It was probably the recent drowning and fever and blood loss that helped Asuma cast off reality so easily, but he wasn't really in the mind-frame to care. Movement carried him, steady and precise; painless, when conscious thought slipped away. The mantra flowed like a gently winding river, the sole focus of breath and voice and thought for a sea of burnt-saffron robes and one blue one. Bells chimed softly, marking out time without intruding real world concerns.

When the ceremony ended, it was in collective silence.

Asuma came back to himself with a feeling of calm like a solid glass shield, and a serious amount of pain. He winced, breath catching between his teeth, and pressed his forehead against the floor in a final bow while he tried to work through it. Continuous motion had done nothing good for a ribcage only recently put back together.

Robes rustled around him as the monks stood. Asuma was willing himself to a vertical place when a hand like fragile twigs wrapped in soft, supple leather clasped carefully over his shoulder.

"Are you quite alright, ninja-san?"

Ordinarily, that would have been grounds for a smart-ass comment, but now, with incense in his blood and a touch of redemption lightening his soul, he just muttered quietly, "Fine. Just give me a minute."

There was a pause, then the hand left his shoulder and found his right elbow. Before Asuma realized his helper's intentions, a surprising rush of strength boosted him to his feet. He staggered sideways, crushing the instinctive impulse--far too slow--to lash out--

And found himself up close and personal with the abbot. An arm like roped steel caught briefly around his shoulders, steadying him. Asuma blinked. "Um."

"You remind me of someone I met several years ago," the abbot informed him gravely, as monks broke around them like an orange tide. "An angry young teenager who visited us with his father. If I remember correctly, he decided to educate several of our newer acolytes in the arts of brawling and swearing."

Asuma licked his lips. "In my defense," he said, after a long moment, "temples are really boring when you're fifteen."

The abbot's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'm glad to see that you have since revised your opinion, Sarutobi-sama."

Asuma winced again. "Just Asuma. I never wanted to be anyone's sir."

"Or your father's son, as I recall. I see some things remain the same." The abbot's fingers tightened a little as he turned Asuma towards the doors, ushering him forwards with a careful kind of pressure that brooked no argument. "Come. I believe your companion is waiting."

"Natsumi," Asuma muttered through gritted teeth; after sitting seiza for several long minutes, his wounded thigh had several choice complaints to make. "Her name's Natsumi."

"And her presence is creating quite a stir amongst our less enlightened members," the abbot agreed, with something like wicked humour. "I was delighted to make her acquaintance when she dropped you at my feet. A remarkable woman, I think."

Asuma sacrificed another smart-ass answer for the continued ability to breathe as he kept pace with the abbot's decidedly unforgiving stride. Enlightenment through suffering, he thought grimly, and resolved to indulge in something sinful when he made it back to Konoha. Possibly several somethings. All at the same time.

He hadn't quite managed to piece himself back together before the abbot guided him into the airy, well-lit refectory, where Natsumi knelt surrounded by elegant little tables and several plates of untouched food. She made a graceful picture, lit by a pool of sunlight that gilded her hair and touched a glow to pale skin. Her yukata was gathered neatly beneath her; her broken-healed hands were folded in her lap. Her expression fell somewhere between surprised and quizzical.

The abbot affected a low, stately bow. Asuma just tried not to fall over.

"Miss me?" he managed, forgetting to smile.