Victim of Love
Minoth knew it wouldn't be possible to avoid his Driver forever, and certainly not while Malos yet loomed, portent pervasively creeping and all that. He also knew that he could handle a minor exchange, at the very least; so long as he wouldn't be interrogated on his choices, and thus his mistakes and misjudgements and failures, he'd be fine.
Perhaps it was better just to get it over with, yes?
Well. He'd think about it.
There were some pursuits, such as the mercenary trawl when no one had any particular bones to pick with you, where fraternization took careful planning and placement of yourself at the right time and right place - knowing when someone got in or moved out, and being just courteous enough about it to not come off a stalker when you sidled up to make your conversation, maybe shoot something a little stronger than a breeze.
When you were a Blade with a Driver who didn't show his end of the bargain quite reciprocally or conventionally, you could be found at any time, and you've have to answer - and you'd have to be very, very good at shuttering your occupation at that specific moment so that they didn't see you doing so, and question what you could possibly have to hide.
You didn't have anything to hide, was the thing, but telling them so - rather, telling them that you weren't doing anything of import or note - never led to anything good, and giving them information about yourself truly felt like a game of Coral Casino you were roundly losing, only the pieces were your identity, your personality, your life.
Your life?
Pretend a Blade had one he could call his own, correctly and firmly. Someone like Amalthus was intimately concerned with what information, power, advantage he was offering up at any given moment, yes? Always conscious of who knew what and who would do what with that knowledge, no matter how criminally small.
And so Minoth very often felt the same. He tried not to dwell on it too terribly much.
What did he have that Amalthus could take, here afore Aureus Palace?
It depended on who was watching from above, and who from behind. But, he'd never find out how truly he'd managed to distance himself, or not, if he never tested his mettle. And he was tough. So very tall, and tough as they came.
(If a little soft in the middle.)
Minoth decided: his approach would be accompanied by steady, unfearing eye contact. As one would approach not an altar, nor an adversary, but an equal.
He was in Torna. Whether it was a lie or not, that was what he, in this moment, chose to believe.
"Minoth."
So he hadn't been able to make the first move, but that was alright. It took two to make an opening, and then hadn't he started walking?
"Amalthus," he returned. The expectation next was something of a "You look well." or even a "How are you?" Very plain, simple pronouncements.
"You certainly seem attached to them."
Minoth couldn't even pretend that he didn't know who was being referenced.
"What, am I supposed to feel bad for having a capacity to love?"
"It's a weakness."
"Yeah, right. Wish I could get you to show weakness..."
Even that much of a passive-aggressive bitter-muttered tag was so much more than he'd ever have been capable of, just two years ago.
Amalthus didn't ask any further questions - matter of fact, he hadn't asked any questions at all. His single dry comment was enough to set Minoth spiraling, though.
How must it feel, to hate everything and everyone, all the time? Did you never feel guilt? Never a single source of self-consciousness?
It couldn't be possible. Minoth didn't want it to be. And yet, wasn't that what came with loving people, and things, and the world? You experienced doubt, as a symptom of seeing those more confident than you, and those whose confidence you could either hinder or over-abet. If you didn't care about what anyone else thought, then you'd never doubt that what you perceived and how you'd come about to it were entirely, ontologically, ideologically, tautologically, universally true.
Minoth didn't suffer overmuch from the curse (the "weakness") of caring what others thought. He overthought, as much as anyone and perhaps just a little bit more, but he wasn't a nattering ninny whose knees knocked together whenever the idea of others' expectations came over his head, with a hefty impulse of impetus to please, and eagerly.
No, that wasn't him. And it wasn't Amalthus either, except that perhaps it was.
He cared so much. That was what was redeemable, redeeming about him: he had a heart - Architect, he had a heart!
Maybe Amalthus wasn't so bad, but he'd been bad enough, to hamper that fine feeling for so long.
Minoth turned, ungulping, observing the rest of the sand gardens. He'd never been so glad to see a Nopon in his life.