She was angry, she says, and I unleash a short cold laugh, pausing near enough to her converse, but far enough that I’ll have time to react should things deteriorate from conversation to combat (as they are apt to do around me). Even Duir’s mind flickers with humor at the notion of assaulting someone out of a bad mood, finding some parallel at last in all the times I’d cursed women for being, well, women.

A lesson, she continues, a brow lifting on my face, the bemused smile lingering, despite the serious tone with which she forms each word (have I ever said anything with that straight of a face? Probably not). She spares me having to point out the ludicrousness of this lesson, however, apparently having already decided the same thing, herself. It sobers the jester’s grin threatening to break out over my somewhat-serious smirk almost immediately, a sudden grasp of reality that, well, maybe she really did feel bad, after all. I never thought about any of the fights I’d been in with that much depth, and, when I had, the emotions associated with them hadn’t been guilt.

They were wonder, amazement, boldness. Regret was not something I had ever associated with victory (even if Duir had tried to make me), and seeing it on this mare, now, makes all the impish goads I’d been preparing for her slink away at the sight of something so foreign. Suddenly serious (or at least as serious as a rogue like me can be), I ponder what to say next, not really sure how to react in a situation like this.

"I see," I flatly remark with some level of understanding, having brutalized a good many trees, hillsides, and Ashamin’s for being in a foul temper myself (though, to be fair, the Haruspex had been the one who’d called me out into the snow that night). Sometimes being mad was like having a lightning storm trapped inside your chest, exploding with sparkling heat, ready to strike down whoever came close enough to smite. Does it mean that I forgive her for trying to kill me? No, it doesn’t. "I suppose I should be glad it was me, then, and not someone softer."

The thought of, say, Erthë, in my position last week is laughable, my lips curving upwards at the darkly humorous notion. This girl would be poorly apologizing to a smashed corpse, rather than me, if it had been anyone without some measure of training.

"Next time, I say you should kick the shit out of whoever makes you mad, rather than some dude just trying to have a night out," I continue, my fleeting grin fading, giving her the stare down of a guy who’s trying really hard to forgive someone he’s not entirely keen on forgiving (I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven anyone, to be honest), "it’s dangerous enough out here without anyone’s help."

The summer’s wildfires, and the autumn’s cold promise of hunger. With the snows soon to arrive, I now had to deal with all the aches she’d laid into me, as well as the change into what was, traditionally, the worst season of the year. Sure, I was entirely confident Duir and I would survive, but it still wasn’t as pleasant a prospect as it could be, considering how I’d spend my last winter (in the comfort of the Aurora Basin’s mountainous shadow).