3 April, Belleren

Seraiel introduced me today to a woman she described as “an old friend.” The woman was ninety-six. I nearly laughed before realising that Seraiel was entirely serious; they had known one another for seventy-one years. The Human woman was stooped, half-deaf, and required assistance climbing the steps, while Seraiel looked perhaps fifty.

Watching them together produced an effect I found difficult to describe. There was no tragedy in the conversation itself. They argued about theatre, criticised mutual acquaintances, and discussed a scandal involving a mayor from forty years ago with the enthusiasm of conspirators. Then the Human woman fell asleep in her chair. Seraiel pulled a blanket over her and sat beside her without speaking for some time.

I suddenly understood, in a way I had not before, what it must mean to be an Elf who lives among Humans. One does not merely outlive people; one becomes practised at it. I dislike that sentence. It sounds literary, and it is also true.