[To be entirely fair to Amos, it's not like Mamoru holds his happier memories close to his chest. As someone who's been drawing the shortest end of the stick all his life, it's a surprise that Mamoru is still alive.
Or not, considering how he picks up on these bad memories and sinks his teeth and nails into them.]
Most of them. [He nods.] There's no point in practicing if it's not like the real thing.
[Which explains the following. The older man seems to be emboldened by the injury he caused onto this younger version of Mamoru, and increases his blows. Eyes wide, almost manic, he breathes hard and the younger fighter pushes his master away.
For an old man, he's fast, very strong - experienced, of course, in both fighting and teaching people how to fight. He's guiding Mamoru right where he wants him, and his pupil looks at him with a dawning on his face. The teacher grins and lunges.
Mamoru grits his teeth and lunges forward, too.
This version of Mamoru, though, merely listens to everything, knowing fully well how the sound of crickets dies when the wood of his bokken falls dully on his Master's skull. How his feet drag on the damp blades of grass before he stumbles, and the hapless young swordsman goes and cradles his sensei's body, calling out to him.
The Master smiles within the blood in his mouth, coating the side of his face, and smacks a red hand on Mamoru's cheek. 'That was great!']
cw: violence, etc etc
Or not, considering how he picks up on these bad memories and sinks his teeth and nails into them.]
Most of them. [He nods.] There's no point in practicing if it's not like the real thing.
[Which explains the following. The older man seems to be emboldened by the injury he caused onto this younger version of Mamoru, and increases his blows. Eyes wide, almost manic, he breathes hard and the younger fighter pushes his master away.
For an old man, he's fast, very strong - experienced, of course, in both fighting and teaching people how to fight. He's guiding Mamoru right where he wants him, and his pupil looks at him with a dawning on his face. The teacher grins and lunges.
Mamoru grits his teeth and lunges forward, too.
This version of Mamoru, though, merely listens to everything, knowing fully well how the sound of crickets dies when the wood of his bokken falls dully on his Master's skull. How his feet drag on the damp blades of grass before he stumbles, and the hapless young swordsman goes and cradles his sensei's body, calling out to him.
The Master smiles within the blood in his mouth, coating the side of his face, and smacks a red hand on Mamoru's cheek. 'That was great!']
That was his last lesson.