for my soul, sir (for my soul)

Alrest does not have Earth's judeochristian bible. Alrest does not have the myth of the man who shared his body at a table of prophets.

Alrest does not have a story that began with a sacrifice of love. Alrest only has Blades, and the Architect.

The Architect has sacrificed nothing, to his creations' knowledge, for Alrest to proceed. What he had sacrificed, in actual fact, he gave willingly; hubristically. The Blades, he intended to use.

And what, then, is the basis of Alrestian humans' good will? Their free will, even?

Nothing but what has come before them. Nothing but the humanity of centuries, and the stardust of years.

(The basis is not only bygone Christianity. Earth had many such systems, crafted to engender a peace between people and peoples and security for those people they claimed. But the Architect, such a limited god, is somewhat peculiarly fixated on the forgiveness, and the repentance, of sin.)

Minoth expects that Addam should treat him as a freak, a sinner, an outcast, because Amalthus has told him so. Because there was an intended result, and there is now reality's outcome. Because we do not do things in order that they should fail. Because we do not sacrifice, and call it successful, when nothing has been won.

Because Minoth is now deviated from the path of constructed "usefulness", for a Blade, but he will never quite be a human, now, will he?

And Addam doesn't care.

When Addam shares food with Minoth, edges and centres alike, he does not think the act so holy. He does not consider what a difference it is, to be a burden to one and a glory to another.

But Minoth is considering. Minoth is always considering. And Minoth is so hungry, of course, that he could die.

Minoth will eat from the bounty of simple nothings that Addam has provided for years, years, far too many years, and he will not do it unthinkingly. Each recrimination in proper sequence, each self-vindictive thought accurately aligned.

For never should the unlucky become lucky. Never should the weak be protected. Never should the hungry be fed.

Alrest, indeed, does not have that. Alrest has only nebulous hope.

But the Architect created humans, did he not? And humans, considered by some, centuries ago, are inherently good. At the very least, they are a blank slate.

The remnant of humanity from the earth beneath wove itself into an international society that has harnessed Titans, that has waged wars, that has corrupted governments, that has looted and pillaged; that has acted in all those dirty-quick ways which serve the quickest possible interest to the perpetrator, but has also let aside some folks who would simply like to help. Some Blades who would simply like to be their companions.

No sacrifice of love. No innate instructions. Not the best of all possible worlds, because, well, it was left up to chance. Something good, over all.

And the story just keeps on going.

Addam is not blind to the state of Indol, insofar as Minoth has informed him and as he has been able to root out himself. He is not ignorant of what it means to be a biological deviant. But he is...a little ignorant. He is a little too forgiving of Amalthus, when others hearing of the same tenuously indescribable abusive situation might immediately jump to a total separation of concerns.

Still, he does not need to be prompted to act charitably. He, like any other human, has a wonderful capacity to just do the right thing.

Just as some humans latch onto religion for its lifegiving essence (forgiveness! light! truth!) so too does Minoth latch onto Addam. Forever, he is fascinated. Inexorably, he is entwined. And he loves other humans, too, but none of them are such a glorious accident as Addam.

Klaus's second-run humanity was a glorious accident. Here, at the tail of it, is Addam Origo.

And Minoth will bear Addam Origo, in flesh and in spirit, out to the end of time, if he must.