He is a sculptor. Every day, he raises mallet and chisel to the granite of himself, and chips away to uncover new ease and flow in the stone. Day by day, the flex of an arm changes, withering from its peerless state to one of only formidable size, and the weight of burdensome shoulders grows heavy above hips that throw themselves only into fucking. Some day, the balance that holds the statue upright will quiver and then tumble, leaving the masterwork shattered all to pieces. Every day, the sculptor finds new flaws in the only work he has given his life to, and they are flaws he can patch, but not repair.

You are my world, Quinn. Simple words. Why can’t he speak them aloud? You are my life. You are my only reason. Is he afraid? You are all that has ever made an impact on me. That last isn’t only true.

Daimd feels old.

My people worship their ancestors. I know how far back the paths we walk do stretch.

When we step forward, we do little but leave footprints behind us. They are binding. They fit to our feet, and no one else may follow in the route we take. They twist out of sight in both directions, and no one may predict where they will lead or how history will shape forks unseen. They are our promised future, and our irredeemable past.

They will always remain.

Come. With me.