( He is tattered, fatigued. Entirely exhausted, both by the strain of war and the unnatural longevity of his time deployed. The men must see their golden prince smeared in blood and guts and nightmares, to follow him to hell.

Well, they have him. In the ruinous, crumbling disaster of the Keep, he belongs to every man who seeks him out — even his brother's healer. )

What luck! I have exactly hundreds of men and women in dire need of healing help. And none of them are on this floor. I suppose this is the part where I say you'll enjoy the exercise.

( Among rows and rows of ragged and collapsing pillars. ) But I doubt that.