The Journal of Warlord Jehricka A Mel'Romen

by Jehricka

A collection of bound and removed pages, as well as unsent and received letters are stacked and attached to the inside of the thick, blue leather-bound journal. "And I've just done so much, that I can't possibly be forgotten... Right..?"

5. V: Stress of a Soldier

Why must everyone try so hard to keep me alive? It grows on me and irritates my nerves. There's much I've done wrong and, not three years ago in the Plaguelands, I met my end already. It has occurred to me that, perhaps, I was meant to die before my time. The lifespan of us elves are much too long, anyway. Many, if not all the friends I have made... They will all pass before I reach my middle years. It's almost cruel. This, however, seems fair. The Argents believe me to be ill. I can tell them everything that's the matter with me, and it wouldn't make a damn difference in all of Azeroth.

I'm dying.

Just in case it wasn't obvious. The "worst part" can be torn in two; the fact that I'm fully aware, and/or the fact that I'm dying slowly.
Feh.
Either way, things will fall into place. I will be sent off and forgotten as all soldiers are, and my writings and ideas will be lost in the stream of time. I am curious as to how I will remain a Paladin - especially one graced by the Naaru. I can feel the grasp I held so firmly on the Light slipping through my fingers like water. Tragic, I suppose. Sad? Whatever. I consider myself... Indifferent. Yes, it bothers me a little, the fading Light, but there's nothing to do but sit and wait. I hate waiting...