There's nothing I really need besides love. Those things that mortals crave – a touch, a kiss, a caress from someone who knows everything – I crave them too. But I can live without them if the song of my centre is shining. That's all that really matters in the end, during war or peacetime. I'm under no illusions concerning the depths of the battles I'm fighting and the repugnant nature of my enemies. My friends matter to me. I would rather I was hurt than them. So, I'll take the brunt, if I can. The war is very, very real. And the scars I carry equally so. But I'm stronger than most can imagine, for the simple reason that I treasure those songs of centre so dearly. Open, earnest, without guile. I don't see sweetness of spirit as something to be fed upon, unlike the monsters I fight. A weakness, a vulnerability to be exploited. No, I see it as beauty. Strength. Poetry incarnate. Something to be honoured, guided, commended. It's the difference between a warrior of light and a mercenary of darkness. I'm not for hire. I don't fight for money or power. I have enough power. Plenty. I fight for family and friends. Lost ones. The voiceless. Heroes and heroines in the making. Those who didn’t forsake their kindness and honour. The wraiths and their familiars have made a cynical world, but I'm not cynical. Far from it. Though I'm a man – older than most – part of me is still a boy. A tired little boy forever hunting monsters. And though that boy is full of sadness he's also wise enough to appreciate true solace and light when it's offered to him. And brave enough to offer it in return to the ones who really matter.