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.

Daimd.

He finds himself wondering after the origins of his name. Not quickly—no, it took... hours, to return from the faceless place he'd been, despite his blood beating red hot at Daliquinn's first touch. He could have cried, when the elf took him back. He might have, if it had been a moment later. He did not know, and accepted that he would probably never know, what he had done, but... he gave thanks to the ancestors for their mercy on him. He knew they were not responsible, but he knew no one else to give his relief to. Quinn wouldn't understand.

He would walk in the elf's shadow until his feet crumbled to dust. He had never known such hurt—but he had also never known such fear.

He wondered why they named him Daimd. He wondered what they'd hoped for their offspring. Somehow, he knew it wasn't the reality he was living. He hoped they might forgive him.