[prompt] a broken hand works, but not a broken heart
Time passes.
In Savannah, he answers to Professor Lefevre and they wonder at his decision to adopt his wife's surname when they marry, at the expense he went to for a computer that looks at home next to his grandfather clock and antique fountain pens, at his blend of accents and casual assertion that as a lapsed Catholic he's switched his fealty to good red wine.
In Arum, he answers to my lord and they puzzle at his seeming lack of a history before this land he wasn't born in, at his foreign methods of warfare and its tactics, at his willingness to become their own myth, at his unhurried and patient route to influence, at his vast library and enchantments, at his eccentricities and unselfconsciously solitary faith.
At the end of the day, Martel shrugs his shirt from his shoulders and feels the pull of scar tissue over his heart, because he will carry the end with him until there's no where left to go.