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Time passes quickly. Nagato doesn’t bother to count it; he sees no sense in doing so.
Wind, wind. Bits of words reach his ears, hidden by scarlet hair. Eyes red with weeping. They spin, twitch, and can never be closed due to natural self-defense instincts.
Nagato feels like he still has his whole life ahead of him. Or perhaps it only seems that way. Wrongly and incorrectly. It surprises him how much of a believer Nagato is, in the depth of his swollen heart. It seems to him that there’s still some hope for the world—this broken, obscure, remediless world. The Uzumaki considers that it could be his teenage foolishness, the only thing he owns at the moment. He doesn’t have anything else. He is tired from believing in absence: absence of oxygen, absence of good and bad. It is too difficult to wish for the greatest evil so that there will be no worse evil in the near future. Doesn’t this remind one of animal life?
And everything upsets him.
Nagato is upset by the fact he has the Rinnegan. He’s upset by being the only one Konan now has. He is disappointed in himself. Nagato doesn’t want these eyes. He’ll tear them out at the first opportunity. This is too much responsibility to carry, too much suffering housed in two foreign organs.
Maybe Yahiko was right and Nagato is indeed too sensual for this world. Nagato doesn’t change. He’s too naive. He knows it all, but he can’t do anything about it. Nagato doesn’t think he’s divine. That’s a pretense. Nagato doesn’t want to seek peace anymore.
When he gets hit, a child’s tears flow like a stream. What has changed? He can’t think of anything. Perhaps there is no more war. But war will always be. War has never stopped. Amegakure still exists and still weighs heavily on him. Here it still rains too much for a village so small, and he’s still a child. They imitate each other’s sizes, Nagato guesses.
The paper he holds in his hands seems too personal. Is this the first time he experiences death so closely to himself, to his core and soul? He has been dead many times but never felt this inexplicable anger and yearning at once. Nagato can’t imagine what he’s going to do in a few minutes. He wants to bury himself underground and sleep in a splash of heat-drops. Is that what they call “cafard”? Rather a stalemate hole.
Yahiko wrote the note with a confidence he inherited from birth; his hand doesn’t waver as he writes the last words and leaves the letter on Konan’s table. They haven’t spoken for a long time.
He never knew that cutting was difficult. Where the neck is. The throat.
Probably because it was the first time he’d tried it on himself.