He breathed through his cracked lips, feeling like a floating entity traveling in and out. He wondered how his sword ended up between his lips and on his tongue, but he realized that his weapon was actually in hand and inside mouth was the warm, metallic thickness of blood. It gurgled upwards like a volcano and he would have lugged himself up from his laid down position, had he not felt so heavy. He hadn't tasted blood since long, long ago, when he was twelve and stupid and weak, and memories of there were banished. Exiled.
His helplessness sickened him, and dirt gathered under his fingernails as he attempted to claw his way up to a sitting position from his spread eagled form. His teeth gritted and he kept coughing out a mixture of bile and blood, disgusted. His vision wavered in and out like a scratchy black and white television, but he was sure the blood was on his hands, he was sure it was dark, dark crimson and drying only to be revived with another stream from his body. The white of his shirt was muddy and red, with an odd mixture of colors like green and purple and red and brown, not sure where some of them came from.
He could see blurs, orange and pink and bright colors that stood out against the barren wasteland that used to be grassy and happy and teeming with the abundance of life, like his family in a life he lived long ago. In a life he abandoned, to be reborn and fulfilled with the light sheen of blood of that monster, pure scarlet staining the ground. He realized, that in the simplicity of death dawdling and the chakra ceasing flow, that his sharingan was off. He saw skies of pure darkness, pure dawning, dawning of evil or good or something, he did not know, did not wish to know, did not understand. In comparison, it was like he heard nothing; the strident screams were as natural as silence would be, and only one thing in the blundering screeches stood out.
The voice echoed and screamed in such emotion that he hadn't felt in years. He couldn't quite hear the words, and his curiosity heightened along with his focus. He pushed himself into a wavering stance.
He managed to reason that his own name was what was being repeatedly called despite the odd feeling of deafness in his ears. He felt misty and dreamy, as if at a distance; just waking up or just falling asleep. His head pumped and his muscles groaned. His senses felt unfamiliar and rusty, squeaking and squealing with any usage like aged machinery. Black began to stain his shivering vision, and he realized, his head beginning to fall back again as the voice in the back of his mind became shrill, that he was falling.
The last thing Sasuke remembered was a blinding glow.
...to be continued...