Aaravos does not count the passage of time in minutes, nor hours, not even days, he counts candles, one after the other, burning themselves down to the wick and a puddle of hot wax. He would run out of candles if it weren't so easy to reform them with a wave of his hand, as though the burn had never happened.

He thinks sometimes about the way humans count their years: one day every year marks a precious point in their short life spans.

He is patient as he awaits the day for his escape