( Unthanking, unthinking. He takes the shirt and stretches, impossibly strained, to fit it over his protesting body. There is no pleasure in the gesture, no gratitude.

A king is forged, not born. He must appear the part for what remains of his people. )

I suppose I'm about as prepared to give up my ancestral home as one can be. If Haiva will be the kindly prince, how will they remember me? The king who knelt? The king who surrendered? The king who... lost?