[Foot, almost literally meet mouth, because Mutsu's commentary very nearly prompts Souza to hit him again, to kick him in the face this time - maybe he'll bite his tongue, maybe he'll shut up, maybe he'll regret what he's done, but today, he's lucky. A combination of the concern clear on his face and pure exhaustion sees Souza sinking to the ground instead, having raised one foot to lash out and finding that his balance simply wouldn't hold him this time.
A mental note - hit him again, when he can, and again and again until he regrets his decision to not listen, to not respect his desires.
It was well known in the citadel what Souza Samonji wanted most, and he'd thought that Mutsu - longtime friend, companion, would understand. Perhaps he was simply too young. Perhaps he was just that stubborn. They were both being selfish.]
I thought I...
[Was finally free. Wouldn't have to come back. Could rest. Could be done with suffering. He knows he doesn't have to finish his sentence, knows that Mutsu will be able to read the tremor in his voice and the way his entire body projects defeat as clear as anything.
He draws his sword, looks down at the blade, runs fingers over the barely-repaired cracks and the damaged state it's in. He could break it again now. One hard swing against something - anything - of substance; a tree, a supporting beam of the citadel itself, anything in the forge, would shatter it again.
If he thought he could do that, he would have long ago.]
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A mental note - hit him again, when he can, and again and again until he regrets his decision to not listen, to not respect his desires.
It was well known in the citadel what Souza Samonji wanted most, and he'd thought that Mutsu - longtime friend, companion, would understand. Perhaps he was simply too young. Perhaps he was just that stubborn. They were both being selfish.]
I thought I...
[Was finally free. Wouldn't have to come back. Could rest. Could be done with suffering. He knows he doesn't have to finish his sentence, knows that Mutsu will be able to read the tremor in his voice and the way his entire body projects defeat as clear as anything.
He draws his sword, looks down at the blade, runs fingers over the barely-repaired cracks and the damaged state it's in. He could break it again now. One hard swing against something - anything - of substance; a tree, a supporting beam of the citadel itself, anything in the forge, would shatter it again.
If he thought he could do that, he would have long ago.]
...Why?