There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.
He dreams of the puppet theatre that he saw as a child in Suna. It was one of the few days he remembered his father having off.
He remembered having loved to watch the way the puppets moved, and how the puppet masters seemed to blend into the black background. Unnoticed except for the lightly shining strings of chakra flowing from their fingertips. But you could only see it if you knew where to look.
The only thing he didn't like was the fight scenes. The cracking of wood against wood, and sometimes steel against steel, was more than enough to make him flinch.
As he looks at his blood-stained hands, he begins to wonder when he started thirsting for battle.
He tries not to sleep, if only so he doesn't remember that innocence.