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In 1812, there was a young lad, an unfortunate one. Struggles in life, struggles with faith, struggles with the mind. He lets himself he led away into the British Army, never to gain personal exploits across all the expeditions of the Napoleonic Wars. Sixteen years old and already letting himself be given to slaughter and unable to grasp a voice for himself. Unable to understand, though praying he will. Unable to be complete in the world. Nothing, nothing at all exists for him. But perhaps, just so perhaps, that was never what he needed.