“There is no other way, Picket. Would you stay here with the aged, with the mothers and their children? Would you lie in bed with the lame and sick while your brothers fight in the field, while Heather and Emma work in Morbin’s shadow?” “Of course not,” he said, anger flashing in his eyes. “Then rouse yourself, lad,” Uncle Wilfred growled. “Many wounds will bloom in this battle, and you will carry yours inside you. But carry them and fight on. Fight for Smalls, for Emma, for Heather and the whole wounded world. Carry your pain and let it fire you in the fight. Bear the burden and bear the
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