Andrzej Sapkowski. Last wish (№ 428064)

You are pitifully funny with your stolen bags of seeds on pack horses, with a handful of grain, with those crumbs that you intend to survive on. And with your mission, which only serves to distract your thoughts from impending doom. After all, you know that this is already the end. Nothing will rise and be born on the plateaus, nothing will save you. But you are durable, you will live a long, very long time in your own and arrogantly chosen isolation, weakening, few in number, more and more embittered. And you know what's going to happen, Filavandrel. Do you know that then desperate youths with the eyes of centennial elders and faded, childless and sick, like Toruviel, the girls will lead to the valleys those who can still hold the sword and bow in their hands. You will descend into the flowering valleys to meet death, wishing to die with dignity, in battle, and not in beds, on which anemia, tuberculosis and scurvy will tumble you. And then, long-liver Aen Seidhe, you will remember me. Remember that I felt sorry for you. And you will understand that I was right.