Also I am struck by the muse, and not one to reject it
Brother Lars entered his personal quarters in the temple on Hera. He moved with a speed that belied his advanced age; despite somewhat recently downgrading to more civilian-grade prosthetics, he never opted to have his legs regrown, happy with what he had. As such, he still walked at a sprightly pace. At 79, he still pursued his duties with the same diligence as he had on the sword. He sat at his simple desk and reviewed his latest engraving of Saint Milno. At an understanding with his old friends, these works were never seen out of the more private areas at the temple or the homes of some he still kept in touch with. Those meetings were growing less frequent; the military arm of the Guiding Hand didn't really need his involvement any more. He still trained in the little VR set he had at least twice a week, and felt confident in his abilities, even if it had been years since he fired a shot in anger.
The thought caused him to look at his cot bed, under which was stored a much more modern gauss rifle covered in many personally-done engravings. No longer relying on markers, these were done with hand laser tools with the greatest of precision... even if the weapon had never actually been fired. All his original gear was still down in the bowels of his temple, stored inside his battlesuit which slumbered in a shipping crate. He looked upward, saying a quick prayer of thanks for his own health while activating the injection on his metal hip. The year on the planetoid had done its work on him; this was his fourth cancer treatment. His service had granted him the utmost in health care, but it was still tiring and wearing on his elderly frame. What would the coming years hold for him? He still spoke to the General on occasion, and had even briefly met with Saint Milno himself as he traveled through after the passing of his wife.
He stood ever ready for service... whatever that service would be.