To share, or to barter... Yes, it made sense. It had been most of his life, so it appeared it would be again. There was much to be said about sharing the work you did and the sweat of your brow. He considered, nodding - and when she brought back the tea and-- ah, dried meat. That would be good, he thought. How long had it been since he'd eaten before...

Ah, Darim. It came like a wave, missing his son. His son whose hair had already gone pale, more white than black. If he could be here, perhaps he'd be safe - but his wife, their children, and Sef's... No, it was better this way.

"Where I am from," he said after lifting the teacup in two hands to take in the warmth and the scent, "when you reach ninety-two, everyone is young. My son was just past sixty - and to me, he was young. Malik Ibn Malik was perhaps thirty. He was very young. You are an adult, of course, but I have learned that age is about experience, perception, and how many parts of you ache when clouds are thick in the sky."

There was a gleam of humour in his eyes, a crinkle at their corners, at that last, even if it didn't quite make it to a smile.