Floral Soil
Even though Malos has, confoundingly, given them more than copious amounts of free time in which to shore up the capital before he mounts his terrible attack upon Torna, they don't really have time to shill and spare. There are new tasks and quests every morning, old fetch-ups and fights to check every afternoon, general corralling and events to deal with every evening.
That only leaves the nighttime. In the quiet nighttime, personal fears can come to dim light, and sometimes be discussed, but never at length. It's late. They all need sleep.
It's a rougher road than it seems.
On days when they have significant amounts of travel to take care of, as part of their routine, it's difficult to pay proper attention to more serious injuries, too. Addam has gotten in the habit of putting off anything that seems a particular tweak until mealtime, at which point he'll usually have Haze take a look, and she'll fix him up, and they'll put a poultice on until morning.
When Haze is busy wrapping up a sprain Lora managed to land, and Jin is making her favorite to suit her convalescence, however, Addam doesn't make any mention of a gash lurking beneath the curve of his armor, on one side of his stomach. He's hardly noticed it himself, and figures it must have been a stitch from running and dehydration that just hasn't worked itself out yet.
It's not internal bleeding, is it? But it is close to that, and it stings like a bugger when he lies down on his side as usual to go to sleep.
Muffling the instinctive cry of pain, Addam shuffles around to get more folded cloth underneath the wounded spot, hoping it'll have healed itself up by morning if he just stays still.
And for the better part of an hour, as the crickets lay about, he does stay still. Very still.
Too still for Minoth's liking, apparently. "Prince?" is a hissing noise when Addam next hears it.
"Yes?" he responds softly, lowly, still trying not to move.
"You're hurt."
"I believe so."
General frustration emanates off of Minoth in a hot, shifty wave. "And you told no one why?"
"I only just learned of it myself."
"Just now?"
"Earlier than that."
"You're an idiot," Minoth says crossly as he continues his inch over with obvious intent to wreck shit with this scar. "But I'm a bigger idiot, because I'm going to deal with your idiocy myself."
Addam really can't imagine why. Haze has steadfastly insisted to her beloved Flesh Eater advisor many a time that she needs less sleep than he does, and regrets that he should have to guard her in the night when he's the one who requires rest. Wouldn't she be much more gratified with the two of them in the morning if they simply woke her?
But then again, a human wound laid out of battle needs more than ether to cure it, so maybe Minoth hopes to spare her the gore. Is there gore? Addam supposes there must be. That's a scary thought, isn't it?
Impatient movements make it clear that Addam is meant to disrobe.
"If it really hurt that badly, I would have told you."
"I know you would have." It's true; Addam isn't a silent sufferer or a martyr type (of course, that's much more Minoth's style), and this isn't really willful negligence. It is a bit of unwise shut-mouthedness, however.
The prince is only truly fastidious and efficient with the buttons that catch the leather snaps cinching up his armor in the daylight, but Minoth sits back and watches Addam fumble for a moment. Though some of the leather is just starting to crumble, and thus wear into its own natural inner pliability, it doesn't generally give freely. That's fruitless pull one, two, three, and then the cowboy surges in.
"You look pathetic," he mumbles.
Addam grins. "I'm a prince, not a knight. That's your job, to swoop in and save me."
"That's a squire," Minoth retorts, shoving Addam back, but gently, with his job complete. "I'd do anything for you, is the thing. I don't need a title."
"None? But you like giving me one."
"My human weakness - my female hysteria. I kept that one, for fun."
Addam hasn't attention left to laugh, however, since the wound, not horribly messy but relatively large, as it turns out, roars with a passion now that it's been released, even underneath the mail. It seems prudent to keep his more favored stain-prone garments out of the way now, which results in him having to hold himself up away from the dirt at an awkward and difficult angle.
"Ough...that smarts."
"I'm sure it does a lot more than smart. Here, I'll get some alcohol to clean it."
"What, are we lushes? What's wrong with plain water?"
Minoth can't think of a smart comment to answer that, immediately. Stripping back the armor, he feels in at the wound with his own two careful bare fingers - Addam quietly, gratefully notes the lack of hesitation on Minoth's part and the lack of minding on his own.
"Nothing, I guess. It's probably fine. Not infected, or anything, but dirty."
So he cleans it. Fresh cloth from their packs, methodical dabbing with something potent that stings, plain water to rinse, unapologetic removal of dead or torn skin, done. Bandage.
And despite it all, Addam does feel cared for.
"I suppose you've learned how to treat human wounds pretty well."
"Or whatever mine are," Minoth agrees. "It's...a better perspective, I find. Whatever it is this world came from, it obviously doesn't only come with humans, but like it or not, humans are the constant. If you all stopped awakening Blades, that'd be the end of us and our ways. Ether would just sort of...fade."
"I don't suppose we ever will."
"And then you wouldn't have us to take care of you."
"You'd have a me anyway."
"I suppose I would."