I cannot remember the last time I told anyone such a bald-faced lie, even since I was forced into politics. But I did lie to Aethas, and he knows it, and I know it, and anyone who heard me say it knows it. My will means very little, in fact. I can pretend my power is real, but in the end, it is all an act, and none of it is honest. I can wash my hands of it, play martyr, be victimized, and accomplish nothing, or I can fight and victimize others in my turn and thus become the essence of all I have battled. If I have ever rationalized my choices using any other logic, I was certainly lying to myself. Hawkspear was right: I deal with the devil indeed, but the Sunwell may never have been restored had we not sunk to those levels. He and Aurora can sleep soundly, knowing they have never compromised their ethics, but if they deny that they prosper in the wake of those who have, then they delude themselves as much as I.
Here I find myself so close to believing that the ends justify the means. But the ruins of the Magisters' Terrace will haunt me forever, reminding me of the fate I tempt with that thought. This is the line I walk, finally knowing that the actions I take in necessity are nonetheless indefensible. Those truths can never be reconciled, but sometimes I can hold them both side by side and almost understand. I might call this revelation profound if I were ignorant enough not to realize that I am only learning what Kael'thas, and Anasterian before him, had also learned in their turns. All we can do is walk the road we are given with such dignity as we can muster, each to our own glory or demise, and pray that there yet remains something of our own hearts when all is said and done. By the Sunwell, I hope that there will remain something of mine.