[ at the statement of gilia's bafflement at the impossible images far more precise than any stroke of any brush, asura nods in agreement and understanding. he hunches over himself, listening to her pad through the small dwelling. his skin prickles with paranoia is is long-accustomed to, the order of the world he was born into one where the strong relentlessly and apologetically stomps out the weak. those in power ebb and flow, shift from one set of tyrants to another, but the core principles remain the same.
this woman is a stranger, and he does not underestimate opponents for their appearance. was amaterasu not a woman? and so asura does not discount gilia as an enemy, but—with some confusion—he finds he does not care. he is tired. this is not his world. his room is covered in pictures of a man he has not seen in an age. he has searched the skies here a thousand times over and he cannot find the celestial realm, cannot feel taishakuten's cold, merciless divinity.
what does it matter now? what does anything matter now?
the woman leaves and she returns, bearing fire. the light seeps in between his fingers, and he is about to lower his hands when her touch presses over his fingers. asura can't remember the last time a hand reached out to him in anything but violence. it would've been taishakuten, but he can't remember the day leading up to their fight. he can't recall if taishakuten helped him up from bed that morning, can't remember if he laid a hand on asura's shoulder to calm him. all those reflexive, everyday touches escape his memory because he did not know then that they were coming to an end.
drawing in a sharp breath, he brings his hands down again but slowly, giving her the space to pull her hand back while trying not to jostle it away himself. he would not want to rebuke her, but he is so unused to being careful with his touch. it is a clumsy effort, but he manages, and his hands come to a rest somewhere above his knees.
she is kind, he notes. patient with a rude, possibly violent stranger, a lower class brute with no manners and even less modesty. asura knows who and what he is, and he is unused to this kind of grace. she has a level head on her shoulders as well, her emotions anchored, each movement and word purposeful. a rare good fortune, to have come to her door and not another. ]
Gilia, [ he repeats, nodding. he sits up a little straighter, watching her in the dancing candlelight, studying her delicate, foreign features.
the observation catches him off-guard but does not manage to surprise him. he has assessed her as someone clever enough to be dangerous should she choose. asura does not understand the distinction between emotional and intellectual intelligence as he has neither, he is only certain that she possesses what he does not.
the question that follows, well. asura blinks, a pinched expression coming over his face as his brow furrows. does he want to tell her...? about taishakuten? strange that she does not simply ask, as who would not want to know what would drive a man to force his way into their home? but she asks if he wants to tell her, and—
he has not even begun to consider that. it's not a question he would have ever asked himself, whether or not he wants to talk about what happened with taishakuten. he never needed to. the whispered rumors dogged his every step. he doesn't... not want to, here in this quiet place with its gentle firelight and even gentler host. but then comes the second issue.
every time asura needs it most, his words fail him. he is no great orator. he is a weapon and taishakuten the scholar.
he stares at gilia, lost, for far too long, then clears his throat. ]
I had a friend, [ he explains poorly, with a helpless shrug of his broad shoulders. ]
no subject
this woman is a stranger, and he does not underestimate opponents for their appearance. was amaterasu not a woman? and so asura does not discount gilia as an enemy, but—with some confusion—he finds he does not care. he is tired. this is not his world. his room is covered in pictures of a man he has not seen in an age. he has searched the skies here a thousand times over and he cannot find the celestial realm, cannot feel taishakuten's cold, merciless divinity.
what does it matter now? what does anything matter now?
the woman leaves and she returns, bearing fire. the light seeps in between his fingers, and he is about to lower his hands when her touch presses over his fingers. asura can't remember the last time a hand reached out to him in anything but violence. it would've been taishakuten, but he can't remember the day leading up to their fight. he can't recall if taishakuten helped him up from bed that morning, can't remember if he laid a hand on asura's shoulder to calm him. all those reflexive, everyday touches escape his memory because he did not know then that they were coming to an end.
drawing in a sharp breath, he brings his hands down again but slowly, giving her the space to pull her hand back while trying not to jostle it away himself. he would not want to rebuke her, but he is so unused to being careful with his touch. it is a clumsy effort, but he manages, and his hands come to a rest somewhere above his knees.
she is kind, he notes. patient with a rude, possibly violent stranger, a lower class brute with no manners and even less modesty. asura knows who and what he is, and he is unused to this kind of grace. she has a level head on her shoulders as well, her emotions anchored, each movement and word purposeful. a rare good fortune, to have come to her door and not another. ]
Gilia, [ he repeats, nodding. he sits up a little straighter, watching her in the dancing candlelight, studying her delicate, foreign features.
the observation catches him off-guard but does not manage to surprise him. he has assessed her as someone clever enough to be dangerous should she choose. asura does not understand the distinction between emotional and intellectual intelligence as he has neither, he is only certain that she possesses what he does not.
the question that follows, well. asura blinks, a pinched expression coming over his face as his brow furrows. does he want to tell her...? about taishakuten? strange that she does not simply ask, as who would not want to know what would drive a man to force his way into their home? but she asks if he wants to tell her, and—
he has not even begun to consider that. it's not a question he would have ever asked himself, whether or not he wants to talk about what happened with taishakuten. he never needed to. the whispered rumors dogged his every step. he doesn't... not want to, here in this quiet place with its gentle firelight and even gentler host. but then comes the second issue.
every time asura needs it most, his words fail him. he is no great orator. he is a weapon and taishakuten the scholar.
he stares at gilia, lost, for far too long, then clears his throat. ]
I had a friend, [ he explains poorly, with a helpless shrug of his broad shoulders. ]