Many say the elves are cold, callous, and unfeeling. Deviod of any amount of emotion, only allowing logic and reason to dictate their actions.

This, of course, is as true as saying that the orcs are savages, or that the dwarves are drunkards, or that humans are special. It is understandable why one would think such things, when only looking on the surface of the society; but shatters instantly on closer inspection.

All the same, it is my heart that shatters hearing my dearest cry. Her beautiful voice wailing, intruded by sobs. My Rós, my precious Rós; succumbed to a sadness I cannot fix.

For so painful, is the truth.

My love, my Rós, weeps and wails for the day that has not yet come, but will as certain as winter. The day of my last breath, of my last words. Moreso, the day of our children to be last breath, and hers continuing.

I know not what to say, at first; for my mind wanders much further than hers. For I know the truth, the real truth, the truth she does not know. The worst day will not be my last breath, nor that of our children to be.

The worst day will be when we forget her name.

Living, breathing; but only in body. The mind, long gone. Memories, long forgotten. Even the body, technically alive, sorts into a cruel decay before the final rattle given. Only a breathing, beating corpse, living by the barest extension of the word.

Long I have thought to take my last breath before such things occurred.

But for now, I cannot think of such things. For now, I must tend to my Rós. I hold her, and let her wail, let her expunge the emotions of her thoughts now realized. I wait, patiently, for her sobs to relinquish enough for her to ask me if it is wrong to feel such a way.

No, I tell her, there is no shame in her emotion.

She asks what she should do, come the day.

Mourn, I tell her, but not a moment sooner.

It's not fair, she tells me.

It's not, I tell her. But it is life.

There's so little time, she says.

Then we should enjoy it, I respond.