All that are left are the scars on his hands, well earned, from wrestling with angels. The story is told that he bested them all, but the truth is angels never lose, the merely acquiesce. In this place, at this time, the angels have yet to return, and many say they never will. Some hope that the rumors are true, while others are content to go their way, picking at the harvest before the deep snows of winter bury them all.
For his part, he cares not who judges him, and he expresses no regrets. He would do it all again, so he says if you ask him. To walk as a giant in the unseen world, to challenge those who rule, seems worth the loss of autumn. Three seasons are left, by his reckoning, and more than enough for us.