The Elder relaxed slowly back in her chair, bones creaking in quiet protest. Her once-lustrous hair was shot through with streaks of grey now, but her eyes still held that alert and nimble light. Across from her the Arteshbod was settled in his bed, a little more of his old muscle leaving him every day; once powerful, in his prime, he lays wasting away, age stealing more than the thinning silver hair crowning his head.
She smiled easily. "You're looking absolutely terrible, you warmonger."
This earned her a grunt and a wry look. "You're one to talk. Is that a wig or did a verfu* die on your head?"
The banter continued back and forth for some time. First drawn together by the bonds of their secret and terrible pact of murder, they had found as time passed and age mellowed their dispositions that they truly got along rather well. Never lovers, but close friends, closer still after the old Sepahbod died in a naval action against the accursed pirates. With the inevitable end creeping up on them, they found comfort in each other's company; not to mention the amusement gained from watching younger councillors or generals try to puzzle out the relationship the two old fools enjoyed.
With a touch of regret the Elder moved the discussion to more serious matters. "Riahl is pushing for a settlement north of the Spine, even just a little one. His brother owns several smithies and is going crazy over some of the ore samples being found there."
The military man grunted. "He really is a greedy bugger, isn't he? I read the reports. Those are my scouts, after all. Put a gang of miners out there and they'd be too busy scraping together food to get any real work done." He gave her a sidelong look. "Why are you telling me this, anyway? Domestic matters are you job ... not mine."
The aged woman smiled and touched the once ruddy-faced, and now pale man's hand. "The same reason you discuss strategy with me, old friend. I value your input; even if it's nothing more than being a wall to bounce ideas off of." The Arteshbod reddened slightly, glancing away, unable as ever to take a compliment.
"Well ... my opinion? Centralize something on the Ida'an'i'i isle we're holding. We need to show the people there life is truly better under us than the heel of the pirates. Maybe then they'll stop helping raiders land in hidden coves." He grimaced. "How we're supposed to aid Kelios while holding off those ... barbarians is beyond me. Especially since there seems to be no end of them ..."
The Elder patted his hand, knowing how much the veteran soldier hated having his soldiers die without gaining something in their sacrifice. "They'll run out of ships eventually. They're fighting each other too, you know."
The Arteshbod still refused to meet her eyes. "I tell myself that ... but still I wonder. In the end - are we really better than Yaran?"
His hand was taken in a fierce grip by the old woman. "Yaran was an idiot who let some half-understood pseudoreligious babble run his life. We are better than him. You are better than him. Stop dwelling in the past and focus on the future."
He sighed. "You're right ... as always." A wry smile touched his face again, if only briefly. "Why haven't I seen the new Sepahbod around lately?" Though the old naval commander had died nearly a decade past, his replacement would always be the "new" man in the minds of the older members of the Tricameron.
"He's in Ean Samhradh, supervising construction of those new warships." The Elder loosened her grip, only a reassuring hold now, a reminder of her presence. "The ones your friend - our friend - dreampt about so long ago."
"He always was a dreamer ..." The Arteshbod's voice trailed away as he eyes unfocused. "... we did the right thing ... didn't we?"
His old friend leaned over, her lips pressing to his forehead gently. "We did, Sevarr** ... we did." Her hand brushed away what was left of his hair from his eyes as they slowly closed. "Rest now," she whispered into his unhearing ear. "Hero and traitor of Syracia ... rest. You have earned it."
----
*Verfu: A small rodentlike creature with absolutely no value to humanity. Its meat is tough, stringy, and mildly toxic, its hide is too thin to be tanned, and its fur is far too coarse for even the lowest-born peasant to use in clothing. Also, it smells.
**Sevarr: A title given to one's closest confidant, friend, and loved one, who is not also one's lover or member of their immediate family. Naming someone Sevarr is the highest personal honor a Syracian can give.