Lo, for mine is no pretense
It was litotes to suggest that the atmosphere in the evacuation ship wasn't exactly oppressive. Whether the grim mugginess came from within or without was irrelevant; it hung there all the same.
Minoth stood silent in a corner, dark ether edging him flicker by spark away from the group he'd traveled with for the past several weeks. No more descriptor than that would he give it...them.
A maelstrom of thoughts jabbed at him, taunting punishments and atonements for the result that lay before them all. Affinity, both literal and figurative, practically screamed at his chest, pulling towards Addam. The self-loathing anchored wickedly away.
Minoth observed Addam in a manner he steeled himself to internalize as clinical. The prince was torn like a lost child between comforting Mythra and drawing comfort from Mythra (these two actions were just a function of how well he could control himself in the same position, rocking her or rocking himself against her), or throwing himself tailbone first at the base of a joist and collapsing into his incessant tears. Vascillation had him pinned directionless.
The other option, to seek out a pure protector who would shield him from both the thought and the physicality of having to balm his own wounds, was being cut off. Minoth made sure of that - it made sense, in its own poisonous little way, though he didn't strictly bother to promise himself of it.
He was the safety net beneath them all, flimsy and invisible and an afterthought. Everyone else had give and take, everyone else had a purpose there. If you drew up a chart, the arrows would flow in multiple complex directions, and you could appreciate the interweave in an instant. But Minoth, the Flesh Eater, the failed experiment, the frivolous playwright, the big damn hero who never saved anyone, the cowboy who couldn't even stand up straight with the rest of them, lest he catch himself pride? Hang the bastard for calling them 'youngins'.
Far enough removed, Minoth more cast than tucked himself into the shadows, ripped out the elastic tie to release sections of hair down all about his face, and dispassionately yanked his eyes shut. He'd retreat into a wanton rewriting of the history that had just befallen Torna. 'Twould be extra unpleasant come the waking, but who was he to complain? He was no one. Nobody's no one...
His mind's quill pinpointed the root cause of the brunted destruction. Malos's Gargoyles razing Auresco, and Mythra counterattacking in a rage. Why? Their adolescent companions were there. So, bring them to side in the battle...? No. Stow them in Hyber or Aletta instead? Somehow it didn't do.
What if Malos never came to the core in the first place? That meant leaving the seal. But, thinking of all the work they had done after the first attack on the capital to restore both community spirit and political favor (or fervor, if you'd rather), Minoth saw that reaching that far back was self-defeating. If it's not broke, don't fix it, and that part really wasn't, so much.
It was those damned Artifices that made all the trouble. Could Haze perhaps have figured out a way to debilitate specifically their ether flow, to keep the skirmish small-scale? It was ridiculous even to posit! No. Damn it! His hands were numb but a fist probably struck the wall, the ground, whichever surface.
Was his self-serving fantasy only the way by which he would realize that they couldn't have prevented this after all? Couldn't have kept Hugo from sacrificing himself and sending Brighid and Aegaeon into a sleep much like stasis, but with the promise of a pristine recovery so twisted? Couldn't have kept Milton and Mikhail away from the wake of destruction, and Mythra hopefully markedly less traumatized as a result? Couldn't have preserved the beautiful Auresco, let alone the rest of Torna?
Bullshit. There had to be a way. It wasn't fate for Malos to prevail, in his perverted ideals. Couldn't be - his motive didn't even make any sense! Whoever wrote these lines of the universe couldn't have been dancing the same fruitless dance as Minoth was at this moment. He was working with the constricting knowledge of the aftermath. They hadn't been.
Who had gone off script, after all? Mythra had. So the entropy was in their camp. Things had really taken a turn just after the Gargoyles overran the titan's core. Ten minutes, Malos had given them. He could have scrapped harder to get a shot off at the black Aegis's Core Crystal, especially with his darkness abilities helping cloak him. It was a nebulous thing.
But none of it mattered anyway. A senseless daydream stolen as one takes refuge from the very apocalyptic situation they wish to have changed can't change a damn thing. No point in obsessing over it. Maybe that was the small comfort here.
In this moment of defeat, Minoth let all his guards down and slumped without intent. He saw rather than felt a blue line snap up between him and Addam, then almost immediately turn gold.
Fuck. So much for vanishing without a trace. The prince blindly stumbled to the corner and pushed searching eyes into Minoth's concentration on the floor.
"Why couldn't we do it, Addam?" Minoth surprised himself by speaking first. Addam replied with equally surprising calm and resolution, completely belying the boneless way in which he had arrived.
"I won't say that we did all we could. You've told me time and again that there's always room for more variation in a scene. But, what we did lack wasn't missing of our own volition. We all put heart and soul in. The only mistake now would be to falter in bringing to bear our continued commitment towards the legacy of Torna and, indeed, all the rest of Alrest."
The response was damned princely, and Minoth basked in it despite his wretched state. He rigged up a grimacing grin.
"Your lordly words are wasted on me, Prince. Gotta apologize for letting that ether link flare up. Won't happen again. I'll be leaving off soon as we find port."
Just like that, Addam's composure dropped. "You can't be serious, Minoth?"
Ignoring the question, Minoth stood and raked back his hair with an unnecessarily rough hand. Curse his height and his heart. There was no fading away here until he was gone for good.
"No use pretending. I'm an outcast and a failure. Three chances are more than I deserve. I'll wager you can't name one moment where I really pulled my own weight, save for that first scrape with the Jagron."
"You're right," Addam said simply, giving Minoth pause. "I can't name a moment because what you gave us all wasn't compacted into single events. I know you can sit there and attach grandiose reasons to every little thing we've experienced, but the strength and support you've brought me can't be distilled like that. I suppose whether or not you put stock in that is your own choice. But even so...damn you, Minoth, you're making me act selfish here."
Minoth was stony over any possible reaction.
"Look at Mythra." He did as bidden, but Mythra was no longer there. The woman standing frozen in her place, with short fire-red hair and matching armor, had a different aura, one threaded with control and compassion counter to Mythra's empty golden flashes. But, fear cast over all, superseding the ego.
"She sealed herself away inside her own mind," Addam supplied, intellectually helpful but functionally maddening. "Our next step is to seal both her and the sword. Physically, I mean." In the back of his mind, a jab: where on earth did the prince get that sudden resolution of knowing how to handle the Aegis? "After that, I'm on my own until Leftheria. I've not gotten word of Flora's condition, but if the Architect is willing, she and our child are yet unharmed."
Minoth twitched at the mention of the elusive Mrs. Origo that Addam had never bothered to name to the rest of the group ("You didn't ask!" was probably his bimboish defense). "Our friend the Emperor, my dear Hugo, has passed on, and Lora, Jin, and Haze are parting ways with us. Milton...Milton is gone. I've only so many hands, only so much will. I need you with me. After all, you know I'm rather a crier in times like these."
The last statement was only half a joke, and despite himself, Minoth chuckled. "The epic I write about your bravery will be far too moving for you to handle, when the day comes," he offered somberly.
"Will you stay, then?" Addam asked, breathless. His chosen Blade nodded. "If I left, it'd really only be out of self-pity. You remind me to be better than that, my prince." Addam scowled. "How many times must I ask you not to call me that?"
Minoth smiled softly. "Torna may be gone, but you're still my prince. Always have been. Always will be." It was just as convenient to duck his shoulder under Addam's sputtered replies as it was healing to embrace his prince as the brothers, partners, they were.
If indeed history couldn't be left without this unnatural scar, well, weren't his hands able enough to be called to help stop it festering?
the last part is cheesy, i know, but apparently i can't stop them from being big gay even when i don't intend it (so please take the word "brothers" as literal as needed). i like to think that one of the reasons i love Minoth so much is because i too will throw any combination of words on the page and it sounds eloquent (he has a cooler voice though). aaaand he either also has a hard time calling things done or is a pro at sheathing the quill and saying "And...fin!" so i must offer just this short contained piece :)