The question on the tip of his tongue feels pathetic and Asra bites it back. He nods in answer, carrying that silence for another few steps before the question, treacherous, breaks free.
"Let me stay with you." It's worse than a question: it's a plea. The act of asking leaves him exposed and the warning crawls up his back. He does not need companionship. But you want it, a softer voice whispers. One that is right in ways he doesn't want to admit. "A cheap inn is more so splitting it."
Maybe that isn't reason enough, but it is reasonable. The coin both of them have walked away with will go further if they share that expense, small though it is. This man looks at him with recognition and Asra wants to know why. He must know. And he doesn't think it is a discussion that can or would happen in a public bath.
Bren is more than a little startled by the stranger's desperate insistence, this entreaty to stay together. Like a drowning man grasping at anything he can to try to break the surface. He doesn't know where he is, and perhaps he is terrified of being left alone in a strange land. Who wouldn't be?
Why was he at Vergesson? He needs to know.
"Okay," Bren agrees quietly, after a beat or two of silent thought. "You are clearly far from home. I have no particular destination, but you are welcome to remain with me until you decide where you want to go." Then, a careful probe: "I will need something to call you, though."
A handful of names pass through his mind, though none of them are his. He has his name. Sometimes it feels like that is the last thing he has. He knows that it is connected to something, to a person and a place that existed before the red haze of violence and savagery.
"Asra," he answers. "That is my name."
It's an affirmation as much as an answer. He will take back who he is, and this is the first step. Well... perhaps murdering the volstruckers was the first step. But even that felt in service to the dark urges inside him. He cannot undo it now.
Asra. He sounds more certain of that than anything he's said yet. Bren almost regrets giving him a false name in return.
"Jakob VΓΆlkner," he lies smoothly, and offers his hand. Like the rest of him, it's dirty, and also flecked with blood from divesting the volstrucker of their valuables. Dingy bandages loop around his thumb and disappear up the sleeve of his tattered coat. "I will not pretend to know what has happened to you, Asra, but I am grateful that you did not mind my snooping."
He takes the name at face value - it doesn't matter if it's real or not, does it? He accepts the dirty hand, his own still stained despite the best attempts of prestidigitation. Asra's clothes are of good quality, though clearly he's been traveling in them for a little while. The bandages peeking out from under Jakob's sleeve do not go unnoticed.
"Are you?" he asks, equal measures curious and wary.
Bren--or Jakob, for now--ducks his head and lifts his shoulders in a shrug that betrays a little discomfort. Intentionally so. A man who doesn't seem at least somewhat rattled by what he's experienced tonight would be far more suspicious. It isn't even false, really. He has a lot of reasons to be on edge.
"Ja. You could have slit my throat, but instead you are offering to split a room with me." Glancing up sidelong, a corner of his mouth lifts in a tight, humorless half smile. "One is far more preferable than the other. If I can help you on your way in return, I will."
"You could have slit mine." Maybe the chance was slim, but it was still possible the moment Jakob knew he was awake. Or perhaps before. "So we're working towards even."
Asra hasn't killed Jakob, and out of the bargain Jakob has scavenged coin, components, and at least one book from the volstruckers, among whatever else he might have taken. Asra wasn't looking, too caught up in his own looting to care. He nods in the general direction they've been traveling.
"Let's keep going." They have good reason to get as far from the charred bodies as they can before daylight.
They keep going, and until the sun touches the horizon, there is little conversation between them. Even after, discussions are short, almost casual. Just after sunrise, they take a short rest, but the scene they've left behind them as much as the nearness of the city compels them to push on. They keep to the edge of the road, and the few riders and occasional cart that passes by doesn't pay them any mind.
Just past midday, they pass the first buildings, outlying storehouses, then the mines themselves. These areas are busier, but so are the folk they encounter, too occupied by their own business to spare them more than a passing glance.
Druvenlode isn't a pretty city. The terrain is rocky, so greenery is sparse. Everything is built close together of the same gray slate that makes up the cliffs. Smoke rises over the rooftops. The largest buildings aren't temples, but casinos. The streets are all packed dirt, and the air itself is dusty. But it is a bustling place full of sound, energy, life. Two dirty travelers finding the cheapest bathhouse in town and paying a silver each for a bath hardly bears notice.
"The rest can be cleaned," Bren tells the attendant who will be taking their clothing to be laundered, "but the coat is fine." Understandably, she gives him a skeptical look. The coat is a fucking mess. But she doesn't challenge it, and Bren gets on his way to the antechamber where he'll hurriedly strip down and store his things.
As they near the city, Asra pulls his hood up again. Even with his head down, anyone who cares to look might notice that he is paying attention to everything, gaze darting here and there, marking anything useful.
The air in the baths is humid and fragrant and a far cry from what they left behind in the woods. He strips out of his clothes so that they can be cleaned, everything, and takes a towel that smells clean but is somewhat rough from multiple washings. That it is clean is all that matters. For mow, he wraps it around his waist for some sense of modesty, even if he plans on being rid of it shortly.
From the antechamber, there's a large pool that looks like it could comfortably fit three or four people. He sinks down, stiff, so that he can slide his legs in first and sit on the edge. It isn't scalding, but he takes a moment to get used to the temperature. Or perhaps just to sit somewhere that feels, at least for now, safe. He glances up when he hears Jakob.
Asra's pale body is well-built, clearly honed by some martial training. There are places on his body that were covered by clothes that bear a faint stain from the blood soaking through thinner layers. But the stains are, perhaps, the least eye-catching marks on him.
There are several distinct scars that are too precise to have been inflicted in a fight, the lines too straight and careful. Some are smaller and at odd angles, like there was a target in mind; others are long in a grim way that suggests a more grievous injury. Or surgery. There are others yet, more haphazard, that suggest he's seen melee combat at some point in his life.
Bren has never been especially self-conscious, but he steels himself against that very feeling as he strips in the antechamber now. Since his escape, he hasn't had many chances to bathe, and certainly not in front of others. He doesn't look like he used to, and he is still unused to how his body has changed. Dressed in his ill-fitting clothes, he appeared lean. But without them, it's clear that he's not merely slim, nor even the sort of gauntly thin that would indicate he's missed a few meals, but plainly emaciated. He is lanky and angular, and his skin hugs his bones unsettlingly tight. What muscle remains is wiry, only apparent due to an unhealthy lack of fat. He hasn't had the chance to eat well since his escape, either.
Eleven years ago, he was young and strong. But in that time he has grown older, been fed less, barely stepped foot outside his stone cell. What youthful strength and beauty he once possessed has wasted away.
This is to say nothing of his arms, which he cradles protectively close to his body as he enters the bathing chamber, a towel held modestly in front of him. He gets his first good look at Asra then as well, but after a momentary glance, politely averts his eyes. Still, a moment was enough. He recalls a perfect snapshot of a sleekly toned body, pale skin interrupted by the sort of exacting scarring that Bren knows from experience to be left by a scalpel's methodical incision, some sickeningly long. There are other marks on Asra's body as well, but if anything could convince him that perhaps there are commonalities to be found between them, it is those distinctly surgical scars.
Bren wastes no time testing the water. Leaving his towel by the side of the pool, he steps into the bath and sinks down with a sharp hiss of breath, submerging himself to the shoulders, then ducking under completely. When he emerges, he pushes his wet hair back from his face, raggedly long and now noticeably redder than it was beneath a layer of dust and dirt.
Asra looks at Jakob as the other man joins him, for the first time getting a sense of how he looks beneath his clothes. It is not what he imagined, the pitiful skin and bones of a man who has not been well-fed or cared for in some time. There is a flicker across his face, the shadow of a frown. What circumstances led to this--?
He sees the scars on Jakob's arms, even though the man quickly disappears beneath the water. They are methodical, too familiar in their precision, and despite the humid heat of the room, he feels an unpleasant chill slither down his back. To banish it, he leaves his towel behind and slips into the water, following Jakob's example as he ducks beneath. Asra scrubs his fingers along his scalp, attempting to dislodge road dirt and anything else that might be there.
He resurfaces slowly, pushing his dark hair back to keep it out of his face. He leans down again to rub his fingers over his cheeks and brow, to rub them together beneath the water in hopes of removing the last traces of blood. He cannot keep seeing it. He will remember it.
Thankfully he doesn't feel Asra's eyes on him for long. Sinking beneath the water helps with that, and he glimpses Asra doing the same out of the corner of his eye. From a basket at the pool's edge Bren retrieves the plain soap provided and begins a thorough scrub-down, narrowly avoiding tearing up at how good the warm water feels, and how getting clean almost makes him feel like a person again. Weeping over a bath in front of his new companion wouldn't make for a favorable impression.
Instead, when he can trust his voice again, he murmurs, "This was a good idea."
He is currently working real honest-to-gods shampoo through his hair, a privilege he hasn't had in years. Finally he chances a more direct glance up, and happens to catch Asra's eye. He would guess that he was probably looking at his arms. Though he's tried to hide them from view as much as possible, he wonders if Asra is making connections the same way he had.
"Between this and the promise of a meal and a bed at an inn tonight, I will feel very spoiled."
That is somewhat understating it. He hasn't slept in a proper bed in more than a decade.
Asra finds something in the basket to wash himself with, absently lathering up the soap so that he can rub it over his skin. He catches Jakob's gaze when the other man looks at him.
"Has it been a long time?" he asks, uncertain if that is the right question but it's the one that escapes first. He gives Jakob a moment to consider his answer, disappearing beneath the water again to rinse himself. He isn't finished by far - he wants to linger here as long as they can.
The pattern of the scars flits through his mind - they're the broken, unfinished pattern. He's seen the full version before, geometric lines in black ink. He thinks of the volstruckers and looks at Jakob again. He clearly isn't one, or if he is, he takes his assignment very seriously.
Having brought the subject up himself, Bren isn't offended or put off by the question, but takes the time granted to consider just how he wants to word his answer. "Ja," he decides. "I have been...down on my luck these last few years." His voice lowers to a softer murmur, yet still seems to echo off the stone walls of the small, mostly empty chamber. "I know it is probably obvious. But that is why I could not ignore your camp when I saw it."
He too ducks down to rinse out his hair after that, but looks back to Asra again when he surfaces. Now that he's crossed the hurdle of actually getting into the bath, he also isn't in any hurry to leave yet. He's content in the water with his body mostly submerged.
At last, he thinks it is time to risk a little more vulnerability for a little more information. They have already revealed something significant by stripping down to bare, scarred skin, bodies that show what they have survived in a variety of ways.
"Those people," Bren says carefully, the intensity of his blue eyes filled with wary caution, "you were not with them voluntarily, were you?"
The word voluntarily complicates things more than it should. Asra looks off at nothing, absently running more shampoo through his hair.
"I did not try to leave before last night," he begins, trying to piece together fractured memories and visions. He doesn't think he did, anyway. "But I had no in interest in what they wanted me for."
He doesn't care about the volstruckers' quarry, but his interest wasn't relevant or necessary for the work. Only his compliance. Asra bends back this time to rinse his hair, wanting to keep his head above water. It puts some of the scars on his stomach and chest on full display; he doesn't seem to think about it and finishes cleaning his hair before standing straight again.
After a moment, Bren nods. Again, he doesn't think this is a lie. Asra is unqiue. Though he still knows little about him, and he can't help the sense that there is an odd kinship. Bren doesn't trust him, and he remains wary, but not for the reasons he'd initially feared. He doesn't think Asra is hunting him. Or if he was, he doesn't think he is any longer.
"What did they want you for?" he chances asking, quiet and attentive. He lets himself look now, taking in the healthy, trained shape of Asra's body in contrast to the scars that tell a grim story written clearly on his skin. He himself has sunk into the water to the neck. His freshly washed hair floats around him on its surface, longer and redder than he's seen it since he was made to cut it half a lifetime ago.
"I thought that was clear," he says as he stands straight again, pushing his fingers through his hair to make sure it's rinsed clean. He looks at Jakob, his dark eyes reflecting some of the low light. "I'm good at killing people."
Whatever else they wanted him for, whatever else they thought they might use him for, that has been an interest from the start. His mindless prowess, his connection to--something. Gods, it feels like walking out of the dark and into bright light. He can't see what's behind him anymore, but he knows that it's there.
"Like a dog on a leash." The way he says it makes it sound like he's parroting someone else - his accent changes slightly, mimicking as best he can another voice.
Bren's lips are dry and cracked, and they sting when he licks them nervously. "Ja," he says, "that was pretty clear." But that muddies the water more, if anything. Volstrucker are also good at killing people. They are certainly capable of hunting and killing him. Why involve a man who is not one of them? Especially if there is a chance he might turn on his...captors? Collaborators?
Even if he asked these questions, he gets the sense that Asra may not be able to answer them.
A dog on a leash. Those certainly aren't Trent's words. Then whose?
"To me, it seems like that is what they wanted you to be rather than what you are." No tame dog chooses freedom and self-determination over unquestioning loyalty.
"Maybe so. It felt right, for a time." Even as he says it, Asra doubts. He doesn't think it was ever truly right, but then perhaps there was no other option. He absently traces a faint scar across his neck, vaguely remembering the blade that put it there.
"Does it matter now? They do not have me any longer."
For how long? Asra rubs his face and leaves his hands there for a moment, trying to quell the barrage of thoughts that come all at once. Will they hunt him and bring him back? Will they know he's gone? And beneath it all the flash of a vision: Jakob's beautiful red hair floating in the water, with Asra's pale fingers curled tight in it to hold him under. It's that last thought that sends a shudder of anticipation down his back and makes his stomach turn all at once. Gods, who was he?
Asra slowly drops his hands, looking more tired than he did when they arrived.
Though he does nothing to indicate as much, Bren feels seen by that comment. It felt right, for a time. Not easy, but right. For him, he thought he'd found what he was meant for. As he watches Asra fingers move over a scar, he drifts back toward the edge of the pool, where he can rest his head against the ledge.
It only matters if Asra thinks it does. And to him, it seems like he hasn't quite decided.
There is silence for a time, and Bren wonders what thoughts the other man has drifted into. He looks exhausted, though he is hardly one to talk.
"Asra?" he says at last, a gentle prompt to bring him back to the present. His low voice is hardly above a murmur, but it sounds louder in this space. "What do you need from me?"
He pleaded last night to stay with him. Bren remembers how he sounded, desperation edging into fear.
The sound of his name makes him look up, but in the face of that question he can only stare blankly. What does he need? He needs answers, he needs memory. He moves through the water, finding a ledge along the wall to sit on. He does not make himself smaller, but neither does he make any effort to take up space.
"Something more than my name," he says. "Something more real than my dreams."
He doesn't know if this man can give him any of those, but this is at least a step between the oblivion of blood and bone that flicker in the back of his mind and whatever is ahead of him.
A corner of Bren's mouth curls in a rueful smile. "I will do what I can," he says, which isn't a lie. He is willing to see where this goes until the risk outweighs the possible benefits. He is wary, but not unsympathetic.
Noticing a wide-toothed comb in the basket of bathing supplies, Bren picks it up, and spends a moment looking at it before he begins to very carefully work it through his freshly-washed hair. He doesn't remember the last time he used something better than his fingers to comb his hair.
"Is that the extent of your memories?" he asks, wincing briefly as the comb's tines snag on a snarl in his hair. There are bound to be a lot of those. "You do not know where you are from, or where you might like to go?"
"There are some things," he admits. "But there is a... gap. Possibly a significant one."
At times it feels like trying to see through a thick fog. Shapes moving but no way to make out details. He leans back against the wall, staring off at nothing with his dark brows pinched together. Some things he does remember, but they are not something he wants to share with Jakob just now.
"I remember pain," Asra says after a moment. Different kinds of pain, though eh doesn't think that's enough to go by. "And confinement. And something or someone whispering to me."
Bren's mouth tightens in a grimace. That certainly sounds like Vergesson. He's increasingly certain that his own vague recollection, as foggy as all of his memories from his own significant gap, must be real. Though he doesn't know how long ago it was, he glimpsed Asra there.
Should he share that? It would reveal too much about himself. But with this particular man, does that even matter?
"You have suffered a great deal." His brow furrows. "And to be left with those memories alone...that is especially cruel." At least he remembers before. Though it feels like an open wound, he would rather know the truth. "As I have said, you are welcome to stay with me. I do not have much, but I am familiar with the Empire, and can perhaps help you in that way."
Asra leaves the conversation there, if Jakob lets him, and settles deeper into the water to quietly brood while they take as much time as they can in this bath. He knows they will have to get out eventually, but he makes no move to do so before Jakob does.
They stay long enough that their clothes are ready when they get out, and it feels good to put on something clean after soaking for so long. Asra follows Jakob's lead as they find a place to stay - cheap, easy to pay for, and a place where they won't draw too much attention. He has not been with Jakob that long, but it's clear - especially given the state of the man's coat - that he prefers to go unnoticed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"Let me stay with you." It's worse than a question: it's a plea. The act of asking leaves him exposed and the warning crawls up his back. He does not need companionship. But you want it, a softer voice whispers. One that is right in ways he doesn't want to admit. "A cheap inn is more so splitting it."
Maybe that isn't reason enough, but it is reasonable. The coin both of them have walked away with will go further if they share that expense, small though it is. This man looks at him with recognition and Asra wants to know why. He must know. And he doesn't think it is a discussion that can or would happen in a public bath.
no subject
Why was he at Vergesson? He needs to know.
"Okay," Bren agrees quietly, after a beat or two of silent thought. "You are clearly far from home. I have no particular destination, but you are welcome to remain with me until you decide where you want to go." Then, a careful probe: "I will need something to call you, though."
no subject
"Asra," he answers. "That is my name."
It's an affirmation as much as an answer. He will take back who he is, and this is the first step. Well... perhaps murdering the volstruckers was the first step. But even that felt in service to the dark urges inside him. He cannot undo it now.
no subject
"Jakob VΓΆlkner," he lies smoothly, and offers his hand. Like the rest of him, it's dirty, and also flecked with blood from divesting the volstrucker of their valuables. Dingy bandages loop around his thumb and disappear up the sleeve of his tattered coat. "I will not pretend to know what has happened to you, Asra, but I am grateful that you did not mind my snooping."
no subject
"Are you?" he asks, equal measures curious and wary.
no subject
"Ja. You could have slit my throat, but instead you are offering to split a room with me." Glancing up sidelong, a corner of his mouth lifts in a tight, humorless half smile. "One is far more preferable than the other. If I can help you on your way in return, I will."
no subject
Asra hasn't killed Jakob, and out of the bargain Jakob has scavenged coin, components, and at least one book from the volstruckers, among whatever else he might have taken. Asra wasn't looking, too caught up in his own looting to care. He nods in the general direction they've been traveling.
"Let's keep going." They have good reason to get as far from the charred bodies as they can before daylight.
no subject
Just past midday, they pass the first buildings, outlying storehouses, then the mines themselves. These areas are busier, but so are the folk they encounter, too occupied by their own business to spare them more than a passing glance.
Druvenlode isn't a pretty city. The terrain is rocky, so greenery is sparse. Everything is built close together of the same gray slate that makes up the cliffs. Smoke rises over the rooftops. The largest buildings aren't temples, but casinos. The streets are all packed dirt, and the air itself is dusty. But it is a bustling place full of sound, energy, life. Two dirty travelers finding the cheapest bathhouse in town and paying a silver each for a bath hardly bears notice.
"The rest can be cleaned," Bren tells the attendant who will be taking their clothing to be laundered, "but the coat is fine." Understandably, she gives him a skeptical look. The coat is a fucking mess. But she doesn't challenge it, and Bren gets on his way to the antechamber where he'll hurriedly strip down and store his things.
no subject
The air in the baths is humid and fragrant and a far cry from what they left behind in the woods. He strips out of his clothes so that they can be cleaned, everything, and takes a towel that smells clean but is somewhat rough from multiple washings. That it is clean is all that matters. For mow, he wraps it around his waist for some sense of modesty, even if he plans on being rid of it shortly.
From the antechamber, there's a large pool that looks like it could comfortably fit three or four people. He sinks down, stiff, so that he can slide his legs in first and sit on the edge. It isn't scalding, but he takes a moment to get used to the temperature. Or perhaps just to sit somewhere that feels, at least for now, safe. He glances up when he hears Jakob.
Asra's pale body is well-built, clearly honed by some martial training. There are places on his body that were covered by clothes that bear a faint stain from the blood soaking through thinner layers. But the stains are, perhaps, the least eye-catching marks on him.
There are several distinct scars that are too precise to have been inflicted in a fight, the lines too straight and careful. Some are smaller and at odd angles, like there was a target in mind; others are long in a grim way that suggests a more grievous injury. Or surgery. There are others yet, more haphazard, that suggest he's seen melee combat at some point in his life.
no subject
Eleven years ago, he was young and strong. But in that time he has grown older, been fed less, barely stepped foot outside his stone cell. What youthful strength and beauty he once possessed has wasted away.
This is to say nothing of his arms, which he cradles protectively close to his body as he enters the bathing chamber, a towel held modestly in front of him. He gets his first good look at Asra then as well, but after a momentary glance, politely averts his eyes. Still, a moment was enough. He recalls a perfect snapshot of a sleekly toned body, pale skin interrupted by the sort of exacting scarring that Bren knows from experience to be left by a scalpel's methodical incision, some sickeningly long. There are other marks on Asra's body as well, but if anything could convince him that perhaps there are commonalities to be found between them, it is those distinctly surgical scars.
Bren wastes no time testing the water. Leaving his towel by the side of the pool, he steps into the bath and sinks down with a sharp hiss of breath, submerging himself to the shoulders, then ducking under completely. When he emerges, he pushes his wet hair back from his face, raggedly long and now noticeably redder than it was beneath a layer of dust and dirt.
no subject
He sees the scars on Jakob's arms, even though the man quickly disappears beneath the water. They are methodical, too familiar in their precision, and despite the humid heat of the room, he feels an unpleasant chill slither down his back. To banish it, he leaves his towel behind and slips into the water, following Jakob's example as he ducks beneath. Asra scrubs his fingers along his scalp, attempting to dislodge road dirt and anything else that might be there.
He resurfaces slowly, pushing his dark hair back to keep it out of his face. He leans down again to rub his fingers over his cheeks and brow, to rub them together beneath the water in hopes of removing the last traces of blood. He cannot keep seeing it. He will remember it.
no subject
Instead, when he can trust his voice again, he murmurs, "This was a good idea."
He is currently working real honest-to-gods shampoo through his hair, a privilege he hasn't had in years. Finally he chances a more direct glance up, and happens to catch Asra's eye. He would guess that he was probably looking at his arms. Though he's tried to hide them from view as much as possible, he wonders if Asra is making connections the same way he had.
"Between this and the promise of a meal and a bed at an inn tonight, I will feel very spoiled."
That is somewhat understating it. He hasn't slept in a proper bed in more than a decade.
no subject
"Has it been a long time?" he asks, uncertain if that is the right question but it's the one that escapes first. He gives Jakob a moment to consider his answer, disappearing beneath the water again to rinse himself. He isn't finished by far - he wants to linger here as long as they can.
The pattern of the scars flits through his mind - they're the broken, unfinished pattern. He's seen the full version before, geometric lines in black ink. He thinks of the volstruckers and looks at Jakob again. He clearly isn't one, or if he is, he takes his assignment very seriously.
no subject
He too ducks down to rinse out his hair after that, but looks back to Asra again when he surfaces. Now that he's crossed the hurdle of actually getting into the bath, he also isn't in any hurry to leave yet. He's content in the water with his body mostly submerged.
At last, he thinks it is time to risk a little more vulnerability for a little more information. They have already revealed something significant by stripping down to bare, scarred skin, bodies that show what they have survived in a variety of ways.
"Those people," Bren says carefully, the intensity of his blue eyes filled with wary caution, "you were not with them voluntarily, were you?"
no subject
"I did not try to leave before last night," he begins, trying to piece together fractured memories and visions. He doesn't think he did, anyway. "But I had no in interest in what they wanted me for."
He doesn't care about the volstruckers' quarry, but his interest wasn't relevant or necessary for the work. Only his compliance. Asra bends back this time to rinse his hair, wanting to keep his head above water. It puts some of the scars on his stomach and chest on full display; he doesn't seem to think about it and finishes cleaning his hair before standing straight again.
no subject
"What did they want you for?" he chances asking, quiet and attentive. He lets himself look now, taking in the healthy, trained shape of Asra's body in contrast to the scars that tell a grim story written clearly on his skin. He himself has sunk into the water to the neck. His freshly washed hair floats around him on its surface, longer and redder than he's seen it since he was made to cut it half a lifetime ago.
no subject
Whatever else they wanted him for, whatever else they thought they might use him for, that has been an interest from the start. His mindless prowess, his connection to--something. Gods, it feels like walking out of the dark and into bright light. He can't see what's behind him anymore, but he knows that it's there.
"Like a dog on a leash." The way he says it makes it sound like he's parroting someone else - his accent changes slightly, mimicking as best he can another voice.
no subject
Even if he asked these questions, he gets the sense that Asra may not be able to answer them.
A dog on a leash. Those certainly aren't Trent's words. Then whose?
"To me, it seems like that is what they wanted you to be rather than what you are." No tame dog chooses freedom and self-determination over unquestioning loyalty.
no subject
"Does it matter now? They do not have me any longer."
For how long? Asra rubs his face and leaves his hands there for a moment, trying to quell the barrage of thoughts that come all at once. Will they hunt him and bring him back? Will they know he's gone? And beneath it all the flash of a vision: Jakob's beautiful red hair floating in the water, with Asra's pale fingers curled tight in it to hold him under. It's that last thought that sends a shudder of anticipation down his back and makes his stomach turn all at once. Gods, who was he?
Asra slowly drops his hands, looking more tired than he did when they arrived.
no subject
It only matters if Asra thinks it does. And to him, it seems like he hasn't quite decided.
There is silence for a time, and Bren wonders what thoughts the other man has drifted into. He looks exhausted, though he is hardly one to talk.
"Asra?" he says at last, a gentle prompt to bring him back to the present. His low voice is hardly above a murmur, but it sounds louder in this space. "What do you need from me?"
He pleaded last night to stay with him. Bren remembers how he sounded, desperation edging into fear.
no subject
"Something more than my name," he says. "Something more real than my dreams."
He doesn't know if this man can give him any of those, but this is at least a step between the oblivion of blood and bone that flicker in the back of his mind and whatever is ahead of him.
no subject
Noticing a wide-toothed comb in the basket of bathing supplies, Bren picks it up, and spends a moment looking at it before he begins to very carefully work it through his freshly-washed hair. He doesn't remember the last time he used something better than his fingers to comb his hair.
"Is that the extent of your memories?" he asks, wincing briefly as the comb's tines snag on a snarl in his hair. There are bound to be a lot of those. "You do not know where you are from, or where you might like to go?"
no subject
At times it feels like trying to see through a thick fog. Shapes moving but no way to make out details. He leans back against the wall, staring off at nothing with his dark brows pinched together. Some things he does remember, but they are not something he wants to share with Jakob just now.
"I remember pain," Asra says after a moment. Different kinds of pain, though eh doesn't think that's enough to go by. "And confinement. And something or someone whispering to me."
no subject
Should he share that? It would reveal too much about himself. But with this particular man, does that even matter?
"You have suffered a great deal." His brow furrows. "And to be left with those memories alone...that is especially cruel." At least he remembers before. Though it feels like an open wound, he would rather know the truth. "As I have said, you are welcome to stay with me. I do not have much, but I am familiar with the Empire, and can perhaps help you in that way."
no subject
Asra leaves the conversation there, if Jakob lets him, and settles deeper into the water to quietly brood while they take as much time as they can in this bath. He knows they will have to get out eventually, but he makes no move to do so before Jakob does.
They stay long enough that their clothes are ready when they get out, and it feels good to put on something clean after soaking for so long. Asra follows Jakob's lead as they find a place to stay - cheap, easy to pay for, and a place where they won't draw too much attention. He has not been with Jakob that long, but it's clear - especially given the state of the man's coat - that he prefers to go unnoticed.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)