Melon-red
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.
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years—springs many since the Great War's end; friends lost; families interred in the chasm, a deep pit afflicted by a peculiar flora, where her team last fought; a land whose breast had bled out, and onto its visage another life had begun . . . years ago; flowers, cardinal and robust, each deeper than the other—susurrating, war's mnemonics, forever swaying . . .
Shinobi—dead and buried, forgotten; for when you could not see, you moved past time—no, it flowed past you, a pebble in the path that was movement . . . inertia she could never cease.
Now, silver had come into her hair; no longer remnants of merry-making, but of time; and she had thought many times to wear upon her skin a youthful bearing; but at peace was her heart . . . some of it, not all; and you could wrestle kami to the grounds—over and over and over again—but a life lived was a life lived, after all.
Naruto had won—they had won—a victory upon the air like songs; but the heart, a piece of hers, an intimate chamber within which she let in no passenger. . . was broken; and time had yet to turn itself into a balm.
And he was gone, her heart stolen, into a realm where he felt he belonged; and before him, let out she had her love, seventeen and so young, confessions tumbling down from the tongue faster than Shinobi fell in war—his back to her and Naruto's grief, claret his eyes, a rude farewell, eternal; and she never thought what forever meant before, words borne of naiveté; but she had felt them hard, springs that had come and gone, taken bits of her spring with them; hair, dust-hued, memories that would never leave.
Still, she remembered: his body in the air, fire—all fires; his hand she had hoped to grasp, a phantom in the air she could only chase. They said that Sharingan never let the wielder forget; each memory, a carving, a lasting malady; yet born without their life-blood, she could remember him still . . . a painting more beautiful than may and every spring; merry, her heart; eyes, cups of joy. There was no one like he—never had been—never would be!
As a child she adored, the cheery-love vivid in his lips; upon them, a kiss she wanted to leave, beats amiss, a little memory . . . of hers, too; a melon-red up above, a love that ripened with her body; but not all things could be yours—so long, she wanted to say—I will love you—wait—she must have said . . .
War—Peace—? They all won, but he felt that it was his loss; Konoha, a sepulture hidden in leaves, that still mocked. What was left here to do now, but mourn beneath its towering peaks, leave the land . . . and find his own peace . . . ? She had gone over to his house many times, and without him, it was a body without heart—cold, like the cadavers she dealt with at the hospital; no pulse, no veins, no . . . love she could look upon and call her own; just . . . little toys he must have played with as a child; she had slipped one in her pocket, kept it close to her breast; and it was still with her . . . after all these years . . . somethings you just could not part with . . . never—not ever!
And she had taken Naruto's hand, bore him children—two sons, images of him and her; and they had their own children; and they theirs. He was gone, a man who had kept her happy, buried by his parents' side; silent beneath Leaf's soil, shade of a leaning tree upon his grave-stone. Where would she liked to be buried, now that she had so few memories to weave? She confessed to herself, her spirit was still lost . . . wandering about the place he had left them all—left Naruto . . . left her; and that part, that piece, was still a girl, seventeen and so in love.
Sometimes, when rains rotated against misty veils, Leaf's summer days . . . she gazed up at the sky, a bold cerise above sun, wondered: where was he now, imbued with Sage's love that had made him and his spirit eternal—body and mind? Would he ever tear open his world's window, peer into her heart (eyes whose greens years had dulled), find the love that was . . . enduring? Smiling, sun and leaves' greys swaying to-and-fro across her cheeks, thinking . . . she would find him, for he would still be the Sasuke he knew; and she would be new, in love with him all over again . . . maybe . . . in another time . . .
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EN: A sort of companion piece to Blue; but, this time, it involves Sakura in lieu of Hinata.
The End