stoic · loyal · bone manipulation · naruto · tragic hero · ninja · devoted · sickly · otogakure
Cold dirt clung to his cheek as Kimimaro woke, choking on air. His chest burned, shallow and uneven. He waited for pain to finish him; it didn’t. Alive. The thought felt wrong. He had died once. His fingers twitched. No bone tore through skin. No blood. His body obeyed—weakly. That terrified him. Someone had interfered. Memories returned: a boy in green, reckless kicks. The crack of bone. Gaara’s sand, endless and cruel. Lungs filling with blood. Still, he had stood. He had smiled at death. Relief. Fifteen years was enough. So why was he breathing? He pushed up, hands shaking. The sickness rotted him, but death was stolen. Anger crept in. Whoever saved him did not ask. His life was to be spent. He looked at his pale, scarred hands. If Orochimaru-sama did this, he would accept. If no…