DIABLO: AMOR AETERNUS

ACT IV

Born of Night & Beams of Light

"All things that pass
Are wisdom's looking-glass."

– Christina Rossetti

"We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light"

– William Blake

Prologue: Dust

Twenty Years After the Fall of Malthael, Angel of Death

Deep within the halls of the Silver City, the Pools of Wisdom lay dry and unattended. Tall, stone pillars that once shimmered with eternal light rested in shadow, as if a step out of reach of the glow from the Crystal Arch. Only the Chalice remained; it sat on a pedestal at the pinnacle fount of the Pools, its components adorned with angelic runes and depictions of swirling streams. Dust gathered about the brim, the most notable tell of its true owner's absence.

It had been years since Tyrael had used it last, and as long since it was touched by angelic hands. All in the ranks of Wisdom had perished during the Reaper's reign, leaving the Pools abandoned and Chalad'ar without an owner. And while Tyrael had briefly tried to claim it for his own, he had rescinded his right when the Chalice had proven too much for him to control. Thus, the former Archangel of Justice was the Aspect of Wisdom in name only, and the role had gone unfulfilled for nearly two decades.

Auriel visited the Pools often, but was unable to bring herself to touch the Chalice. She hoped her presence would bring renewed light to the domain, or at least relieve the deep shadows that had permeated the realm since Malthael had Fallen. Truthfully, her attendance altered nothing, except to instill in her a growing discomfort with the state of the High Heavens.

Tyrael, her brother, was a mortal living on Sanctuary. The Halls of Justice were mostly abandoned, save the few remaining of Tyrael's kin who had refused to fall in line behind Imperius. Decades had passed since the Lightsong had drawn forth one of Justice.

Here, in the Pools, it was much the same. No Wisdom kin had been born since Malthael had been slain. Nor Fate, since the Nephalem had defeated Diablo in the Heavens and thrown the Scroll into chaos. Even her own kin, though more numerous than Itherael's, had dwindled through occasional clashes with demonic forces and a lack of new Hope angels emerging from the Arch.

There was a sickness in the Heavens, she believed. One she could identify but did not know how to heal. A dissention in the ranks, down to Anu's core, that was splitting them into uneven factions, increasing some while destroying others through attrition. She had watched Valor's ranks swell while her own and Itherael's dwindled. It was as if the High Heavens intrinsically knew something about the future that Itherael could not predict, and was attempting to protect itself accordingly.

There is always conflict. Eternal, unending. This is not enough to explain the Arch's whims, nor does it tell me why my home is crumbling irreparably as I watch.

She approached the Chalice, taking care not to gaze into its depths. Though it was built for immortal minds, the Archangel of Hope made no claim to having the control required to use it effectively. Her domain was of the body, the individual. The Chalice showed all that was: an infinity she could imagine but had no true desire to comprehend.

Then, a sound.

The Pools had been painfully silent for years. Why now?

She looked about, searching for the cause, but it was pervasive. Within the damning silence, and the subtle shroud of death that filled the domain, echoed the gentle ringing of crystal. As if someone were running a finger about a glass, drawing from it the hidden harmonics that were present in all things. Allowing her wings to flutter gently, she bid the vibrations run through her, until the smallest of directional differences pointed her to the source.

Incredulous, Auriel turned back to the Chalice, for that was where the noise emanated. She prepared herself, then glanced quickly into its depths. The living light that filled Chalad'ar, and which had been still since Malthael had disappeared, was dancing. Ripples filled the vessel, splashing up the sides, threatening to draw Auriel in. She pulled away before it could capture her mind, but the sound continued. A quiet yet joyful peeling of bells.

Perhaps Wisdom had returned to the Crystal Arc, finally. The thought was a melancholic one. The Heavens desperately needed a leader; Imperius' control had tightened over the City, and she did not believe he was suited to the duty long term. Wisdom always fulfilled that role, in part because it was a tempering force. Slow, methodical, and able to counteract the hot-headed aggressiveness of Valor.

Yet, the Archangel of Wisdom that would be born would not be the brother she remembered. The Arch remembered form and function, but nothing more. While many angels died and returned to the Heavens, their bodies the same but their thoughts renewed, Malthael never had. Until he had vanished, he had been one of the few eternal constants in their world. The oldest of them, born first; the one who had taken their hand millennia ago and introduced them to the Silver City's marble halls and the towering pillars.

Even if he returned, the knowledge he had preserved since the creation of the Heavens would still be lost. As would his memories of his kin. Regardless of the illness that had struck him later in life, Malthael would always be her family. Her early memories of him leading her about the City were some of her most precious. The other Angels had all been privy to his knowledge and insight; few had directly witnessed the depths of his patience or his kindness.

She had. And she hoped, desperately, that the being returning to them was even a facet of what her brother had been, once. A raw, unfamiliar pain ached through her at the thought. Her wings shuddered, and she suppressed the urge to sink against the pedestal and clasp the Chalice.

The feeling was not despair. That, she had only felt once before, when she had been held against her will in her own Gardens. But it was remarkably close to it. Enough that she knew it was time to leave the domain of shadows and alert her brothers as to what she had seen.

And yet, she hesitated as she turned from the dried pools. In the distance, the Crystal Arch was still silent. There was no call to the Lightsong, or a sign that an Angel was forming. In the moment she considered that, the ringing within the Pools faded away as well. She did not know why the Chalice sang. But it was not for her brother's return.

"May the Light guide you," she whispered, her voice melodious even in the coldest of realms. "Wherever you are, brother. Be safe."

Chapter One: Departure

Seven years later: 1327, Late Summer

"I wish you would consider staying." Farah tightened her arms about the travel pack she carried, before eventually offering it up to Malthael. "With Aya and Tyrael off to the Heavens, and the others spread about, there are too few here to protect the town. If something were to happen, you may be our only line of defense."

"That is precisely why I must leave," he said quietly, taking the bag and re-checking its contents to ensure everything was in place. "It is better I am far from here while the talks take place. Should Imperius wish to visit New Tristram for any reason, I would rather not be nearby. And Itherael is skilled enough at scrying that if they were to place any attention on the town, it may reveal my presence."

"Itherael, from what you have told me, is hardly omnipotent, especially concerning mortals. They should not be able to see you in the Scroll."

"I am not a typical mortal."

The librarian smiled, slightly. "No, you are not."

"And I would rather not test that hypothesis. Nor do I wish to provoke Imperius' temper."

"If it involves your safety, I would also prefer not." She hesitated. "I am sorry. It is not my place to dictate your actions."

"I understand why." He considered the pack in his arms and the breadth of words left unspoken, before dropping the bag gently to the ground and joining her to sit on the bed. "If the rumours from Caldeum hold true, then no place in Sanctuary is without danger to Nephalem. This is why my brother and your sister go to the Heavens. And why I must leave. Information that travels through whispers is often inaccurate. I do not wish to make the same mistake I made with the Baalstone."

"You are rather good at fettering out truths," she admitted, her eyes crinkling with a tangible warmth that lit similar within him. "Even from me."

Farah he understood implicitly at this point. She was organized, and predictable in both her competency and in her consideration of him. She had sought him out earlier that morning before the sun had manifested, having apparently arrived just as Tyrael was setting out to gather his own supplies for his journey. Though, when she had knocked on his door, he had already been awake for hours, lying in bed to consider and puzzle through his plans for the coming weeks. Unlike Tyrael, who revelled in the joy of dreaming, he rarely slept a full night. Too many thoughts occupied his mind.

Often, too many worries.

It was a lie to say her concern was not his own. Tristram had its protectors, and though the number of Nephalem in town had increased dramatically in recent years, many of them had journeyed out to try and piece together the crisis that was unfolding across the continent. He could not hope to visit each settlement in turn to learn what was going on; others had been forced to travel in his place, many opting to visit the locations where they had grown up.

Although, he also had ulterior motives for choosing Salvos as his destination. It had been several years since he had visited, and he wanted to ensure the city's populace still supported the Nephalem the way it had when he had left. He had also received a letter a few weeks prior inviting him to the city's harvest festival. The message had been scrawled in neat letters that were clearly not Talm's, though it had been sent on his behalf. His wife Lena was clearly educated; at least that was who he assumed had penned it.

"Malthael."

Farah's voice shook him from deep contemplation. He blinked several times to clear his head, and saw that she was gazing at him, her shoulders twitching with silent laughter.

"I am going to miss you while you are away," she said. "Who else am I going to kick out of their thoughts?"

"I would suggest Lyndon if he were still in town, though you may not like what you uncover."

The librarian stifled a chuckle, then eventually gave up attempting to stem her laughter. He smiled in return, and without effort, the world sharpened about him as it did only rarely; he found himself completely embodying the present instead of the future, where his mind so often lived.

Dust motes glimmered in the growing beams of sunrise through the window. A subtle shimmer flickered from the inlaid silk on Farah's dress, and the interwoven threads in ruby, gold, and sapphire hues. The same light from an oil lamp illuminated her hair, highlighting silver mixed with a deep ebony, revealing the unavoidable signs of age that she sometimes swore about. And her eyes: quiet, intelligent, the same deep mahogany as the library's shelves. They considered him carefully, as though she were trying to parse together his thoughts by watching his face.

"Please try and return before he does, then. Someone must keep him in line," she finally said. "I don't think Osseus or Valla have much interest in doing that."

"Tyrael is lending me one of his horses." The words were a thin covering over what he wanted to say. "It will speed the journey." I won't be away long. I will be safe.

"Quicker than on foot," she replied wryly. "How many sets of boots have you worn through since I met you?"

"One." I haven't travelled as much since you arrived.

"For the best. Haedrig will tire of repairing them." Her expression softened, and after a moment's hesitation, she raised her hand and gently brushed his cheek. "Please be careful," she whispered. "I wish I could offer more, but I have Seen nothing. All I have is a feeling, for many weeks now, that things are different. Changing."

He raised his hand and placed it against hers, feeling the rough skin on her fingers caused by hours of working with dry parchment. The simplest gesture caused his breath to hitch in wonder. Not from the physical lust he had seen so often in the eyes of others, but something much deeper, akin to the feelings he'd had once, looking down into an endless swirl of living light.

I understand now what mortals write. To see eternity in another's eyes. The desire to overcome solitude. Mortal solitude is not peaceful silence. It is emptiness. Even those who live alone find their care directed towards something. Without that, they wither.

"There are many things I miss from…before." He tightened his fingers so they intertwined with hers, struggling with the words he wanted to say. "You remind me of them. And so long as you desire my presence, I will always return to you. That much will not change."

They remained that way for what felt, to him, like a literal eternity, until a noise from Farah startled him. He glanced down and saw her wiping tears from her face, though her smile remained.

"I will make sure to have a basket of fruit ready for when you come home," she said, voice wavering. "And a quiet spot to read."

"I would like that very much."

He really did not want to leave her that way. But the longer he tarried, the more he knew he was at risk of never leaving at all. He stood, carefully helping her up as she finished wiping her face.

"I am too old for this," she laughed. "This is for the young." Then she reclaimed his pack from the floor and handed it to him, pulling the clasps tight to secure its contents. "Ride fast, travel safe."

"I will. Perhaps I will find you a gift."

"But ensure it costs less than last time."

"Agreed." He shuddered. "Let us find my brother."

In the stables, Tyrael was finishing readying his steed for Malthael's use. The charger was the third he had kept in his time as a mortal, but was as reliable and quick as the others. He tightened the saddle about it, pausing to run a hand through the horse's mane.

"Swift ride," he said, to both the animal and his brother, wherever he currently was.

"Leaving without me?" Aya appeared at his side, a second horse in tow behind her.

They planned on sharing the mount to allow them to trade off on jockeying. It would make the ride to Westmarch faster. The abandoned city contained one of the few remaining portals between Sanctuary and Pandemonium, and therefore also granted access to the Heavens. The rest had collapsed over time or had been closed intentionally by the Host. While Tyrael could transport himself to the Heavens as a lingering remnant of his angelic nature, Aya could not; thus, they took the long route.

The arcanist attached a pack to the saddle before stopping and considering him. "You seem unsure about this." She folded her arms about the travel cloak that covered her usual brightly coloured robes.

"What I am unsure about is how Imperius will react to our request." He took the charger's reins and directed it from the stable as she followed with the other animal. "He has never appreciated challenges to his authority."

"His authority is over the Heavens, not Sanctuary. We have our own voice."

She was correct, but Imperius had never particularly respected that concept. While he refused to intercede in Sanctuary due to the Truce, and viewed Tyrael's becoming mortal as sacrilegious, he had also meddled in the lives of mortals due to intentional inaction. His refusal to oppose the Reapers had caused the deaths of thousands. And it was clear he harboured no love for the Nephalem, if his constant posturing against them was any indication.

He slung and secured his own pack across the saddle, before latching El'druin beside it. "I believe that Imperius fears the Nephalem's actions will eventually wreck the Truce and lead to a demonic attack on the Heavens, via Sanctuary."

"The Nephalem stopped Diablo when he last attacked the Silver City. If they hadn't, the demons would have overrun them."

And Imperius had never forgotten that embarrassment. He sighed. "All excellent points. I hope my brother will see the same." He turned at the sound of quiet footfalls. "Ah, Malthael."

The other man nodded to Tyrael, then to Aya. He wore a dark travel cloak over combat leathers and breeches, his blades strapped into side-sheaths instead of across his back. He had shown a continued preference for the side-sheaths since they had travelled to Caldeum. Given his experience in the city's bazaar, Tyrael did not doubt his hesitancy to display them prominently. Though the current position was not fool-proof, as he had discovered, it was at least markedly less obvious.

"It is too bad we cannot travel together," Aya said. "Quiet company as you are. It would provide us an added element of safety."

"No. It is best we stay apart, free from scrying eyes."

"And I suppose you do not want to visit Westmarch."

"Not particularly." He frowned, then accepted the charger's reins from Tyrael and strapped his bag to the saddle. "Are you sure the portal to Pandemonium remains open?"

"Rumours suggest so," Tyrael said. "More than a few have braved its depths seeking treasure. Myriam has seen a few of the trinkets pass through town."

"Foolhardy."

"But, beneficial confirmation for ourselves." He raised a gauntleted hand in a salute. "In less concerning times, I would ride with you. But spread as we all are, the best I can do is wish you safe travels."

Malthael returned the action, then, surprisingly, clasped Tyrael's hand in his, holding it tight for a moment before letting go. For a man who generally abhorred casual physical contact, it was a touching and respectful gesture.

"Do not forgot what I told you," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Or what is at risk."

Tyrael could not, for three separate prophecies had spoken of the End of Days and the fall of the Heavens. Deckard Cain had compiled the first one. The second came from Farah, in which she had seen the Crystal Arch shatter. The third was from the bookseller in Caldeum, whose mother had seen alterations to Cain's prediction followed by the sundering of Sanctuary. Though the Silver City was his past and his birthright, Sanctuary was now his home. He would protect both from darkness until he could no longer wield El'druin—whatever that protection entailed.

"I will not forget. And I will do my best to uphold justice."

It was the first time he had spoken such words in years. He had tried to yield to the Arch and fulfill the role of Wisdom, at the cost of neglecting his other calling. In doing so, he had been continually shown Wisdom was not his domain to control. But now that the true Aspect of Wisdom had returned, he was free to again assume the role he had been born for. And he hoped the words he brought to Imperius were crafted from a nuanced merger of the many, complex mortal experiences he had acquired in the meanwhile.

"That is wise," Malthael eventually said, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. "And comforting." He leapt deftly upon the charger, then lowered his hood to cover his face. "I will return within a fortnight. I have several stops to make on the way."

"I will send your greetings to Imperius," Aya said, smirking.

Malthael did not reply, except to snap the reins; the horse reared and surged forward, its hooves thundering on the town's cobblestone. In seconds, they were gone.

"Come," Tyrael said, gesturing to their mount. "It is as good a time as any."

Though the road to Westmarch was quiet, Tyrael and Aya encountered many things along the way that disturbed them greatly. Close to Tristram they found tracks and markings that were suggestive of large groups on the move; such groups had never stopped in Tristram itself, but instead skirted around it, as if avoiding the town. Further out they found the husks of burned out farms and razed fields. Where Aya expected to see demonic footprints, she instead found human markings in the dirt and mud.

In one barn, three corpses hung from the rafters, their flesh picked apart by maggots and corvids. Their throats had been slashed and obscene markings carved into their skin. Though she had seen much death in her time, the stench of decay and clear innocence of the victims drove her to retch repeatedly in a hay pile, while Tyrael stood by and rubbed a gauntleted hand down her back.

"Malthael said nothing of this since last he came this way," she said, once she had stopped vomiting, though the nausea lingered. "I think he would have noticed."

"He misses little. He also has not travelled much in the past two months." Tyrael frowned, the expression cascading from his lips to his forehead. "We know there is discord in the areas around Caldeum and Kingsport. But not this type of slaughter. This is…malevolent."

After Zaira had returned to Caldeum, she had sent word of unrest in the capital. The violence had cascaded from the moment they had stolen the Baalstone at Hakkan's war proclamation. Riots had broken out in the streets between the Iron Wolves and citizens. Some residents stood with the Wolves, while others opposed them, decrying Hakkan's growing authoritarian regime and his politically charged definition of who was even considered a Nephalem.

The news from Lyndon and Eirena in Kingsport had been similar, though it was tinged less with political prejudice and more with fear of instability. The southern city had been free of demonic influence for centuries, and even during the Reaper uprising had not seen the conflict Caldeum or Westmarch had. Its citizens considered the arcane balance in the city to be acceptable and safe. But a sudden explosion of power amongst a random few would change that.

No one wanted Westmarch's fate to fall upon Kingsport. Or elsewhere. But such fear did not excuse the atrocities in the barn.

"We cannot leave them this way." She gestured to the corpses, unable to stop her eyes from lingering on their faces. "They didn't deserve this."

"No. They did not."

Wordlessly, Tyrael sought out shovels, eventually bringing two from a nearby woodshed. Digging graves was hard, physical work, and for every scoop Aya made, the larger man took three. Her palms burned with growing blisters, and she did not care. She was Nephalem, and those who feared her had done this. She was not guilty of the crime, but she felt the weight of its burden keenly. The least she could do was grant the victims a small mercy in death.

Once finished, she gathered and arranged stones on the mounds, while Tyrael used El'druin to cleave branches off a tree, bound them together, and placed them in a crude effigy over the graves. They stood silently, heads bowed, until it seemed right to leave.

"I understand something now," she said, quietly, once they returned to riding. The closer they drew to Westmarch, the heavier the wind became, as if the land were pushing them away from the scouring. The gale tasted bitter and metallic, like blood turned to mist.

"What is that?"

"Why your brother hated us."

"Imperius?"

"Malthael."

"Malthael went mad because the Worldstone was stolen and then destroyed. His quiet world became marred with countless human minds that he could not fathom."

"And in that madness, he sought vengeance. On us. He could have as easily disappeared someplace and ended himself. But he didn't."

"No. He walked Sanctuary seeking answers to what had occurred. As any wise being would."

"And he found this. Death, destruction. Despair. All the horrific things we mortals are capable of. We, the children of angels and demons." Her thoughts returned to the corpses in the barn, including the smallest, a child, who had not been spared. The memory made her shake. "Imagine seeing the same and not being of calm mind. Can you truly blame him for wanting to rid creation of us?"

Tyrael did not answer immediately, which was unusual for someone so sure of his thoughts and his cause. Aya saw his knuckles tighten about the reins.

"No," he admitted, eventually. "I blame him for many things, whether in his control or not. The actual slaughter, yes. His attack on the gates of my once-home, yes. But his assessment of mortals? No. I cannot judge him that. For he was correct."

"How do you reconcile that, Tyrael? How do you not judge us yourself?" How can I not do the same, when I want to incinerate my own people for what they have done today?

"I remind myself of the good I have seen. I tell myself that with example, and direction, mortals are as capable of light as they are dark. But we cannot fight darkness with greater darkness. That was Malthael's error, and his downfall."

Aya felt ashamed, then, for that was also what she had wanted moments before. Had they caught the perpetrators, she had no illusions about what she would have done. It was not a matter of defense at this point; the deed was done. It was about revenge.

"I wish we had arrived earlier." Her eyes burned with tears. "Then I could have done something."

It was again a long moment before he replied. The usual assuredness faded from his voice, to be replaced by a bone-weary, tangible sorrow. "We cannot change the past. But hopefully, beginning with this journey, we can change the future."

She nodded, briskly wiping tears from her face and flicking them to the ground. "That we can. I will try my best."

A/N: And, here we are. The Prologue and Chapter 1 of the final Act of Diablo: Amor Aeternus! First, important business: I plan on posting a chapter a week, unless I'm either waiting on artwork or an emergency happens. And I have great artwork queued up for this story, so I promise, it will be worth waiting for.

There are quite a few internal inconsistencies in Diablo lore when it comes to what the Heavens look like, and how travel works (example: the waypoints) in Sanctuary. For the purposes of this series, I've narrowed it down to my own lore that will be consistent in whatever you read from me. If you see something that doesn't entirely match the game or the supplemental reading materials, then the change is intentional and meant to improve the viability of the story.

Finally: thank you all so much for keeping on this journey with me! Our fandom is small, but it's extremely welcoming and kind, and I've enjoyed being able to speak with so many of you. In particular, all my thanks go to Janzoo over at tumblr, who has helped me proof this entire story and kept me motivated during editing, and my husband, who has been incredibly patient while I've been working head-down to try and get this one finished.

Tighten your seat-belts, folks. We're about to hit some angelic turbulence!