Death and Transfiguration

In search of hope, the frequent fugitives forget that they are free, and find it difficult to rest without dread of duplicity.

Addam had a comfortable life, but forgets that now he has a purpose; responsibilities and the duty of being called upon to answer for scores, instead of seldom even the one. He adjusted to it well, even with alacrity, but still stumbles in his pursuit of somewhat unmodeled perfection.

And Minoth? Minoth wakes every day unsure of who he is and where he's been; forever in doubt of the unimaginable strides that have been made in his life - that he has made, because it's his life.

Blades don't have lives. Bastards don't have aspirations. And Addam still doesn't, but he finds it now incumbent upon him to shape manifest opportunity for someone who hardly knew the meaning of the word just a few short (or perhaps long) years ago.

Where are the standards? Are there standards?

Both sepiquacious and trivial, entirely unadjusted to the majority population's definition of pertinent and significant information.

Minoth cannot conceive of a conversation in which there is no standard to snap to. Addam can only infer from patterns, what nobility will deign to hear.

"I know my upbringing can't have been half so horrible as yours," says Addam.

"All the same to me. I've got no gauge," replies Minoth, because the concept of self-image is a distorted anecdote he heard a snatch of out a window, once, when he wasn't even looking let alone listening.

Value yourself! cries Addam.

Have a little discrimination, insists Minoth. You've gotta wise up, Prince.

The prince is so lost in murmuring humility that he forgets some people just aren't worth the trouble. No one could argue that softness begot trauma, but one can readily perceive a lack of stability in Addam's own too-tender hands.

How to bring each other up? The blind leading the blind...

Minoth dies a thousand deaths remaking the self each day. Addam never sublimates, nor subjugates to get his way.

But gradually, the path beams up. Leaning one upon the other, two souls coalesce a brighter being. The whole group sees leadership strengthen, camaraderie bloom. The mutual admission: I need you as my frame of reference. I yield my polish against your grit.

Not no gauge, but a lens of white light that splits apart in spectra. A moving magnification, man against man and hand within hand.

Addam, the broad blade. Minoth, the versatile knives.

And that is a pair. Thank the Architect, that is the meeting of a born-again pair.

"It's all just as I said," remarks Addam, finally. "You are truly great."

"No, my prince." Minoth shakes his head, squeezes for the last time. "We were great."