The Log Inn was crowded with dirty, sweaty villagers illuminated by sparsely placed tallow candles. In the corner, a drunk pair of musicians played a cheerful melody. The poorly tuned instruments didn't matter to the crowd who threw them their spare coppers as they poured down beer to escape the dull reality of everyday life. By the table furthest from the bar sat two weathered men facing each other. They wore equally mud-stained, high boots and clothes marked by long use and rare cleaning.

"Why do rich folks have ridiculously long shoes?" Erwin raised an eyebrow at Conrad. "So we can tell who's the biggest fool!" He wore a pale tunic, to call it white would have been a compliment and a pair of brown pants.

"Shut it!" Conrad snapped. His wild eyebrows were knitted together in concentration, but a smile flickered on his lips. A once red, now brown, hood rested on his shoulders over a dirty green tunic. The painted triangles of the backgammon board were mostly peeled off and some of the black playing pieces had been replaced with pebbles. Conrad made his move with one of the white pieces and looked up at Erwin.

"If you want my sculptures at a better price, you need to do better than that," Erwin grinned. He nudged a sack under the table for luck and rolled the dice.

"I'm sure I'd be able to if you would just clam your stupid mouth while I think." Conrad glared across the table. His face relaxed as the inn owner walked towards them. "Oh, hey Belinda! How's your evening?"

"Could have been worse." She placed two bowls of stew on their table and wiped her hands on a once-white apron tied around her waist over her brown and yellow skirts. She had her brown hair braided and tied in a knot on her back.

Erwin wrinkled his nose at the smell and eyed it skeptically.

"What?" Belinda snapped.

"I haven't said anything!" Erwin snapped back.

She crossed her arms. "Oh, you didn't have to. If my food isn't good enough for you, you can share your horse's hay."

"Trust me, if there had been any other inn close by, I'd eat there."

"How much do we owe you, Belinda?" Conrad interrupted.

"4 copper for you, 6 copper for him."

"Are you for real?" Erwin slammed a fist on the table, rattling the playing pieces out of order.

"You can either pay or get out." Belinda's voice was hard as stone, her green eyes narrowed to slits.

Erwin met her steady gaze, muttered a curse, and scattered 6 coppers on the table.

Conrad took out 4 coppers and gathered the rest of the coin on the table into a pile. "Always a pleasure, Belinda."

She looked away from Erwin, nodded, and turned on her heel.

Once she was back at the bar, Conrad kicked Erwin under the table. "What is wrong with you? Stop acting like a little shit!"

"Do you really think I'm the one with a problem?" Erwin snapped back.

Conrad rolled his eyes and turned his focus to the stew. He was as used to the flare in temper as I was. It was like Erwin and Belinda shared the same negative charge, cursed to repel each other in this life.

As if connected by time and space, they had been reborn in the same little town. Yet they had never been able to form more than tolerance for each other. Memories of separation and death had taken their toll on the love they had once shared.

If they had only taken the opportunity to love each other... But love has its limits. When the grain froze and dried in the soil, and when food became something luxurious, love hadn't made anyone's chances of survival greater. Only sacrifices had.

Love seems to be able to give humans the strength to do the impossible. When Erwin's parents realized their food wouldn't be enough for the three of them, they left everything they had in their little cottage and walked into the forest one night. Erwin was 16, ready to take over the farm in their eyes. To be alright by himself. He had to.

Deep down, Erwin had known what they had done the moment he couldn't find them in the morning, but he had refused to believe it. He had yelled himself hoarse while trying to find them, until accepting that he never would.

His parents' sacrifices were enough to see him through to the next harvest. He had had to work himself bare to the bone to survive. He had sheltered the memory of love by hiding it deep within himself. He hadn't allowed it to die with everything else during the two years that followed when nothing seemed to grow. It had taken Erwin nearly 5 years after his parents' death to be able to create a comfortable daily routine. By then, his treasured memory of love had been all but smothered.