Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Day Five
She could have survived.
She could have survived.
These are the thoughts that Sasuke Uchiha wakes up with, his eyes blank, and rolls over to watch his little son, his little baby boy, breathe in and out softly, his tiny fingers curling around his thumb.
Sakura could have lived...if not for you.
Sasuke has to look away—he does not want to resent the baby Sakura has given her life for. He does not want to insult her love, her affection, her memory.
He bites his lip as the familiar tears burn his eyes and the lump in his throat grows.
(Because that is all she is now. A memory.)
The graveyard is empty this early in the morning.
A soft, filtering light slowly creeps into the quiet cemetery and the stones begin to warm at the gentle touch of the sun's rays. The air is still, the frost beginning to recede at the light of day and it makes for a beautiful picture, the crystalline ice scintillating in the morning sun.
His footsteps are heavy as he crosses the wet, cold grass and his lips twitch in a half-smile as he remembers how Sakura would have been pouting, the tips of her ears red, her nose already a spot of crimson, if she were here.
The tears don't come today. The loss sits heavy on his frame, weighing down his soul, filling his throat with a lump of emotion.
His hands are trembling.
Her name glints in the light, the golden letters reminding him of the agony writhing inside him, the slow, desperate madness that begins to take over his soul as he remembers the shaky handwriting of the lead medic of her case.
"Hello sweeting." Kizashi's voice is low and rough and it wavers with every spoken syllable. He has to pause, his throat squeezing, his eyes burning as he stares at his daughter's name on the gravestone.
It winks at him mockingly.
"…I understand." He gives a half-smile, the best he can do in this situation. The best he will ever be able to do with this situation. "I would have done everything—"
Kizashi swallows hard.
"I forgive you," he whispers.
A starling chirps in the morning of the day and the sun warms the back of his neck. His hands curl into the frosty grass, the dirt smearing across his fingers.
He thinks of love and all of its squandered possibilities.
Her papa is emptier today. Sarada can tell by the way he barely reacts to her voice, how he keeps his grip on little Kaito, eyes spinning with the sharingan every time Boruto steps too close. Boruto, for his part, tries to inject some cheer in the somber air, with ill-timed jokes and strained laughter but only manages to make her grandfather leave the room in a huff, his eyes empty and hurt at a comment that sounds too much like something her mother would say and her father turn even more protective of her baby brother, barely letting anyone close to him.
Sarada knows her father is a standoffish man. He is a big man, with a lean body and a menacing frame, not to mention the piercing mis-matched eyes that could pin Shinigami in their shoes, stealing his way into their souls.
But, her father is not this.
Not this man with the straight line for a mouth, not the man with empty eyes and a tight grip on the only thing left of his wife. Not the man who doesn't eat, not the man who doesn't shower, not the man who lets scruff begin to form on his face, a five-o'clock shadow showing by the end of the day.
It is evening when Sarada has had enough.
"Otou-san." Her voice cracks—she doesn't want to do this, she wants to wallow and cower and hide away like he is doing but—but—but, they owe it to Kaito, to Grandfather, to themselves and anyone who had ever loved her mother to try and do their best.
To try and live, even if it was painful and cruel and terrifying—
They owed it to her mother to try.
"Otou-san." Sarada says again in a steadier voice. "Please, tell me what is wrong."
Her father levels her with an empty, grief-stricken look and Sarada tries to hide the tears that are misting her eyes.
"Please, Otou-san. I can help you. We owe it—we owe it to Mama."
Papa's eyes flash with something and suddenly he stands up. His fists are clenched and little Kaito begins to fuss as he notices his father's ire.
Sarada's mouth goes dry as she finds a glint of furious rage, anger and devastating grief.
"Yes." Her father nearly spits out. "We do owe it to your mother."
It is the last thing that is said that night.
Her grandfather makes her a cup of tea with tired, empty eyes and a wavering smile but she nods and takes a couple of sips to please him.
She bursts into heaving, harsh sobs when she realizes he makes it just like her mother did.
Sarada goes to bed shaking, tears crawling down her cheeks.
Tell me what you think! Just so y'all know, this is going to be a slow-burn fic. It's going to have 365 chapters-ish so the chapter lengths might vary according to the mood/intent of it! Hope you all liked it :)