[The irreverence is better than tinder, giving life to coals, and Akira feels his insides near their boiling point. He hisses out a breath between clenched teeth, grimacing at the earth just below him, and then he begins to push himself upright. It's painful, but in an uncomfortable way; he isn't in agony. Not physically. He's able to kneel, proper and straight-spined, hands in his lap.]

I wasn't speaking to you.

[It's thin, bitter, and quiet. Quiet enough that he doesn't wish to elaborate. Kamo-no-Akira: a holy child of prodigious skill, pure-hearted in his youth, gifted—blessed—with an unrivaled aptitude for cleansing impure energies. His remarkable gifts kept him from ever failing during childhood, during training, and during his courtly endeavors.

This means he has never learned to fail gracefully.

It's indelicate, but Akira brings up the edge of one sleeve to wipe a little of the grime away from his face. He's steeling himself, it seems. Best not to let negativity consume the heart that needs to stay pristine.]

Lie on your back, [he says, then, and he's removing a tasuki from his robes. He draws up his sleeves so he can begin to tie them back.] I can help you a little right now, and then I will carry you back to our camp. The rest can be finished there.

[Ochi will bring them water from the stream; Akira will have it blessed; then he will purify himself. And Konoe. Stupid Konoe, whose bottom lip shines far too red. Holding one sleeve back, tasuki half tied, Akira touches the heel of his palm to Konoe's chin. It's slick and awful. Akira disapproves of the feeling. He's tight-lipped.] You won't be compensated if you die during work. And it would be a while before anyone else came.