Weeping Samurai | Uchiha Itachi [Editing]

Chapter 3: Shidare no Bushi

I do not own any Naruto characters or settings. I only own my OC, Musei Shiro.

Warning: This chapter contains vivid descriptions of blood and some violence.

I hope you enjoy the story of Shiro, the Weeping Samurai of the Land of Iron!

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Shiro cradled the katana hilts in her palms, grasping them lightly just so they hung limp from her fingers. She blinked away the saltiness that dripped to the corners of her eyes, her vision fogged up in a scarlet film for just a moment before she blinked once more. Her large, blazing charcoal orbs were possessed in some sort of craze, a frenzy that overwhelmed her thin, bony body as she glared down at her feet. There, a bloody head lay severed from its body, its wide eyes rolled to the back of its head, its mouth gaping open from its last shriek.

She stood before a large wooden gate, engraved with the kanji 鉄雪, "Iron Snow," that towered over the blood-soaked streets as she glared at all of the bodies that lay to the side, drained from their blood and stiff from the bitterness of death. The snow that had powdered the ground in small crystals were dyed a dark maroon, the warm, sticky red substance seeping from all of the wounds of the ones killed.

A drop of blood dripped from her fingertip, plopping onto the red slush below.

Her white blades were splattered crimson from the numerous bodies that slumped dead, deep gashes exposing chipped bones and chunks of mutilated muscle. Her simple white linen dress was dyed a deep burgundy, splotches of white succumbing to the blood that soaked the thin cloth. Her dark cloak flapped off her shoulders, splattering tiny droplets of maroon onto the chilled wet soil. Her face, paler than ever before, was adorned in droplets of the gore, shimmering in the early afternoon sun beams like tiny scarlet gems.

Shiro kicked the severed head to the side, the black hair splaying everywhere as the skull rolled across the bloody ground. She slowly began to walk down the street, her cloak dragging across the floor as she held her blades, their shimmering silver-white tips brushing against the dirt. She looked around at the bodies, her face still and quite, much like a white stone. Her obsidian eyes glimmered as she stared at all of the bleeding corpses, their eyes glazed over in a milky film of death, their limbs either sliced off and tossed to the side elsewhere, or slumped next to them as they gripped onto someone they loved.

The white haired samurai was attacked with dozens of flashbacks, her knees buckling as she landed on them, releasing her loose grip on her katana hilts and fell onto her hands. Her onyx eyes gazed down at the bloody snow below her, wide with a mixture of a rare fear and shock.

It was about eleven years ago, not even a year after her parents had been killed and her sister had gone missing. The only thing she had were her father's two blades on her hips and the linen dress that did absolutely nothing to protect her from the harsh weather conditions that came forth.

It was a snow day, the flakes falling from the sky in peaceful clumps as they floated down to touch the Earth. Shiro sat on the edge of the dirty street, packed with a few inches of snow. Many people passed her, but no one paid any attention to the orphan who sat by herself in the frigid wind, shaking and quivering herself almost to death. She was only nine, an unimportant being who had just taken up a little more space in the village. Her skin was turning blue and her eyes had been emptied from any source of life or feeling; she was nearing death soon.

If it wasn't for a group of foolish little boys who had gone up to her, she would have probably left the Earth in a tranquil manner, joining her parents in the heavens to watch over Yoru; if she was still alive, that is. But, as it seems that didn't happen, the inevitable fate unfolded.