It burned. It never stopped. It raged in his ears like a never-ending waterfall of pain, going on forever and ever, never stopping. Never ceasing. It burned under his skin, setting his inside aflame. His glasses melted on his face, molten glass and lead burning into his face, what skin there was. He wanted to scream, but the fire would fill his mouth, burn his throat, inhale super-heated scorching air. He wanted to yell, cry out from the depths of what was left of his lungs.
But he could not.
All he could do was look up.
Into snaky yellow.
In spite of all the horror, the flame, the fire, he wanted to ask a million questions. But his mind would not communicate with his mouth. All ties to his body were being separated. The end was coming.
His body trembled with horror, shock, pain, searing, killing, hurting, murdering.
He could only look up into those eyes.
He wanted to scream. Why couldn't he scream? Why couldn't he even open his mouth? Why couldn't he move? Why? Why? Why? Why was he on fire?
Why did pain and rage and shock burn, burn him, branding, killing, searing him slowly. Why was it so slow? Why couldn't he just die? Why did it go on and on forever and ever? Why?
Why was he smirking? Why was that man smirking, smiling at his suffering? Why is he trying to kill me?
His whole body glowed red and orange, flames licking, almost tasting, biting his body. His clothes were simply fuel to the fire, adding, keeping it burning, setting his skin on fire. His silver hair burned off, leaving the skin of his scalp venerable, and was instantly covered in flames. The pain. It covered him like a second flesh. They were one, the horror and Kabuto. He was burning alive.
Why?
Why did he kick him aside? Why did his unresponsive body roll over the cold, mercifully cold ground?
Why couldn't the frozen cold ground stop the burning? Why did the flames spread to the ground, like a dieses, a pandemic, cover the ground, killing, murdering all around him?
He writhed in the agony, sheer agony. When? When would it stop? When would the pain stop?
When would it stop? When? Why was no one answering him? Why couldn't he speak? Why could no one hear him? Why couldn't he scream?
Orochimaru stood above him. Why was he killing him?
Kabuto had a million questions. A million questions he could not physically ask.
But he had to speak. He had to cry out. He had to exhaust his chakra out and use his last bit of strength in his cremating body to ask.
One flaming hand wrenched weakly around the bandages that surrounded the sennin's legs, as if they were a life line to this earth, a savior from the murder, the burning.
He was dying. No life line could save him. He was being cremated alive.
With the last of his life in the dying, flaming body, he connected his mind.
"WWWWWHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYY?"
His question drawn out to a yell, a scream of pain, a cry of agony. Of pain felt now, and before.
Pain brought to his failing mind as he lay burning. Pain of nineteen years of life full of the same pain.
He died.
His body was nothing more then a pile of ashes. Ashes of a life, a once loyal henchman.
Orochimaru smiled.
Kabuto's question would never be answered. He burned when he died. He would forever know the terror of the flame in the depths of hell, where he would writhe in agony for all of eternity.
Orochimaru was smiling at the pile of blackened bones jutting from the ashes of a fricasseed body.
A living human. Burned to death before his eyes.
And he smiled.
In his insane mind, nothing had been done. He had used his henchmen as many others. He had been used like a tool, and once defective, was discarded. All his defective tools had been discarded.
He murdered three. He poisoned one. And he burned one.