Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto > If Only
Oro-chan's accent would make a mess of such a -- European-esque name, I'm guessing. It's that tongue, he has a rolling "l." Anyway, Crossover for a laugh. I do not own the characters. They belong to Kishimoto and a certain glasses wearing holstein whose true name might spoil the surpise of the cross-over.
~ ~ ~
In another world he was a writer. Elegantly disaffected and jaded, with slicked back black hair and purple silk robes that are all the fashion as Europe imports from Japan, and Japan imports ideas from the Western lands. Years after they first met on the Crimean front he lounged with them outside a café in Paris, smoking, and smirking, and commenting on how the new generation is disenchantingly dumb. His best friend was a monster of a man, a soldier of unknown origin, but fighting on the Russian side, at the time. The woman, resourceful, proud, and blond actually worked with Florence Nightingale. “Do you ever think about other worlds?” he asks. They don’t, because they are practical adults.
In another world he was her lover. Behind the best friend’s back that he tasted her pale skin, and knew the richness of her screams. They knew it could come to an end any day, now. The eyes of society were drawing in. Soon they would have to admit to the affair, and that will make him lose his taste for it. It will make her tawdry and common. Just another scarlet woman. It will ruin her, of course, and that prospect would lend excitement enough for him to stay, but the man who drank cobra venom for fun can’t be entertained by one struggle for too long, as he searched for the ultimate thrill in life. He wonderd idly if he ever could have been anyone else.
In another world he was a scientist, engaging his mind against the power and madness of the European powers. Perhaps he is merely a mathematician, but he must say that he lost his taste for mere challenges. He gathered a following, and then began to disrupt society. None of his favorite two stepped forward, but another man, with a mind like a maze, and the logic of a reptile stood against him, and they tumbled over a waterfall.
In another world he wrapped around an apple tree, a great serpent of poison.
In another world he could have been a teacher.
In another world he missed Anko.
In thousands of other worlds he has been both hero and villain, left in the dust and the wake of fairy tales. In another world -- the gate crashes shut in his face. The knowledge, the truth, everything he has ever sought is cut off by the single eye etched in stone. He looks behind him to the blond man with the golden eyes, which are hard. The man is a shinobi man. That is to say that he could be only six, and yet has matured to a weary fifty in a single night of action and bloodshed. Orochimaru guesses that this boy-man is around eighteen, plenty old enough for the shinobi world. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. How to bargain.
“I want more,” the snake lord hisses.
“Who doesn’t?” the boy mutters. “So, you believe me, then. Good. Now, I want all your notes on this chakra phenomenon. All your journals. And then maybe, maybe, I’ll be willing to open the gate for you again.”
“Why so stingy, Erlric?”
“Because I just watched that black haired dog of yours kill three people, and I don’t want him to see how I do what I do until I’ve gotten all I want out of you,” the man replied.
Orochimaru sighed. He hated working with people who were both smart and disgusted by bloodshed. On the otherhand, this E-rl-ric had been very interested in the Edo Tensei, which Orochimaru was certain would bind the boy to him. Now to tell Sasuke to be a little more circumspect the next time they entertained guests.
~ ~ ~
In another world he was a writer. Elegantly disaffected and jaded, with slicked back black hair and purple silk robes that are all the fashion as Europe imports from Japan, and Japan imports ideas from the Western lands. Years after they first met on the Crimean front he lounged with them outside a café in Paris, smoking, and smirking, and commenting on how the new generation is disenchantingly dumb. His best friend was a monster of a man, a soldier of unknown origin, but fighting on the Russian side, at the time. The woman, resourceful, proud, and blond actually worked with Florence Nightingale. “Do you ever think about other worlds?” he asks. They don’t, because they are practical adults.
In another world he was her lover. Behind the best friend’s back that he tasted her pale skin, and knew the richness of her screams. They knew it could come to an end any day, now. The eyes of society were drawing in. Soon they would have to admit to the affair, and that will make him lose his taste for it. It will make her tawdry and common. Just another scarlet woman. It will ruin her, of course, and that prospect would lend excitement enough for him to stay, but the man who drank cobra venom for fun can’t be entertained by one struggle for too long, as he searched for the ultimate thrill in life. He wonderd idly if he ever could have been anyone else.
In another world he was a scientist, engaging his mind against the power and madness of the European powers. Perhaps he is merely a mathematician, but he must say that he lost his taste for mere challenges. He gathered a following, and then began to disrupt society. None of his favorite two stepped forward, but another man, with a mind like a maze, and the logic of a reptile stood against him, and they tumbled over a waterfall.
In another world he wrapped around an apple tree, a great serpent of poison.
In another world he could have been a teacher.
In another world he missed Anko.
In thousands of other worlds he has been both hero and villain, left in the dust and the wake of fairy tales. In another world -- the gate crashes shut in his face. The knowledge, the truth, everything he has ever sought is cut off by the single eye etched in stone. He looks behind him to the blond man with the golden eyes, which are hard. The man is a shinobi man. That is to say that he could be only six, and yet has matured to a weary fifty in a single night of action and bloodshed. Orochimaru guesses that this boy-man is around eighteen, plenty old enough for the shinobi world. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. How to bargain.
“I want more,” the snake lord hisses.
“Who doesn’t?” the boy mutters. “So, you believe me, then. Good. Now, I want all your notes on this chakra phenomenon. All your journals. And then maybe, maybe, I’ll be willing to open the gate for you again.”
“Why so stingy, Erlric?”
“Because I just watched that black haired dog of yours kill three people, and I don’t want him to see how I do what I do until I’ve gotten all I want out of you,” the man replied.
Orochimaru sighed. He hated working with people who were both smart and disgusted by bloodshed. On the otherhand, this E-rl-ric had been very interested in the Edo Tensei, which Orochimaru was certain would bind the boy to him. Now to tell Sasuke to be a little more circumspect the next time they entertained guests.
Sign up to rate and review this story