This will be a work, told entirely from Sasuke's perspective (which I think is strange, I don't see it much) therefore, there will be no exceedingly confusing thought breaks between parties. If I were to get into the specifics of just how everyone felt at any given time, I feel it would take away from the substance. This is a preface warning that this is story has very graphic beginnings, but it seems my muse is outgrowing her angst with my old age. I'm still no 'Fluffy-Shipper' :( But I would say, it get's more optimistic, just a really rough start. :)

Reviews are more than welcome. As long as it's of the constructive sort.

Cruelty comes easily,

Hate visits naturally,

Compassion is fearful,

Regret is all-consuming.

Chaos is an event of beauty.

Nothing is ever more perfectly human than the realization of impending mortality.

A pale, dark-haired man watched flame kiss sky over the Village he once called his home. A strange water-color of orange and reds attempting to overthrow the black hue of the night. There were no stars tonight. Even if there had been, it would be impossible to see them due to the heavy, low-lying smoke.

Faint screams echoed at nearly an inaudible pitch, causing his ears to tense and relax.

Faceless bodies ran undirected and with no logic, trying with no avail to run from the presence of their 'end'.

He understood the nature of humans was simply to run. Run and preserve. He wanted them to run as far away from this calamity as they possibly could, he needed no more blood of lambs staining his pale hands. He couldn't be accountable for the impending unknown.

He wondered if he was even human, the more frantically most ran from their fear, the harder and more demanding the inward pull of that same fear was to him.

He openly welcomed the chaos; there was no grief in his heart, there was nothing but knowing that what is done is in fact done and the sins of the past are hard pressed to be washed away.

With his thoughts perfectly orchestrated, his body moved as lightning to the resonant heat of the flame, directly to the eye of the conflict, the epicentre of chaos.

He knew what he would see there, it would be no surprise to him. The only variable in his mind was simply if he cared enough to walk out of that very flame alive.

He knew he was no savior. He knew he was no martyr.

For reasons unknown, he pressed on intent on making the flames and the dirge of the End of Days halt.

His carefully trained, antique eyes locked on to the cause of this chaos.

He has no comrades. His only friends are his blade and eyes.

With a deliberate motion, his katana freed it's self from its sheath and a flourish of lightning dominated the sky.

He got its attention.

The rest simply comes down to who errs first.

So concludes the prologue, don't rage at the length, there is still a lot more to come.