Paracellaire Tête, Immanquable Folie

Disclaimer: Naruto does not belong to me. I do not own any of the characters that appear in this fanfiction. In addition, I do not own the lyrics to H.I.M’s “Wings of a Butterfly”

Summary: Crimson, obsidian, and gold, haunting his every thought and action, a nightmarish reality in which he is trapped, as dreams become alive, lies become truth, and his life fades away, burning, before his eyes.

A/N: Please excuse me if the French I use is incorrect – I gave this story to a friend of mine in the hopes that she would read it, and she suggested all of it.

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Heaven awaits in our eyes,
We’re standing still in time.
The blood on our hands is the wine,
We offer as sacrifice.

H.I.M “Wings of a Butterfly”

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I. Fantôme de PassÉ

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Three years since they had met and now sapphire eyes watched everything through a misty film, images twisted and distorted as crimson bled into obsidian, ebony into pristine white, until everything became what he remembered, so familiar yet so different. The specter – was it real, what he saw now? He no longer knew, with all the ghosts of the past haunting his steps – opened its mouth to speak and he knew, somehow, he instinctively knew, that his illusion would be destroyed, his perfect little world that he lived in, would be shattered into so many little pieces – his life collapsed around him in a silent scream, all the lies made truth, and his mouth was open in a silent scream.


He closed his eyes and opened them again and crimson and obsidian was replaced by a sickly-colored gold – autumn leaves framed against an equally iridescent sky as he fell, his eyes falling closed, the golden color still imprinted in his mind – and this specter disappeared as well, replaced by the previous specter, and all the colors blurred together as he shut his eyes in an attempt, however futile, to banish the ghosts of his past, and he woke with a start, fever-chapped lips cracking as he silently screamed, eyes darting around.


They were still there, the three ghosts merging together and splitting apart, accusing eyes silently watching him – crimson and gold, both hidden from his reach, invisible walls guarding their secrets, always just a hair’s breadth away from his fingertips, taunting and teasing, porcelain skin painted a rust-colored red, flecks of the once viscous liquid falling off, and even as he watched, gold replaced obsidian and obsidian replaced crimson, a never-ending cycle – and he dimly remembered that there was something, something important, that he was supposed to know, and he looked down, a kunai now imbedded in his hand, hollow words echoing in his mind – precious person, dead last, the irony of the last not forgotten because indeed, he would be the last to die – and once again everything shattered, the pieces falling around him, and he work again, emerald meeting sapphire, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to see crimson again, bleeding into emerald, and he was helpless, frozen in time as those lips parted to speak again and this time, he couldn’t banish the specter, couldn’t force them away.


The world rushed past them in a blur, everything spinning uncontrollably, and he did scream as he fell again, images tumbling past him, all the pieces of his life flying past him, and cool hands were holding him down as he thrashed, worried emeralds watching him.


Three days later, they told him, the three medics of the group, they told him that he had been screaming, desperately trying to break free from something and against his will he laughed, a cold, harsh sound, and he knew that his nightmares had become flesh at last as the figures before him blurred, replaced by the specters that haunted him.


Three years later, crimson, obsidian, and gold met again and the entire cycle was repeated, mocking voices and arrogant smirks repeating themselves in his mind, once-crimson pinwheels now golden as they imprinted themselves into his mind, images blurring as they passed his eyes, and this time when he fell, the specters remained with him, haunting every moment that passed, and there was no escape for him again, no way to escape the ghosts of his past, and he never did wake from the nightmare that was his reality, a bleak landscape only populated by the four of them, sapphire always running, always fleeing, as crimson, obsidian, and gold, the three of them following.

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II. Hanté effet d’optique

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He coughed once, turning to rest on his back, the earth clinging to him and mixing with the blood that stained his clothing, slowly dripping from gaping wounds in his shoulder and hip, pooling onto the ground, a mockery of the rain that had fallen a mere hours ago. His eyes stared up at the mottled forest canopy, dappled shadows falling onto his face, even as light – harsh, unforgiving light that burned away all the lies, the masks, until all that was left was the harsh truth, nurses and doctors bustling around him – shone down onto his face, burning away the shadows that hid him from sight – bloody and broken, shuriken and kunai scattered all over, mixing with the grime and blood of the field, crimson pinwheels boring into his own eyes as they both fell, hitting the ground with a dull noise – and leaving him in plain sight for everyone to see – mockery and laughter, defenseless as the noise slowly faded away.


It was some time later, golden light – he could hear hissing snakes, a smirk on those lips as the face was ripped away, revealing a pallid countenance – replaced by twilight, crimson staining what he could see of the horizon from where he lay – crimson, for the blood forever staining his hands as the bodies crumpled, for those eyes as the haunted him, crimson for the revenge they sought, burning fire surrounding him, dead bodies piled up on the battlefield, clothing and grass stained by the liquid – and a shadow fell over him, a man stopping by him, and he knew, somehow he knew, that no harm would come to him this time. There was no need for words – silence, oppressive, surrounding them, and then the fire came, burning, devouring everything in its path – and they both knew that he would eventually die before crimson and obsidian-turned-gold one day, fighting a loosing battle against the rest of the world. Crimson coldly watched as he somehow managed to stand, the blood still dripping from his wounds, soaking into the parched earth - he innocently asked, how much blood could a person lose? Mocking laughter was his only reply, crimson fire burning through his veins as the sound continued – and he mutely followed the figure, past the forbidding trees, until they were at the battlefield again. He watched as the corpses stirred, dismembered limbs reattaching themselves, intestines replacing themselves in gutted bodied, skin knitting together again, the once-broken bodies rising, and across the field of blood, gold and obsidian, bleeding into crimson, watched everything.


He lost track of how long he was standing there, the sun, the moon, the stars all wheeling overhead, as the armies of the dead, the living corpses, marched past him, faces blank as the passed, and all the while crimson, gold, and obsidian, they held him captive, as fire devoured the world and rebirthed it, buildings rising and falling until all that was left was the ashes and dust of once-mighty eras that had ruled the earth – ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as each civilization fell, formed on the ashes and dust of the era before, returning to the ashes and dust once again. Crimson released him from their hold at last and he watched the dead rise again – the Last Battalion, legends of old, the end of the world was coming and he knew it as the harsh, mocking laughter echoed in his head, whispered promises of revenge and destruction, burning fire devouring the living and replacing them with the dead, monstrous creatures towering above everything else, the living dead walking past, faceless soldiers, tools and weapons – and he whirled around, running away as crimson, obsidian, and gold burned into his back. The trees rushed past him as he followed the trail of blood back – dizzy, he recalled dimly, and a memory floated past him, unbidden, the body falling at last into the never-ending pool of blood, skin deathly pale and colder than death – and he searched for his allies, the scant few hat had survived, underneath the moonlight, soft light only making his search all the more desperate as the shadows rose about him.


When he finally found his mentors drinking sake together, he told them everything that had occurred between desperate gulps for air, his good arm holding his hand against the bleeding wound on his hip in a futile effort to stem the blood-flow, and all that he received was worried looks directed towards him in response.

“You never left the tent…we’ve been here all night and this is the first time you’ve come out.”


Mocking laughter, arrogant smirks, blended together as everything dissolved away around him, melting away into nothingness, and he was staring at the sky again, worried voices all around him as the leaves fell, drifting down to settle on his cooling body.