He cannot, he cannot bear the closeness or the heat without some respite. Hal rips off the mail on his head and tugs at his straps. He can't recover. He must recover.

He fails, as he pants, his side (his unbloodied side) in stitches, to notice the other man loping easily toward the clearing. In the strange lull, outside the rest of the battle, he hears a laugh, and the clank of armor.

"If I mistake not," speaks a voice from younger days, "thou'rt Harry Monmouth."