The elf, egocentric as always, immediately imagines himself dead. Which can't happen. But he considers it. He goes stark raving mad, butchering the party thinking they wanted to kill him- which they did, thinking it was some nasty as critter that wasn't -quite- as nasty and all-damned-powerful as an elf. He runs, screaming all the way, into the town, sees more people he thinks are going to kill him, and kills them all. Dead. Dead. Dead. He sees death everywhere. The house could fall in on him. He could catch consumption. He could trip on a rock and break his skull open. A tree could fall on him and splat him. He runs into the forest, crying pathetically, utterly terrified for his life, scared of everything he sees and everything he doesn't see.
The elf is still in the forests of Ireland, crying away, utterly terrified, utterly mad.
This is the shit I grew up on.