"I used to think so," he replied softly. "But three of the men I consider my closest friends don't know their birth names. Their identities now are tied to what we did during the war, and what they've chosen to do with their lives since," he shrugs his shoulders, though it's hard to see under all the layers. He pulls his hands close, presses warm fingers to his face.

He chuckles when she says he'd angered her, and glances in her direction. "Really? I couldn't tell. But as for who I am... I suppose the most appropriate answer is a relic of a bygone era. A warrior without a war, a leader without a clan, a sacrifice waiting to be made in the name of peace." He turns his gaze back to the fire, lets his mind wander. "There are a great many people who will celebrate the day of my death."