You catch yourself staring. Not wanting, not needing, only staring—studying. There are so many things about him that you already know, and yet so many more that you still need to memorise. You study the sway of his hips as walks, absorbed in nothing but thoughts of how they move. You obsess with his grip on the swords he carries, the way it tightens and lengthens the lean muscles of his arms You... ancestors, you're drawn to him and all his sharp, elegant lines, right down to the slash of white teeth in his mouth.

You're an ungainly creature, you know; unsightly and laborious, and the oldest part of you sings rejoice every day that he has elected to stay with you rather than one of his own fair cousins. They all set you on edge, beautiful beings that they are, because you will never find another as gorgeous as he is, but they are all so much more beautiful than you.

Your infinitely small victory against the race of the sun is your ability to grow a beard—and oh, how he loves it.

“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.