DISCLAIMER: WarCraft and everything that goes with it belongs to Blizzard Entertainment. This story is written not for profit.

High Elf's Lament

Yes, I am the one who summoned you all here. My name is Ildea'n Peorr. Ildea'n the Dreamer.

What did you call me? I am not Stan'Tessa. I am not a Blood Elf. I am Quel'Tessa. I am a High Elf. I'm sure the difference means very little to you, but to me, it means the world. To understand this, you must first understand my history, and yours.

It has only been four generations since my race's exile from the Western continent – in my youth, I heard our elders speak of the Kinwar, where those who drank deeply from the forces of magic were banished from Kalimdor, and fled across the sea to this vast forest. They came to find mountains tunneled deeply, filled with a stocky and arrogant race. We call them N'Tel i'Duram, the people of Iron and Stone, but they call themselves Dwarves. They came to find N'Essil, the people of the Hills, who call themselves the Gnomes. And they came to find the N'Retiri, the people of hatred, who call themselves Trolls.

Our colonization of Quel'Thalas led us into a protracted war with the trolls, and for three years it was a near thing. They had lived in that forest since time immemorial, and had the advantage of size and strength – but their leaders squabbled amongst themselves, and their weak, primitive magic was no match for our blood gift, our High Magic. In the end, after a century of intermittent conflict, their city was destroyed and their strength was broken, and the survivors were scattered to the north and south.

My grandfather fought in the first troll wars, and told me that when the wars were won, there was disagreement as to what our next course should be. Some wanted to pursue the monsters until they were exterminated. Others wanted to send ambassadors, to establish a lasting peace. Still others, exhausted from a long lifetime of conflict, wanted only to build their city and study their magic in peace.

In the end, exhaustion won out, and my forebears simply took no action towards the surviving troll clans. I wonder now if all of this could have been avoided if we had taken one of the other courses – without their troll sailors and axemen, the Orcish horde could never have launched its assault on Lordaeron, and the entire fabric of history would have be rewoven.

In my father's time, we elves watched a new race rise to prominence. Yours. Humans were a physically tough but otherwise unimpressive race, with two advantages over the other intelligent races on the A'Zerathi continent. First, you possess a pack instinct unique on this side of the world – when in times of relative peace, humans fight each other as enthusiastically as anyone else, but when faced with a common foe, you can unite into tribes, and then into clans, and then into nations. One charismatic leader could rally enormous armies of fanatically devoted followers the way no elf, dwarf, or troll could. Which brings me to my second point – unlike elves and dwarves, you humans breed prolifically. You have twenty generations for every one of ours.

Humans sought to learn all they could of the world, sending out diplomats, armies, merchants and missionaries to the entire world, and taking all they could grasp. Men, it seems, are great imitators, and by the time of my birth, you were building dwarf-designed castles, wielding gnome-engineered crossbows, and recklessly experimenting with Elven magic.

Not all of their expansion was peaceful, however. Humans warred with the same enthusiasm as they did everything else, coming into conflict with the ogres first, and then the dwarves, and then the ogres again with dwarf allies. You warred with each other, and your leaders were great recruiters, allying themselves with factions within the other races, playing on ancient racial hatreds.

I was very young at the time, and against my father's wishes I had forged a suit of armor and a blade and I traveled to the cities of the humans to aid them in their wars. It was a great adventure, to be sure – humans still feared and revered the Quel'Tessa then, and my magic and my sword were in great demand. I amassed much wealth, and I deepened my own knowledge of magic as I studied under your mages.

One assignment had me protecting a church, a temple to the Cult of the Light, against a tribe of ogres that had been threatening it. I was leading a small, well-armed garrison, but I had thought I would have to stand alone when an entire tribe of the two-headed monsters arrived to destroy the chapel. I was shocked to find that not one of my retainers fled. The monsters were twice our size and outnumbered us three to one – but not only did the soldiers stand and fight nearly to the last man, but the people of the village came out in such numbers that the monsters were forced to flee from ragged, barely armed peasants.

I felt a flicker of racial fear then. I realized that this, not any technological or magical advantage, was why Men could conquer the world. Because you Believed. Because when you could see a greater good, you could sacrifice yourselves for it without thinking.

One of your priests was tending to the wounded and the dead. He was a very old man (though he had seen fewer summers than I had, and I was just a boy), nearly blind and so stiff from age that he could barely walk. He went throughout the wounded without complaining, however, channeling the magic his faith gave him until he was exhausted.

I went over to him as he stumbled and fell, and I lifted him back to his feet. "Old man," I said, "old man, you must rest."

He looked at me with those bleary eyes, and his ancient jaw firmed. The flicker of Light behind his eyes became a beacon of pure white, and he shook his head slowly. "I can't rest yet," he said as firmly as his cracked voice would allow. "There is still more to do."

Twenty generations of men have passed since then, but I still cannot forget that old priest's words. There is still more to do. That is why humanity will never fully fall "I want to help you," I whispered.

"All can come to the Light who wish it," he said, leaning heavily on my armored shoulder. "You must Believe."

"Show me how," I begged. The old man converted me on the spot.

Centuries past, and nearly my entire generation converted to your religion, abandoning the ancient spirits as wholly as they had abandoned us. My father wept when I told him, but in the end, he understood.

Hundreds of young elves traveled through the Kingdoms of men – Azeroth was the oldest and grandest, but the Kirin Tor had established Del'Arin and the fledgling kingdoms of Lord Aron's Land and Alterac had become well-established. One such adventurer was a beautiful and proud sorceress, the daughter of a great nobleman – and like myself, she defied her father and traveled south, seeking her own fortune. I loved her more than life itself, and after traveling together for nearly a year, I asked her to be my wife. We were young and invincible, and together we traveled while the years passed us by. Her name was Adria Incalin, or Adria Swiftwing in your language.

I saw the best and worst that mankind could produce – horror and arrogance to match the beauty and faith. Necromancers and demonologists. Saints. Traitors. Thieves. Merchants. Brigands. Warriors. I watched man tame the Horse, bend the noble creature to his will, and create their Knights. When Man and Horse were allied, they could stand toe-to-toe against all but the strongest of foes.

My father had me appointed to the court of Azeroth (as the humans called the nation they had built on the A'Zerathi continent) as the official ambassador from the High Court of Quel'Thalas.

My son was born during the reign of King Lanithas II, the grandfather to the last King of Azeroth, Llane III. He was raised among humans, but grew frustrated as the children he played with became young men and women, and then grew old, while he remained barely a youth. The Elven blessing of long life became a curse, as two entire generations of playmates grew up and grew old.

My wife and I raised him as best we could, teaching him magic and swordplay, and when the boy-king Llane III came into power, my son had a kindred spirit again, at least for a while. Sadly, we will never know what might have come of that friendship, for a mere twenty years later, the Dark Portal opened and the Orcs came.

It is my greatest shame that I could not rally my countrymen to come to your defense as the war turned more and more against you. I was back in the forests of Quel'Thalas, pleading with the High Court to send aid, when King Llane was slain by an assassin's dagger and Castle Stormwind fell. My family was not with me.

My beautiful wife sealed off her portion of the castle with her magic, locking the women of the fortress in. I am told that they armed themselves, and died valiantly, trying to fight their way to an escape route, but this may just be wishful thinking. It would have been in character for Adria, however, and for all of your race.

My son had been given a position as one of King Llane's elite guard – a purely ceremonial position that suddenly became much less so. He failed to stop the assassin, and then failed to catch her as she escaped – a shame he still carries with him now, if he still lives. I do not know if he does.

Regardless, he followed the baron Lothar as the man organized the retreat. When word had reached me of the fall of Stormwind, I wept, for I thought my entire family had been slain. Still, I petitioned again for the High Court to aid the survivors, and this time I was successful. A fleet of ships sailed out, and ferried the tattered armies of Azeroth across the Sea of Tears into Lordaeron. Imagine my shock when I found my son standing at Lothar's side.

News of his mother's death had reached him while onboard the ships, and he told me bitterly of his failure to protect both his mother and the King. We embraced – and the two of us stormed into the High Court to tell the story of the failure of the High Elves to stand against the tides of darkness.

The next day my son was sent to King Terenas, another leader of men who was barely a boy, with petitions of a grand Alliance. Eventually, the Alliance was formed, thanks to Uther the Lightbringer, Lothar, and my son. You were all alive then, twenty-five years ago, six years after the first war between Man and Orc.

I was no longer young, but a thirst of vengeance drove my son and I to fight alongside men again. My son became a ranger, skirmishing with the hated trolls, and I went to Dalaran to teach a new generation of mages, both human and elf, the arts of war.

My citadel was attacked by an Orcish raiding party, intent on capturing one of the great Elven runestones. Again, we failed – for though we slew a great number of orcs and ogres, one of the runestones was destroyed, broken into pieces, and carted off to Blackrock Citadel. I hear that the warlock Gul'Dan used its powers to change entire tribes of ogres into brutal, primitive magi.

Still, it felt good to be back on the battlefield. Oh, don't look so shocked – Elves have a bloodlust, just you humans do. We simply have better self-control, and don't show it. Or, at least we used to – but I digress. I became a conduit of power, channeling magic from the land itself, putting it through the Dalaran runestones, and then siphoning it out to my fellow mages. We created a storm of ice, fire and lightning that incinerated entire companies of orcs and ogres.

The rest of my story is familiar to you, I am sure. I, like most of my brethren, returned to Quel'Thalas when the war was over. I had seen you humans rise to the very heights of nobility during the war, but as I watched you destroy yourselves with pettiness during the peace, I could not stand to watch. For I loved you all, for what you had been in the past, and for what you might become again in the future.

My son, however, would not return. "Father," he informed me gravely, "there is still more to do." He offered his services out to Genn Graymane, to war with the trolls again, and then he followed that damned Dwarf through the Dark Portal. I have heard that he escaped the destruction of that world, and that he is still out there, somewhere, fighting alongside men and dwarves. I hope it is so, for though I have grown to despise war and the misery is causes, I believe that we were meant to work together, and that this grand alliance forged in war had led to the greatest accomplishments of any of our people.

Even if my son is dead, however, he has at least escaped the final humiliation of my people. When the damned traitor Arthas destroyed Quel'Thalas and slew the High Court, my people became scattered and leaderless. I understand now the depth of the hatred the trolls hold for us – for with our homeland gone, what do we have left but vengeance? Some of us fled across the sea with that Proudmoore girl, but most fled south, to the colonies we had established when Azeroth was retaken. It was the long winter all over again, the last remnants of our decimated navy ferrying survivors across the Sea of Tears to the illusory safety of the other side. My blade was unsheathed again, as the undead swarmed around us, and my soldiers, men and elves alike, found their last ounce of strength to fend them off long enough for that last desperate march to the ships.

That was not the final indignity, however. When our cousins in the west, the ones who exiled us long ago, defeated the demons, every one of us felt our connection to the world's core snap. For our warriors and citizens, it was bad enough, but for those who have magic running through our very veins, it was torment.

I have heard that when humans chew or smoke tobacco, their bodies grow dependent on the stimulant. This then, must be our equivalent – for now that we cannot get our 'fix,' we grow to crave it. At times it was maddening, and I would exhaust myself, casting spells at nothing, just to feel the magic in me for those brief seconds. Some few went mad and killed themselves, and more looked about for a target to vent their rage. A fledgling alliance was created, again with men and dwarves, and we launched assaults against the southern coast of Lordaeron – ostensibly to rescue more survivors and to destroy the dark temples, but really to give us targets to vent our rage.

Many died, and unlike men and orcs, we do not replenish our strength with relative speed. The Elves around me seemed to accept the doom of our race, especially those of my son's generation. They abandoned the Church of the Light and our ancient heritage, calling themselves the Blood Elves and delving deeply into forbidden magics. I have heard that they take their power from the demons now, like the warlocks of the First Orc War, and that it satisfies them.

For myself, I would prefer to die free. You humans, better than any except perhaps the orcs, should understand that. There are very few of us left now, you know. Even now, I can feel an aching hunger in me, as my soul yearns for something, anything, to make the emptiness go away. No, you can't help me, unless you can somehow reforge the link between my people and the ether. You can't? Well, that's no fault of yours, young lady.

Do you know I dream of magic? Dreams are a new experience for me and for my kinsmen. I never used to dream, for we elves never used to sleep, at least not in a way you would understand. When I was tired, I would meditate, allowing my body to rest while my soul immersed itself in the magic of the world. Now, I must sleep instead, and when I sleep, I dream of not sleeping. My soul remembers the whimsical twists of magic, tugging my soul back and forth almost playfully.

But I must awake, and when I dream of magic, I awake so desperately hungry.

Do you know, I've seen nearly five hundred summers? By your standards, I am older than old – and indeed I am, for I've been on this earth for longer than most of your nations – but my father had seen almost a thousand and could probably have seen a few hundred more if he hadn't been slain by a ghoul when Quel'Thalas fell. But now, I feel so old. The magic that keeps me young has faded as well, and my tired body is starting to fail.

I've searched and searched for a way to reopen the link, to allow the High Elves to regain what we had, but everywhere there is only failure. Perhaps the doom of my race is simply at hand. Who can tell what the Light intends for us all?

The reason you are here is to provide a favor for a dying elf. Every one of you is an accomplished mage in his or her own right – most of you I trained myself, during the Second war. I'm proud to have called myself an ally of you humans. What I want is to die free of this addiction – and if I cannot get the magic I need, perhaps I could instead purge my body of the desire.

The spell is immensely complex – you will all take a portion of my powers into yourselves, leaving me no more magical than an ungifted, untaught human. The runes have been scribed on the tables before you… excuse me for a moment…

…I apologize. This sickness is new as well – never before in my life have I ever been ill. I think that it is another symptom of my fading magic. Now, this spell is dangerous – not so much to you, but to me. I hope to survive it, but there is at a greater chance that I shall not. If I do not, I want you all to know that I believe that mankind can rise above anything that it faces. I believe that the Light will bless you. I believe that the future belongs to your race now, and to the other young races. Never let yourself forget what real evil is, and who the real enemy is…

… this sickness will cripple me before long. It hurts, you know. Not just the illness – being alone. My family is gone, my race has betrayed itself, and even my body is now turning on me.

You may begin the spell.

Five men and two women, all human, stared at the pale figure standing before them. He was wearing the armor forged for him in his youth, and he stood tall, though his speech had been weak and racked with tearing coughs. His once fair hair was now pure white and thinning, and his eyes had been replaced with searing white orbs.

Three of the men had tears in their eyes, and another was crying openly. They all knew that this would lead to their mentor's death.

First one, then the rest began to chant. Light surged forth from the runes, first white, then blue, then red. As the spell progressed, each caster felt him or herself fill with power while the elf in the center leaned heavily on his ancient sword. The golden armor was wearing him down more and more with each passing second.

The spell ended quietly, and the runes faded from existence. The elf tottered and would have fallen had not one of the mages rushed out to catch him.

"Teacher, you are too weary. Rest. I'm glad you survived the process."

The elf smiled weakly up at his former student. "Aran, I cannot rest now, young man. There is still more to do."

"Then let us accomplish it for you."

"It seems I cannot rise, unaided. Perhaps you will assist me in getting to my seat?"

"Of course, teacher."

The elf leaned heavily on the archmage, while the other six stepped respectfully away. When the elf gently reclined in his old chair, he looked up shrewdly at the mages surrounding him.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

"I feel…" Aran said uncertainly. "Apprehensive, I suppose. Flushed with power, but it is power without direction."

"I feel the same as I did before, though perhaps a bit more energetic."

"I feel full of life, but somehow sad at the same time."

Ildea'n smiled at them. "I feel at peace," he said simply. "Thank you." He was then overcome with spasm of coughing, and when he looked up, his ancient face was pale and grave. "My time is short, my friends."

"I hate to leave my tasks unfinished, but this I must lay on you. Aran, find my son – if he is dead, then find his people. Tell them that there is still hope for our race. Tell him never to forget our heritage, not to join with the Stan'Tess. Tell him to be proud of what he was, is, and always will be – a High Elf."

"Teacher, I will not fail you. Your son will know, and your people will survive."

"Thank you, Aran. Adria in'dalin meas t'calli…"

And with that, Ildea'n the Dreamer, friend of Men, wayward son, loving husband, and proud father, the last Archmage of the High Elves, died free of magic.

AN: I was wondering to myself - did ALL of the high elves become blood elves? I don't think they did. So the idea of one old elf, too proud and too set in his ways to submit to demonic forces, came to my head, and he started talking to me. This whole story just wrote itself from there.