Kagemusha didn't signify method acting. It didn't include the cousin who'd discuss matters of state while lounging about in blue jeans, t-shirt streaked with motor oil from tinkering with the latest and greatest mortarhead; the one who'd smile fleetingly at her from under all his ceremonial crimson-and-white even, once upon a blue moon. Aisha could admit to her hopeless crush on that one, if only to herself.
Thank the stars: it didn't include Ladios Sopp either.
(There were other potential examples. She was surprisingly good at not thinking about those aspects of him, mostly. Not denial, but it made her life easier.)
No, it meant merely the figurehead-of-state, the Imperial Presence, and being Princess Codante in her own right Aisha put a lot of herself into the role. She had to, just so she'd remember orders, and refrain from whipping out her spaud the moment a lustful petty prince with a death wish put his hand on what he thought was her Emperor's knee. She'd yelled at Amaterasu afterward, but fundamentally it was about his honour, not her personal space.
Never her.
Kaien, damn him, was looking her straight in the eyes, holding her gaze, making it a competition so she couldn't look away even if she wanted. Which she did. Want.
"Aisha," he murmured. His hands slid up her body shamelessly, curving around her breasts, warm even through the bindings. She shivered, leaning down toward him as he parted the tangle of red silk – red silk and white brocade. Watched his eyes for the inevitable flash of triumph that would have made her walk: there wasn't, though, just quiet attention. She had to concede he was good.
There was too much of herself in this room, on this bed. But she didn't care, and that in itself was novel.