His knee had grown stiff under his desk.

Zavala initially ignored it. Let the pain burn in the side of his knee, seize the top of his calves. His leg had grown stiff countless times before. But this time, this early in the morning, this soon after sitting down, was something else.

He moved his chair back and considered his knee. What had he done to hurt it? He had not exercised yet, he had not gone on his usual patrol… he had done nothing. Why would a knee hurt from doing nothing?

The riddle dissolved. He was starting to age.

Zavala had anticipated this; part of mourning Targe was preparing himself to furiously resist the inevitable physical breakdown. He'd calculated how to negotiate with his own body, subdue it to stoicism, and make it follow his sturdy command. But what he had not anticipated was how he would feel. He ought to feel dread, terror at evidence of his mortality. But instead…

He allows a hand to rest on his aching knee. To venerate it. He feels it solid under his palm. It is his, it is real, it is both portentous and precious. He is aging. He will age. An absurd and joyous thought warms in his chest: how fortunate, to have lived long enough to grow old. How invaluable, to make the space between himself and the horizon matter. How much time is left? And is it best spent with his knees under a desk?

"Zavala?"

Ikora stands in the doorway. Hundreds of years of knowing each other too well draws her to his seat.

His expression softens, and he stretches out his knee.

Ikora watches his readjustment, and smiles sadly, the same way she smiles when all their mortal friends grow old.

The commander sighs, but with content assurance, not heavy resignation. He looks at his friend. "I think I'd like to go on leave for a week."

Ikora nods, then half-smiles. "How about two?"