Chapter Four: Respite

Outside the tavern, the impenetrable darkness of night had descended upon Tristram. Lyndon's breath escaped in cloudy wafts as he led a stumbling Malthael through the near-deserted streets. The brisk fall air was already biting at his exposed skin, though not dangerously enough to deter him. They were adjusted to the warmer summer winds, and with some time and a bit of hardening, he knew he would acclimatize before the snows arrived.

On the town's outskirts, they found a deserted bench overlooking some browning shrubs. It was surrounded by a ring of towering oaks, obscuring some of the sky above, as well as the bench itself from nosey passersby.

Malthael collapsed onto it and pressed shaking palms to his face. Lyndon took the spot beside him and glanced up to where a few stars were peeking out from around the edges of branches and the oaks' few remaining leaves. He pointedly avoided looking at his friend, not out of any personal discomfort, but because he wanted to afford him as much privacy as possible while he sobbed uncontrollably. The man's muffled keening contrasted sharply with how silent the rest of the town had become.

If the other residents had any sense about them, they wouldn't go looking for the noise after what had occurred in the tavern. Lyndon didn't have the patience for sending anyone off politely. Thankfully, the only company that joined him was the intensifying chill; he wrapped his arm about his core, rubbing at his biceps to try and ward off the stiffness that would come if he stayed outside too long.

They stayed that way together for many minutes, until Malthael's shoulders stopped heaving and Lyndon felt comfortable enough to speak.

"Is that the first time? You've wept like that, I mean."

Malthael grunted from behind his hands.

"The last time I did…gods, I don't think I ever told you. Haven't told anyone. Except Eirena and Kormac, and Osseus, and I think Tyrael found out at one point. Was around the time we fought you. I learned my brother was murdered by his wife. My old flame, at that. I thought I could keep it all in, stay calm like I always did, because we had so many more important things to do than cry. And you know what happened?" He finally glanced to Malthael. "The same thing that just happened to you. I couldn't sleep. It was all I could think about. This terrible, awful thing I couldn't control."

"Wasn't a thing you did. Didn't kill Lena's family."

Lyndon barked a laugh. "You think that mattered? I still fell apart. Ignoring it did nothing." He tapped his chest. "It stayed here, and it ate away at me until it chewed its way out. I didn't even weep that way for Kormac, when I think about it. I suppose it's because I was expecting one or all of us to die then. And I did it properly. Gave myself the chance I needed to mourn. Still hurts, but that will lessen with time."

"Don't have time."

"I don't mean time to write a treatise on your mistakes. I mean time to give yourself a bath or whatever else you need do to care for yourself." He frowned. "Damn it, you know how I feel about your past. It is what it is. A part of me loathes you for it and always will. I saw the despair firsthand. Those memories will never leave me. But I'm also not fool enough to believe you are the same being. And the person you have become, well, I consider him a friend."

He let the statement hang between them. Eventually, Malthael tipped his head slightly and peered at Lyndon from between tear-stained fingers. "I am grateful for that," he rasped.

"Don't be too much. You're also an imbecilic arse who believes he matters to no one. No, don't shy away from that or from me. The reason you don't have a stein broken across your head is because you matter to that child. And in case you haven't noticed, you also matter a great deal to others, myself included, as well as a certain librarian who is likely fretting about your safety."

"I wouldn't know why. I have erred grievously."

"We all have. It's part of being human. I won't tolerate this pity party of you assigning the world's blame to yourself. And I won't let you to take sole responsibility for what occurred in the Heavens."

Malthael's shoulders jerked as he turned suddenly, one palm smashing onto the bench between them, the other trailing down his face, fingers scraping at the lengthy stubble on his chin. "I murdered them. My kin. I destroyed their home and any chance of rebirth. I couldn't save them. I couldn't even…I couldn't…" He closed his eyes as his entire body shuddered. "I couldn't even save Imperius. I knew what was happening, and I still…"

"You did what he did for you. What had to be done. I know you've killed many things, but this? This wasn't you." Lyndon paused, then hesitantly reached out, gripping Malthael's shoulder tightly when he didn't protest. "Things become easier if you rest, friend. You should do that."

"No time."

"There damn well is time. There is a winter of it, one where you are supposed to stay with us, and endure our terrible ribbing and any of the support we stupidly offer. What happened tonight is not an end. It's not a beginning. It simply is. Life continues, and we make amends for all we have done. Then we return to those who understand us enough to be merciful." He looked to his empty sleeve and exhaled pointedly. "Do you think I would have done this for no reason? Perhaps I am a fool, but I believed you deserved a second chance. It's hard enough to tolerate you without adding regret into the mix. Don't prove me wrong."

Head swirling from his own alcoholic partaking, Lyndon thumped back against the bench and watched as the stars slowly tumbled behind the branches. The world was utterly still, save the occasional gasp from Malthael. It was a more comfortable silence this time, even after all Lyndon had said. Feelings spoken plainly were more comfortable than those left to fester.

To the side, Malthael mimicked Lyndon and looked upward to watch the constellations. A few shooting stars trickled into view, bright enough to escape the overwhelming glow of Tristram's lamps.

Of course, Lyndon thought, with muted wonder. It was the Night, after all. The stars fell according to their own whims and did not pause for the sorrow of mortals.

"Your truths are painful," Malthael whispered.

"Of course. That is mortality. And no one likes to be the fool."

"I certainly am."

"Aye. A right mighty dumbarse, as Kormac would have said. And you'll survive."

In reply, Malthael leaned over to hide his head between his legs and retched.

"You did drink an awful lot."

"Had to keep up with you," he managed, before gagging again.

"You're still a terrible liar. Why did you really do it?"

"Wanted to…stop thinking."

"That's never a good reason." Lyndon smirked slightly. "Though you are an entertaining drunk. And a terrible duelist."

"I'd win sober."

"I'm sure. And perhaps one of these days I'll be able to leap about like I did at will, instead of by instinct."

A ghost of a smile twitched onto Malthael's lips as he tilted his head to look at Lyndon. Close enough to count, anyway. "I thought that was what you'd done. When you…" He trailed off, his eyes going to Lyndon's sleeve. "Wanted to make you do it again. Jump. Portal."

"Gods, is that why you've been trying so hard to slit my throat during practice?"

"You jump from danger. Had to threaten."

"Well, you'd be right. And I'm usually several degrees less afraid of you than I need to do that."

"Pity."

"Remember how I said don't make me regret doing what I did?" He scoffed amiably. "I don't trust your judgement anyway. You're a cheap drunk, and I'm certain you know you can't teach that boy to read. He's much too young."

"I know."

"I almost think you enjoy spending time with him."

"Don't push."

"Or what, you'll spit on my boots more?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps you're lucky, and I'll sit with you while you do."

"You needn't."

"And let Farah find out I let you pass out alone? I don't think so."

"…Lyndon."

"Ah?"

"Thank you."

He chewed on his lip a moment, before shifting to a more comfortable, if still frigid, position; he wasn't sure how long they would be there, but he was prepared to stay as long as necessary. "You're welcome."

Aya watched the two men disappear from the tavern with a deepening frown. Around their table, the buzz of conversation slowly returned, albeit subdued from what it had been minutes earlier. The snippets she caught as revellers returned to Bron to refill their drinks were more curious than joyous; a few were drunkenly accusatory. Not that she blamed them. So much of the townsfolks' lingering reactions to Malthael were cloaked under everyone's hesitation to upset Tyrael. It was rare those sorts of feelings were expressed outwardly, let alone in public, but it was also healthy to acknowledge them from time to time.

Better than stewing on them, certainly. They had all seen what they led to.

"Should we follow them?" she asked.

Tyrael sighed and shook his head. "No. I trust Lyndon to help more than any of us."

Aya frowned but didn't argue. Tyrael knew his brother's needs better than anyone, though whether Lyndon was able to fulfill them was another matter. And truthfully, she was more worried about Farah, who had not moved since the entire debacle with Lena had started. She was busy wringing her hands on her lap and looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but the tavern.

"He'll be all right," Aya said softly. "Lyndon will sort him out."

"I should have been able to," she blurted. "I have watched him fall apart all month and I have done nothing. It shouldn't have even come to this."

"Eh, baina. How long have you known him? Lyndon's been his friend for a long while now. You're not expected to predict his every whim."

"I can at least try. I knew he needed help."

"And sometimes that help is not yours to give. Listen to me." Aya cupped her cheeks gently. "I know you try to help everyone, and I know we have talked about this many times. But sometimes, journeys are for one person to walk."

"He tried to tell me that once and I knew he was wrong. He wanted to use the Chalice …"

"This is not Chalad'ar. This is something personal. Something he must learn on his own."

"But how can Lyndon help if I can't…"

"Lyndon will kick the arse of whoever needs it." Aya laughed. "Including your pi'ra. That is what friends are for. You've done what you can and what is needed. Love is a shared burden, yes?"

Farah made a decent imitation of Malthael's scowl; they were clearly rubbing off on each other more than they realized. "It's not shared if I have done nothing."

"You have, and I'm sure you'll do more in time. But come, it's late. I think the celebration is over."

It was easy to try and remain cheerful when she was helping her sister. Far easier than looking at Tyrael, her soul uncomfortably muddled with the realization that they had spent another evening not speaking about their futures. She had been as direct and open with him as she felt comfortable doing, without risking pushing him into something he did not want.

Some things really were for one person to figure out, she mused. What Tyrael needed to discover in order to resolve things, she did not know. Time, perhaps. The thing they all needed.

"Would you walk us home, Tyrael?" Farah asked, unexpectedly. Her eyes had regained some of their usual twinkle, and Aya realized that though her sister was sometimes less savvy when it came to her own life, she was nothing short of shrewd with others. "You are right. It is late and I am very tired. I would hate to fall asleep partway to the house and find myself covered in snow in the morning."

"Of course." He stood and offered her a hand, then extended one to Aya as well. His expression softened when he noticed her stare. They both looked away a moment, then back to each other, as if they realized simultaneously exactly what needed to be said. "It would be my pleasure. And perhaps, Aya, you might keep me company afterwards, while I attempt to forget my worry for Malthael."

Her hand fit into his palm comfortably; it brought the same warmth Tyrael always instilled in her whenever he was around. "I would love to join you."

Malthael felt horrid. And by horrid, he felt as though he had rolled in death, been dissolved in its remains, and then baked over a fire. It was beyond him why mortals chose to drink at all, let alone as regularly as many opted for. He didn't know why he thought it would help him relax. It had distracted him, yes. Momentarily. Until he had dragged Lyndon's arse about the tavern, the terrible bit with Lena had happened, and he had generally lost control of his emotions and become a weeping mass of vulnerability.

It was not his finest moment. Perhaps one of his most human, he admitted silently. But between the humiliation and the expunging of his stomach that had occurred shortly after, he really did not want to repeat it, or keep thinking about it as compulsively as he was.

"How unfortunate for you that idiocy demands repeated attention."

"Enough!" He swatted at the air in front of him before realizing the thought had not come from Lyndon, and that Lyndon had also left him to stumble inebriated back home quite a few minutes earlier.

That bit, at least, he thought he was managing properly. He was on the correct laneway; and there, at the end of the street, he could see smoke billowing from his home's chimney with all the enthusiasm of a Hell furnace. The image nagged at him as he picked his way across the cobblestones. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant wakefulness. It would not do to leave the hearth unattended.

Tyrael's hearth, precisely. Tyrael's home.

Which was in use.

He pushed his ear to the door and frowned as a string of loudly lewd noises emanated from inside.

Brother. By the Hells and the Heavens and everything in between. I just want to sleep.

He supposed he could reclaim the bench. Only, that was the very thing Lyndon had told him not to do. He was supposed to care for himself, and he didn't think freezing to death outside was included in that. However, of the many things Malthael wanted or could do, interrupting his brother and Aya as they frolicked about was not one of them.

"Godsdamn it," he hissed.

Thank the fractured remnants of the Light that the streets were deserted. The longer he traipsed about, the harder it became to walk in a straight line, even if he was following the edge of the pathways by trailing a hand along the frost-covered bushes. Eventually, he did reach his destination. He collapsed against the door, knocked once, then twice, and found himself snickering at the entire situation.

A few moments passed, then the door cracked open slightly. Farah peered out, then opened it wider when she realized who he was. "Malthael? What are you doing here?"

He tried to reply and ended up grinning stupidly at her instead.

"I thought you were with Lyndon?"

"Lyndon went…home," he slurred; speaking had become very hard, and though he was sure there was a far better way of saying it, he couldn't parse the distinction. "Home. That way."

"Yes, Lyndon's home is that direction. Do you want help getting to your home?"

"Busy." He raised a finger. "Your sister, my brother. Very busy."

"Oh. Oh, I understand." She paused, then gestured inside. "Did you want to sleep here?"

Yes, that was the idea, and a far more appealing one than curling up on the bench. What he intended to do was tell her that yes, of course he would like to sleep there if she was all right with the idea, and if she was, he would borrow a spot by the fire and would absolutely not disturb her again the rest of the night.

Instead, he took a clumsy step forward, caught his foot on the threshold, and tumbled onto the floor beside Farah's feet. "If you…would…" he grunted. Then, the ground changed from a very unwanted to an immensely comfortable friend, and his vision slowly faded into the calm and dark realm of unconsciousness.

The morning sun awoke Malthael; it glittered through the window, cascading across his face and warming his skin where it touched. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, trying to massage out the throbbing in his head. He hadn't felt so terrible since the day after Talm's wedding, when Tyrael and Lyndon had first persuaded him to partake in that Hell-cursed mead. It was almost as if—

He groaned at his own stupidity as fragments of the night's events came back to him.

Arguing with Lyndon. Sparring with Lyndon. Lena. Oh.

Yes. That had happened. Followed by stumbling to the bench and vomiting on the bench, which was not something he was proud of. Lyndon going home. More walking.

Oh.

He groaned again and stretched out his legs on the sofa, wincing slightly as his knees popped from having slept at a slightly cockeyed angle. A woolen blanket slid off him to the floor as he sat. He blinked blearily a few times, rubbed his eyes again, and took better stock of the situation.

The remnants of a fire had dwindled in the hearth to small, glowing cinders. The clanging of pots rang from the kitchen, accompanied by a soft, familiar humming. Not Tyrael. Not Tyrael's home.

Oh. You utter twat. How long have you been here?

Long enough for the sun to already have risen partway through the sky. He hadn't slept that much in months, and it was the first time in at least that long that he felt truly rested. In place of the lingering exhaustion that had been his companion since the battle, he felt a growing desire to create. He wanted to read and make notes, plan his coming days and sort out exactly what he needed to do in order to progress with his research.

Once his body stopped aching, at least.

"Good morning, pi'ra." Farah laughed when he jumped in surprise from her appearance in the doorway. "How is your head?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed as she joined him on the couch. "Terrible."

"I thought it would be. You were…ill-worn when you arrived."

"I wouldn't doubt. I recall a great deal of stupidity from yesterday."

She snickered again. "You've fought better."

"Luck did not prove so beneficial."

"I think the spirits you drank are more to blame for that than luck." A creased smile hid at the edges of her eyes. "I am glad you found yourself someplace warm."

"I am glad you did not mind."

"Why would you ever think I would mind?"

"This is your home. I assumed if you wanted company you would ask."

"I always assumed I wouldn't need…" She trailed off and looked to the still flickering embers in the hearth. Though her expression did not change, she began brushing her fingers across her knees, as if searching for something.

Perhaps it was the morning light, or perhaps he was finally seeing the world with a semblance of coherency – but she looked exhausted. He didn't remember the dark circles under her eyes being so prevalent, or the tired slump to her shoulders.

"You're also an imbecilic arse who believes he matters to no one."

Lyndon was wrong. He did believe it. But he hadn't shown it. How could he have, when he had been so self-absorbed with finding some sort of catharsis alone? He hadn't looked at her in weeks. They had occupied the same space, and they had spoken, but he hadn't well and truly seen her.

"And in case you haven't noticed, you also matter a great deal to others, myself included, as well as a certain librarian who is likely fretting about your safety."

Gods, he was an imbecile. He'd wasted time trying to solve a problem that couldn't be solved and had neglected the person who loved him. Who he loved, undeniably, with every broken filament of his soul. He'd been so consumed trying to prevent harm in the world that he had hurt her without even realizing it. He had ignored her when all she had wanted was to help him.

"Are you still the gods-fucking Reaper of Westmarch? Or have you acquired some mortal wisdom in all these years?"

The shame the statement brought still ached. He couldn't ignore it, though. Not this time.

Not if he wanted to put things right.

"Farah." He gently rested a hand on hers, squeezing tightly as she intertwined their fingers.

She turned to look at him again, her eyes widening at the physical gesture.

"I am a fool," he said quietly. "And you have been patient with me. But I owe you an apology. You deserve one." Now that he had begun, the words wanted to tumble out freely. It was all he could do to speak slowly and not rush the sincerity of what he was trying to express. "I realize nothing can help what haunts me. Nothing. But you still wished to try and help. I should have let you. You matter a great deal to me."

She leaned forward and gently tapped her forehead against his. "I know I can't change things or put them back to the way they were, but—"

"You shouldn't have to," he whispered. "You cannot. And I think, all I really needed…" Unable to articulate the sentiment properly, he simply raised their hands to her chest and held them there. "I am sorry. I will do better."

When she pulled away, he thought he had still managed to say something wrong, until he realized it was so she could give him a tentative smile.

"I was making myself some breakfast," she said. "Would you like to join me?"

The stiffness in his shoulders melted from relief. "Yes," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "Yes, I would."

Aya watched through the window as a group of children squealed and chased each other about the town square. Some waved flags, others crudely assembled wooden swords. It was soothing to watch after the confusion of the previous night; she tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders and smiled at their innocence. Sometimes, it was good to take a step back and truly be. It was easy to become caught in the rush of the day and all the things being a Nephalem entailed.

"Did you see my brother yet this morning?" Tyrael asked as he joined her at the window. "I did not hear him come in last night."

She grinned. "No. Though I'll admit, he wasn't exactly my biggest consideration."

He cleared his throat loudly and stretched, turning his attention to the children outside. "Nor was it mine."

"I thought so," she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder, then settling in more when he raised his arm to draw her close.

The strangest part of them coming together was how natural it felt. As though they should have indulged years ago and had just never thought to do so.

"We should go find him," Tyrael continued, after a moment.

Some things, it seemed, remained the same. She snickered and sneaked a quick kiss onto his neck. "Should we, now?"

"It was very cold last night."

"I didn't notice."

"Aya!"

"Oh, all right. I know you won't rest until we know he's safe." She wiggled out from under his arm and stood. "But after, I would appreciate returning to this. Deal?"

He finally cracked a smile. "Of course."

Much to Tyrael's relief, he discovered he needn't have worried about Malthael. They found him sitting with Farah against the outside wall of her home, steaming mugs of tea in hand, a thick quilt shared across them covering them up to their chests and tucked under their arms.

Malthael looked every bit the man who had drank too much the night before, but there was a serenity to his features that Tyrael had not seen…well, ever, if he really thought about it. His brother's default expression was usually one of restrained displeasure. Yet, here he was, shoulders relaxed, eyes creased in a smile, looking very much like any other mortal who had finally pulled his life together.

"How does your head feel?" Tyrael laughed at Malthael's groaned reply. "That terrible, I assume?"

"Less, actually."

"He is disappointed that you remembered enough of the evening to ask him," Farah explained. "He thinks his behaviour was unbecoming."

Malthael took a long drink from his tea and shrugged. An almost imperceptible flush coloured his cheeks. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps your general practice of avoiding alcohol is the correct one," Tyrael replied. "I don't think it agrees with you."

"It does not respect the vast dams of self-control I employ. It takes terrible advantage of me."

"Or you could simply say your self-control is terrible," Aya said, before he extended a single finger to her. "Heh. Did Lyndon teach you that?"

"You have all given me ample opportunity to practice. Though I appreciate you checking on me."

Tyrael chuckled and took a cross-legged seat beside him. "We did not hear you return last night."

"Because you were preoccupied with mortaling." He snorted. "I should acquire my own residence if you will be continuing that."

Farah, having been listening quietly since the conversation started, glanced nonchalantly at Aya and took a long sip of her tea. "Aya's room currently happens to be vacant. Maybe Tyrael would trade you for my sister?"

"She does tend to be awake at more preferable hours," Tyrael added. "And is a great deal more pleasant to look at."

"I am not a commodity!" Malthael sputtered, setting his cup down with a loud clank on the cobblestones.

"And do I have no say in this?" Aya folded her arms and glared, though she sounded far from offended. "It is still my home."

"Of course it is, baina. Tell us, then, what you would prefer."

"Well, Tyrael's house does have a particularly nice layout."

Tyrael almost asked if she appreciated the layout of the owner as much but managed to hold his tongue. After the previous night, he was certain of the answer. "And I would be happy to have you take up residence there."

"Then it is settled." Farah held out a hand, which he shook emphatically. "I barter one sister for your brother."

The joyful absurdity of the moment was interrupted by Malthael sighing. Tyrael turned to consider his brother with mild guilt. He personally saw nothing wrong with the decision and thought it would benefit everyone involved. However, as quick as Malthael was to react in battle, he was almost unfathomably slow to change in his personal life. That habit had certainly carried over from his immortality.

"Are you all right with this?" Farah asked, dropping Tyrael's hand so she could trail her fingers across Malthael's back.

"We won't if you don't want do," Aya added quickly.

After a moment, he shook his head. "I am not carrying all the books. If you would assist me, that would be most appreciated. And you are correct," he looked back to Tyrael with a knowing smirk, "The company would be far more pleasant."

The man was an incorrigible arse through and through, though Tyrael really couldn't fault him for it at this exact moment. "I'm sure we can find a cart," he said. "And maybe once you've made yourself at home, you should consider collecting less. You are going to run out of space eventually."

"Hardly. I will build more shelves."

Farah nodded enthusiastically. "We could always put in some near the hearth."

"Oh, Light help us." Aya groaned. "You are going to turn it into a second library."

"Our library," Farah clarified, looking to Malthael for confirmation. "Our library?"

The most legitimate smile Tyrael had ever seen bloomed on his brother's face, before Malthael managed to collect himself and his expression returned to one of subdued satisfaction. "Verily. Though." He closed his eyes. "Before that, there is something else I must do."

Lena was thankfully already awake when there was a knock on the door. She had been staring absently out the window of their inn room while Talm and Nat both continued to sleep curled up together on the bed. The sun had begun to rise by the time her and Talm had fallen asleep, and she was more than content to let Nat rest if he needed it, even if it left her alone to darker thoughts.

Mostly, she felt numb, as if the unbridled array of emotions that had overtaken her earlier had been hidden behind a thick curtain. It was a familiar detachment. It had served her sanity well over the years, though she loathed how lethargic she felt in its earliest stages. She sat for several minutes, contemplating answering the door, before the knock sounded again.

Gods help her, they were going to wake the other two up. She frowned and summoned her stamina, only to open the door and find Malthael standing outside, his tunic and breeches still the ones from the night before, albeit greatly more wrinkled.

"You have nerve," she whispered, as her anger from the previous night surged through her all over again. "Are you trying to cause me more agony? Leave us."

"I wish to apologize."

"For what? For lying to Talm? For what you did to Westmarch? For killing my family? For existing?"

"I am…not sure."

"Pardon?" Confused, she slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her. "You came here to tell me you don't even know what to apologize for? I don't think I slapped the sense from you yesterday."

He shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. "I do not know if I can properly make amends for something so grievous."

"No. You can't. How astute of you to recognize that."

He looked away. "I wish to know if there is a way forward. Or if not, then at least a way for you to tolerate my existence while you stay here."

Was there? She wasn't sure. She didn't think anything would ever take away the fury that consumed her whenever she thought of what he had done to her father, or the sorrow that took her immediately afterwards. Yet, it was hard to reconcile that with the man who stood before her. Unarmed, unsure of himself, and very clearly regretful. He was not the being she remembered.

But he had been, once.

"Nothing will change what happened. Nothing you will do will ever bring my father or my grandmother back."

"I know."

"I don't know if I can forgive you."

He pursed his lips. "I understand."

"Even if I don't, you still owe an explanation to Talm. He deserves that much."

He nodded.

"But Nat…he has lost much that was not your fault. And if it were not for you, he wouldn't be here." She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. He flinched but didn't fight. "I can't stifle my rage. Perhaps over time, it will fade. But I think it may also allow me to endure your presence. For my son's sake."

"Thank you," he whispered.

Oh, how she wanted to slap him while she had the chance. She didn't think he would even protest. As quickly as her anger had risen, however, it began to fade back to impassioned detachment. Her body and soul were exhausted from years of silent screaming.

I should listen to myself. Nothing will change what happened. Nothing he does. Nothing I do.

"Now leave, before I regret my decision." She pushed him away and stepped back to the door. "And for what it's worth, I respect you coming to talk when your faculties are intact. I prefer this to you cowering on the floor."

"As do I." He wiped at his nose unexpectedly; fresh blood stained his fingers. The nose bleed was odd, considering she hadn't hit him. "I wanted to apologize before I told you the rest. Your mother is alive, as is the rest of your family. Their lands were spared. Elm Haven, yes? That is what the sign said. From what I could see, Tam's family is also safe. I wish I could tell you more, but the rest was clouded."

Her stomach twisted with a mixture of relief and shock. That he even knew what their homestead was called - "How?"

"Another day. I would rather you return to them." Pale eyes wavered as he looked to the door a moment, before turning and retreating down the hallway. She listened to his footsteps until they faded, forcing herself to breathe and fight against the dizziness threatening to take her.

Her mother was alive. Her whole family was safe. How Malthael knew this she had no idea, but she had seen some of his power and didn't doubt it was within his capability. The revelation brought her a reprieve she had not felt since the fires had first fallen on Salvos.

It also meant they could go home, if they wished. But, Talm was right. Here, they were safe. And here, Nat had somehow reclaimed a piece of his childhood. She could not rob him of that again. He needed time to be a child, and giggle and play and do all the things she had found so much difficulty doing in her own youth. There was no rush to take him away from things that were giving him joy. Not when she finally had some of her worries eased.

She braced herself against the door and closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to begin to truly take in what had just occurred. She had lied to Malthael, slightly. The part of her who knew him through Talm wanted to forgive him. That forgiveness would not legitimize anything he had done. And regardless of how his transformation had occurred, he was not the creature she had run from as a child.

He would never be someone Nat would fear. She knew that at a level deeper than her own grief. That, she could build from. And perhaps someday, if she was ever ready, she could tell Malthael that.

Act 1 ~ Fin

A/N: This chapter ties up a lot of loose ends from the previous series. Malthael has a good cry and some character development. Farah and Tyrael get new housemates. Things finally begin to settle down (pun intended) in New Tristram for the winter.

Sorry to take so long with this one. The holidays were busy, and this chapter finished so many things I wanted to be sure it worked. I will be posting a few shorter chapters before Act II begins; no timeline for when those will go up as of yet, but it shouldn't be as long as this took. Act II will take us out of Tristram to see what Chith and Auriel have been up to.

Thanks for reading along, as always! I love hearing from you.