“How old is she, Valla?”
“She chose you, and you left her.”
“Please, Valla.”
“Do you know how much hurt you caused her?”
“Please.”
“Do you know how insulting this is?”
“Please.”
“Daimd.”
“Please, Valla.”
“Twelve years. She has seen twelve summers without you here.”

... I will wither long before you cease to greet the endless summer of your youth, my beautiful elf. What, then, will you do? Will you follow me, as I have followed you? Will you find another beast to share your days, and capture him as you took hold of me?

No, love, you'll resent me my short-lived orc life, nevermind that half all and more of it belonged to you and you alone. The years given us are numbered too few for me to bear, too few for you to grasp. Our infinite todays and tomorrows will evaporate at the sound of creaking old bones.

So I will never ask you, Quinn, how many years you have lived, for I know the answer already: You are old enough, and forever far too young.