Paths of Exile

Jonas had been plenty ugly in life. Now as a skeleton trying to murder him, if anything, the new look was an improvement.

The thought lingered in Kristoff's mind for a second, and the shame he felt for the thought lasted less than that. Jonas, a fellow of his in the Rakkisguard, had never been his friend, but he had been his ally. He'd fought the undead abominations besieging the city now, right up until one of the spectral lights entered his body. Kristoff could only look on in horror as Jonas's flesh had been stripped away. As his hair fell, as his eyes rotted, as he reached out with his hand before it too withered down to the bone. The process had been over in moments. Moments after that, now a skeleton, looking at Kristoff with eyes of blue fire, carrying the same blade that he'd fought with in life.

Kristoff swung his blade around with enough force to remove the skeleton's head from its body. The head sailed through the cold night air, and the body slumped down. A victory…if not for the hundred or so undead charging the docks, and the soldiers of Westmarch who had formed a skirmish line – tight enough to keep the undead at bay, not so tight that the smallfolk couldn't weave past them as they desperately tried to get to the last remaining ship. Men, women, and children alike had passed by Kristoff this night. Many more he'd seen be butchered in the streets, only to be risen by the angels who led them.

So much for your faith, mother.

His mother had remained faithful to the Zakarum, even if his father hadn't after tales of the debauchery of Travincal had reached Westmarch. For all the times his mother had caned his hand for reading "debased texts fit only for heathens," Kristoff had never put much stock in it. Angels, demons, an eternal war that mankind was caught in the middle of…it had sounded ridiculous. Now, as he looked through the gloom, at the flames that were consuming the capital, it still did, in a sense. After all, he hadn't seen any demons this night. But he had seen hooded figures with scythes directing the undead. Figures that were quite similar to the ones his mother had forced him to look at in her books. Some called them Maidens. Some called them Reapers. All called them unstoppable.

He still fought. He watched Gerard plunge a spear through one of the skeletons' heads, before six more dove onto him, tearing him apart with blade and axe and hand. He saw Norris fire his crossbow, the bolt downing one of the undead, before he staggered back as an arrow hit him from beyond. He saw a man running up ahead dive into the sea to get away from the revenants, before ten of them jumped upon him, dragging themselves and the screaming man down into the depths. He saw a mother running with her child before the boy tripped up, only for skeletons to grab his legs and pull him away from his sight. He saw her scream and reach out, before another skeleton grabbed her and stabbed her through the stomach thrice, before casting her body aside.

"Kristoff."

He was barely listening. He rose his shield and protected himself from the axe blows of one of the skeletons. He thrust his sword through the monstrosity's skull and watched it fall down.
"Kristoff, we have to go!"

He glanced at Forrest, who while bleeding in his upper right chest and lower left leg, had still managed to bring his axe down onto one of the skeletons' skulls, downing it.

"Kristoff!"

"I…"

"Last call! All aboard!"

The words of echoed across the dock. Glancing back, Kristoff saw the last ship at the docks, the others having set sail or been set alight by the undead. The words didn't reach him, but everyone else, as the remaining guardsmen glanced at the ship, at each other, and the horde of undead still coming their way.

Kristoff did all that, and more. He looked at the angel, drifting silently through the night air. In its hands was carried a scythe larger than even a man. It wore a hood that covered whatever features it might possess. No wings upon this angel, Kristoff reflected. No salvation from Heaven on high. Just death and fire.

"We have to go," Kristoff muttered.

Forrest looked at him and nodded.

"Fall back," Kristoff whispered, as the living continued to fight the dead. "Fall back!"

He began to run. So did Forrest. A moment later, so did all of the guard as they headed for the ship, whose ropes were being unbound from the dock. A plank led up to the ship proper, and Kristoff could see soldiers, sailors, and smallfolk yelling. Some at those on the dock to hurry up. Others to the sailors, begging them to set sail now.

Kristoff didn't look back. He could hear Conrad scream for help. He could hear Saul pray and run at the same time, only for his prayers to be cut short along with his life. He heard that damn idiot, Cromartie, let out a cry of "for Westmarch!" and no doubt turn and make a last stand before being overwhelmed. And above all, he could hear his own heartbeat as he ran up the gangplank and turned around at the only other two warriors who had made it this far. Forrest, bringing up the rear, and between the two, Rand.

"Come on," Kristoff whispered. "Come on…"

Rand, cradling a bleeding arm, made it onto the ship first. Forrest began running up the gangplank.

Come on…

And screamed, as one of the orbs of blue light entered him. He fell, and as the people looked on in horror, his body began to decompose. Just as all the others had.

"Cast off," Kristoff said. He looked at one of the sailors, a boy of fifteen years by the looks of it. "Cast off!"

"Aye. Cast off!"

The sailors began hauling up the gangplank. For a moment, Kristoff's eyes met with Forrest's. For a moment, he could tell that as his life was stripped away from him, Forrest was still there. That he was alive…until his eyes were turned to dust, his flesh to rotting meat, and his empty sockets filled with an icy blue light…before the corpse of Forrest, his friend, fell into the water, as the ship set sail.

Kristoff let his sword fall onto the deck and he leant over the side. He wasn't the only one, as the people of Westmarch looked at their burning city. At the docks. At the angel who drifted through the air – over bone, over wood, and at last, over the water itself. But it didn't go any further. Instead, it just floated there. A scythe in hand. Looking at them through eyes no mortal could see, as the fires of Westmarch cast an eerie light upon her cowl.

"End of the world innit?" Rand whispered.

Kristoff looked at Rand, who was rocking back and forth on the deck, whispering to himself.

"Angels come…judgement day…end of the bloody world…"

"It isn't the end," came a voice.

All eyes turned to the man standing by the ship's wheel. His uniform marked him as being a captain in the Westmarch Royal Navy. Hearing his voice, Kristoff recognised him as the one who had made the "last call" announcement.

"My name is Captain Farley, commander of the good ship Oriath. And by the Light, I swear, the world has not ended. For we are here, and warm, and safe. And none of these…Reapers, can do a thing about that." He looked around the deck, glancing at the passengers with his one good eye. "Aye?"

"Aye," came a murmur from some of the crew.

Not from Kristoff. And not from Rand, as he began to pray.

The heck you even praying for Rand? You think angels are going to save us from themselves?

"Oh Akarat, protect me, both body and soul, as I walk this dark road…"

Kristoff decided not to interrupt them. Instead, he just kept his gaze focussed on Westmarch.

It was still burning.

By Kristoff's reckoning, twelve hours had passed since the Oriath had departed the docks. By rights, it should be midday. But as they sailed through this unearthly fog, there was no real indication of that. No warmth of sun at least.

Despair had taken the crew and everyone else, he reflected, as he lay against the ship's aft side. The sailors went about their work. Husbands comforted wives. Mothers comforted children. Children either wept, or Rakkis bless them, tried not to. And in Rand's case, he continued to pray.

"Oh Light, see my soul, and know that I am pure. Know that whatever blemishes remain, the dark does not dim the Light, and that the Light shall purify my-"

"Oh Akarat's sake would you shut up?" Kristoff snapped.

Rand glared at him. "I'm sorry Kristoff, am I bothering you?"

Kristoff said nothing – he was frankly impressed that Rand had the backbone to respond to him at all.

"Well? In case you haven't noticed, the world just ended, and if my body's to die, then I want to save my soul at least."

Kristoff grunted, and got to his feet. "Just save it a bit quitter mind you."

"…shall purify my soul, so that Akarat may take me, and we walk hand in hand through the Gates of Heaven, and-"

"I said quieter," Kristoff muttered. He looked around the deck, and with a sigh, headed up to the wheel. Or, more specifically, to the man at it.

"Captain Farley?" Kristoff asked.

The captain said nothing. He didn't have a look of despair on his face, but he didn't give Kristoff a glance. He just kept sailing through the fog.

"Um, yes," Kristoff said. "Just, I…"

"Wanted to thank me?" Farley looked at Kristoff and winked with his left eye, the right one covered in the patch.

"Well, yes, actually. I mean, you could have cast off your boat before Rand and I got here."

"Rand? Is that the weak one who's praying?"

Kristoff shrugged. "More or less."

Farley chuckled. "Best cut your losses Kristoff. You'll need to be stronger than him. Or heck, most of the people on this ship."

Kristoff frowned – Rand was a boy of sixteen, and while "weak" wasn't too inaccurate a term, it was bad form for soldiers outside the Royal Guard to criticize its members. And how had Farley even known their names.

"So…" he said.

Farley said nothing.

"You mind telling me where we're going?"

"Away from Westmarch."

"Um, yes, I got that. Question is, where are we going to land?"

"In a place called Wraeclast."

"Wraeclast?" Kristoff inquired. "I haven't heard of that town."

"It's not a town lad. It's an island. One where men such as we can thrive." Farley looked at Kristoff and grinned, showing his yellow teeth. "You'll do well there."

"Um, yeah, sure. Just take me to some island I've never heard of and keep sailing through fog." Kristoff looked around, wondering what he should say. Or heck, do.

"What do you think of the Oriath?"

Kristoff looked back at Farley. "Excuse me?"

"What do you think of the Oriath?"

"Oh. It's, um, fine. Very…woody."

"It has to be, for a prison ship."

"A prison ship?"

"Oh yes." Farley chuckled, sounding more amused than Kristoff cared for. "For many years, I have transported prisoners to Wraeclast. So many years, I watched them swim to the shore. Only a few made it onto the sand. Even fewer made it beyond."

Kristoff's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like you enjoyed your job."

Farley shrugged. "When one walks the path that I do, one takes what solace they can find."

"Right," Kristoff said. "Well, here's some solace – you saved us. You saved me. So if you want solace, how about we make landfall on an island that doesn't have convicts that you sent here to die?"

"Oh I didn't send them," Farley whispered. "Dominus did."

"Dominus? I know not the name."

Farley chuckled. "On Wraeclast, you will."

Kristoff looked at Farley. He looked at Rand, still praying. He looked at a woman chasing her child in good fun. He then, at last, looked back at Farley, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.

"Farley," he said. "Have you discussed this with these people? Because I think they might want to make landfall elsewhere."

"Perhaps they would," Farley whispered, as a wind began to pick up. "But it's too late."

"Too late?"

"We're here."

"Here?" Kristoff looked around – the fog was parting in all directions. The sound of thunder was in the sky. The sea was beginning to churn, and rain was beginning to fall. "Farley, where's here?"

"Wraeclast, Kristoff. So many walk this path of exile, but we all arrive here in the end."

It occurred to Kristoff that Farley was mad. Problem was, as the sea continued to churn, as the fog disappeared, as he found himself under the light of the moon, Farley being mad was the least of his problems. The most of his problems was that he could see an island in the gloom, a beach, and between this ship and him, rocks. Lots of rocks.

"Farley, turn around," Kristoff whispered.

Farley paid no heed. He continued to take the ship to the shore.

"Farley, turn the ship around!"

"Or what?" the captain whispered.

Kristoff drew out his sword. "Or else I'll-"

Moving with superhuman speed, grabbed Kristoff with equally superhuman strength. Kristoff dropped his sword as Farley slammed him against the side of the ship.

"You have such promise," the captain whispered. "You fought, while others fled. The gears turn, the gears grind, and you have marched with them. Be it through desert or snow, blizzard or wind, I know you will do well."

Kristoff, struggling to breathe, glanced at the deck. The sailors had taken out spears and were herding everyone else to the sides of the ship. Men, women, and children alike. And even Rand.

"What are you?" Kristoff whispered.

"A ferryman," Farley said. "One who operates in more than one world."

"You're…insane…"

Lightning crashed and the boat heaved. Farley stumbled, but didn't lose his grip. What he did lose was his eyepatch, revealing a socket glowing with blue light.

No…

Farley let out a chuckle. "Hope you can swim, Kristoff."

And with that, he threw Kristoff into the churning sea.

He survived.

Somehow, be it through chance or fate, he survived. As soon as he hit the water, he'd had the foresight to strip off his armour, lest he sink down into the frigid gloom. He'd thus risen to the surface, gasping for breath. Casting a glance at the Oriath, he could see people being pushed off into the waters before the ship turned and began to sail away. For a moment, he'd wanted to swim after it. To board the ship and ram a sword through Farley's gut. But then he felt the rain. Felt the chill. And close to the ship, he could see people floundering. He could see things, rising to the surface of the water, before pulling the people down with them. He could see them as they took their last breaths above the surface. He could hear them scream…

So he swam. He swam over the tops of waves. He swam past the jagged rocks. He swam until shivering, spluttering, he collapsed onto the sand. He lay there, holding himself tight. As the waves buffeted his legs. As the sand mixed itself with his hair. As he listened to the wind, and the thunder, and the fading screams further out in the sea. He listened…

…and yelled as he felt something grab his leg. He rolled onto his back and scampered away, before he saw the creature that had grabbed it. No monster, but a man.

"Rand?"

A young man, barely alive.

"Rand!" He crawled over, never so glad to see the twat in all the months he'd known him. "Rand, I…" He trailed off, as he saw the wound in Rand's chest. Three holes where blood was pouring out, as if he'd been stabbed by a trident.

"Rand…"

The boy groaned and rolled over. Blood and water poured out of his mouth, as he lay down in the sand. "Light…preserve me…warm me…"

"Rand, hold on. I'll…"

"…save me…from the touch of…death…"

"Rand, I…"

He trailed off. Rand was dead. And he wasn't alone on the beach. He grabbed the sword that hung at Rand's belt and held it out in the gloom. Towards the shambling figures that were approaching him.

These your convicts Farley?

He didn't know. But he knew the sounds, stumbles, and stench of the living dead. Not skeletons like those in Westmarch, but zombies. Creatures that still had their flesh. Creatures that were stumbling over the sand, and rising from the sand itself. Over a dozen by his reckoning. And while easy to avoid, Kristoff was exhausted. He was freezing.

I need to…

He felt something grab his leg and he screamed. He fell down and saw Rand get atop of him. Looking at him through sunken eyes. Trying to bite his throat with teeth that were already sharpened. Retching. Groaning. Drowning. Dead. He grabbed Rand's neck and kept his fangs at bay, while still aware of the creatures that were still shambling towards him. Creatures that yearned for his flesh…

He was going to die. He couldn't help but be terrified. And only slightly less so as an arrow suddenly pierced Rand's head, his eyeball stuck out on its tip. Rand, twice dead, slumped over. Kristoff turned his body off him, grabbed the sword, and stared.

He guessed that the arrow had come from the woman at the top of the beach. But she was but one of many that began clearing the shore of the walking dead. A woman, who incinerated the creatures with flame. A swordsman, striking the creatures down with expert blows. A savage like the barbarians of the north, breaking decayed bone with an axe, scarce different from a bearded man who was uttering prayers to a god with every strike. One who moved through the gloom, as if a shadow. And last of all, a woman with golden hair who walked down the beach towards him, carrying a dagger, and casually striking down any walking dead that got too near. Kristoff just stared, even as she came before him and squatted down. She was beautiful, he reflected. Yet cold.

"How the hell did you manage to survive this long?" she asked.

Very cold. Just like he was, as he shivered in the night's chill.

"I didn't think people like you were sent here anymore," the woman said.

"People like me?" Kristoff whispered.

"Like you. Like me." She rose to her feet and gestured to the ones following her. The warriors who had approached him. "Like all of us."

Kristoff just stared, and clutched his sword. "Who are you?" he rasped.

The woman chuckled, casting her gaze out to the raging sea. "Exiles," she whispered. "We're all exiles here."

Kristoff didn't know what to say.

But as painful as the realization was, he accepted that he was never going to see Westmarch again.

A/N

So it's a fairly common assertion that D2 fans who didn't like D3 ended up playing Path of Exile. I'm assuming that there's some truth to that, though I'm not interested in any dick measuring contests between the three games. That said, it did give me the idea to drabble this up. And yes, it's depicting D3 events leading to PoE rather than D2 ones, but, meh. Bite me.