Never, never did I think that I would come to defense of humans. Never did I think that I would pit myself against a fellow elf for the sake of those sad, warlike creatures. And never in all my wildest imaginings would I think that an elf was wrong in his actions towards the humans.
I will not relate events here; suffice it to say that we caught up with Lanathar in Magmar's cave. When we finally met Freya, she revealed to us that he had actively holding back the progress of the humans of these lands. He confessed to the truth of it, and to worse: that it was the policy of our kingdom to do what we could to impede their progress and development. Even Aringil confirmed this.
They might as well have put a sword through my stomach. The thought that we would need to aggressively keep the humans from advancing to the point where they could challenge us is ridiculous. Even if they knew that they could reach us, they could not hope to defeat us. And to think that the humans here, in this snowy waste, could ever hope to even challenge us is utterly laughable. It is true that I have found them a bit, shall we say, more palatable than most other humans I have met, Jacques aside. But one cannot but see that they are a backward people. They live simply, and I can only call it paranoia to think that they might pose a threat to us, who possess the wisdom and skill of the ages. If this is true, and I have little choice to but to think that it is, I am thus forced to wonder if my kind, if all my fellow elves are mad.
It is worse still. In Lanathar's words, in his very eyes, I saw myself. I could see myself in 100, 200, 500 years from now, that same unthinking hatred and fear in my heart that he carries in his. In a blinding, cold flash realization came to me of my own hypocrisy. I had always thought myself justified in thinking the way I do of humans. I could even convince myself that Jacques was an exception. But now...I've seen my contempt and disdain magnified, concentrated, and distilled until there is nothing left but revulsion and loathing, clothed in saccharine words of protection and defense. I am disgusted, with Lanathar, with Aringil, with all of my people. And most of all, I am disgusted with myself.
Has everything I've lived been this vile half-truth? Was this to be the culmination of my studies, my dream of being a bladesinger? My friends, my parents, my trusted sister, were they all privy, and in agreement with this? Have I gone so far that I can no longer find my way back from that path of utter, unrelenting fear and wrath? Will I ever be able to look at myself again, and not hate what I see? Will I ever even be able to call myself a person of good heart? Dispatching the white dragon's ghost seemed a simple task, stacked against these questions.