As he reaches for his armor, he stops and marvels in contemplation. "What a beautiful suit," he sighs. This noblest of men has great armor indeed, virtually impregnable and glimmering in the noonday sun. As he catches his reflection in his breastplate, he is troubled. His eyes grow a little dimmer still, and although his armor is virtually unscathed, his body bears the marks of a seasoned warrior. He remembers the times on his white horse, when he rode in the victory parades. With his eyes wide and smile beaming, he once basked in the cheers of the townspeople. "Those were the days," he sighs as reality returns. His mind is troubled and his body weak and sore. He sees his scars and remembers them all. He wraps the latest additions to his wound collection as he prepares to depart; from the blisters on his feet to the gashes on his head.
Despite his fresh wounds, his search continues. He is in no shape, but it's all he knows. His vision, blurred by repeated blows to the head, still fails him. His knees ache, scraped and callused. His arms are weary of swinging and his shoulders are torn from the sheer force of the burdens which fell upon them. Most prominent however, is the near-fatal strike which is still very swollen and bloody. It happened one day that his very own ran him through; plunging a sword into his back which pierced his heart. Despite his wounds, he wants to engage his quest again. He wants to win, and nothing but death will stop him.
You fool!! Who would take his armor off in the face of imminent danger?! Who would even consider using his own heart as a weapon?! Only you, o noble one. Why is it that you are admired by many but loved by none? Why do you take on so many foes at once?! What drives you to block the blows meant for others with your own head?! Who are you?!
If you must go, please keep your armor on. I wish you well, o noble one. I wish you well.