"Do you not trust me, Cut?... It pains my heart, really." it perhaps — or one would say "pe-haps" — pains, but yet those pains mattered little to the man on whose name we have decided.
Kannon, as words have been spoken, has calmly set herself onto the nearest untidy timber porch, knees enclosed in her frame: dress gathering dirt, but that too has mattered little to the same figure.
Clutching a palm onto his head, and disappointed in his alleged naming sense, Cut has reduced his gaze to the ground.
Ashamed, perhaps: the lack of memory did not let it waver in any shape or form.
"...I trust you." A single glance, but yet it glues to the sitting form.
"Really? What if I lied to you? Pe-haps, your name is Chaplin.."
"I don't want to be Chaplin either, it sounds strange... Besides, where did Chaplin come from?..."
The question was deliberately ignored. Legs wagging, her elbows have hit her knees, "Would you like to be 'Kannon' instead?"
"..No, can there be two people with the same name?"
"Uh-huh! So, are you accepting my humble offering?"
Silence. To finally return to the topic, instead of almost crouching near a sort of corpse, Cut had to take her head on. He had to grasp onto his fate!
Albeit, the part of 'Fate' came from nowhere.
Posture erect, unbending, the pair of piercing eyes have landed atop Kannon's form; she, in response, coyly slimed.
"...No."
"Aw." Kannon's smile did not quite waver.
She falls silent — expecting a miracle of sorts, mayhaps, but the man only sends his gaze downwards.
..And now, Cut had to actually think of how to proceed — whether the question of his identity or the question of her own needs with him.
It was foolish to presume that she, in fact, came here to stare at him and mock him for theft of the blade: understanding how much Cut himself had valued the sword he could not let off so freely — although in the entire conversation she hasn't questioned the return once, — he could somewhat estimate how much it could matter to her.
So.
"What does this woman truly want?" The question ringed in his ears, and he could finally put his thought process in motion — relief!
With her patiently waiting, a couple or two mental preparations have proceeded until Cut, clasping his hands together — with a sword still calmly resting in his palm,— again turned to face her.
"So… Cannon."
"No." Immediate response. She, however, felt no discomfort at it being explicitly 'Cannon'.
…
"Kanon."
"No. Try again."
"...Woman."
"Kind of sexist. No."
Cut felt defeated. With a hand tensing around the hilt, a last attempt at not wasting his energy by a physical exercise called 'Get it yourself — violently' left his throat. "...Please."
"Use 'Lady'. It's more respectful"
"Right… Lady?..."
In a hum, she quickly sings a quick 'Uh-huh' — it is then followed with even more melodic, "Right, Cat?"
"Could I, perhaps, know whether you want.. 'your' sword back?"
…
And then, silence has befallen.
Her muscles have stopped the careful swaying, and the smile ceased. Still, so still: with a curve of her neck, that soulless expression eyed Cut.
Inaudiable question — pointed towards none but Cut himself, who has given birth to it in his mind: "Why?"
He lacked experience due to obvious reasons in the social aspect, but a craving of a suspicion in his frontal lobe has left him pondering whether her behavior was truly adequate to a regular man
Do people usually speak in such teases? Do people usually approach the topic so far away, as if it is foreign to a land?
His brain had a definition:
People communicate — exchange information.. yet do they perform the task in a way so queer?
…
Silence has continued. Cut decided not to press on her: her gesture was that of frozen ice; to melt it, time is the easiest of ways.
He stared.
She, in response.
Until.. the treacherous mouth has found another curve — she smiled, a smile unlike the others she had given thus far.
"Cut, I find your name rather… Adorable. It fits you quite well, does it not?"
"...If I had any sort of judgement on whether it fits me, I would perhaps agree." The voice left in a mumble. Sudden speech with the gesture have completely taken him out of his pondering, leaving him defenseless to her possible teasing.
"Mh. I believe you do have a sort of judgment. Say: why have you killed him?"
Ah. Him. A pig-like figure splayed on the ground; reeking of feces and worse, as it performed its natural rituals upon being slain.
Cut, though, found in his mind no possible reason for why such a question arose.
"...I don't remember." A response, honest and raw in its nature: the rawness, albeit bitter, has given a form to her smile. Be it unique, it did not have a form: the remark had given it its proper affection, the artfulness it lacked before.
As the man uttered 'I don't remember', she found it precious. Lovable. The lack of memory of the reason why one could murder is lovable.
"Do you regret it, Cut?"
"...Why?"
"Men usually regret murder — it makes them feel heinous if not for a great reason. Do you feel heinous, Cut?"
"...No."
A sharp, nimble question, although it did not forsake its quietness.
Kannon's motherly smile did not forsake its affection either.
"Then, did you enjoy it?"
"...The smell is foul. I'm not drawn to it."
"Would you murder again, then?"
"...If I am to, it would waste my energy, would it not? Besides, it would be quite a distraction… "
Distraction. Distraction from figuring out the precious question, which he had tentatively moved towards.
Who am I?
And yet her smile widens; its form changes to a grin. Unnaturally white, straight lines of teeth form in a precious way.
To her indeed, Cut was precious. Such precious things deserve precious smiles.
"From recovering your memories?"
"...That's right." Cut was taken aback. Why does she, suddenly, resort to an active participation in the dialogue? In questioning, aside from teasing?
It made him feel strange. Not less repugnant, but tilting the scale in a more diagonal way.
"It has more layers, then." Deduced Cut, right as she stood up.
…And yet fluttering atop the still wind, in a soft dance, her hands have raised up — the warmth of the still held lamp, which slowly began to cease, mingled with the moon.
Ah. Moon.
Finally, it has shown itself; there was not such a dire need for the lamp, now, as Cut's eyes could trace the humble, primitive accommodations in their full loathsome beauty.
His eyes, although, were more drawn out of his own need to the strange maiden; to her, corners of whose dress have befallen itself to the mud, defiled
But she stalled; resumed silence.
Muscles stiff, hands airborne as a result of the dance.
"Cut."
Name uttering of violence.
"Would you like to murder for me?"
With the most violent and foul of admissions.