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.
Bren lets the conversation go, and instead moves on to talking rather one-sidedly about the area, and the Empire itself. Things one should know to not end up attracting Crownsguard attention, larger cities and their rough locations, and how to leave should that be of interest. (The only way, really, is to head south to the Menagerie Coast. There's no crossing the Ashkeepers. And what would you find in Xhorhas even if you did?) If Asra hardly knows where he is, the least Bren can do is give him the basics.
They have a nice long soak, by Bren's standards, and leave when their clothes are returned. Even if his coat is filthy as ever, it is better than he could have imagined to put clean layers on clean skin beneath it.
Bren has only passed through Druvenlode once before, and that was half a lifetime ago, so he isn't familiar with its inns, but it is easy enough to locate what is widely considered the most affordable. To him, it seems quite comfortable. They pay for the room they'll be sharing, and Bren indulges in ordering a modest lunch for them both, which he takes upstairs. The main room is a little too sparse at this hour for him to feel comfortable hanging around, and he still hasn't gotten to take a good look at the things he lifted from the volstruckers, nor has he counted the coin in the pouch now tucked into his coat.
Sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, even the thin, slightly lumpy mattress feels like a luxury. Their lunch of bread and stew is fresh and filling, and Bren slowly counts more coin than he knows what to do with. It has been a long, long time since he's experienced comfort like this.
Asra has no objection to eating upstairs, content to stay out of public view for a while. He sits with his back against the wall, eating in silence until he's finished. While Jakob begins counting coin, Asra drags his bag closer and pulls out one of the books he took. There is blood on some of the pages, but that isn't a deterrent as he flips it open to examine it. It's a spellbook - the other he grabbed is also likely one, and he wonders if Jakob grabbed the third.
He sets it aside and examines the component pouch he took, then moves on to other items. Decent paper and ink, a bag of coin, a few letters or instructions. Asra lingers over those, but he cannot read the language they are in. He frowns and sets them aside for now, frustrated by such a small yet significant barrier to learning more.
His black hair hangs loose as it dries, falling past his shoulders. He tucks it behind his ear, his fingers pale and elegant now that they aren't covered in blood, dirt, and soot. There doesn't seem to be much in the way of personal effects in the volstrucker's bag, but perhaps that is for the best.
Bren's spoils are already neatly arranged on the bed around him, including the third spellbook. Plenty of good paper in there, and if he can crack the cipher and understand the volstrucker's shorthand, he'll have access to a transcription of every spell she knew. It's heady.
He'll categorize his new component pouch when he's done with the coin, he decides--but Asra's frown catches his eye, and he is near enough to see the writing on the pages he sets down.
"Those are in Zemnian," he observes. He isn't quite close enough to read them in detail, but naturally he recognizes the language. "Native tongue of the northern Empire," he explains. "Myself included, should you want a translation."
He looks at Jakob when the man says he can read the papers. Perhaps there is good reason for him not to hand them over, he has no way of knowing the information given there, if any. But he aches for answers and his curiosity and anger are decent motivations.
Asra gives a curt nod and hands the pages over.
One is a set of instructions to the carrier to find a lost son, as well as a few details regarding that missing person. The letter warns that this person could be disoriented, and therefore possibly dangerous, and so caution is of the utmost importance. There is an explicit command not to hurt the son if it can be helped. Another paper, written in a different hand, seems to be about Asra. It warns whoever it was meant for that Asra is dangerous, and that the writer would like him back for further study. It also suggests the volstruckers traveling with him keep an eye on some of the more recent scars, I don't know want Kressa did, and she is an excellent surgeon, but I do not trust her.
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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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?"
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
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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?"
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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."
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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."
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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.
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They have a nice long soak, by Bren's standards, and leave when their clothes are returned. Even if his coat is filthy as ever, it is better than he could have imagined to put clean layers on clean skin beneath it.
Bren has only passed through Druvenlode once before, and that was half a lifetime ago, so he isn't familiar with its inns, but it is easy enough to locate what is widely considered the most affordable. To him, it seems quite comfortable. They pay for the room they'll be sharing, and Bren indulges in ordering a modest lunch for them both, which he takes upstairs. The main room is a little too sparse at this hour for him to feel comfortable hanging around, and he still hasn't gotten to take a good look at the things he lifted from the volstruckers, nor has he counted the coin in the pouch now tucked into his coat.
Sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, even the thin, slightly lumpy mattress feels like a luxury. Their lunch of bread and stew is fresh and filling, and Bren slowly counts more coin than he knows what to do with. It has been a long, long time since he's experienced comfort like this.
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He sets it aside and examines the component pouch he took, then moves on to other items. Decent paper and ink, a bag of coin, a few letters or instructions. Asra lingers over those, but he cannot read the language they are in. He frowns and sets them aside for now, frustrated by such a small yet significant barrier to learning more.
His black hair hangs loose as it dries, falling past his shoulders. He tucks it behind his ear, his fingers pale and elegant now that they aren't covered in blood, dirt, and soot. There doesn't seem to be much in the way of personal effects in the volstrucker's bag, but perhaps that is for the best.
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He'll categorize his new component pouch when he's done with the coin, he decides--but Asra's frown catches his eye, and he is near enough to see the writing on the pages he sets down.
"Those are in Zemnian," he observes. He isn't quite close enough to read them in detail, but naturally he recognizes the language. "Native tongue of the northern Empire," he explains. "Myself included, should you want a translation."
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Asra gives a curt nod and hands the pages over.
One is a set of instructions to the carrier to find a lost son, as well as a few details regarding that missing person. The letter warns that this person could be disoriented, and therefore possibly dangerous, and so caution is of the utmost importance. There is an explicit command not to hurt the son if it can be helped. Another paper, written in a different hand, seems to be about Asra. It warns whoever it was meant for that Asra is dangerous, and that the writer would like him back for further study. It also suggests the volstruckers traveling with him keep an eye on some of the more recent scars, I don't know want Kressa did, and she is an excellent surgeon, but I do not trust her.
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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.
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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."
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"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.
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"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.
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"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."
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