The Elf

"Three stinking weeks with dry rye bread. Gods, this sucks," says the Elf. He throws his remaining portion into the fire.

A pit of fire cackles at the center of our encampment. His troop of ten soldiers have gathered around the blaze. Thick war banners dance and sing in the dry night breeze.

"Okay, okay, okay. I'm bored as hell. Someone say something so I can stomach these disgusting rations," groans a Catling.

"Yes. Someone, please pipe up," echoes a Human.

"Agreed," grunts a Dwarf.

The Elf sighs. He lays down upon a makeshift blanket and gazes at the stars. A thought comes to his mind.

"Have you all ever seen the stars shift and change?" he asks.

"No," replies the Catling. "Don't they live up to trillions of years?"

"Yes, or so our Earthly scholars say. And hence why our star maps of eras past persist so accurately. For as long as any of us will live, the stars will never change."

"Oh, has the night sky caught you in a melancholic mood?" jokes a Human.

"Perhaps," he answers. "The stars will flicker and burn. Indeed, they will die. But never in our lifetimes. And in that image of apparent eternity, I see us—everyone. I see our deaths."

"Elfling. None of us will ever understand how you people perceive of time. Isn't that reason enough not to talk about death with us?"

"But that's where you're wrong. It is a misconception to think we do not count the days as the other races do. We cannot help but be reminded of our mortality while you and your kin disappear. The fact that we live longer than the typical human, for example, does not mean we are any less susceptible to death. War, famine, and disease ravage our race just as they do unto beasts, men, and dwarves."

"Strange, have we all come onto a wrongful stereotype?" asks the Catling.

"The fortitude of our bodies belie a weak spirit. It is no wonder that we all say, 'God created Man in his own image,' for we are all one and the same with the common-most sentient. A thousand years, I have lived. Time has worn me down as a river carves a canyon. I tire of my friends coming and going. I tire of the eternal stars. I tire of life."

"So you have chosen war," I surmise.

"So I have chosen war," the Elf says.

"Commander. We will need you for the battles to come."

"And so I will linger. But grant me a selfish hope that death may come sooner rather than later."