man to wander off in the opposite direction. That was the last person he saw.
Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced through his leg, and he cried out, stumbling. He fell to the ground, his strength finally giving out. For a second, he struggled with his sluggish, unresponsive body. Every movement brought a wave of queasy pain.
He didn't try to get up again.
Instead, he let out a soft moan, lifting his hand from his still-bleeding leg, and gazing at the crimson coating his palm. (That was his blood, his life, stained out right there on his palm.) It was flaking away, bit by bit.
His eyes blinked closed, and he could feel the sun glare down at him. It was as though the sky's fire was trying to burn him into dust as he lay there, unmoving, and the heat beat down around him.
Soon, he realised, he would die. His blood was pooling steadily about him, counting down the drops, the time, until there was nothing left. His breaths were wheezing shallowly, few and far between. Dirt settled on his skin. A mosquito buzzed. He could feel his body shutting down.
'Oh, God,' He thought. 'This is it.'
He could feel the poison creeping through his veins, blood pounding in his ears. It was so loud. His eyes opened a just sliver, to take in the bright, blue sky. Azure, like eyes he once knew. 'I'm sorry…Naruto.'
Suddenly, there were hurried footsteps, and a gasp quickly followed a soft thud; a basket dropping to the ground. A shadow flitted across his vision. Then, a face.
He drew in a final, deep, clear breath… and held it. There was a voice, worried, calling him. Hands were pulling at his shoulders, shaking him; but it didn't matter. Not now. A sigh escaped his motionless lips, (a final exhale), and darkness slowly swallowed him. His eyes were still gazing up at the free sky.
Freedom.
"Where are you going, lad?"
"…Home."
"And where's that?"
"…I don't know."
And so it begins.
