the trick is to keep breathing

Her fur is gray and patchy, face and arms covered with the pinkish puckered scars of battles long fought. The armor she wears is of a ceremonial type long since gone out of fashion in Burmecia and its surrounding tributaries, old but obviously well taken care of. Younger dragoons scoff at her when they think her back is turned - 'The Iron Lady', they call Freya Crescent; the nickname makes her think of ancient heartaches best forgotten - but she doesn't care. They are young, and it has always been the prerogative of the young to scoff at the elderly while they can. In Burmecia there is much talk about the state of the youth these days, how much more honourable they were in elder times. Freya knows better, and begrudges her proteges their wild oats not a whit.

Even with the understanding that time is a thief far nimbler than Zidane at his slipperiest, she is still surprised at the changes wrought in old friends. Queen Garnet's hair is as white as Freya's ever was, her face a drooping mass of wrinkles. When she stretches out a trembling hand to take Freya's in greeting, the Burmecian is taken aback by how gnarled her fingers are, the blue veins standing out like cords.

Seeing Zidane is worse. In Freya's mind he has stayed forever young, mischievous as the day they met. The thing on the dais is not her old friend; it has a balding head, a tail as pink and hairless as any Burmecian's, and an expression of solemnity never worn in life. Freya's stomach churns looking at it, but she is determined to say goodbye, and so she paces down the aisle without a pause. Her bones pop and clatter almost as much as the armor she wears. Nobody here laughs.

When she kisses him on the forehead, it is like putting her mouth to cold wax. Garnet's cheek feels much the same; Freya cannot help but wonder how much longer she will last without him.