Daimd loved the morning.

Sometimes, it was walking in the early sun, before the earth grew too hot. Wending his way across the barren desert plains of Durotar, he cast his gaze freely and smiled to himself. He wasn't in any hurry. He'd been all but kicked out, after all. But that was the way, wasn't it? It didn't bother him.

He watched the lizards scuttling back to their shady spots, and the hares springing lightly across the path, and stumped along. He was at ease, here.

Sometimes, it was little more than wandering in his own thoughts. He'd been known, to the observant, as a thinker, though he would never flatter himself with such a name. Even wandering found itself victim to the weight of his consideration—sometimes, it was a flat rock in the sunrise and nothing but his memories.

They were good memories, to a one. He had trouble recalling the terrible. It wasn't his job, anyway.

Sometimes, it was chasing down the unsuspecting prey, an old hunter's instinct he'd never done away with. Magic burned at his fingertips now, and he rarely if ever resorted to steel, but boars all died the same way regardless. From time to time he missed the weight of a sword on his hip, though, and he knew he watched Quinn's sway in front of him as he trailed dutifully behind the blood elf.

And now, smiling, turning his steps back to Orgrimmar and that same temperamental blood elf, who might still be sleeping if he was lucky. If he was luckier, perhaps the elf would be awake.

(Oftentimes, it was stroking the hair that fell next to Daliquinn's cheek and listening to his breathing before nudging him awake for the morning curses. He loved the morning and, as a rule, Quinn hated it.)

He imagines losing his temper with Quinn. He imagines crashing into the blood elf after one of his sessions, taking advantage of him at his most vulnerable, and hotly forcing him to the ground in a haze of fury. He imagines Quinn's face twisting around emotions it isn't sure of, and he imagines fighting to keep Quinn on the ground.

He imagines this because Quinn has never once made him angry, least of all for having needs.

But nonetheless he imagines straddling his elf on cold, wet ground, all but screaming why and why do you do this to your beautiful self, and don't I do enough and won't you let me help you, Quinn, I fucking love you, Quinn.

He often wakes from these imaginings with traces of tears on his cheeks, not only because the traitor thoughts in his head bring them about but also because he can't stand being so cruel, even in his own mind. He takes Quinn exactly as he is and loves him exactly as he is, and sees no way how showing Quinn his temper, like he was some Alliance scum, would do either of them any good. Worst of all, he knows that it would hurt Quinn worse than almost anything else he could do.

So he imagines instead kissing those palms and coming away with blood on his lips, and holding Quinn to him tightly enough that neither of them can breathe. And Quinn wouldn't say it, but Daimd would lend his voice to both of them: “I love you.” He'd whisper.

(It was a wonder he never felt stupid for saying it, but he knew, he knew. He trusts Quinn like he does no one and nothing else in the world.)

Sometimes he imagines Quinn breaking down, and himself the pillar that holds the cracking blood elf up, but those never last. His elf breaks in his own perfect, subtle ways, and it's enough that Daimd can see them, even if he can do nothing about them.