Naruto - Fragments 1 Series: Naruto Characters: Lee, Gaara (sorta) Pairing: nothing yet, probably LeeGaa Type: weird introspective, futurefic, mild crazy Warnings: Some nasty things as survival is never pretty Spoilers: none Word Count: 1,237 Etc:This idea hit me just as I was falling asleep last night. Though the idea is cliche I'm hoping I can take it somewhere interesting. So much for working on any of my existing WiPs, heh. There will be at least one more part to this, and I might revise this a bit, as parts feel...weird, and not in the way I was intending. It is, however, rather confusing on purpose.
A lone figure trudges wearily to the top of a dune.
He thinks he might’ve been walking forever, except…no, that isn’t right. There was a time before heat and sand, when everything was green. It’s hard to remember, but there’s a lingering memory of catching falling leaves, and something pink.
But that doesn’t matter so much now, in the heat and oppressive sun. He doesn’t remember why his green outfit covers so much skin but is glad for it—only his face and neck are left to the mercy of the sun. Even traveling during the frigid night and burying himself in sand or hiding under rocks doesn’t stop the blister and peel.
In the beginning, or perhaps his end, he noticed the night sky. In the entire expanse, one star didn’t move every night. He thinks surely, if he follows that bright star, it will lead him somewhere. Anywhere. He isn’t sure why he has to go, but he knows he must.
He remembers a time of when he could run over these dunes, when there was food and water in his pack, but it’s fading. Now he only has the occasional cactus for water and what creatures he can catch. His canteen is full of cactus juice and he wonders if it’s what makes his vision hazy and colors slide, as opposed to the lack of a decent meal, or the heat shimmering in waves.
Then the redhead appears, and he decides it doesn’t matter so much. The mirage doesn’t talk, doesn’t do anything but walk beside him, but it’s nice to have company. His throat is far too raw to speak, and it’d waste precious moisture, so he walks on and has conversations in his head.
Hello, Redhead-san. I wonder if you know me, or knew me.
The illusion stares at him. He has trouble making out any facial features in the blinding sun, but the eyes seem strangely dark. Something stirs in the recesses of memory.
You seem familiar. You must be from Before, when things were green, and Pink was important.
Suddenly he’s sad, so he stops talking. Thinking. He walks on until he collapses under a rock near noon.
The redhead is gone when he wakes up. Part of him is disappointed, but that’s silly. Why miss what isn’t real? Though he isn’t sure what’s real any more.
He falls down a dune and is too tired to do anything but lay there for most of the day, limbs wobbly and unresponsive.
The redhead back at twilight, appearing suddenly by his side. The man who can’t remember his own name thinks of smiling but that would make his face pure agony. At least he can die with company.
Get up.
The unknown man stares at his imaginary companion, unsure if he heard anything at all. He knows that in the impassive face before him, somewhere, is the echo of those words.
So he gets up and keeps walking.
Each day the redhead appears, but never for a full day. Sometimes others flicker into being—a blond young man, a stoic man with long dark hair, a woman with buns, a man in green—but never long enough for more than a glimpse of features. He wonders if they’re also from when things were green. They’re less real than the redhead is, flickers of memory. He wonders why they all look so sad.
Redhead-san, I wonder why I can’t see your face clearly. Everything seems rather blurry. Perhaps the sand in my eyes has something to do with it. Why are you here, anway? No answer.
One day his silent companion waits by a particularly nice rock outcropping. He isn’t sure why but he decides to stay. It isn’t long before a violent wind rears and a sandstorm hits. Perhaps his luck is changing.
Redhead-san, might you be able to make the sun less hot? Seeing as you’re not real, maybe you have special powers or something. He’s quite disappointed when nothing happens.
Time bleeds together, long stretches of hot and freezing and grit in his teeth. Vague moments stick to memory temporarily—nearly being buried beneath a dune after a misstep, eating a creature so long dead he couldn’t recognize it three times until it stayed down, hitting a cactus wrong and embedding his cracked feet with needles. All the while the redhead is his silent observer. He runs out of mental conversations.
One day the redhead stops and points in a direction that isn’t following the still star. The man hesitates. Can he trust the illusion? It’s been days since his last cactus and food, enough that occasionally he can only crawl, and knows that he won’t last much longer.
Perhaps he’s a guide, an incarnation of the desert to give aid to lost travelers. Perhaps he’s an evil spirit formerly trapped in a teakettle. There isn’t anything to lose, so he follows the redhead.
He walks and walks until he collapses. The redhead stands just a little ways before him.
Get up.
He can’t so he crawls, sand slipping underneath tattered bandages and burning his fingers with its abrasiveness. He crawls until he can’t hold his head up to look where he’s going, he concentrates on moving one hand two hand one leg two leg. He starts to wonder if he’s always been half-sinking, half-crawling in the sand when one hand is suddenly wet.
An oasis. He drinks greedily before collapsing mid-sip.
He opens his eyes and struggles to his feet like a toddler learning to walk. Swaying like a drunkard, he makes his way to the shade and collapses again.
He opens his eyes and sees the redhead is staring at him. For the first time the face is clear enough for him to see pale blue-green eyes with no pupil.
“It won’t be much longer,” says the strangely familiar stranger and the nameless man winces at the loudness of voice. Something is wrong, because his imaginary friend doesn’t talk, doesn’t do anything but keep silent vigil, but he’s too weak to think and too tired to care.
He remembers a time when he was never tired as his eyes slide closed again.
Hands wake him, the sense of touch alien and wrong but he’s too weak to move and his eyes are glued shut with grit. He’s propped up against something solid. There’s a sense of something on his chapped lips, trying to push past.
“Eat,” commands the voice of the unseen redhead.
He tries to respond I can’t but his throat is too raw. The pressure leaves, only to return in the shape of his canteen. Whatever’s inside is pulpy and disgusting but he drinks it anyway as he tries to force his eyes open.
What he sees is darkness, but there’s a sense of something beside him. He turns to the outline he can barely see.
Are you real? He wants to ask.
“Keep drinking. You’re malnourished and dehydrated.”
He obeys, not knowing what else to do. He wonders if this man knows his name, but the thought is lost as it takes all his concentration to drink the sludge without suffocating himself.
When he’s finished he tries to sit up on his own, but his arms won’t obey him and wobble uselessly. He collapses back and wonders if the dream has ended or just begun.