Big Time

It's easy to miss some of the campfire convos right around when Minoth shows up because they guide you directly to the next available site and with it the next story cutscene, but the one where Milton and Mikhail take incipient issue with our resident cowboy is in there somewhere.

Hyber, midday, Feris hunting impending. Yada, yada, and yada. Minoth had experienced infinite similar scenarios in his mercenary work: waiting around for the client to give go-aheads, permission slips, or crucial provisions, and staring cagily at the day's lineup of co-workers to pass the time. Colleagues? Not quite. Not so familial as all that.

Not quite so familial.

"Hey mister." The Gormotti boy, named Milton, as could easily be ascertained from Mythra's indignant shouts of it from the day prior, and Mikhail, his trusty sergeant-at-arms, had approached. Lights and camera, ready and set, go and action. "What's with you?"

Much as he perhaps would have liked not to, Minoth had to look down at his assailant-accuser - he wasn't hardly five feet tall, even with the ears - but he wasn't looking down his nose, per se. Strictly downwards. Strictly the fact of it. "What's...with me."

"Yeah, like..." Milton waved a gloved hand with much more temerity, much more assumed maturity, than he really had any right to. "Why do you look like that?"

Wasn't the first time he'd been singled out as an old codger, and certainly wouldn't be the last, because age is a progressive function. For him and his situation, at least. But really? From short-stack over here? Combat nonsense with nonsense. Rise to the occasion, no matter how ridiculous it is.

"It's because I'm full of love, how's that?"

Milton was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. Then: "Nah. Try again."

Fair enough. Tougher than any Volff, these pint-sized youngsters were, but Minoth was nothing if he couldn't resolve a tension, round off a plot point.

"You're, what, ten? You like bugs?"

Mikhail shook his head, now himself, one supposes, uncharacteristically assertive. "Not gonna cut it, mister." (Now, he was nine, and Milton ten, but see again their determination displayed in the feat of not getting caught up in trivial, if accidental and slightly backhanded, accolades.)

So Minoth was nothing. Oh, please...indeed. Minoth was nothing.

"Master Addam said you came from Indol. From the Quaestor, right? I gotta say," Milton pronounced with a lazy stretch of his arms behind his head, "I don't like the sound of that." Mikhail nodded along with his muttered affirmation, a squeaky but firm "Not one bit."

Well that's all very fine, isn't it, boys, because I don't like it either. You think I like being the shady type? You think I like being called the Quaestor's Blade - and by the man I consider my own Driver, no less? No. This, as Mythra would say, sucks. And thanks for reminding me.

Speaking of reminders: "Well, what seems to be the trouble here?" Nothing to do but sigh...more than you could ever know, Addam. More than you could ever know.

How even to phrase it, anyway? How best to jump the gun, to lead the question, to set the stage?

Ah, well. "They don't like that I dated somebody before you, if you can believe that."

Dated. Trawled around the Praetorium like a couple of goons, more like, Minoth patronizing the market stalls in fair kind and Malos staring every well-meaning shopkeeper down once his escorter had passed. Big baby that he was, his childishness was still far and away removed from Addam's. In a good way, perhaps, and in a bad way. Reflections all around, and Minoth the motive mirror.

Addam had a...an air of jackassery, by now. It was a lovable type of thing, and did nothing mean for his approval rating - even Zettar, if he were clever enough, couldn't pin down an actual problem with that. But to their one-short-dozen group, it was plainly obvious that he was...more than a little self-absorbed. His caution towards the fate of the entire Titans' populations that could fall in this war was genuine, yes, but when you got down to it, the man was a fool.

Here again, he proved it. "Oh, well. I don't care."

Minoth paused, stood back. Took a look at Addam - quite frankly, took a look at his chest. Studied him. "Dating" was a flimsy descriptor to put on it, but then he'd gone on more dates with his "old fling" than he ever had with Addam. Huh. Maybe he'd like to change that.

Changing the future or not, the past was the past. And the past was... "It was Malos." In any present, in any future, the truth will out.

Addam worked his eyebrows, fluttered his eyelids, paled and reddened, all those machinatory motions. Possibly, he'd learned that to open his mouth and stutter was impreferable to just clamming up and fidgeting a bit, working out the nervous energy. Frog in his mouth, cat got his tongue...it was all the same.

Why so wigged out? It was simple and also deeply telling. This group regarded Malos with absolution, with no curiosity towards his origins or motives beyond where will he kill next and possibly will he truly stop at nothing. Minoth, then, was where the boys drew the line, because everyone else in the group was quite firmly on the side of light and love, if only from their pure and purely elemental dispositions.

Someone shifty? Reeked of Malos. Right here and right now, Indol was white but its morals were black and everyone down to the junior cadets knew it. The others, cowardice-tinged adults that they were, just didn't bother to show it. Mythra, of course, struck an impression directly in between.

Addam could still get flighty, though. For as much as he feared what Mythra could do, he wasn't afraid of what she would do. He trusted her to remain...oh, curse the word, but he trusted her to remain obedient. If she acted out, it would be an accident. Upon the topic of Minoth, however, he was much more tended to eggshells. Not that he would act that way, because...well. Addam Origo was never anything even remotely resembling subtle.

"I care about you so much, Minoth, do you know that? I...please don't ever stop trusting me." The light in his golden eyes burned painful pleading. "Please don't leave me."

And of course he wouldn't. Of course Addam's brand of stupidity was so much more good of faith and pure of heart (even if so overwhelmingly dumb of ass) than Malos's, and of course if Minoth hadn't come here then where on Alrest else would he be? A big adventure, indeed. Adventures are supposed to be fun.

Here, it was fun - yes, even with the kids nipping at his heels pestering him to get gone because...because why? Because he was creepy? He tried not to be. The scar didn't help, no, but c'mon, it gave him swagger! It gave him distinction!

That's what Addam had said, so many years ago (oh, no, not so many...what was time?), when he'd first gotten it. And Minoth had thought, what do you know? You're still just a kid, not much older than twenty, even if that does make you older than me. What do you know about the world and the marks it makes on you? What do you know about being a Blade? About being not-a-Blade?

Turns out Addam had known everything. Turns out Addam the idiot prince had known that embracing the identity Minoth had happened upon by whatever gruesome chance would in fact only turn his life on for the better, and long as it promised to be, a sharp and straight course certainly wouldn't hurt anything.

Big dreams, he had had, when first awakened, of all the life and love he would see as a Blade of a monk like Amalthus, all the tales he would tell. The Praetorium was the center of everything, Minoth had thought, their doctrine of worship to the Architect and his providence was just right and just so. And then Amalthus had turned out to be only pettier and pettier, only more and more bitter, and Minoth just couldn't chase a smile back onto his face.

So he stopped trying, stopped trying to cater to youth's whims or the world-stripped lack of them. He stood taller, but not because of anything so stupid as pride. Every chance brush with Addam's goofy grin had been somewhat uncomfortable, to tell the truth, because Addam had so easily, not to say wantonly, ignored his bullish boundaries.

It was silly, he admitted it through and through, but Addam was simultaneously everything that both Amalthus and Malos were not. He was still flawed, just as much as each of them but definitely not more, and he still had pride that didn't always allow him to see it - when he did see it, he didn't know what to do about it, and that was almost worse.

Oh, Minoth didn't want to see Addam falter, didn't want to see him fall. He couldn't bear that a third time, for someone who had become so wholly imprinted onto his so pitifully human heart.

He didn't say any of that, however. To Addam, his Driver and his own entrusted liege, Minoth simply uttered forth: "Hey, no worries there, my prince. I've hit the big time now."

But now back to the boys. Clapped Addam on the shoulder, held on perhaps a little too long, and then gave him the signal to get lost, Prince, because any more interruptions would only serve to foul this whole take up even more, shall we say, royally.

They'd strung up their tête-à-tête on the inn's front stoop, with Minoth leaning back against the log cabin's wall and Milton and Mikhail approaching from the yard. Minoth motioned towards the steps as he spoke, because movement was the best way to dispel tension, and fortunately, the kids obliged.

"Now, come on. Why do I look like that? Look," first to Mikhail: "I got pants, you got pants," then one for Milton: "I got gloves, you got gloves," and now back to Mikhail...? "I got a...crunchy little bang, you got a crunchy little bang - you see, we can all be friends!"

Did he really want to be friends with these literal children? Did he really care whether or not they wanted to be friends with him? Judging by the lightness he felt in his Core when Mikhail giggled at the embarrassing description, and Milton the same when he flicked at the offending piece of hair and got a flick back, yes, he did. It was worth it, wasn't it? To care about people. To share love when you broke bread.

Then again, no matter how worth it it might have been, it could still be downright annoying sometimes. To put the case in point, was Addam lost? Mentally, yes. Physically, no. "Now, Minoth, that's not quite fair. Your hair's very soft."

Oh. Right. That. Great. Despite the warm feeling, Minoth grit his teeth. "Not helping, Addam."

Milton laughed again, and even if he was laughing more at Minoth than somehow with him...that was okay. How are you supposed to laugh at a clown, anyway? So Minoth was in with the troupe.

"But how would you know that, Master Addam? I've been with you for three years, and I've never seen this guy before!" Again, Mikhail compounded the sentiment with something hopefully harmless whispered into the general vicinity of where human ears would be if Milton had had them. That was...odd.

But anyway. Fair point, fair point. It wasn't likely that Milton had ever had any real claim to stake with Mythra, for all the keeping of her at arm's length that Addam did, but considering how much of a challenge Minoth must have seemed to present to the Aegis's own status, the square was now up. Who and what are we all? Have I got to take you with him?

Bestowing an entire excess quantity of gravity upon the situation (which is to say, Minoth found it very sensible for he himself to consider everything with a laureate's lens, but found it quite off-putting when Addam decided to do so), Addam nodded and strolled closer once more.

"That's very true, Milton. Rest assured, however, that Minoth has only my utmost esteem - we met some eight years ago, but I don't think he found himself at liberty to leave Indol completely until just after the time he told us about, when Amalthus decided to climb the World Tree. I'm sure you won't hold it against him?"

Won't hold it against me. Won't hold it against me that I'm a Blade who literally ran away from his Driver? No Blade does that without good reason. You'd better damn well not hold it against me, you twerps.

Oh, Amalthus made him bitter. Addam merely made him annoyed. And so, in fact, he was helping. By now, they were all four sitting on the steps, Milton and Mik with their legs stretched out horizontally across the slats and Addam having gleefully settled himself in at Minoth's left side. There was no tension, no pointed fingers, remaining, only a mild air of contentedness, as Milton made an appraising face, looked at Mikhail for silent conferral of opinions, looked back, and shrugged.

"I mean, yeah. If you trust him."

Whatever wrinkles had been pre-existing on Minoth's forehead, owing and then again contributing to the entire "old man" beat, he doubled the count in an instance to connote his blatant incredulity. "That's it? You gave me all that push-back just to go 'I mean, yeah' when Addam expressed one iota of support for me? I thought Haze was going to have to have an intervention, the way this was going."

Milton paused for a moment, chewed on his words. Why was that? "I mean, yeah." Aha. "I trust Master Addam. He took me in when I didn't have anything. He's the best man I know. I know he says some silly things sometimes, but I know he'd never bring anyone around who would hurt us on purpose."

Hurt you on purpose, or bring about the harm on purpose? A tricky thing, that. And...oh.

The best and silliest man I know, the one who took me in when I didn't have anything, and who'd never dream of letting harm come to me by his own knowing-unknowing hand.

Forget the pants and gloves and the crunchy little bang, when it came to their little prince, the binding knack was the scar of tragedy. Wasn't quite the same for Mikhail, who came with all drama and no sass, and the simple and true portent of stricken-out war orphan, but it was something, wasn't it? The round of M-names, all bound together by being not so well appreciated by the rest of the world as they should have been.

But that was most of their group, wasn't it? Lora, spirited away from her father and so rightfully so by Jin, a royal trinket firsthand before he was a trusted and treasured companion just like Haze, who was left to...a secondary place because of Jin. Ah. Well. We needn't stew any longer on this analogy, need we?

So ditto on that, kid. I don't need to tell you grand old stories about the morality of my existence, and all the criminals I've contended with. I didn't need to tell any of that to Addam, either. I don't even really need to relate to you in a way so niche and inspired.

"Just you wait until we get to Dannagh, eh? Even if you don't like bugs, there's no way you can tell me you kids aren't gonna like digging up buried treasure."

True to form, Mikhail's face lit up brighter than the platinum blond of his hair, and this time his nudge into Milton's side was far less conspiratorial. Treasure meant machine parts, and gold with which to buy supplies to put them together - Emperor Hugo knew about that, but he didn't seem half so ready to lend out parts for experiments. And they'd get to find out more about this Minoth guy too, which seemed like a pretty good idea, after it all.

"Minoth," Addam began, leaning closer in to his Blade's cheek and meeting no resistance as he did it, "you know as well as I do that that's an old wives' tale. There's no treasure buried in Dannagh."

"I don't know about that, Prince. I seem to remember finding you there quite a few times."

Malos had been distinctive, yes, oh so very singular, but he hadn't felt half so special, so heartfelt in word and deed. In and with wonderful simplicity, Addam confirmed that there was a world to see, to treasure, to tell the stories of because it was beautiful and not just because it was beautifully sad.

And if either of them had bothered to pay absolutely any further attention to the rest of the scenario, they would have heard Milton's final impassioned shout: "Mythra! They're being gay again!"

Haven't linked additional works in a while but I think this one by Ikasury is worth pointing out.