Twelfth Night

Addam didn't have to say it; no, Minoth could read the leaves as plain as paintings, signposts tattooed upon that fair and carefree face.

(Or was it truly that Lora looked younger than she was, and Addam looked older, due to sheer dealt-out shares of worry?)

"You're down, Prince," he observed, almost loudly. "The dumps are coming to make their claim anytime now."

Rather than bite back and tell the Flesh Eater to shove it, the future farmer just hung his head and moped some more.

"What, nothing? Not even a groan?"

So Addam groaned, as requested. Maybe he moaned, alternatively.

No matter what he did, Minoth counted himself blessed to be in a mood that wanted to deal with it.

"Can I help you?" May I? Is it even worth it for me to try?

"I'm tired," mumbled Addam. "That's all. Just tired."

Just tired, he said, as he practically limped along the trail, far behind Haze and Lora's concerned glances and even farther behind Mythra's lack of attention.

"You're falling behind," Minoth noted. Actually, we're falling behind, but that's between you and me and the forest for the trees.

Somehow, Addam slowed even more, and more, and more, until he came to a full stop and let his knees lock below him. Minoth heard it, and the click-clack of interlocking armor too.

"I'm slowing up and falling down because I don't want to go. Alright? Satisfied?"

Well, no, thought Minoth, because that much could easily be extrapolated or at the very least inferred. But he didn't voice as much of a pedant's complaint.

Instead, he prodded, "Where do you want to go, then?"

At this, Addam wailed. Yep, that was the pain point.

"I want to go home! I want to go home to my farm and my animals and my manorstaff and my wife."

Oh oh. Not the W-word - there'd be tears next, for sure.

"Come on, Prince, be a man and say that home is wherever you're with me."