any time spent with you, anywhere, is worth it.

[protential]

Hey. Hey, Kamo. Hey. Hey. Hey. [Hikaru's voice is persistent, like a troublesome dragonfly, buzzing in and out of range again and again. He's too weak to do more than lightly smack Kamo across the face, and it's kind of disgusting, really, considering how his hand is covered in grey slime.] Hey, idiot, wake up already. And you're telling me I'm the one who's been overdoing it...

[Perhaps he did end up overdoing it, this time, though. He's fairly sure several of his ribs are broken, and one of his ankles, too, and there's blood--his blood, judging by its color--streaming down one side of his face. Behind him, the blackened, still-burning landscape is all that's left of the meadow where they faced off against the latest warrior of the youkai. Only this patch of ground still has any life to it, protected as it was by Kamo's magic circle. Unfortunately, through some odious trick on the youkai's part, Kamo wasn't able to finish placing his runes or reciting the sacred incantation. The psychic backlash was severe, just this tsunami of dark energy, threatening to overwhelm everything in its path... That's why Hikaru had to finish what Kamo started, although he probably should have called in some reinforcements first. He's just grateful the enchanted sword is as powerful as it is.]

You're being a real pain, you know that... shit, shit, ow...

[Kebiishi are supposed to be better than this, stronger than this, but Hikaru is struggling to focus past the hot, radiating pain. It feels like an entire mountain has been dropped on top of him, and then some. He turns over, then, sitting beside Kamo's prone body, his arms behind him and his legs straight before him, his breaths coming in very shallow intervals. If Kamo doesn't wake up soon (he has to wake up soon), Hikaru is going to have to carry him all the way back to camp, and he doesn't know how he's going to manage that just yet. Not a great situation to be in.]

Comments

[ashlar]

[The enchanted sword was supposed to be the kilned clay lid atop the funeral urn. A finishing touch. One last jab to smite the body of the youkai, after Akira had already extinguished its impurities. Ochi had called Akira a fool for that, but Ochi has always been an impudent sort of shikigami. Konoe-no-Hikaru is a bodyguard, yes, sent along to guard Akira's body, but youkai are first and foremost a blight on the soul. Akira would deal with them himself; Ochi would cover whatever was left over; the sword should was to be used only when all else was said and done.

Akira would rather not wake up and drag himself out of the dirt if it means coming conscious to a world in which he has failed so badly.

He can smell the ash, and the human blood, and the gore from Konoe's kill, and he can smell the tang of inadequate magic, even through the whistle of his thin breaths. His mouth moves before he opens his eyes. He brings his lips together, and then parts them again; they're dry, they stick, and he tastes copper and grit. He touches the tip of his tongue to them anyway, because he needs whatever help he can to facilitate speech.]

Konoe. Be quiet.

[It's a creak, old floorboards, and Akira coughs into the dirt. When he moves his body, he moves slowly, trying first to prop up his top half by resting on his elbows. His clothing is filthy; his face is filthy... He swallows most of a gasp, and ends up panting instead. His hair is mussed, pieces of it stuck to his skin with sweat and maybe a little blood. It's humiliating to be so unclean.

Regardless of the shame, Akira finds it in himself to look over his shoulder, at Konoe. Konoe has much more blood on him, and worse than blood, too. Water, thinks Akira, urgently. Both of them need pure water. The disgust he feels is wrenching at him, while he looks at Konoe's pained posture, the demonic remains clinging to him in places...] Stupid, [Akira gasps, lungs displeased, while he stares at Konoe. Then he turns his pallid face away, and his head droops back down; his forehead settles against the dirt.] Idiot. Foolish. What were you thinking. Stupid.

[His mouth is close to the dirt, and his harsh breaths are kicking up dust. More grit in his mouth. The humiliation of this moment hasn't ceased. Youkai are never meant to get far enough to attack their bodies—only an inept onmyouji would allow a catastrophe like this. That's what Akira has thought every time he's seen clansmen come back injured. He doesn't know how he could show his face at the shrine after this.

He's so angry, he might as well press his face fully into the dirt. His hands, still steadying himself against the ground, are white-knuckled fists.]