"I am," Laertes says. It feels like an admission--but he is; the heat and the labor and the burns and the soreness and the stupid fucking bent nails all make him feel triumphant and alive when he finally puts the task aside for the night. "There's nothing finer than learning a craft, and making things with mine own hands. Even eggs and toast," he says, with a private little smile at the memory of how he and Sagramore met. "Thou wilt push back Ragnarok with a sword; more often, now, I put aside my blade, and push back the darkness with more common tools."