Othello

Forget about skin, joints, bones, liver, kidneys. A more readily prominent - and previously unreported - side effect of desert fever, apparently, was temporary blindness.

It was, in all likelihood, triggered via the instantaneously acute combination of almost-heatstroke and anywhere-near-direct gaze pointed into the heart of the sun. Theoretically, its onset had negative regard for the protective properties of any Pestronella medicine.

Blades? Immune. Flesh Eaters? Unknown. Addam, neither of these, the unfortunate victim, due to some sudden bout of pour judgement.

The thing about temporary blindness was that you had no way of really knowing if it was ever going to be over.

He didn't hobble, but his steps were slow; he'd underestimated and taken for granted just how heavily he relied on his sense of sight to keep his eyes on the road ahead.

"Could I walk with you, Master Addam?" pleaded Haze, effusive tending toward gushy because it was horrible and because it was her chance to be useful to a wonderful Driver.

"His Majesty has offered to you my assistance, Master Addam," said Aegaeon gravely. It was an unusual challenge, but it was doable.

"Do you...do you need help? Addam?" ventured Mythra, without half of her usual tenacity.

But Addam shook his head, silent and disquieted; no. No, no, no.

It was only when Minoth stepped to his side, without a single word, that Addam buoyed up to the task of conducting himself across what remained of the desert, even if he couldn't hope to read a map.

There could be sinkholes anywhere. Of course, there could be monsters. There could even be trip-ready Nopon.

Minoth didn't touch Addam at shoulder or backside, didn't once attempt to take his hand. His steps hardly differed from his prince's in the slightest. Two perfectly equalized gaits.

"So you'll be my eyes, then?"

Addam said it lowly, because it seemed arrogant to think himself so disabled when others worried with worse every day.

Minoth closed the gap. A whisper: "You've always been mine."