Spartacus

There were some, in the disaspora of Torna, who revered the memory of a Flesh Eater who'd broken away from his abusive Driver and lived to tell the tale. Who'd returned to the Titan that birthed him and joined forces with the gleaming Aegis to send her wretched counterpart hurtling, shattered, to the bottom of the Cloud Sea, before fading into obscurity.

And then there were some who considered the whole thing a scourge, a pall upon that fair and sunken golden land. Why did it have to be Torna? Torna was for equality. Torna had nothing to do with this. Torna didn't need Minoth, the Blade Knight of Aletta, rotting on its grave.

Addam, the nominal Lord of Aletta, had acted merely as the conduit to these divisive events. His friendship with Minoth, honed over years, was what had encouraged the Flesh Eater to make his great escape in the first place.

Until the day he died his human death, Addam would piece together the clues in Minoth's cryptic yet achingly fond letters, and find his friend no matter where on Alrest he hid.

"Won't you come to Uraya, or Tantal?"

It was the same old refrain. Some days it was Mor Ardain or Gormott the prince spoke of. Of course, no longer could he beg visit to Torna.

"Share your stories, please. You know as well as I do that you write them for others. What good are they doing, squirreled away?"

And Minoth would raise one crotchety, gray-streaked eyebrow, the only discernible sign of movement beneath his hood, and brush a cragged hand over the half-filled page beneath his chin.

"I've done enough. Not penance nor philanthropy could drag me into the public eye again."

The boys in Auresco's streets had clamored over him, whenever his ponytail appeared above the throng. The girls' eyes had sparkled, their curiosity and charms piqued. Shopkeeps female and male alike had pressed offerings into his hands and implored him to share with his traveling party.

Alone, Minoth was a dangerous thing. Together with other people and Blades, he was downright inspiring. What community! What grace! What hope, for the present as well as for the future. Especially as the apple of the prince's eye.

Oh, and the tales he had told...

But that was all over now. Addam was a has-been, and Minoth a wished-he-never-was.

"Only the Architect can tell me if what I did was right."

He rebuked all the opinions of people, now. He considered that maybe Amalthus had been right all along, which meant that his penance was this selfsame shuttering up in a cave.

But Addam would never stay there with him. He knew neither of them could bear that isolation, together, forever.