By Amber Michelle K.
myaru@etherealvoid.net

This character is from the Suikoden: Pro Patria Mori IF, and not part of game canon.

It was odd at first to be caretaker to a boy who might be his master's mirror image - might be, but for appearing a few years too young, with hair cut far too short. His development was slow; babies, one might suppose, had time to grow used to their bodies as they got older, but this one was an unusual case, born at an age where he should have been master of himself already. Watching the boy's eyes struggle to focus and his mouth refuse to form words, Asen felt distinctly odd about the entire situation. The feeling only grew sharper when he left the one called Sasarai to tend to the other, who was later named Luc, after some hero-turned-traitor that his master rarely talked about unless in a dark mood.

They were sweet children, for all their appearance. It only took a year to have them functioning at a level more suited to their appearance, but they were still young in mind, and full of innocent questions he had no idea how to answer. Luc was taken off his hands in time, leaving him with the elder child.

Age was a moot point, really, as they had been born at a certain stage of development and would likely remain that way for eternity. He envied, sometimes, the gift they'd been given - even Luc, who displeased his master, had something Asen would give his heart for. It wouldn't last much longer without a rune in any case.

"Why do you look like that?" Sasarai would ask when his thoughts turned that way, but Asen wouldn't know where to begin.

So he would say, simply, "I'll tell you when you are older, young one." As if he would know any better then, how to explain his feelings on the matter.

When Sasarai became a little more aware of the people around them, the tone of his question changed.

The boy didn't have much of an attention span when it came to studying; often, Asen had to resort to reading their textbooks aloud just to pin him down and make him absorb the information. If the idea of tying Sasarai to a chair to make him sit still hadn't seemed so inappropriate, he might have been tempted. The child would flit around the room while he listened - to the chair, the hearthrug, the arm of Asen's chair, even the table, where he would hoist himself up and let his legs dangle.

They were reading a treatise on Sindarin contributions to Harmonian technology and culture when Sasarai left his perch on the arm of the chair and attacked Asen's hair. He turned to protest, and winced when it pulled painfully. "Sasarai--" he began stiffly.

"Can I comb it?" The bright smile flashed over his shoulder halted his admonishment. "I'm still listening." As if to prove himself honest, he repeated, "Pendholdt broke the classical prose barrier in IS95, and he thinks that era had superior forms of poetry."

Asen sighed and Sasarai took that reaction as consent, leaving his side to wander into the other room, and returning with an ivory comb and one of his plain black ribbons.

"Why on earth do you want to do such a thing?" he asked warily, watching his charge approach. "I'm perfectly capable of combing my own hair." He jumped when he felt Sasarai unravel his braid. "A bishop would have no reason to do this."

"But I like your hair," was the simple reply. Sasarai's tone implied he thought it was enough of a reason, and that, at least, was very like something a bishop would say. "I've never seen anything like it. Why is it so white? You don't look as old as Dowaine."

A good bishop always questions his surroundings, he'd told the boy again and again. This wasn't quite what he'd meant. "I am not Dowaine's age." Technically, it was the truth. "I suppose I don't know why it changed color."

"Hmm..."

Asen stared at the page without really focusing, intent on the feeling of the comb pulling through his hair. His child was gentle, but still hit snags now and then.

"Father would know."

He marked their place and closed the book. "He might."

"Do you think he'll see me? I want to see him."

That was a question Asen wondered about himself, and he still didn't have an answer. His master was evasive at best, and often simply ignored the question when it didn't suit him to answer. "Perhaps. I will ask."

"Asen."

"Yes?"

"How do I make a braid?"

Asen smiled and set the book aside. "Just tie it back, child. I will take care of it later."

It was hard to believe he had opposed their creation, even though he knew it would only bring them pain.

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If I submitted this to a critique circle, the first comment would be, "You should show us, not tell us - make each paragraph a scene." Since I don't intend to turn this into a story, you get to be told, not shown. If this little exercise doesn't work, maybe I'll take that piece of advice and try again.

All I want is for Asen to exist for me as more than a name. It can only help me later in the SPPM timeline.