i have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles

---

note added now that i've gotten in from work, in the early evening when the radio actually plays music and not only talk: alt title is "you drew stars around my scars (and now i'm bleeding)"

---

Like any directionless soul coming of an age, granted or grasping newfound freedom, Minoth had sworn a bevy of things to himself. Some positive, some prohibitive; all eventually discarded.

I'll never kill anyone.

I'll never take money for killing anyone.

I'll take whatever people will give me for whatever I can do to help them.

I won't get jealous.

I'll strive however I must to achieve whatever it is my heart suggests to me is noble.

I'll volunteer.

I'll keep to myself.

I'll be completely different.

Starting from right now, by my own personal standards, I'll be exactly the same.

I'll never confess those standards. I'll never lean on another for support.

I will always be my own. Now and forever, the only person with a single stitch of interest in my future is me.

It's not okay to be a burden, he told himself. It's not okay to be a problem presented with a side of chance helpfulness.

Never helpless. Always giving. Always righteous. Never foul.

No one else bobbing and treading on this entire cloudy sea had to answer to commandments as cruel, as constraining. Minoth regarded this as a feature, and not as an oversight.

Just because his old master had kept a tight grip didn't mean he'd been wrong for it. Some people just needed compensating for. Some people were just a little messy, a little unpredictable with respect to the intended path.

Being a mercenary was healing, certainly. Minoth could craft his own personality and reputation - his own initiative, of course - and exercise new iterations of his personal framework in each new town and port.

If he received what might be called ill reviews for his services rendered, the guilt plagued him for days, weeks.

Never more than a month, he intended, and by the time the month was through, indeed, he'd more or less forgotten about the supposed misdeed. Was that the indomitable human spirit, stronger even than Minoth's desired cruel indifference of a disciplined mind?

He liked himself the way he was, on the surface. He'd learned to style and maintain his hair in a way that pleased him. His battlefield presence was neither obtrusive nor useless. He stood still with the right amount of foreboding. He walked in a manner that exuded the appropriate measure of confidence. He bore his appearance well, with connection to his soul and standing. On the surface.

However, taking in hand that same assumption, that no one will ever take as much responsibility for you as you must for yourself, Minoth struggled with the idea that each stray misstep was not a condemnation.

Even if it was just splitting up, on a multi-man mission (and the others usually had Blades, didn't they, because any other creatures like Minoth were kept in cells, if not to say cages, in the lower levels of the Praetorium), and he'd misapprehended the target location for the other fellows, and felt insecure for it, calling back as he strode away, "Well, if you hate me that much-!" to noises of general dismissive confusion...

Even if it were only something as passé as that, it troubled Minoth to a truly troubling degree. He thought about it: if someone had said the same to him- but, no, they wouldn't, was the thing. If he had a problem with someone, he said so. And he took his sweet old time brewing to that conclusion, all the while assuming that he was on the thinnest ice possible right from the very start.

Minoth had yet to find anyone out there quite like him. Anyone quite so quirky, and a little bit emotionally disturbed, and prone to an unnaturally tight grasp on his own upkeep and interpersonal actions even when the company he kept was a perfectly amicable balance between rowdy and plain-mannered.

There's nothing wrong with any of them, he reasoned. But there's something wrong with me - literally, right down to my Core! Which they can't see, but doesn't that make it worse?

So I've got to make my strides. Until I stand as unaffected as the rest of them.

So I'm a Flesh Eater. So I've got scars, and can't risk taking off my jacket for fear I'll be spotted, ridiculed, marked for overall disease. So? It's no one's problem but mine.

Minoth turned over on the blanket, facing away from the companions who drove him to such rigorous self-examination and tweaking his shoulder on the metallic ridges of his jacket construction as he went.

---

That was when the center of Minoth's world was the only point and personage contained in it: his own self. Very, very rare for a Blade. Definitionally so. Impossibly so. A Blade never, ever, ever has to plan for their future. But Minoth did. Had for some time, now.

His supposition had been, up to the current day, that he'd always live and walk alone. Amalthus had had use for him as a piece of property, and perhaps as a companion, but they certainly didn't get along as confidante friends.

Minoth had long reconciled with his long, interminable future. Long had he stifled the loneliness and determined ambition toward his finances. Whatever jobs he took, it really didn't matter how much they paid, so long as he survived.

And maybe he could make some people smile, eventually. In an impersonal, philanthropic way. Just to give, and never to take, as Amalthus had, and hardly even to leave his name.

Playwriting was wonderful, in its guaranteed space for pseudonyms. Sometimes, in his rampant excursions of self-recrimination, Minoth forgot about his hobby. He'd never earned any money by it - just donations of food or drink or trinkets in marketplaces, very occasionally (and children's eager, earnest affections, even more rarely than that) - and he doubted he ever would. But wasn't he more noble for being a pauper?

Hah. No more noble for trying to pinch the Prince's wallet, that was for damn sure.

But enough about the solitary. A thief, whether he likes it or not, is bound to his victim forever, while charity casts freeform over all.

Minoth referred to himself in the singular, as he, him, his, himself; rarely did he need to allot consideration for another man, except when speaking of Amalthus, whereupon the focus threw entirely to one side, in perpetually unfair balance.

There were many ways Minoth could refer to Addam - epithets, of course. Always. The prince, the bastard, the golden-eyed scion of the golden land, the farmer in the preacher's hell...many times over, could Minoth wind.

Addam objected to the "prince" part, principally, and not the "my" that Minoth had grown fond of tacking on. But they'd never talk about it, Minoth figured. He tried to avoid thinking about it, because he knew - he knew ! - that he just shouldn't care.

Why shouldn't he? Addam was only a man. Minoth was nominally more than, but in fact of existence, well, wasn't he only another man, who had no one under the aegis of his responsibility but himself?

Treacherous thoughts. Very, very dangerous and irresponsible.

All of Minoth's future plans, now, included Addam - whether by inclusion or omission. Remember, positive and prohibitive.

Whatever Addam's doing, I won't do that. Whatever Addam asks, I say no.

It's the principle of the thing.

Addam will go here, and I'll go there.

Addam will go here, so I'll go there.

Addam will go here, so I'll never go there again.

If Addam's a farmer, I'm a city boy, despite my country demeanor. If Addam's a family man, I'm a loner, despite my fascination with legacy and bonds. And I cannot change that.

If Addam's a worker, then I'm an artist, and we all know how much hard workers hate starving artists. And I cannot change that.

If Addam has not a blemish on his body, not even a nicked eyebrow or torn earlobe, then my winding, ravaging, wicked scars gleaming evil pink (fuschia, with a twist) and violent blue (cyan or even teal, with a taint) are even the worse to display for it.

And I cannot change those, ever.

(Am I even sure I do want to...?)

If Addam's a human, then I'm not. And I already knew I wasn't. But I'm not a Blade either, and he doesn't know that, so...so what he doesn't know can't hurt him?

(He knows. Yes, he knows. He's not stupid, because even if it takes brains to be cruel, it doesn't take cruelty to be intelligent.

So then. It must be hurting him. Must.)

They'd never talk about it. Minoth would continue referring to him as something that he wasn't, because in Minoth's mind he was somehow everything, by dint of nothing logical nor reasonable nor holy-ordained, and they'd never talk about it, and he'd never care enough to actually tell Minoth to stop, because no one cared, never had and never would, and wasn't that the wonderful part about being independent?

No conversations. No changes.

No friends. No souls. No survivors.

---

The transition came in two stages; in two of those so disavowed conversations about facts, and figuring, and where we're going from here.

Not you and I (where you're going, and where I go to run away). Not he and him (where he's going, without him). Not one on one, but one and one, to make two.

Perhaps it had been some offhand joke from Lora about the dress habits of their assembled flock. Mikhail, long sleeves. Milton, short sleeves. Mythra, no sleeves at all. Haze, long sleeves. Jin, short sleeves. Addam, no sleeves at all.

(Lora short, Hugo long, Brighid with gloves just as the other two bare-shouldered, and Aegaeon notwithstanding.)

"Come on, Minoth!" the lady knight joshed, to the mixed but generally enthusiastic reactions of the others assembled round. "You're always so closed-off, even when you're asking us so many questions. You only ever talk about yourself when it comes to your Driver."

Minoth could plainly hear the hesitation that had come into it: reminding him of the wretched man's name, or reminding him of the tie that existed - had existed and would continue to, in perpetuity? He wondered if anyone else could. He wondered what he thought of her choice. He should have a preference, by now, shouldn't he?

He certainly hadn't liked when Addam had called him Amalthus's Blade. That one wasn't new.

Instead of defend him, as he moderated his flickering, uneasy reaction, Addam chose to agree with Lora. "She's right, you know. Really, I'm surprised that you volunteer as much information about Amalthus as you do." So maybe the just-west-of-dunderheaded prince was learning. "You know there's more we'd care to know about you than just that, right?"

Minoth looked around. Haze was nodding, fists pumped and tiara engaged as usual. Mythra was sat back, legs extended, but her usually blunt brows held an air of curiosity. Jin had his head tilted at just the slightest angle. The boys were whispering to each other, but just isolated, illicit comments. The Ardainians...eh, who needed to take an inventory?

Everyone seemed to be considering. And he didn't have anything to offer - what was he going to tell them tales about how he'd passed off his Flesh Eater status on this group of unsuspecting crotchety mercenaries or that? The ladies in Uraya's struggling mouth-end settlement that asked if he'd found a Driver yet, because he'd let it slip, and now even if he did he wasn't so sure he'd ever be willing to volubility, in telling them, so what was the point in even finding one?

The expectant faces weren't turning as blank as Minoth had counted on, while he moved mental shells between old, battered silos.

"Don't really have any other interesting stories, I guess," he supplied lamely.

How did this fit into that old framework? If he told the pity-garnering anecdotes (and that was the charitable interpretation, rather than assuming he'd get looks of disgust [of course he never contemplated pride of any flavor]), then he earned his keep by way of quite obviously needing one. If he didn't, they'd think he was cagey and opportunistic, and probably toss him out.

But he didn't want pity, and they didn't want to give it.

What did they want from him?

"I thought you wrote stories," Addam said reproachfully.

"Well, from head to head..." Minoth gestured, in an analogy that equated only to him. Maybe the merit of explanation plotted versus long-windedness, and what his stories could possibly be about when all he could speak about personally was trauma, trauma, trauma.

Damaged goods? Maybe.

I know there's nothing wrong with me!

"I should think your experiences have been quite interesting," said Hugo. "I for one would be glad to hear anything you have to offer. Let us be the judges," he finished, looking appraisingly to Brighid and Aegaeon, who likewise nodded.

From Jin: "Being a Blade is a multi-faceted experience. Isn't that true for you?"

Mythra was next to put her two-bit opinion in, surprisingly. "You don't seem like you could possibly be so boring, and have Addam think you're so cool. I mean, he's dumb about people, but he's not that dumb."

Minoth didn't know whether to be insulted or panicked. Looking at Addam, he found his appointed mirror equally perturbed, though lacking the twitchy eye.

"I think that's enough, Mythra," Lora said. "Minoth doesn't owe us a thing."

Yes, I do! Yes, I do!

"Thanks, Lora," Minoth just grumbled, and got up to walk away.

---

Minoth managed a few days of relative peace, likely ensured by the small-scale blow-up that had ended off the last group interrogation.

He understood it. He did. Their unit was a constituency of people, no matter what the worldwide problem was. Addam failed by trying to understand Mythra the weapon as not Mythra the person but Mythra his preconceived notion of a person. He wasn't being Blade-racist, and neither was Lora being Blade-favoritist in choosing Jin over Haze. She just wasn't compensating for the heavy, deep responsibility her relation to each of them entailed.

Addam had no responsibility to Minoth, and vice versa. Minoth also had no responsibility to Amalthus, nominally his Driver or not. If Amalthus considered Minoth still in his debt in any way that mattered, he would have made a much more concerted effort of intimidation when last they had occasion to encounter each other.

Minoth realized that it had been a very, very long time since he'd last been at liberty to take off his jacket and itch at his scars.

A petty concern, wasn't it? Yet, one anyone else would have mentioned before, if it had been relevant. Of all the experiment-relevant tales and details that Minoth had, particulars of his body's reaction that didn't concern personal hygiene would probably actually be the most interesting to his newfound friends.

His friends?

Regardless, the reason why it hadn't come up before - why it hadn't even occurred to him, except in a vague sense of that prohibitive omission - was that Minoth's scars, with their ether-raggedy edges and seams, only truly itched with a feverish, fervored fury when he was around Addam.

Only when being stared at by those golden eyes. Only when being regarded by that noble posture. Only when being reached by that human heart.

All human. Maybe only half Tornan. Didn't matter.

Minoth hated it, hated it, hated it.

It didn't prevent him from acting normally (and normally, for him, had not been adjusted to include inspecting the dermatillomania of his wretchedly hairless arms), but it was aggravating nonetheless.

Once they had access to Spefan's inrooms, Minoth bolted into one as normally as he could manage, but didn't lock the door.

Hopefully people in an Architect-forsaken inn knew how to knock.

With the jacket off, the itching changed somewhat in character, but that was to be expected. Also to be expected was that it didn't just...go away. Minoth felt both vindicated and aggrieved by this revelation. So yes, it was Addam, for sure.

Tentatively, Minoth prodded at the jagged shape wrapping around his forearm just below the wrist. The colors of the ether gave a slight scintillation but didn't seem to threaten to burst, or anything else so violent.

Would that he could just scratch them off. Would that he could just regenerate fresh new skin by accessing some hidden function in his Core Crystal that normal Blades probably knew how to do offhand.

Would that he was normal. Normal, normal, normal!

"Have you seen Minoth?"

"Think he went in there."

Mythra's voice was flat, thumb jerked over shoulder, and Minoth prepared himself for the knock, so that he could politely turn Addam away, but it seemed pretending he had no secrets had backfired, and there the prince was.

"O-oh, I'm...sorry?"

Not sorry for intruding, necessarily, since Minoth made no motion to cover up. What would be the point?

"So now you know."

"Know what?"

Minoth spread his arms wide, ignoring how they seemed to invigorate, rather than numb. "This is what I look like. This is what I hide from you all."

Have I earned my keep, now? Have I satisfied, in my strangeness?

"I can see that," said Addam. "They're beautiful."

Leave it to the prince.

"They're horrible. I'm horrible."

Now he just wanted to cover up, but Addam wasn't leaving.

"They're just you - which is quite the paradoxical thing to have to say, by the way. I can't say I agree."

Silence.

"May I?"

Minoth offered his hand, listlessly, but Addam ignored it, instead stepping forward to graze the matching pattern on the Flesh Eater's face. The single warm touch on just one blistering line made everything calmer. Perhaps a necessary conduit.

"It's quite a story."

"You don't have any."

Addam gave a rueful smile. "I won't lie and say I want them. But you are wonderful."

"This doesn't change anything, for you?"

"It makes me love you more. Isn't that better than what you expected?"

"Addam? Doesn't even compare."