Mizu smiles at Vergil's response. As little as she expected to stun him with such a basic question, it amuses her greatly. That alone makes asking worth it, even as she understands the isolation and loneliness inherent in the reaction. It's only surprising if it has never happened, if it is thought it never would happen. Sad, yes, but they're both cut off from people. Separate. No one honestly asks such questions of them. Rather than be sad about it, however, Mizu enjoys Vergil's surprise. One day she'll see that face when they spar.
Siblings or other young people not trying to beat the shit out of her is... a foreign experience for Mizu. It sounds like the kind of thing that must be normal to other people. It's like peering through the slats in her shack as a child and seeing the village children play together. Something observed not experienced, not fully understood. Dante reminds her a little of Ringo and his insistence in following Mizu, joining her, and coming along on her quest. Not the same, mind, but it's the closest she has to someone bothering her when she repeatedly tells them to go away.
She finishes eating the rest of Vergil's vegetables while he talks. The way he looks away, looks distant, when he continues leads her to still. Mizu wipes her hand on the napkin and sits quietly. While it makes so little sense to her that connection could be found in words on a page, Mizu understands the difficulty connecting with others. How much she tried when she still gave a damn about it. It takes effort not to mull over certain events, certain mistakes in her past. She won't think about them. Better to rip open her side again than revisit foolish moments.
Mizu gazes at Vergil's books and tries to see what Vergil said he found there. Her reading has been factual accounts. What stories she's read, she's focused on the details about London, not on connection and people. That superfluous information. None of it has been poetry. Mizu notes the name Blake and looks back at Vergil. The point is what it did for him. There's no expectation it would ever do the same for her. She found herself a different way.
That way doesn't involve words. Mizu's glad to listen to Vergil speak about his interest in books, in poetry, but she doesn't know what to say. Conversation isn't a skill she's developed or needed. "I didn't know you could find that in books," Mizu says, "I didn't grow up with them."
Mizu's still not sure she could find that in books, but she hasn't tried. Connection isn't what she seeks. Connection is for other people. Even, it seems, Vergil. He's in a different place than she is, no longer simply seeking power (though his continued work to regain his sword relates to it). He has room for more in his life. Poetry again. Connection. Vergil and Rin, in their own ways, have been in similar places to Mizu, but they both are in different ones now. Something past, pushed beyond, the goal itself. It raises the question: what happens after? If Mizu kills Fowler and Routley and Skeffington. She doesn't know. If she survives the process, she can figure something out then, though she will be far from anyone she's met in Folkmore at that point. These connections, what little they are, will be gone. That shouldn't matter. It doesn't. The ache is simply her wounds not fully healed.
"Then again, all I did in my youth was make knives and swords and practice my swordmanship."
no subject
Siblings or other young people not trying to beat the shit out of her is... a foreign experience for Mizu. It sounds like the kind of thing that must be normal to other people. It's like peering through the slats in her shack as a child and seeing the village children play together. Something observed not experienced, not fully understood. Dante reminds her a little of Ringo and his insistence in following Mizu, joining her, and coming along on her quest. Not the same, mind, but it's the closest she has to someone bothering her when she repeatedly tells them to go away.
She finishes eating the rest of Vergil's vegetables while he talks. The way he looks away, looks distant, when he continues leads her to still. Mizu wipes her hand on the napkin and sits quietly. While it makes so little sense to her that connection could be found in words on a page, Mizu understands the difficulty connecting with others. How much she tried when she still gave a damn about it. It takes effort not to mull over certain events, certain mistakes in her past. She won't think about them. Better to rip open her side again than revisit foolish moments.
Mizu gazes at Vergil's books and tries to see what Vergil said he found there. Her reading has been factual accounts. What stories she's read, she's focused on the details about London, not on connection and people. That superfluous information. None of it has been poetry. Mizu notes the name Blake and looks back at Vergil. The point is what it did for him. There's no expectation it would ever do the same for her. She found herself a different way.
That way doesn't involve words. Mizu's glad to listen to Vergil speak about his interest in books, in poetry, but she doesn't know what to say. Conversation isn't a skill she's developed or needed. "I didn't know you could find that in books," Mizu says, "I didn't grow up with them."
Mizu's still not sure she could find that in books, but she hasn't tried. Connection isn't what she seeks. Connection is for other people. Even, it seems, Vergil. He's in a different place than she is, no longer simply seeking power (though his continued work to regain his sword relates to it). He has room for more in his life. Poetry again. Connection. Vergil and Rin, in their own ways, have been in similar places to Mizu, but they both are in different ones now. Something past, pushed beyond, the goal itself. It raises the question: what happens after? If Mizu kills Fowler and Routley and Skeffington. She doesn't know. If she survives the process, she can figure something out then, though she will be far from anyone she's met in Folkmore at that point. These connections, what little they are, will be gone. That shouldn't matter. It doesn't. The ache is simply her wounds not fully healed.
"Then again, all I did in my youth was make knives and swords and practice my swordmanship."