story by: IamGhost

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto or any of it's characters.


Introduction

A battle cry was heard, but oh it was no ordinary war cry, it was the only one that made all foes shiver with fright, it was the only one capable of bringing all the enemies on their knees and begging for mercy, it was the only one that even frightened allies; it was the one that signaled that Sabaku no Gaara was angry, very angry.

With no hesitation he slaughtered, even if the enemy was crying and begging for compassion, he relished bathing on the blood of his enemies wantonly as dark desire for seeing pain and feeling pain invaded the berserk redhead. He only felt good when fighting and he would always crave for more, more crimson rivers and lifeless bodies littering the ground, he always prayed for a new red moon, for another fight to be in.

"Get out of the way, Kankurou!" he growled, blood splattered all over their armors as the vicious redhead plunged his darkened sword into the chest of an enemy and straight into its heart, instantly killing him. "Gaara…we are outnumbered by the enemy, I think we should pull back" his brother stated, parrying the sword of another adversary. "No we shan't! We can't turn back defeated to our king…I shall die than facing that humiliation" the brunette growled and signaled for the rest of the army to retreat. "Stop being so damn proud and start to value your life!" his brother shouted as their allies started to back away. "NO! We're not retreating, not unless I'm dead" he roared, signaling angrily to his allies to go back to their positions. "Damn you and you're pride" his brother stated before running into the crowd and out of the sight of the blood-thirsty redhead.


He was tired and he needed to rest.

His body ached from the previous fight; his left eye was blurred with blood from a wound not far away from his brow and he supposed he had a pretty bad injury near his right hip, for warm blood was starting to ruin his rich clothing and armor.

His breathing had become shallow and his steps were imprecise and short.

A violent cough seized him, blood coming out of his mouth.

He definitely needed to rest.

He released a sigh of resignation while his limbs gave out and he collapsed to the floor with a metallic thud.

The cold and harsh wind sent shivers down his spine while he tried to sit down with vain movements, but the weight of his own armor pulled him back nonetheless and a sharp pain in his left knee made his eyes water; he knew he couldn't do anything about it, so he lied down and closed his eyes, defeated and ashamed like the fallen warrior he was.

In the midst of his self pity and shame he swore he heard the wind whispering his name softly, while the ghost of a touch in his forehead cooled his approaching fever.

A small smile adorned his rosy lips…he was already delirious.

Just then his life played in front of his half-lidded eyes, all the battles won, all the beasts defeated, all the bloodshed, pain and fear he had inflicted on foes and the pride he had given to his king…

Who would have known that such a hero would die in that way?

Maybe it was his heavenly punishment for being an assassin, to die alone in terrible agony, to be forgotten and carried away by the wind in ashes.

He was supposed to bring endless fame and glory to Ulster; he was supposed to die in a heroic way…not alone in some unknown forest, feeding his flesh willingly to the vultures and other beasts roaming in the heart of the forest.

His aquamarine eyes narrowed with anger.

He couldn't die.

Not like this.

Something like fire coursed through his veins, warming his cold body and numbing his pain.

It was the strength of determination.

With shaking hands he seized an arrow sticking inside his thigh and pulled, biting back a howl and drawing blood from his lower lip.

He threw away the bloodied stick, wincing when blood poured down his wound like a raging river.

An unknown strength invaded his limbs, just the enough amount to lift him up from the ground with a soft clatter from his metal armor.

He couldn't die…he was Gaara, the hero who brought smiles to his people, the hero who slaughtered every enemy standing in his way without mercy. He was the son of a god.

He just…couldn't die.

With that mysteriously renewed strength he walked with clumsy steps, repeating those words like a mantra, not knowing where he was heading; only knowing that he wanted to live.

After a few minutes his line vision came in contact with a small brown spot in a clearing not very far away from him. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see better but blurred spots of green. The brown spot turned out to be a small cabin.

With a triumphant smile he quickened his pace, his hand cleaning out the sweat and blood on his forehead.

Knocking on the wooden door, he waited and waited for what it seemed like an eternity. His head was spinning and the sharp pain in his hip had spread like poison to his lower stomach. He started to feel the weakness overpowering his sense of survival, his vision started to fade to darkness and his already astonishing pale skin turned paler and all that he could remember before falling into oblivion was light, surprised pale eyes and a gasp.