Sharing was optional, but he did it anyway.

The truth of the matter was that he preferred not to hoard. Neither gold nor food ever came into his possession long. Useful things, like weapons, broke, and things like time and memory were intangible and nothing he could share. So when something precious came into his hands, he shared it with his friends, even if he never called them that.

He learned that from the black mage, but it had become second nature.

In the snowfield, he offered his blanket on the condition that they stay together. He was never cold, because they were always warm, so it all worked out.

Under the blanket, he dug out the last packet of spun sugar he had. Elven make, of course – all else was inferior. Stolen, as was his nature to take useless this and that that might later prove worthwhile. But it was also in his nature to share.

So he shared, a little of the stuff here, and a little there, and it fed four the sweetness of civilization. Memory of places and things, just out of mind.

Sure, it was stale, but it was almost better that way. More inclined to be remembered.

And when the snow was over, they moved on.