Paul Valkens was one of them; flipping open the sacred veil, private to, well, whoever it concerned, each time he saw the need; leaving the wounds, essence and other such guarded territories open, to the skies, and vanishing a day before the full moon. The whoevers bled for him after. They did not know what to do with their stripped selves. They poured themselves to others, resorted to fighting their hitherto battles of the mind, verbally with others, chanted for him to come back so they could divulge themselves to him alone and did other such things of expressed instability and desperation just so they don't lose the ground to their selves.
He only did good, but he never knew, or perhaps, wanted to finish up, Paul. Valkens.
They were never grateful to him, the whoevers.