Mountainsides and Explosives

I destroyed his home, the place where he spent a thousand years becomin’ what he is. I blew it up–gods know I made ’nuff dynamite. There were pictures all over the walls, both terrifyin’ ones and sweet ones, a thousand some years of work. Of art? Growing, something. Gods.

And I buried it all in mountainside, blew out the damned supports.

Will he be free now? Will I be free? Will it change anything?

‘Course, for me, it already has–I’ve forgiven him. Least, for what he did to me, the betrayin’, whatever. It’s hard knowin’ that you’ve got someone who’ll accept you, no matter what. I’ve got this wantin’ to push that, to see where the limits are, and I don’t like myself no more for it.

But I guess I have pushed. Just that the consequences will be delayed.

A thousand years of history. It’s hard to wrap my head ’round. It’s the same feelin’ like… like yesterday, when Kaste said something ’bout how that even when he’s an old man, I’ll still be young. It’s an ugly thought, the power of time. Kaste joked ’bout it easy ’nuff, but it’s somethin’ I know’ll keep me up some nights.

Any friends I make outside’ve my own kind, outside’ve elves–save maybe the Forsaken, but who even knows ’bout that, could be undeath has a limit too–in a few turns of the wheel, they’ll be gone. And I’ll still be here.

I’m so young; so pathetically young. I haven’t even had to think ’bout this ‘fore, and now I know I’ll be thinking ’bout it every time I laugh with someone that ain’t one’ve my own.  The Guard will persist, but how long do I really got ‘fore I have to watch things decay ’round me?

Maybe it ain’t the right way to look at it. After all, what’s a number in a book? Ain’t it obvious that anyone that throws herself into battle so readily and willingly probably don’t gotta worry ’bout too long’ve a life expectancy?

 Guess it don’t make the thought any easier to deal with.