“Oh, it’s you,” she said.

Her face looked calm through the thin sliver of a mostly closed door. Her voice sounded strangely disappointed.

You stood at the fringe of the doorway, dragging your roughened knapsack across your shoulders, an apologetic smile wryly waning across your face. The orange hue of a new sunrise peeked in behind you. It colored the bruises running up your bared arms a muddy orange.

She sighed and pulled the door open wide and stepped aside. “Come in, won’t you?”

Courteous as always, you thought.

“Thanks,” you said instead, and stepped in with bowed eyes and a hunched back.

She slammed the door shut behind you, and briskly stripped you of your knapsack. It was dropped unceremoniously into a shadowed corner of the cottage, Then she pushed you towards another door by the small of your back. You flinched when her fingers dug a touch too deep into flesh through the fabric of your torn tunic.

“Go. Have a wash. You know where things are. Borrow my husband’s clothes. You stink.”

You smiled and stepped past the carpeted floor autonomously as her fingers pulled away. You stunk of turmoil and duress. When you stunk of turmoil and duress, you came here. She cleaned you up.

You were fond of this silly routine, this smothering dance of normalcy, of pretending everything between the two of you and the world outside were ok. You liked to think that she was fond of it too. The two of you were old friends, old rivals, a long long time ago. Once upon a time, neither of you would be so congenial towards the other, and the two of you would trade blows for the slightest perceived slights. Then the times and circumstances changed, and you learned to dance a new dance with her. You learned the dance of sacrifice, and she learned acceptance. Now, she was the only friend you had left.

“Thanks,” you grinned, saying the thing that you always said. “Thanks, Arainthe.”

She looked at you pointedly. “Stop coming, Hruine.”

---

“Oh, it’s you,” you said.

His face looked apologetic through the silver of a mostly close door. He didn’t speak. You were disappointed, but you weren’t sure if you were disappointed at yourself for opening the door or at him for coming.

He still had that same roughened knapsack that you sew for him all those years ago, when both of you were young and always at each other’s throats. The orange hue of a new sunrise peeked in from behind him. It colored his bared arms a bruised purple hue.

You sighed and pulled the door wide open. As always, you couldn’t shut the door. “Come in, won’t you?”

“Thanks,” he said, and stepped in with bowed eyes and a hunched back.

You slammed the door shut and briskly stripped your guest of his knapsack, dropping the old, worn thing unceremoniously into a shadowed corner of the cottage. Your fingers digged into the small of his back with just the barest hint of anger, and you felt him flinch. Then you felt guilty, because this was the only friend you had left, twenty years later. This was the man who had always stuck with you, despite the fact that sometimes you were on different sides.

Your face softened. “Go. Have a wash. You know where things are. Borrow my husband’s clothes. You stink.”

He smiled and stepped away, and you wanted to hit him for looking so piteous, so sad.

You despised this silly routine, this smothering dance of normalcy, of pretending that everything between the two of you and the world outside were ok. Nothing was alright. You were rivals, once upon time in your bygone youth, calling storms and ripping apart mountains to get at each other. Then the two of you had given up that core of will, that sorcerous power for the sake of something else, some illusive greater good, and time began to pass you by. Now he wanders the world alone, and you’re settled down with a hearth and home. You’re both dying. Time was killing you, and you despised it.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks, Arainthe.”

You look at him pointedly, and repeated the sentence you always did. “Stop coming, Hruine.”