Bren attempts to hide his eagerness beneath calm curiosity as Asra passes the papers over to him. Perhaps this will give him some clue as to what he should do next, or at the very least, what he should avoid doing.
He puts the coin down at once in favor of reading, first doing a quick scan silently. This page is in Trent's hand, instantly recognizable even after all this time, and unmistakably about him. He only just stops his lip from curling with hatred and disgust as he is referred to not by name, but as a lost son. Of course Trent would use those words. What does surprise him is the instruction not to kill him, if possible. He'd assumed that should he meet Ikithon's agents, he would be dead. Does the old man still have some use for him yet? That thought is possibly even more disturbing. He translates this page aloud into Common with dutiful accuracy, only skipping the physical description, a little too uncanny for him to be comfortable repeating.
The second paper must be about Asra. Curiously, it was not written by Trent, but holds information and instructions for the volstrucker nonetheless. It has to be from another member of the Assembly. What it conveys about Asra is as intriguing as it is disquieting, and confirms a few things for Bren while leaving him with other questions. Who on the Assembly is studying Asra, and why? Who is Kressa?
Bren translates this one faithfully from start to finish with little inflection. Glancing up at his companion when he mentions the name of the surgeon, he looks for any recognition. Memories can be odd sometimes. Asra may know the name even if he doesn't consciously recall it.
Asra watches Jakob's face as he reads, searching for--anything. What he doesn't expect is the journey of anger and disgust and disdain. Whatever is in the letter hits Jakob deeper than the revelation of a passing translation. Those feelings are too personal, to deep, to be anything else. When he translates the letter out loud, Asra wonders if he is holding something back. He must be. This entire message means something to this man, and as he reads, Asra is almost certain he is not reading all of it.
His own brows draw together, waiting as the silence draws out, as Jakob moves on to the other note. Jakob's expression smooths out, but it is still fascinating to watch: there's something in this one that makes him curious.
Asra frowns as he listens to the other note. It's the mention of the excellent surgeon that has his expression changing. From the confused pinch to the sudden blank look that heralds either a flare of rage or a flash of anxiety. It is not a full revelation, but Asra runs his fingers over one of the scars that runs down his stomach. A surgical scar. His eyes dart around like there will be something in the room that will fill in the gap in his memory. There is nothing, but he remembers pain and a voice. Kressa. Did he ever know her name?
"I wasn't supposed to be with her," he says, almost absently. "She said I didn't belong there. But she kept me until they took me from her. I didn't know her name."
Bren watches Asra's fingers go to his most apparent surgical scar, transfixed and wary and fascinated as he again seems to recede into his mind, into memories sparked by the words he translated for him, and finds he does know of the woman mentioned in the letter, however blurred his recollections might be. His face shutters, suddenly devoid of expression, and his voice takes on an almost objective tone, pensive and detached as though he could be referring to someone else's experience. Perhaps it feels that way, looking at his own life from a distance.
"Until they took you from her," Bren repeats under his breath. At least this is better than thinking about how Trent Ikithon's hand had penned the words a lost son. "The people you were with?" The people you killed is the obvious subtext there, but it sounds so accusatory, and Bren has done the same and worse. He is in no position to judge.
He puts the papers in order again and offers them back to Asra as he notes, "Neither are signed."
The first doesn't need to be. As for the second...he's never had any direct contact with members of the Assembly other than Ikithon. He couldn't begin to guess which of them might have written this, or what their interest in Asra might be.
Asra comes out of his pensive detachment as the papers are offered back to him. He takes them, but does not put them away.
"No," he answers. "Not the people I was with. Someone before them."
Someone had wanted him for--something. And en route - somehow - he ended up with the surgeon. Or perhaps she'd simply taken advantage of something left unattended and made helpless.
"She knew I was not for her. She told me." What had she said exactly? It's a red blur in his mind, a haze of pain and viscera and a cooing voice and hands inside him. His stomach turns and his hand splays over it as if he needs to hold something in. The scar is healing, though. Whatever she did, she ensured he would not split open without her.
Bren's brow knits only slightly as he watches Asra press his hand to his stomach where, beneath his clothes, the healing surgical scar is the evidence of that unknown woman's work.
"You have a complicated history, friend," he says softly, almost apologetically. That is dangerous, especially if Asra can't remember it. How will he know what threats to look for, from without or within? It is equally possible that he'll discover what Bren is concealing from him, deem that dishonesty a betrayal of trust, and dispose of him as he had the volstrucker. Staying with him is a gamble. But he already knew that.
Perhaps it is wiser in the grand scheme of things to reveal a little more now before it can be uncovered some other way--an explanation for his own shiftiness that might distract from the rest of what he wishes to remain hidden.
"Though I think I...may be able to illuminate a little more of it for you." He sounds less than completely certain because he isn't. He thinks that fleeting image was real, but there is really no way to know for sure whether or not it's merely something conjured by his mind. "I have been reluctant to share this for what I hope are obvious reasons," he begins tentatively, "but until recently I was a...patient at the Vergesson Sanitorium. A prisoner, really, as there was never any attempt at treatment."
This is the first time he's said that out loud. Resentment burns in his chest, but mostly he just feels ill. Folded close against his body, his arms itch. Though his hands flex, thankfully there are layers of shirt and bandage between his blunt fingernails and bare skin. "I do not...entirely trust my own memories. They are hazy at best. But I believe I may have seen you there at one time."
His gaze sharpens when Jakob begins to speak again, this time about Vergesson. Does that mean something to him...? Should it? His head hurts as he tries to find some empty space where those words should fit. But he listens, because Jakob seems to remember him. Maybe.
Asra can't place the man's face. He wants to, but he can't. Perhaps that means nothing in the end: Asra may never have seen Jakob, but that doesn't mean Jakob couldn't have seen him.
He pushes his fingers through his hair and there's a momentary flicker of--something. His left hand pauses, thumb brushing over something. Then he drops his hands.
"Vergesson," he repeats quietly, as if feeling and tasting the word will help it come back to him. Asra doesn't know if the rage he feels is a memory or just a reaction to his inability to understand his own circumstances. It does not escape him that Jakob has revealed more about himself. He was a prisoner there. No wonder he seems... paranoid. He must have escaped, or otherwise fears why he was let go.
"There is so much that is... haze. Difficult to place or disconnected. But if you say that you saw me, I have no reason to doubt it." Even if Jakob doubts himself. Asra looks at the letter that is apparently about him. "If I was there, I do not remember why or in what capacity. Or when."
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no subject
He puts the coin down at once in favor of reading, first doing a quick scan silently. This page is in Trent's hand, instantly recognizable even after all this time, and unmistakably about him. He only just stops his lip from curling with hatred and disgust as he is referred to not by name, but as a lost son. Of course Trent would use those words. What does surprise him is the instruction not to kill him, if possible. He'd assumed that should he meet Ikithon's agents, he would be dead. Does the old man still have some use for him yet? That thought is possibly even more disturbing. He translates this page aloud into Common with dutiful accuracy, only skipping the physical description, a little too uncanny for him to be comfortable repeating.
The second paper must be about Asra. Curiously, it was not written by Trent, but holds information and instructions for the volstrucker nonetheless. It has to be from another member of the Assembly. What it conveys about Asra is as intriguing as it is disquieting, and confirms a few things for Bren while leaving him with other questions. Who on the Assembly is studying Asra, and why? Who is Kressa?
Bren translates this one faithfully from start to finish with little inflection. Glancing up at his companion when he mentions the name of the surgeon, he looks for any recognition. Memories can be odd sometimes. Asra may know the name even if he doesn't consciously recall it.
no subject
His own brows draw together, waiting as the silence draws out, as Jakob moves on to the other note. Jakob's expression smooths out, but it is still fascinating to watch: there's something in this one that makes him curious.
Asra frowns as he listens to the other note. It's the mention of the excellent surgeon that has his expression changing. From the confused pinch to the sudden blank look that heralds either a flare of rage or a flash of anxiety. It is not a full revelation, but Asra runs his fingers over one of the scars that runs down his stomach. A surgical scar. His eyes dart around like there will be something in the room that will fill in the gap in his memory. There is nothing, but he remembers pain and a voice. Kressa. Did he ever know her name?
"I wasn't supposed to be with her," he says, almost absently. "She said I didn't belong there. But she kept me until they took me from her. I didn't know her name."
no subject
"Until they took you from her," Bren repeats under his breath. At least this is better than thinking about how Trent Ikithon's hand had penned the words a lost son. "The people you were with?" The people you killed is the obvious subtext there, but it sounds so accusatory, and Bren has done the same and worse. He is in no position to judge.
He puts the papers in order again and offers them back to Asra as he notes, "Neither are signed."
The first doesn't need to be. As for the second...he's never had any direct contact with members of the Assembly other than Ikithon. He couldn't begin to guess which of them might have written this, or what their interest in Asra might be.
no subject
"No," he answers. "Not the people I was with. Someone before them."
Someone had wanted him for--something. And en route - somehow - he ended up with the surgeon. Or perhaps she'd simply taken advantage of something left unattended and made helpless.
"She knew I was not for her. She told me." What had she said exactly? It's a red blur in his mind, a haze of pain and viscera and a cooing voice and hands inside him. His stomach turns and his hand splays over it as if he needs to hold something in. The scar is healing, though. Whatever she did, she ensured he would not split open without her.
no subject
"You have a complicated history, friend," he says softly, almost apologetically. That is dangerous, especially if Asra can't remember it. How will he know what threats to look for, from without or within? It is equally possible that he'll discover what Bren is concealing from him, deem that dishonesty a betrayal of trust, and dispose of him as he had the volstrucker. Staying with him is a gamble. But he already knew that.
Perhaps it is wiser in the grand scheme of things to reveal a little more now before it can be uncovered some other way--an explanation for his own shiftiness that might distract from the rest of what he wishes to remain hidden.
"Though I think I...may be able to illuminate a little more of it for you." He sounds less than completely certain because he isn't. He thinks that fleeting image was real, but there is really no way to know for sure whether or not it's merely something conjured by his mind. "I have been reluctant to share this for what I hope are obvious reasons," he begins tentatively, "but until recently I was a...patient at the Vergesson Sanitorium. A prisoner, really, as there was never any attempt at treatment."
This is the first time he's said that out loud. Resentment burns in his chest, but mostly he just feels ill. Folded close against his body, his arms itch. Though his hands flex, thankfully there are layers of shirt and bandage between his blunt fingernails and bare skin. "I do not...entirely trust my own memories. They are hazy at best. But I believe I may have seen you there at one time."
no subject
Asra can't place the man's face. He wants to, but he can't. Perhaps that means nothing in the end: Asra may never have seen Jakob, but that doesn't mean Jakob couldn't have seen him.
He pushes his fingers through his hair and there's a momentary flicker of--something. His left hand pauses, thumb brushing over something. Then he drops his hands.
"Vergesson," he repeats quietly, as if feeling and tasting the word will help it come back to him. Asra doesn't know if the rage he feels is a memory or just a reaction to his inability to understand his own circumstances. It does not escape him that Jakob has revealed more about himself. He was a prisoner there. No wonder he seems... paranoid. He must have escaped, or otherwise fears why he was let go.
"There is so much that is... haze. Difficult to place or disconnected. But if you say that you saw me, I have no reason to doubt it." Even if Jakob doubts himself. Asra looks at the letter that is apparently about him. "If I was there, I do not remember why or in what capacity. Or when."