He works with care, giving each wound its due. His hands were steady, despite everything. They always had been. It had made him an excellent surgeon.

"They've no roses in your homeland?" Truly? "What a tragedy. Beautiful things, the perfumers used to use these oils in their trade." In incense or poisons, they always smelled so sweet.

"There are many varieties, but these grow where blood's been spilled in abundance." The two scents blended so wonderfully together, even now. "Each place of slaughter in time becomes a garden, full of such beautiful flowers, protected by an armament of thorns."

His love for them is effusive, and why shouldn't it be? "They are a treasure, and a blessing." And they had become the sign of his devotion in turn.