The gods' most savage curses come upon us as answers to our own prayers, you know

War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation.

When you can't do something truly useful, you tend to vent the pent up energy in something useless but available, like snappy dressing.

Miles had sworn his officer's oath to the Emperor less than two weeks ago, puffed with pride at his achievement. In his secret mind he had imagined himself keeping that oath through blazing battle, enemy torture, what-have-you, even while sharing cynical cracks afterwards with Ivan about archaic dress swords and the sort of people who insisted on wearing them.

But in the dark of subtler temptations, those that hurt without heroism for consolation, he foresaw, the Emperor would no longer be the symbol of Barrayar in his heart.

Peace to you, small lady, he thought to Raina. You've won a twisted poor modern knight, to wear your favor on his sleeve. But it's a twisted poor world we were both born into, that rejects us without mercy and ejects us without consultation. At least I won't just tilt at windmills for you. I'll send in sappers to mine the twirling suckers, and blast them into the sky....

He knew who he served now. And why he could not quit. And why he must not fail.

Aim high. You may still miss the target, but at least you won't shoot your foot off.

He was shaken by an unwelcome insight. Lives did not add as integers. They added as infinities.