“There’s glory in it,” he acknowledged. “Dagda Mor! It’s why I like to fight. When the battle-frenzy fills you, you feel like a god, I think.” He paused, remembering. “But then you hear a friend’s voice begging you to help, and you see your friend’s guts falling out of a hole in his belly, and you can’t stop to help, because someone is trying to kill you, so you have to keep going. You tread upon a corpse and realize it’s a man who taught you how to hunt when you were ten years old. You see the woman who just got married run through by a spear, falling over her husband’s body.” The others were hushed, listening. Eamonn shook his head. “And when it’s over,” he said simply, “they’re still dead. Victory doesn’t matter to the dead, nor to the living who mourn them.”