For the human memory is short, and even when we write it in stone we quickly forget and the stones crumble and even those stones then forget.

He knew all the stories. His grandfather had given them to him when he sat between the old man’s knees as a child. It was a comfort, though, to hear them again. To call them to mind. All these stories that made him more than just a vintner and more than just a man who carried a spear whom other men were willing to follow. More than just a man who lay dying. The stories made him one of the People, who would never die.

The problem with aging was not that death was near, for death was always near. The problem with aging was that a woman began to carry too many memories within her.