A Midsummer Night's Dream

It's a clear night. The air is fresh and free. The smoke has all long drifted away from the embers of the fire, and not even the scent of perfume lingers from the preceding day.

It should be an absolutely idyllic time for nabbing some or all of forty winks, but Addam seems to protest - which means that Minoth begins to regret choosing to lay his lack of a blanket anywhere near the fair prince's stirring head.

"They're the same stars as we'd see from Aletta, but..."

Minoth, who's never really had a home, can't speak to the effect of viewing landmarks from a new vantage, except if one considers the spires of Indol a collective landmark, in which case he usually tries to avert his eyes.

Isn't Torna Addam's favorite place? Doesn't he just thrill to the idea of roughing it on a lark, even if the mission driving the task is quite a bit more grim?

"But what, Prince?"

What more could you ask?

Addam breathes out from his nose and throat both, mouth closed and corners of it set firm.

"Wish I could help you," Minoth says softly, turning but trying not to shuffle away.

Maybe, by reflection across some common origin, he can begin to feel how Addam feels. Such a distraction so poignant as the location of the stars in the sky can leave you feeling entirely alienated from your closest of allies and confidantes. A starless sky would be disorienting, but isn't this rotated map just as strange?

"The future seems so uncertain," mumbles Addam. "It feels grossly unfair even to complain. After all, you've never known where you're headed."

"Oh, so now I'm the baseline for fairness?"

Minoth can't help but snark. He doesn't want pity, won't ever let himself accept it. No, no, it's unthinkable. He hardly even wants to (needs to) be known.

Sigh. Now Addam's got him brooding.

"You feel far away, my prince," he notes.

"Mmm," says Addam. "I feel it, too."