Chapter 67 The Wounded

The haze of war hung like a joyless carpet. The street was ruined, and there was quite literally nothing left of one half of Grimmauld Place - and not just number 12: A total of six houses, once large stately manor homes, were reduced to ruins from which flames crackle and danced with unmatched glee.

The fighting had been over for perhaps five minutes. In those five minutes, a lot had happened. The Ministry had shown up in force and started by sealing the street beneath an impressive spread of overlapping charms and wards. Time was against them all as the Muggles were already aware that something significant had occurred in that particular street.

The sheer scale of the carnage boggled the minds of those gathered, all of whom could not believe that there were almost two hundred dead, clogging the streets and the ruined houses. Almost a third of the dead were Muggles, truly caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Countless families had been destroyed in less than thirty minutes of violent, close-quarters combat.

Harry leaned against the ruins of Number 12 and simply stared. That there were so many dead concerned him. That almost half of them were Death Eaters did not worry him in the least: It was the muggles, and more importantly, the Legion's own casualties: Seventy had shown up to fight, at least seventeen were dead, and almost twice as many critically wounded. Everyone else would be classed as wounded. But they had won. At least that was a general feeling, the general mood: That they had won. There were no loud, joyous celebrations because Harry had made his opinion clear: It was no victory.

There had simply not been enough time to do it all, not the way he wanted. Harry had left the tending of the Legion's wounded to their own: He was still searching for Kreacher, in the ruins of the House of Black. After all, it was the demented creature that knew where the Horcrux was hidden. Death had told him that. What Death had not told him was that Kreacher was almost completely out of his mind and was near rabid in the defense of his family home: He had taken liberty with Harry's instructions and was defending the house against all comers: Death Eater, Order, Ministry, and Legion.

The fact that the portrait of Walburga Black had been blasted off the wall, and half-destroyed had not stopped her from continuing to scream abuse as loud and as fast as possible, "Filth! Scum! Mudblood Vermin!"

"Greetings and salutations," said Harry with unparalleled sarcasm, "And a good afternoon to you Mrs. Black. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance."

The portrait stopped for a moment, "A half-blood with some manners. A rarity indeed. Who are you, Mudblood child?" sneered the portrait. Harry had to hand it to the long-dead Walburga. If her portrait had this level of condescending superiority, she could have taught Snape a thing or two about bigotry.

He grinned down at the ruined portrait, "My name is Harry James Potter, Lord of House Potter, Lord of House Black, and the Godson of Sirius Orion Black."

The portrait screamed in rage, "You filthy disgusting creature! How dare you presume to enter my home! Kreacher! Kreacher! Slay the intruder!"

Harry drew his wand and gathered his magic to him. He knew he would have to hunt Kreacher out of the ruins of the house, but he also needed the damned creature alive if he wanted to get the Horcrux. Nobody and nothing alive would know as much about it as the demented creature that had appeared near the stairs.

Kreacher shuffled around the staircase into the hall and saw Harry standing with his foot on top of the face of his beloved mistress's painting. It was enough to send the Kreacher in a killing rage. "Kreacher! Stop!" Harry commanded, "I am the Lord of the House of Black, now the House of Potter-Black! You. Will. Obey. Me!"

Kreacher's response was to click his fingers. Harry gritted his teeth as the banishing charm smashed into his shield. It flared brightly for a moment and continued to glow as a second and third charm struck, forcing him back half a step. He drew upon his magic, halted his backward slide, and unleashed the fire hose charm. How the elf was able to attack him, was in a word, beyond him.

The torrent of water was ice cold and slammed into the elf, flinging him backward against the wall. Harry let up and Kreacher slumped to the ground and rolled down the stairs. The elf showed remarkable grace and agility as it landed on its feet, unsteady but more than capable of fighting, as he sent a grey light at Harry.

Harry dove aside, dropping his shield, wincing as he landed atop the broken glass, china, and crystal. But he had avoided whatever had been sent his way, which seemed to burn through the fragment of still-standing wall it struck. Better minor glass wounds than having a hole burned in his chest. The water beneath the elf's feet turned to ice, causing Kreacher to slip and fall. Wand still outstretched, Harry slapped his free hand onto the ice.

Crackles of lightning flew from between his fingertips as the lightning surged through the ice. Kreacher's head shot up as he vanished. Harry growled as he stood. He had hoped to subdue the house-elf, not kill it, and that was still the way he wanted it, but it seemed that he was going to have to get a lot more... physical. He ran his finger along with the gemstone in the belt of his armor and felt the corresponding tightening of the skin across his forehead as the full-body shield came to life, 'I fucking hate fighting house-elves.' That freed up his hands to cast multiple offensive spells, something he would no doubt need to subdue the teleporting little beast.

He dove into the kitchen, throwing himself behind a mountain of rubble that might have been the stove once. Something struck the lower portion of it, vaporizing it completely. Harry poked his wand out and fired a series of stunners, "Kreacher! Stop this! I don't want to hurt you!" True enough, Harry would have preferred to kill the little bastard outright. He peered out, and found a pair of evilly malevolent green eyes staring at him intently from the far end of the kitchen, "You fucking pussy!" Harry roared, "If you want to fight, get your ass into the open and fight!

"Kreacher won't obey!" The elf unleashed a trio of bone-breaking hexes that worked just as well at shattering Harry's cover. His shield took the brunt of the curse, but he felt at least two of his ribs pop and then snap. He roared in anger and retaliated, channeling his rage into his spells as he cast a pair of piercing hexes with one hand. Having bracketed the house-elf, Harry left him nowhere to run as the follow-up banishing charm smashed him spine first into the wall.

"You'll obey me now," growled Harry as his blasting hex literally brought the house down atop the stunned elf, burying him beneath a mountain of rubble. Harry advanced cautiously, keeping his wand trained on the pile of rubble from which only the thin hand of the house-elf was poking out. Harry took his time to clear the rubble before casting a petrification spell. Not even considering taking a chance, he bound the elf's hands and ankles together with rope, and finally enervated the creature.

Kreacher's eyes snapped open almost instantly and he snarled in a rage, "Filthy half-blood! Mongrel filth thinks he -"

"Shut it," commanded Harry, "I did not give you permission to speak." The elf continued to glare at Harry and struggled to hurl even more curses and insults for several moments before the magic that bound Kreacher to the House of Black finally took effect. The elf fell silent but continued to glare hatefully at Harry. "Now then," said Harry, "Let's clear a couple of things up: I am your master. You will do as I command you. And what I want to do, is help you, you ignorant jerk." The hatred in the House Elf's eyes did not lessen in the slightest, "Regulus, Arcturus, Black."

With his snoutlike nose, and bloodshot eyes, Kreacher was certainly the poster child for the unloveable object's movement but at that moment, the mania that had consumed the elf faded, and he stared long and hard at Harry, "I know, everything Kreacher: The cliff, the lake, the boat, the potion, the way your master, Regulus switched the lockets and ordered you to destroy the original. You have failed in that task, until now."

The elf's eyes widened to saucers in disbelief that Harry knew everything, everything that he had never even told the mistress of the House of Black. "Kreacher, I want to finish what Regulus started. I want to make sure that he died doing something worthwhile. I want to help you fulfill the last orders you were given. Tell me: Where is the locket?"

Kreacher came clean at that point and confessed: He wore it around his neck. Carefully, Harry reached and found the heavy gold chain of the locket, and pulled it free. He dropped it onto the floor and cast a stasis followed by an imperturbable charm. He pulled a lead box, lined with dragonhide and deposited the foul artifact within. Hopefully, that would contain it, until he could destroy it without burning a half-destroyed city block to the ground.

Tucking the box into a pocket, he pulled off the gloves and met the wide-eyed, and perhaps, hopeful gaze of the House Elf still bound before him, "Kreacher, I give you my word: I will destroy this thing, today. But I have to ask you: Now that your last order from the House of Black is complete, will you serve the new house, of Potter-Black, as you served our house of old. I allow you to answer the question."

"Kreacher will not bow to worthless little half-blood." The elf said quietly, showing more sanity in that one sentence, than he had the entire day, "Kreacher, can't. Kreacher does not know-how - can't learn how."

"So what's it going to be then?" asked Harry quietly, "I cannot let you go, and if you will not serve, then I don't know how I can let you live: Are you prepared to die?"

"Kreacher... Kreacher's last order from the House of Black will be finished. You give your word?"

Harry nodded, and held up his wand, "I, Harry Potter, do swear to destroy the locket, entrusted to the House Elf Kreacher by his last master Regulus Arcturus Black." There was a flash of light. It was done.

"Then Kreacher can join his family on the wall." Harry had heard from Sirius, Tonks, and Moody how the Blacks had mounted the heads of the family house-elves on the wall next to the staircase. "Kreacher was a good elf... is a good elf."

"I never said I'd kill you. I said you would die," said Harry, "There's a difference."

The creature glared, "Filthy half-blood-loving master is crazy like Kreacher! He cannot deny Kreacher his reward."

Harry raised his wand, "Filthy half-blood-loving master can because he is your master: Obliviate Maximus!" For all intents and purposes, Kreacher was dead. The body was still alive, but it was not the same Kreacher, not in mind. Imagine a computer that has just had its hard drive formatted. Hopefully, the software would ensure that the hardware did not wander around in just a tattered loincloth that only magic kept in the air. Harry chuckled, wondering what would have happened if he had cast finite incantatem, targeting said loincloth....

Having taken the time to study and learn with both Dobby and Winky, he was aware that their magic simply, is. They have no need for spells or wands. everything they do is driven by instinct and need. Though no master Legillimens, he had enough skill to see that he had erased all of Kreacher's life. Working with a blank slate as he was, it did not take long for Harry to "adjust" Kreacher's attitude, mindset, and beliefs. It nagged at Harry that this was precisely the sort of thing that Dumbledore would have done. But the alternative was to take a life. At least, this way, Kreacher would have a chance at redemption - even if he didn't know it. Harry hesitated, and then inserted a failsafe that would kill Kreacher if anyone attempted to tamper or remove the memory charm. "Enervate," whispered Harry, "Kreacher? are you alright?"

The little elf groaned as his eyes fluttered open. Keeping a stunner ready, Harry knelt next to him carefully, "Wha...what happened? Master?" Harry suppressed a smile: The magic that kept Kreacher bound to House Black, also kept him bound to the House of Potter-Black. If Harry had somehow erased that connection - something beyond his skill he was sure - Kreacher would not be calling him Master.

"It's been a.... hard day," said Harry. There was no sense in hiding the truth, "Death Eaters attacked Grimmauld Place and well..." Harry gestured around him, "They've demolished a good portion of the house. Part of the roof came down on top of you, and I had to dig you out." It was the truth, albeit a rather slanted presentation of.

"Thank you, master," replied Kreacher as he looked around, "I failed to protect his house," said Kreacher, "Kreacher will accept punishment for his failure."

"There will be punishment," agreed Harry, "The Goblins of Gringotts will help to rebuild this house, you will work with them and help them, and when the reconstruction is complete, you will clean this house, so that it is spotless and ensure that it is looked after. You will work closely with the other House Elves of House Potter-Black. Winky!"

To Harry's surprise, it was Dobby who appeared, "Apology from Winky. She is in the infirmary treating our wounded." Dobby lowered his gaze, "Dobby consulted with Alnwick and he agreed to lower wards for treating injured, and dead."

"But... master?" asked Kreacher suddenly, "I have... no memory of... anything?"

Harry shrugged, "The roof, falling on your head, might have something to do with. I believe that if your memories are gone, then they are gone. I am uncertain how to help you recover them. But it is something we shall explore when you are better."

He turned to Dobby, "We will discuss punishment later," said Harry. It was the right decision as far as he was concerned, "For now," he gestured towards Kreacher, "He is a new member to the House. My friend," said Harry to Dobby, "treat him as you are treated. "

"Understood, sir!" The House Elves apparated with a sharp crack, "Enjoying the show, Mr. Dumbledore?"

The Headmaster of Hogwarts bit back a retort. Technically, Harry was correct: It was only "headmaster" during regular term time. "I am impressed that you have been able to bring Kreacher around."

Harry shrugged, but subtly slid a finger to the side of his belt. The shield was relatively new incorporation, one he wished that they had all had during the Department of Mysteries debacle. Perhaps it would have made a difference, to the way things turned out. "I am not without my talents," he said coldly, "I take it that you have made some temporary repairs to the wards?"

"They should keep the muggles out of Number 12 in the short term, but to keep them out of Grimmauld Place, requires far more magic than I would care to expend. And it is your house, I would not want to... overstay my welcome."

"How many muggles dead?" he asked quietly.

"Our final tally is seventy-three muggles, including women and children. Almost one hundred Death Eaters were slain, but they were mostly magical effingus. They are not particularly skilled or able combatants, but their numbers more than makeup for their other shortcomings."

Harry nodded silently and said nothing as he stared out into the street. The carnage wrought gave him a clear line of sight to the muggles, who were busy picking up the pieces. Harry sighed. The quicker this war was over, the better for everyone. "Is that all, Mr. Dumbledore?"

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, "No, it is not," said Dumbledore, "I want to know Harry: How does it feels, to have the blood of seventeen witches and wizards upon your hands, especially since nine of them were underage?"

Harry bit back an angry retort, then changed his mind "How does it feel to have the blood of members of the Order of the Phoenix upon yours?"

"The members of the Order know full well what fighting Death Eaters involves. They knew. They understood."

"Answer the question would you?" snapped Harry, "I asked you what it felt like. I did not ask you what sanctimonious platitudes you use to comfort their families, friends and assuage your own ego."

Whatever control the headmaster had over his emotions and temper visibly frayed at that point, "I know how I feel! I know how to live with it! It is something that I still feel guilt over! Do you know how many members of the Order have died over the years?" The headmaster was practically shouting, "Since the first war? Till today's bloody skirmish? I know Harry! I know about pain and loss!"

"So. Do. I," Harry shouted back, "Need I remind you of who I am? Boy-Who-Lived? My parents! Hermione! Cedric! The Creeveys! Xenophilius Lovegood! Fleur Delacour! My dau..." He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, "Where you have lost followers, comrades in arms, I have lost family! Friends! Today, I lost seventeen more! What should I do to cope Dumbledore? Tell me! Tattoo their names into my fucking chest?" The air crackled as magic built up, and they glared at each other, neither one blinking. "I led them in battle. I know that I am responsible as their leader. I killed Death Eaters today, and I know that! Let's face it Dumbledore, we're both killers. So just because I kill these.... people," he spat the word, "it does not give you the right to yell at me."

"I noticed, that Legion's fallen are missing, and were gone even before the Aurors could secure the scene," said Dumbledore heatedly, "And how do you propose to cover up their deaths?"

"I don't plan on hiding anything," said Harry, "Their remains will be treated with the respect that they deserve, as warriors who fell in battle. History will remember this as the first battle of the Second Wizarding War. I will spend every Galleon in my vaults if I must, to ensure that every Legionnaire who falls is not only honored but remembered. Unlike my parents," he said venomously, taking a single step forward, "Whose graves lay unattended for fifteen years!" Harry had not blinked, not flinched before Dumbledore's glare. The anger of the headmaster had once been enough to cower him, but that had not been the case in several years, "Get out of my house."

Harry had planned to update the headmaster on the state of the Horcruxes hunt, that another one would be destroyed before the day was done. Now, he didn't bother, more out of spite than anything else. "You feel no guilt, do you Harry?" said Dumbledore as he turned, "For the lives that you have caused to be lost this day?"

"My Legionnaires," he mocked, "know full well what fighting Death Eaters involves. They knew. They understood." Dumbledore winced at having his own words thrown back in his face, "The difference, Mr. Dumbledore, is that I firmly believe that my Legionnaires would do the same thing again, without hesitation. You are going to have problems keeping your nestlings in line."

Dumbledore stepped across the wreckage and ruin until he was standing on where the top step used to be and apparated away. Harry followed suit a few minutes later, weighed down by the Horcrux in his pocket. He intended to keep his word and destroy it. Fyndfire was easiest. It was not a question of when, but where. Appearing in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, Harry strolled into the packed establishment, and it was no small wonder that everything stopped: His robes were burned through in several places, and the basilisk armor showed through. But more than that, it was the blood that had stained the robes. Some of it was his, but most of it came from the Death Eaters. "What the fuck are you people looking at?" he growled, "Never thought you'd see the Boy-Who-Lived after having fought for his life? For your lives?"

He threw a handful of Floo powder into the flames and was gone in an instant, leaving more than one witch and wizard to stare in amazement at what they had just witnessed. It gave a few of them food for thought. Most, however, would go about their business as if it was just another, average summer day.

He reappeared in the Travel Room and lost no time in making all speed for the infirmary. It was located literally down the corridor and it took him a moment to muster his courage at what would await him within. He was not sure what terrified him more: The dead, the crippled, the wounded, or the families of all of the above. He pushed open the door.

It was deathly quiet. There were so many occupied beds. He had hoped that none of the beds here would ever be occupied. But he knew that it would come to this, eventually. The wounded had been tended to expertly by the Goblins. Most of them, he had no doubt, would be home in several days. He walked amongst them, uncertain what he was supposed to say or do. Words were simply not enough.

"Blagrhast Died-dom Mr. Potter," said one of the Goblins, a healer no doubt, "If you can take a seat, we can attend to your wounds." For the first time, he felt his wounds. Though mostly minor, cumulatively, they left him aching in pain. He gulped down the potions that were placed in front of him, not noticing anything as he stared across the room of sleeping, or otherwise just resting individuals. He could feel the weight of their stares upon him, and he felt himself wondering what those stares said. "You will have to take some care for the next day or so, to ensure that those injured ribs heal fully." He nodded and rose to his feet.

He made his way to one of those awake, "Alright there Lucas?" he asked quietly.

"Alright, sir," replied Lucas. His voice was raspy, each word sounding like old paper being crumpled, "Still in, still able to fight."

Harry nodded, "Rest Lucas. You'll need your strength. I, we, the Legion, will need you."

"Legion, sir," he rasped again, "Ready for when war is waged."

He made his way, slowly, walking amongst the many wounded. It heartened him, not that they would all live, and fight again, but that they had all lived. He stopped by the bedside of every Legionnaire who was awake, not disturbing those who were asleep. It was almost a half-hour before he had made his way through the infirmary, only to find Colin leaning against the wall, watching Harry silently the whole time. "Colin, you'll be here for a while?"

The young man nodded, "I'll keep an eye on them - not that it's necessary or anything with the Goblins here," he added hastily.

Harry was not sure what to say, what he could say, "Tell them, tell them all…that I appreciate everything that they have done." Colin nodded. He had not spoken overly loud, but he could feel the eyes of the wounded upon him, watching him, and he realized that he had somehow managed to say the right thing.

He stepped out and made his way downstairs, to his office. He needed a drink, perhaps more than one. Ten sounded like a good number. He found Luna waiting for him in what was his office, "Harry," she hesitated, "Those that... died today... What do you want to do?"

He shrugged, "I don't know what to do," he plucked the bottle of Firewhiskey from its rack along the wall, and collapsed into a chair, "How does the Ministry honor Aurors who die in the line of duty? How do the Goblins honor their fallen warriors? How do the House-elves treat their dead? How do the Centaurs? How do they all do it? Find a way to put it all together? Don't ask me where to lay them to rest either! I'd say you could try number 7, Godric Hollow if you can find a way to fit that many caskets and coffins in the garden. I don't know Luna. I just, don't know, Get the others to help. Tell them if you have to. Tell them whatever you have to. Leave me alone."

She left with a nod and found herself wondering just how to achieve the monumental task set before her. She was going to need a lot of help to get this done. Fortunately, she knew where to start. She stole a glance over her shoulder, hair flying as she stared at Harry: still hunched over in his chair, the bottle hanging loosely from his hand. It would not take a genius to work out that he was going to drink himself to a stupor. He had been doing that quite a bit lately, late at night when he thought nobody was paying any attention.

He drank alone, just as he chose to be alone. It did not take a genius to figure out why, considering how he was love, fate, and destiny's fickle plaything. The reasons for his drinking were many and varied. But tonight, she knew precisely why he was drinking: Their dead. They would haunt him, and he wouldn't talk about how he was feeling. Not to any of them, not to his friends. He would not want to add to their burdens, so he would carry the weight of it all himself. She left his room.

Nobody saw Harry for three days and they drew straws. Luna drew the short one. She took a deep breath and pulled her hair back, tying it back. She stood just outside his door, and wondered how to proceed, "Dobby? Winky?" she whispered.

Both elves appeared and followed Luna's gaze towards the door. It was solid oak, the handle somewhat ornate and old-fashioned but it was a solid barricade that sent a clear message of "Keep out unless invited." Unfortunately, it was not as if she could just walk away. There was no way he could avoid this. As it was, their leader's intransigence had held up their final ceremony for almost a day a half. They could not delay it much longer even if they wanted to: The families were getting restless, wanting answers, and perhaps more importantly, the bodies of their children for burial. "Three days," said Winky, "we is bringing him food and drink."

"But he drinks more than he eats," said Dobby.

Luna nodded, uneasy at the thought. Harry was a social drinker, but for him to resort to drinking, like this, was new and disturbing, "But I have to see him... we have to see him."

"He is not allowing anyone in unless they is bringing him meals," repeated Winky, almost mournfully, "And he won't let us clean in there!"

Luna's hand rested on the handle when she paused and turned to the elves, "Do you want to come in with me?" Because she was not the master of either elf, they had no reason to obey her, and both were gone in a flash that was accompanied by a soft, near-silent "pop" as they apparated out of the way, "Thanks a lot," growled Luna. Some kind of support would have been nice. She knocked.

The drapes were drawn across the windows. Dark. Quiet. A somewhat unpleasant musty smell, "Harry?" There was no answer. She walked further in, nearly blind in the gloom. Her eyes struggled to adjust. She slammed into a low table and sent it crashing over.

"Who's there? Who the fuck is there?" There was anger, hatred in the voice. Harry loomed in front of her, unshaven, half-dressed, eyes fierce, bloodshot, wand raised at Luna.

"Harry!" she said carefully, "It's me. It's just Luna."

It took him a few long moments to process who was standing before him. With a growl and a muttered curse, he turned and threw the wand on the bed. He was only wearing his boots and pants. His chest and arms were crisscrossed in a roadmap or perhaps patchwork of scars, both small and large. "You woke me for something?" he half growled, half snarled.

"Yes," she said simply, turning on the lights as she did so. The half-light illuminated the room. No wonder Winky was near frantic with worry about the state of the room. It looked almost as bad as the aftermath of the Battle for Grimmauld Place. There were plates of food scattered haphazardly, half-eaten everywhere, and it looked as if he had gone through most of a case of Firewhiskey. But given the number of empty bottles that littered the floor, the number of cases could be significantly higher. Even as she watched, he raised yet another bottle to his lips.

The bottle zoomed out of his hand, and into hers, "Think you've had enough, Harry," she said quietly, "You need to get cleaned up. There are a few things that we need to take care of today, at noon."

"What?" he snapped. he reached down, searching amongst the rubbish on the floor. Glass tinkled as empty bottles were knocked over like bowling pins. He finally found what he was looking for. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and managed a mouthful of the amber liquid before Luna summoned the bottle from him.

"You need a shower, shave, and clean robes. Noon. We honor our fallen. Their families will be here. You have to be there."

He looked at her as if she was a creature that had somehow crawled out of a demonic portal in the middle of the room and proceeded to defecate on the floor, "Tell me something, I don't already know."

"Can't do that," she replied, "But I can tell you something you know that you think nobody else knows." Luna looked him square in the eye, meeting the unforgiving emerald stare, "One braid for Hermione, one for Aimee Delacour Potter." He blinked in surprise as she sat down next to him, and took a sip from the bottle, "You've lost more, than most of us can even dream of losing, and it's not fair. But you're still here. Fight not for those who still live and cower, but fight for those who fight, for those who have fallen. Fight and ensure that they are never forgotten. That's what today is all about." She shrugged, "We can do this without you being there... but you should be. It is your Legion, and it is your Legionnaires who fell in battle."

"So many were underage, Luna. It's one thing if wizards and witches of age lose their lives, but I got a lot of... kids killed."

"You did," she said, softly, "But they didn't wander in blindly to fight. They knew what could happen. They were trained, and they fought, bled, killed, and died fighting Darkness. They were children once, but they died as men and women, and above all else, they died as warriors, soldiers of the light. Given what's coming, I think it is a better death than the many possible alternatives."

"So what do I tell the families? The parents? Brothers and sisters? "I'm sorry for your loss," is just not enough."

"Is there anything else that we can say or do?" countered Luna, "It is... coarse.... but money has a way of making things better."

"You're suggesting I buy them off?"

She shook her head, "I'm suggesting that funding should be made available to the families, to ensure that they are taken care of. The families should gain some benefit, for having family who were courageous enough to take a stand, and fight."

He rose to his feet, swaying ever so slightly, "I'll think about it. Now get out so I can take that shower, shave, and get cleaned up."

She nodded and slid from his room. He wouldn't need more than half an hour.