Canonfire! - Death in the Olvenfolk Society

Elven emotions as death occurs are quite different from those of the human population on Oerth...

Author: Michael Sandar

Death in the Olvenfolk Society
By Michael Sandar
Used with permission. Do not repost or redistribute without the express permission of the author.

Calyndiir Mirosa sat in the highest boughs of the great Ipp tree, gazing solemly down at the soft grass below. Eyes the shape of almonds, deep blue in color, and chestnut hair hiding pointed ears proclaimed him to be of the Olvenfolk.
His thoughts filled his head to exploding, his usual calm nature belied by his constant shivering. Even on the sunny day, his skin felt cool to the touch and he trembled slightly, causing the tree to shiver with him.
None should bear the loss of a child.
He was over three hundred years old, and his mind had seen many things, magic of all sorts, great tragedies, the closure of Celenes great borders to all outsiders... How could Wyssria have died, at only one hundred and twenty years of age, damn near infant, he pondered. His son had been so full of life and energy, running rampant through the forest will little regard for safty, but at peace with so much joy. Calyndiir's head shook slightly in the negative. He had had only one son in three hundred twenty nine years, and no daughters. His wife, fair Slysalla had departed for the Realm of Corellon Larethian long ago.
Far too few elven children were born each year. Each was a gift, have no doubt, but still far too few to compete with the humans. One day, perhaps soon, Elven society would be gone.
...And what would be left? The Drow? Hah! A more self centered society has never been seen. He shuddered at the thought of what would have happened to his son if he had been of drow descent. Who else? The Vale Elves...hardly. There were few enough of them to begin with, and thankfully. The dwarves were a different matter, for they treated their dead with respect, even if it was interring them in stone far from the suns rays. Humans would soon be all that remained, with their Wars and their vengeful gods.
Calyndiir dropped to the ground without hardly a sound and moved to where his sons body lay, the protruding dagger still stuck deep in the ribcage. He began singing, softly at first, then louder, his voice so muiscal, sylvan creatures stopped for miles around to listen to the heartwrenching sound, and tears were not uncommon. The magic of his voice permeated the soil around his son, and nature itself seemed to respond. The vines, grasses, roots, and soil itself seemed to wrap around his son in one last loving embrace, and Wyssria was returned to the great Mother, as he said blessings to Obad-Hai, Beory, and most importantly Corellon Larethian.
As he turned to walk away, tears stung his eyes, and ran rivers down his cheeks. He took up the song again, and voices all around, presently unseen members of the Olven society joining in the celebration of the life of a cherished member of the clan. Of all the races, Calyndiir, thought, the Elves were the most reflective. Perhaps in our great lifespan (compared to others) we gain wisdom. Still... the drow live long lives as well, and few but the gods can truely say.

Elves, Elf