( The recoil, the implicit if tacit revulsion. Slap to his face would at least purify through the sting. He bears it, chin jutting, the restive but attentive weight of his gaze settling on Lockwood's young face, chilled. You might have lost an eye, he supposed. That noise, battered. The mouth unstitched. Did you think?

Children have their way of painting foolishness as immortal bravery. They think death a sister to glory. )

You were meant to know summer's sun and laughter, unarmed. ( Live the life of all children, unhastened. Only, That comes from not having a lot of other options. The poisoned chalice of independence, of young men and women bereft their innocence.

He does not grieve what is not his own to mourn. Pity is an insult. He walks, and it is a settled, slow step. )

We are not all as we were meant to be. ( The Heavens ordain, and it is done. ) Retain the glass.

( This, sir, is dismissal. )