Binding Roots
While Addam often alleges that the worst part about being royalty is having fates, scores and scads of them, rich and poor, deserving and undeserving, draped occlusively across your pristine, supposedly so noble hands, whether or not you're ready and sane (why is it monarchy is so much catastrophically the worse a judge of character than any other, less significant discipline or branch of humanity?), he might just as readily agree that the detesté is how it straps him most awfully to be a man of entirely preconceived notion.
He doesn't get to decide what people think of him. Sure, no one gets to do that, but he doesn't even get to shape opinion. Just rolls with it. Everyone knows him as an exponent of fidelity and a last resort. Everyone knows that he does well by the people, but no one really, truly knows him well enough to say so at any solid stock.
People from other nations know him, too. In Mor Ardain, he's not hotly discussed, but he is known, because where their empire's got its pimples, so too does Torna's golden kingdom have its tarnish, blemish, stain. Urayans won't admit to their upper-crusted bias, but it is there. And Indoline don't say much, but saying less about Addam is actually worse than saying more.
He'd love to say that it doesn't matter. That, based entirely on empirics, Addam Origo is just a fine man, and that's all anyone cares to know. But it's more than just that. He's who and what he is despite what and who he is. Always the bastard. Always the fun-too-young lord. Never just...Addam.
Makes it damned refreshing when he shakes firm hands with a Blade in Uraya, chirping, "I'm Addam. Origo, you know..." and the Blade responds, letting go of his hand just a little too slowly, "Who?"
The Blade's name is Minoth. Minoth is a traveler, a fighter, a writer, a philosopher. Pretty much everything one can be, without being a politician.
Too, Addam can tell pretty clearly (he loves the grand, gregarious, joyful game of reading people, or maybe he just loves people) that Minoth is someone who keeps abreast; who prides himself on being, if not more likable than the rest, at least more intelligent. That is something not all politicians have. Zettar would like to think he does, but...well, he'd better look to Amalthus.
So, rather than scuffle about on the explanation, Addam takes a side route.
"Have you ever been to Torna?" Have, not haven't. What's so great about Torna, anyway?
Minoth shakes his head, cocks up the eye of his grin. "Not an engineer or a farmer. I like the other two human hives."
Curious. A Blade, but he said human, instead of person. Perhaps just for the alliteration? And not a note for Indol, as if it isn't a bustling city in its wholsome.
Addam can feel it right down in his bastard bones. He's going to be curious about Minoth for quite a long time.
(And nothing is so special about Torna, if it doesn't have Minoth.)
Looking at the world through eyes that have looked upon Minoth's (not gazed into, for gawked-up fear), Addam begins to realize just how different his personal vision of the world is to the one he applies to others.
He's really not that fixated on international travel, or the tour of tribulated nations. He wants to farm, and convene in recreation with some imagined family of people who are, yes, predisposed to like him, but also granted the time and exposure to learn themselves their opinion, rather than just being handed one.
But Minoth likes travel. Minoth likes comparison. Minoth likes good food, and Minoth likes spying on the people who make it to see how their wrists twist about the ladle and their eyes bob through the steam.
(He has let Addam treat him, many a time, hasn't he? And never quite indicated his intention of paying Addam back. Not inverted both-sides charity, but he certainly does seem to know what he's about.)
"Where do you think you're headed, my friend?"
He doesn't intend the diminutive address as an admonishment, but it certainly does sound that way, doesn't? My lost and lonely friend.
Minoth yawns, in the internally-tired way where you flex a breath through your chest and nostrils. Is that a yawn? Somehow Addam thinks Minoth would probably describe it that way, regardless.
"On," the Blade answers at last. "Wherever my stories take me."
"You're sure you're not a farmer?"
A sidelong glance. A snort. "Are you?"
Addam tries to smile back kind dismissiveness of his own at the jab. Growing things. Working hard. "Don't you trust me?"
"I didn't ask for a companion."
"Neither did I," Addam lies. Is he, then, so lonely? So guarded, nearing dishonest?
He could always just get married. He'll always have the manor staff. What does he need with a friend?
"You'll go on," Addam repeats, to Minoth's silence. "Yes, that's right."
Minoth has a terribly strong gaze, and he turns it upon Addam now. The prince tries not to shrink. "I didn't say I didn't need a friend."
Oh. "Oh! Right. And a friend you shall always have." He feels his chest puffing out, hates in. Not what he meant by not shrinking.
Addam Origo isn't perennially left, deserted. Minoth is a Blade of character, whatever that actually means (awakened a trickster and a shyster, perpetually so, or...?). He's an adult, in every sense, too old for adolescent games like this. But all the same...
"Can I shake your hand, again, before you go?"
Minoth rolls his eyes. "You can have a hug, if you're gagging for it."
He pokes Addam in the chest when they separate, yet another demonstration of his easy yet hard-won self-possession. "That's forever. I won't forget you."
Forever. Well. Isn't that a long time?
And Minoth is a Blade. But he's a very persuasive, characterful Blade, and Addam believes him anyway.