Away from the battle, all is quiet, save for the faint susurration of the breeze through the boughs of the ancient trees, carrying with it the occasional distant cries of the shinobi who have united against this one doom of eternal illusion; a death without dying. Sometimes the breeze brings with it the rank undercurrent of blood and burning.
Maybe it never was. He’d always thought of himself as the agent of change and chaos; turning the windmills he’d always found so boring, creating newness out of the pit of stagnation. Now it seemed that the chaos had gotten away from him and grown out of anyone’s control into a thing of such grotesqueness that even he, Orochimaru, found himself unwilling to embrace it.
A death without dying. He’d already experienced it once at Sasuke’s hands, and again at Itachi’s. He did not want to experience it again, this indignity of being aware, yet powerless to break free of the Mobius loop. No. As vehemently and obsessively as he had evaded death, Orochimaru knew that if he were ever to die he’d rather go down in flame and glory, on his terms.
But he isn’t thinking about that now. He’d done his good deed for today. He’d healed the Kages. He’d given them one last chance to defend their world. Tsunade had thanked him, but who knew if she really trusted him, or ever could? He supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. He’d been nothing if not thorough in burning his bridges with poisonous glee. It was hard to rebuild something from the ashes of what it had once been.
The cave mouth yawned before him; the site of his second resurrection. He paused to study it, knowing already what lay within, his face emotionless, betraying no hint of what or who his thoughts had turned to. With a soft sigh he moved again, his shadow stretching out ahead of him, snaking along the ground.
It fell upon two inert forms; one standing, head slouched forward as if in deep concentration, silver hair disheveled. Kabuto.
Only now did Orochimaru’s face show any hint of emotion; he studied his former servant, a complex tangle knotting itself in his chest. There was disappointment, heavy and leaden, although he wasn’t certain why. Kabuto had served him faithfully in his time, had guarded him and healed him. Orochimaru had chosen him personally. But to see finally how deep the rot had spread left him feeling not unlike a father who’d discovered that his son had become someone he no longer recognized; a twisted parody of what he’d once loved.
The second form lay on her back, and he would have thought her dead had he not been able to sense the weak pulsing of her chakra, still stubbornly clinging to life. He edged closer to her, gazing down on her with a mixture of pity and regret at all she’d had to suffer because of him.
(I’m cutting it off here, because I need to get to work. )
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