slag-veined withers

It's a curious thing, forgetting who you used to be. Of course, Blades are supposed to. It's a curiosity, a sacred mysteriosity, from a human viewpoint, but to forget in such a haphazard sfumato fashion...

Well. At least Cole can be thankful his Core's never been cracked. Just mottled and withered from within. He never fell into hell, like Malos. Never questioned his purpose quite like Malos.

Was it the cracking that did it - let him wander so far afield of what might be considered peaceful?

Not to say that he had to remain peaceful. He fell out of the Tree with a taste for destruction, it appeared.

Cole was...disconnected from world events. He examined history, leafed through layers and layers of conflict and comforted himself with the knowledge. He didn't know down to a science what the Brionac and Lindwurm, separately or together, were about, for instance, but he could detail the entire iceberg of tributary causes and opportunities that had led so neatly up to the annexation of Gormott.

Mor Ardain's coups and crimes were the work of a nation. Cole could understand the titanic footsteps of nations. He could only guess at the true machinations of Blades and people.

He knew Malos's bid to a "comrade" was sardonic, sarcastic, bitter. Of course he did. But if there was a kernel of truth...?

And there most likely was. Malos was the word and the truth incarnate. He, just as Mythra, was hard-pressed to ever truly lie. Obfuscation was not one of their strengths.

Malos would ask, outright, "What are you still even doing here?" where Cole, Minoth, might pseudo-blithely wonder if the thought of self-inspection ever crossed Malos's mind.

He knew it did. Obviously it did. Existential crises were an Aegis hallmark. The ludicrous, outsize nature of their behavior made that much very clear.

But enough of assumption. To answer Malos's question:

"I suppose I'm afraid of taking my life into my own hands. Apparently," he chuckled because he didn't want to cough, "that's best left up to our Driver."

Twist the knife, why don't you?

See if the Aegis even bleeds.

Malos lifted his chin, arms crossed. "You still give him so much credit."

Aha. "You think I'm resigned to it - attached to my abuser because I've no other choice?"

The arms dropped and the gray eyes struggled not to roll. "So I guess you do know a thing or two about acting. Should tell Akhos."

"Everything with you is a verbal spar." Even that side detail, conscious of his traveling troupe. "Why?"

Are you deflecting, Aegis? Who owns your hesitation? Is it you, or not even?

"Don't act like you know me. Or Jin."

Jin. Jin, Jin, Jin.

"So you exist for Jin's benefit, then?"

Not that "God won't let me die" wouldn't have been a perfectly acceptable alternate excuse.

Malos turned away. "You don't know me."

"I, too, existed for his benefit."

Coy wordplay, yes, but gaping with tender, gory truth. Laid out directly for incisive, all-encompassing attack.

The ensuing beat was longer than the Malos of the Aegis War would have allowed, but not by much.

"Don't give me that crap. You have all the hedonism and human cowardice I'd expect from someone who favors those fools."

"I know my weakness," snapped Minoth. "Of course I'm not so stupid as to claim otherwise."

Stupidity was no object, to Malos. He kept walking.