[ he hesitates, still trembling a little, before carefully, slowly, reaching for one of tsurumaru's hands, fingers barely brushing it as he turns it over to look at the damage.
there's.. so much hurt inside this spirit. he'd glimpsed.. something of it once. the first time he'd held the blade, when he'd decided that yes, he'd wake this one, give it life. tsurumaru kuninaga should have the chance to create his own life, make his own choices, be happy. .. they only have a war to win first.
he shakes his head, a small movement, at the apology, hands falling away from the spirit's. he reaches down, then, ripping the hem of his sleep-shirt, tearing a strip off, eyes still carefully lowered. the question makes him freeze, though, breath hiccuping in faint surprise. for a few moments, he's silent, but then his head shakes again. ]
.. No. [ he'd just said what he thinks. (what haru knows.) he takes a careful breath, lifting his hands again to hesitantly begin to strip the glove away. (in the far corner of the room, the shattered mirrors darken, reflecting a small room in an old house. it's too dark to see much else.) ] I know-- [ he drops the glove. he'll buy tsurumaru new ones; his hands are more important. ] I know I'm not.. [ he trails off, tries again. ] I didn't.. g-give you this life to make you miserable. I'm-- I'm sorry. I just.. thought.. like this, you-- [ he dabs at the cuts, cautious and still a little frightened. ] I think you have the potential to-- to be happy. I can't do anything about.. the war right now, or-- or me. But people love you, Tsurumaru-san. For you, not.. because of your vessel, or who you belonged to, or your appearance. [ he draws the rag back, trying to see how bad the cuts are. ]
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there's.. so much hurt inside this spirit. he'd glimpsed.. something of it once. the first time he'd held the blade, when he'd decided that yes, he'd wake this one, give it life. tsurumaru kuninaga should have the chance to create his own life, make his own choices, be happy. .. they only have a war to win first.
he shakes his head, a small movement, at the apology, hands falling away from the spirit's. he reaches down, then, ripping the hem of his sleep-shirt, tearing a strip off, eyes still carefully lowered. the question makes him freeze, though, breath hiccuping in faint surprise. for a few moments, he's silent, but then his head shakes again. ]
.. No. [ he'd just said what he thinks. (what haru knows.) he takes a careful breath, lifting his hands again to hesitantly begin to strip the glove away. (in the far corner of the room, the shattered mirrors darken, reflecting a small room in an old house. it's too dark to see much else.) ] I know-- [ he drops the glove. he'll buy tsurumaru new ones; his hands are more important. ] I know I'm not.. [ he trails off, tries again. ] I didn't.. g-give you this life to make you miserable. I'm-- I'm sorry. I just.. thought.. like this, you-- [ he dabs at the cuts, cautious and still a little frightened. ] I think you have the potential to-- to be happy. I can't do anything about.. the war right now, or-- or me. But people love you, Tsurumaru-san. For you, not.. because of your vessel, or who you belonged to, or your appearance. [ he draws the rag back, trying to see how bad the cuts are. ]