When Orochimaru came again to the village hidden in the leaves on a melodic whim, resounding with destruction, Orochimaru brought with him a troupe of several ninja fine tuned for battle.
He clenched his fists. The scar on his chest burned like an insect's desperation when hopelessly tangled in thick cotton curtains. It always burned. Even after it had completely healed it continued to burn. Even when Anko brushed it lively-loving with her lips or fingertips it burned. Especially at night when he fell into sleep and dreamed of golden eggs it burned. And it always burned and he suspected that it always would. But now particularly, because in the back of the troupe of insignificant faceless sound ninja was a small sandy frame in sandy garb with sandy hands and gold flecked piercing eyes that blended into the golden face.
She stared as if she saw a ghost. Open mouthed with the golden tongue he used to hold on to. He put a lightning blade straight through her chest. And there was no time for reaction. Only time for her tears to come slow and sweet down her cheeks. And even those were golden, too. She closed her eyes when the current began it's firey spiral through her body, and there was a single second in which there was nothing but calm. Soundless, colorless, painless calm. And opening her eyes she saw the look in his and decided not to fight it.
That night it rained full and heavy and when the moisture was almost dried up, and the day was almost out; the sun reflecting off the fading puddles made the streets gleam bright gold. He laid in bed dead awake. His chest burned and he moaned.