the lovers, the dreamers, and me

If he were a slightly different Blade, he might try to play off like he's a lover, not a fighter; like that isn't how he shows his love, anyway. And that's...not exactly wrong, no, but before he'd left Indol, and more importantly before he'd actually arrived to anywhere else that meant anything, he hadn't known any other way to do it.

He'd thought that that was all he could possibly be good for, that if he wasn't playing up the battlefield advantage and being a damn good sport about it, he might as well not even be there.

That it was too big of an ask to just...exist, and honestly to be perceived as doing so.

And maybe before it had been, maybe for the right eyes (or the wrong eyes, or whichever) he wasn't allowed any other persistent state.

But that was before. And now, taking his seat (his seat! his seat!) at the campfire with the rest of them, like he not only belongs but like he'd be missed, so sorely missed, if he left, Minoth has no choice but to think something different.

Mythra gets excited when it's his turn up front, gasses him up and almost gets to clapping back there when she should be calling rear guard buffs or else hiding out. Yeah, he knows he's on notice not to fumble it, but...eh. That's not such a big ask, is it?

Hugo takes point in front of him via footpaths that always favor his good leg - whichever one that happens to be that day, because he's always up early enough to tell, to listen for the creaks and the groans and to know, to know, to know.

The mortifying ordeal of being known. Of course.

Minoth laughs, and instead of shooting him an uncomfortable look, more a frown, and scooting away, Lora smiles encouragingly at him. Her hands are jammed under her thighs, just barely contained from rocking back and forth, side to side (sometimes he swears she must never have learned to sit). "What's up, Minoth?"

Her voice is so warm. Together with Jin, reedy mid-tones, and Haze, swirling countermelody undercurrent, except it's not water, ice unfrozen, it's wind, soaring above, so it's different, so it's important, so it's unique and it's real and it's true--

They're a compact unit. One of three; everyone knows it. It's impossible not to. It's how their strategy works - nothing like the mercs Gort had brought, that Haze had told him about in hushed whispers, when she'd thought Lora asleep. Maybe she'd wanted Minoth to make a magnanimous hero, due no retribution for her choice to spare, out of her gallant lady. Maybe she didn't even need to try.

Lora hadn't been asleep, and she'd winced to hear it, but Minoth had taken the leap and, as covert as he could possibly be, smiled bracingly at her, almost the same way as she'd just done now. She'd pursed her lips, but she hadn't looked off in the near distance for Jin. We're not so alone as we used to be, her wobbling eyes said. And you're a part of that. And...thank you.

Addam wouldn't chase Malos alone now. He couldn't, he shouldn't, and he just goddamn wouldn't. He was too sappy for that.

And Minoth? Well. He would have ditched the lot of them, swear to the Architect if he's really up there, if he didn't love them all so damn much.

There just wasn't any room for "it's not you, it's me" here, and cautious skirting away before they know where you've gone. No room for doubt. If you did try to start in on it, feeling bad for yourself and making out like you were doing everyone else a favor for it, you'd be done and dusted before long. That was just how it worked.

At first, it hadn't made a lick of sense. Minoth wasn't an Aegis, wasn't an Imperial Blade, wasn't the Paragon of Torna. Wasn't the gentle mistress of a revered knight of the land, or an emperor, or a prince, or a dragon who could breathe - goodness gracious - great balls of fire out of a stony mouth overhung by a foreboding horn.

He was just a playwright, but that didn't square up for respect, now, did it? So he had to fight. So he had to deus ex machina the Jagron. So that earned him some points, as did the digging, as did...the writing, and the comforting, and the laughing, and the jokes and the moments that weren't really jokes at all, only you had to look them up the right way in order to see that.

They all care so much, about every townsfolk and questor that comes their way. They all have such plans, such paradises gleaming in the corners of their eyes. Sometimes he can't bear to make eye contact, he's almost paralyzed by seeing them all there.

These people, the best of the golden country...and they want him?

So eventually he has to ask. What's up, indeed?

"You know, I don't know what's gonna happen to me, considering I've had this...experiment, and all." He doesn't say failed. All eyes swivel towards him, less owlishly than animatedly, like they've gotten a choice and they wouldn't be tricked into missing it if their lives depended on it.

He laughs again, just to make sure everyone knows they don't have to really be serious, that they don't have to pay attention if they don't want to, that it's not anything real he's asking of them, even though of course it is, of course it is. If it didn't matter, he wouldn't worry himself so much about it. Right?

"What if I get to be five hundred years old, and I look all green and crusty, and I can't fight anymore?"

What if I get called back to Amalthus, someway, somehow?

What if I got to the awakened age of twenty-one and I spontaneously exploded?

"What if, indeed, Minoth?" Addam's got that quirky thumb practically glued to his chin, and his question jumps with mirth.

"Would you all still want me around?" He doesn't say, would you (still) love me?

The circle erupts in shouts of light and love.

"You act as if we've got a choice!"

(Maybe they mean because he's the only one they expect to survive that long, to know what's up from down with history and motivation and who died for what, to be the chronicler of all their greatest loves and grandest dreams, but damn if it doesn't feel good to know it, even so.)