Hamlet

The Aspar, or the Urchon, or the Scorpox, or whatever it was, fell far more easily and gracefully than did Addam, when he saw a brilliant pale blue blade of ether come a-whistling at him from behind and to one side. Of course, he knew exactly from whence and from whom it had come. Jin's blade was much longer, and also had never found itself anywhere near Addam without a chaperone. The prince was quite sure this was entirely on purpose.

About Jin, that is. About the flying knife, he wasn't as fully made up.

But there he turned, and there was the culprit assailant come strolling over to stoop down and pick up his property.

"What, did you think to yourself, let's all suffer the slings and arrows, and then launched one at me?"

Minoth rolled his eyes. "You were supposed to catch it, Prince. It wasn't a projectile."

"Well, I'll correct you there." Oh, why did Minoth and Minoth alone have this power to make him so much snippier and stupidly shorter-tempered than anyone else? Why this, of all his infinite gifts? "It was a projectile, because it was thrown at me, and it did hit me. And you didn't say to catch."

Hadn't said anything. Hadn't even said "heads up".

"If not catch, then how about dodge? Ever heard of getting out of it?"

Addam sniffed, scoffed. Well, alright then. Have it your way, with your smart wordplay and your evasive tricks and your always having to be right.

Wasn't that true? Didn't Minoth always just seem to insist, so subtly, that way?

He could be talked to. He could be reasoned with. He could imbibe the ideas of new information, stakes and claims, and he often did. But in a situation like this, the last word went to the orator, the narrator, the dyer maker.

Bleeding edge of history, my great Titan uncle's foot. Try the bleeding edge of my index finger. Try the chopped-off top of my ear.