Being alone suits you. It’s about the only thing that does, actually – because you make a point of not fitting in. You stare down comrades with the same distrust you would an enemy, and that’s what the world is to you: an enemy. You’ve resigned yourself to this eternal fight, haven’t you, intent on carving your niche in the darkest, loneliest corner of the world.
There’s no note with the omamori. It resonates with power, but not as much as you do. Holidays don’t really seem like your thing. Neither does making friends, neither does the concern of others. You shirk off people’s feelings with every roll of your shoulders.
But if you could survive to the next battle, and the next after that. That’d be enough.
He turns over the omamori once in his palm, looking over the details of it, fully aware of who sent it to him. It was just like him and it’s only even more obvious what the meaning behind it is. Or, he can assume. It’s enough to make him actually miss back ‘home.’ Because at least there he was useful. Cutting down foes on the battlefield is all he knows, steel washed over in red, how easily it can slide through flesh, how victory mattered less to him than the battle (but it still does, he could prove his strength, prove why he doesn’t need teammates), how when he steps off the battlefield warmed with welcoming tinges of crimson, he steps onto a different one completely. It cascades with ice and dull colors of blue, the chill in the air is different from the normal feel of the wind, where red is painted out, where no person belongs. Now, blue is all he sees.
This item -- despite him leering at it -- paves the road in the cracks in his mind. Those days are out of his reach, but they’re not unobtainable.
Then he shoves it in his pocket.
