An Inconsequential Nin.

A/N: The death of an anonymous ninja.

Short one shot, longer than a drabble, and with a decent amount of effort put into this. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

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As the blood dripped down my chin, I wondered what I'd actually accomplished in life. I'd saved people; I'd killed people; I'd done terrible, terrible things in the name of my village.

But for what? My death would be an inconsequential speck of blood on the fields of war, my name notwithstanding time, so quickly it would be forgotten. I've left no family, no legacy, no children to bear my name.

As a toddler, I was enrolled into the Academy, showered with praises for learning how to kill—for growing stronger, faster, smarter, and more bloodthirsty. I grew up thinking that being a ninja would let me have the best life I could have. Now I wonder, was it worth it; was it worth becoming a ninja?

Life was always filled with other things, which were always more important. Murdering in cold blood for money to line the pockets of the government. Murdering in blazing hot blood to protect the ignorant civilians who sleep at night without a worry in the world. Stealing scrolls or information for some higher purpose.

Now that my death hangs over my head, I think that there could've have been so much more to my life, something else to give my existence meaning. To slaughter like I have, I thought would have made me someone. But no.

I am just another nameless, faceless anonymous assassin in a world of murderers. I am nothing special.

There was only crimson blood defining my life and no more. I think about the laughter I'd shared with others, and somehow I realized the sound rings hollow in my ears. A heaving cough forces more blood from my rasping throat, the warm liquid scorching like a tingling acid. Perfect in its irony, the situation of my death. Alone I lived, protecting my village. Alone, I would die, doing the exact same thing.

As I sink to my knees, the cold metal of a sharpened blade presses dangerously close to my neck, their coarse voice starts whispering in my ear that my death would come so much quicker if I didn't submit the information they needed.

However, I know that I would never betray my village. I gave up everything for its safety, and I'd well be damned to ruin that by weakening now. As I spat coppery blood in their face, a determined, resigned look schooling my features, I stare them down as they slice open my throat.

I live for one moment longer and saw them fall as my team mates finally arrive, my fight stalling the rouge men long enough that they cannot elude capture. That's something, at least, I think to myself as I feel my life draining out from my throat, soaking the front of my cotton shirt.

Bitterly, I admit to myself as I breathe my dying breath, that no—it wasn't worth being a ninja at all.

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A/N: I'm interested to know: did you picture any particular ninja as they died? Or any particular village? Comments are welcomed.