Daimd is unfamiliar with the sting of rejection. So rarely has he ever wanted anything from the world and its inhabitants that it has been rarer still for him to find himself denied. Word of his sexual prowess circulated quick and easy through his tribe, and he was never turned down when in search of coupling.

So he finds himself at a loss to describe this feeling, a pervasive stubborn quiet cry for approval, from only the one mouth (or hand or heart) able to give it.

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.