Although they were essentially the same person, the two of them showed age in very different manners.

Destiny's skin was soft and wrinkled. Skin followed a short distance when a finger was trailed down one of his arms, as if he could be wound up in one hand, gathered up in one small sweeping gesture. The softness was almost a second youth, had he had a first. Soft as a baby's bottom, as the phrase went, though not smooth. His eyes, blue and gentle, were set in a cradle of smile-wrinkles, his hair white and feathery as it fell over his forehead. Unlike many old men, he'd managed to maintain a good weight, and his hips and knees weren't bony but soft.

Fate's skin was toughened and leathery - too much work, too much sun, too much hate. Liver marks speckled his face and bald head. His fingers were like little bones, each one carefully wrapped, cagelike, around the soft arm of the man he was with. Hard - could the other man bruise, he would have. Knees pressed soft dimples into softer skin. Fate's eyes were dark and hard and very angry. He looked as if he was about to speak.

They were silent.

"Well," Destiny said, after a long moment. "I suppose time makes fools of us all."