DIABLO: AMOR AETERNUS

ACT III

A Light in the Darkness

"Hope is the voice that will never be silent.
Hope is the spring that fills the wells of courage.
Hope is the light in the darkness."

- Auriel, Archangel of Hope

Chapter One: The Necromancer's Apprentice

The Year 1327, Early Summer

"This best not be a goose chase," Lyndon said, tugging his head-covering further across his face to try and block the worst of the zenith sun. "Osseus should have dragged his own arse to Caldeum instead of sending minions. It's a damn warm time of year to travel."

Aya mimicked the action, re-arranging her cape to better protect her skin. "You seemed pleased enough at the start of our journey."

"This heat would make Diablo himself cross."

"And here I thought demonic blood granted you resistance to such things." She cackled when he made a rude gesture. "We'll arrive soon enough. And then we'll see if there's any truth to these rumours."

"One would think the world would run out of evil artefacts to uncover."

"Unlikely," Malthael said, interrupting their conversation. "Demons sow chaos eternally." He had been mostly silent the latter half of the trip, having chosen to ride behind them and cover their flanks. Given the increasing violence towards Nephalem in Sanctuary since the previous summer, Lyndon was more than content to trade the extra company for safety.

"That is unfortunately true," Aya said. "Do you have any suspicions about its nature? Tyrael told me very little about it except that help was needed urgently."

"No. The apprentice's message was…vague." The scholar reached behind him to a side-basket strapped to his horse, and eventually procured a pastry from its depths. "To preserve secrecy, I hope, instead of a lack of research."

Lyndon's jaw slackened at the sight of proper food. "What is this? When did you acquire such delicacies?"

"Farah," Malthael said, as if that was an excuse for him hoarding the baking to himself.

"No wonder you wanted to ride alone. What a treasure trove. I'm surprised they lasted you this long."

"A trade. She asked that I search for some books." He absently rambled off a verbose list that made Lyndon's head spin.

"And where do you plan on storing those for the return ride? Or have you stowed an extra horse in that basket alongside all her gifts?"

Malthael side-eyed him from under his hood. "She has small needs. Unlike yourself, apparently. Surely you did not forget to eat along the way?"

"If you had asked nicely, I am sure she would have sent you some as well," Aya added, laughing.

Lyndon scoffed. "Truly? I think your sister dislikes me."

"Because you bring mud into the library."

"A by-product of a life on the road."

"Also, cockroaches."

"A complete accident. Roaches go where they please."

"You threw Tyrael through the library door."

"I tripped!" Which was a lie, of course, and Aya knew it because she had been right behind him when it had happened.

"And that is why you are stuck eating dried bread rolls, while he has apple pastries." The arcanist flinched as something landed on her lap, then laughed when she realized Malthael had tossed her one. "Good aim. My thanks."

"Miscreants," Lyndon said, only half-heartedly. If they ever arrived in Caldeum, there would be plenty of street-food for him to indulge in. He glanced further up the road to where Tyrael rode point. In the noon sun, the former-angel cast an imposing silhouette from cloak and plate armor. "How far?" he called. "It has been awhile since I last travelled this way.

"Over the next rise," Tyrael returned. "And remember, we are aiming to be discreet."

Malthael muttered something through a mouthful of baking.

Lyndon turned and pointed at him. "I didn't quite catch that, but I'm assuming you directed it at me."

"He said try not to set anything on fire." Aya grinned. "Any of us."

Lyndon shook his head, amused it had to be said at all; but with their group it was a very real possibility. "The only thing I intend to set on fire are the hearts of the beautiful women of Caldeum."

Malthael muttered again.

"I would also tell Eirena," Aya said, indignantly. "Lyndon, you are a scoundrel."

"I am a joker!" He raised his hands innocently. When Malthael tipped his head, he quickly added, "And no additional insights from you, my soft-spoken friend. Eirena and I have had many years to work out the intricacies of our relationship."

The other man shrugged, fetched another pastry from his basket, and bit into it slowly, as if daring Lyndon to say anything.

Touché. "Well played."

"Enough chattering," Tyrael said, having drawn back towards the group. "We are approaching the gates. Our contact will meet us once we are inside. Until then, we are simply travellers, marvelling at the wonders of the city. Try not to draw unwanted attention."

"I won't raise the dead if you don't," Lyndon muttered towards Malthael. "Savvy?"

The former-Reaper had excellent hearing. Instead of replying, he nailed Lyndon in the side of the head with a particularly gooey strudel. Snickering, Lyndon fetched it from his head-covering before it could slide off and took a substantial bite. "That's better. Those who share are happier in life, you know."

"Enough." Tyrael massaged the bridge of his nose. "Hells, I should have made Osseus come with."

"I didn't think you were that enamoured with the smell of frankincense." Aya pursed her lips in an apparent attempt to stem laughter. "Tyrael, you are continually full of surprises."

"Best hope I am the only one." The man sighed loudly. "But come, we are here."

Caldeum had changed little since Malthael had last visited. The city was full of the sound of hawking vendors and the scent of grilled spices. Around them, mighty neighborhoods rose towards the clouds, the tops of which were reserved for the richest inhabitants. Those less fortunate skulked about in the lower levels or worked with the merchants to try and earn a meager living. Social inequality was rife in the Jewel of the East, and witnessing it always left an unpalatable taste in his mouth.

"I missed these towers," Aya said, spinning her horse on the square so she could take it all in. Her eyes trailed along the glimmering spires and golden domes as her lips curved into a content smile. "Of the many things I was content to leave, the city itself I could have kept. What a marvel."

"I do appreciate the crowds," Lyndon said, pointing towards the curve of the main street, where it turned into one of the city's many bustling bazaars. "Far easier to move undetected, here, than in smaller settlements."

"Agreed." Malthael lowered his cowl as soon as they found some shade. He preferred the anonymity of the garment as well as the protection from the sun, but the air was sweltering, and he was finding it difficult to breathe under the cloak. It was an additional reason why he preferred visiting Kingsport to Caldeum.

"You skulk everywhere regardless of the population," the scoundrel said. "You know, I was immensely grateful when you began to come out during the day. Every night as I made my way home I wondered if I would run into you, the shadow, who scared the life from me as he appeared suddenly at my back."

"Blindness is a known side effect of age."

"I am mortally wounded. My eyes are not nearly so bad. See? There is Tyrael now with our new friend."

Tyrael approached off-mount, leading his charger on foot while the other individual walked to his side. Malthael recognized the markings on his cloak as those of the Church of Rathma. He was surprised to see him wearing such identification out in the open when they were aiming for anonymity. However, Caldeum was extremely large, and he supposed there might be enough necromancers wandering about to avoid suspicions.

That, or Osseus' apprentice had not considered his dress at all for the situation, which was the far more concerning conclusion.

"Friends, this is Chith." Tyrael gestured at the young man, who bowed and smiled.

He was far younger than Malthael expected, given he had been Osseus' apprentice for several years already. He possessed the stark white hair of a necromancer, though his face maintained a lingering roundness only present in one who had not practiced the death arts for decades. His eyes glimmered with an internal amusement that seemed at odds with his profession, and that left Malthael with a lingering curiosity.

Malthael had mostly heard about Chith from his mentor, who constantly regaled Tristram's residents with stories of his apprentice's corpse-raising exploits. And he obviously possessed a depth of talent to have been taken under a senior necromancer's wing at such a young age, as well as to be allowed to continue his studies on his own, away from his mentor's guiding hand.

None of which fit with Chith's lack of necromantic-dourness, or the mildly irritating delight that seemed to radiate from his face. Something was clearly amiss.

"I hope your ride was pleasant," the young man said. "And the road quiet."

"It was pleasant enough for the season," Aya said, fanning her face. "I forgot how hot it becomes during the day. I have been south too long." She dropped from her horse; her boots clicked loudly on the paving stones, and she raised a hand in greeting. "Well met, friend."

"You must be Aya!" His expression became one of overwrought excitement. "Tyrael just told me about you. I did not realize there were Caldeum natives in Tristram!"

"A few," she said, smiling. "You have not been to Tristram, then?"

"No, I only heard stories from Master Osseus while we travelled on the road. I first met him here. The city is my home. Although, in his most recent letters, he said much has changed there. More Nephalem and the sort. You are more than welcome to my circle, my lady."

Malthael felt Lyndon's gaze fall on him. He and the other man did not always agree on things, but they were both capable of professionalism when it was required. And now was not the time for flirtation.

"I don't believe we have met," Lyndon interjected, stepping between the two, a grin suddenly plastered onto his face. "Let us finish introductions and we can be on our way. Lyndon, at your service!"

Chith's smile did not waver. "Greetings, friend. Tyrael also mentioned you. He said you were particularly apt at acquiring items without drawing attention."

"Yes, he is our sticky fingers," Aya said, mouthing her thanks to Lyndon.

"Then I am thankful to have you." Chith turned to Malthael and paused. "Tyrael neglected to mention a fourth in your party."

Malthael knew better than to be insulted. The omission was intentional; his brother was attempting to discover if Chith had been told about the formal-angel's existence. While it was an open secret in the town, they had taken measures, arcane or otherwise, to keep it within Tristram's borders. There were too many people who would be interested in retribution to have his presence become common knowledge. And Malthael was not interested in learning of Imperius' reaction to his survival should word reach the High Heavens. He had come to value his life, mortal as it was, and did not wish it to end needlessly.

"This is Mal," Tyrael said. "He is our lore-seeker and will be able to inform us on the nature of the artefact once we locate it."

Malthael resisted the urge to twitch at the nickname. Instead, he met the younger man's gaze, unblinkingly. The necromancer held it for an admirably long time before looking away and swallowing uncomfortably. Clearly, Osseus had not fully trained him in some of the Church's practices, including that of keeping his thoughts neutral and his emotions tapered.

He is easy to overwhelm. But with any luck, he will also divulge to us whatever he knows.

Tyrael cleared his throat. "Well then, shall we?"

Chith directed them to a local tavern and inn, a moderately sized establishment in one of the less reputable areas of the city where they would hopefully avoid the attention of the Emperor's forces. The bar was brimming when they entered, and Tyrael quickly located the innkeeper, securing them three rooms for a modest price. It was more than he wished to spend, but they also did not have the time to survey multiple locations for a better deal. Chith vanished upstairs as soon as he knew where to go, and Tyrael returned to the group to explain their arrangements.

"You needn't," Aya said, when he met them at their table. "I do not mind sharing a room."

"I insist," Tyrael said. "You are more than warranted your own space."

"She snores anyway," Lyndon said. "I have seen you sleep, Tyrael, and I vastly prefer it."

"I will be rooming with Chith."

The rogue's eyes widened, and he looked to Malthael, who was preoccupied with making notes in his journal.

"I am quiet."

"No," Lyndon said. "That is a lie. You would keep me up all night with your incessant comings and goings."

"As the dead." A subtle note of sarcasm entered Malthael's voice.

Tyrael glared at his brother. "Chith and I have much to discuss," he continued, attempting to pull the conversation back on track. He settled onto a chair and gestured to one of the barmaids to bring them a round. "It will be fruitful if we can do so privately until we work out the details. I would rather you all rest from the journey."

"If you are concerned about privacy," Aya said to Lyndon, "I am sure he can give you some time alone with the city's women."

"Crisped maidens," Malthael added, without looking up from his writing. "Be sure to sweep the ashes, lest Eirena find them."

"I can grant you the same if you wish some time alone with those pastries," the rogue said, without missing a beat. "Seeing as you mostly prefer to keep them to yourself. Do not leave too many crumbs in your bed."

He growled and snapped his journal shut.

"Or, whatever you wish," Lyndon added.

Tyrael watched the exchange with confusion; he knew how much they enjoyed bantering, and it was usually out of poorly-concealed friendship than spite. He rarely saw Lyndon garner a genuine reaction from his brother. The scoundrel also seemed confused, though he recovered swiftly when the barmaid returned with four large steins of the local lager.

"A toast," Lyndon said, grabbing one and hoisting it. "To our new companion Chith, and to our future adventures."

"Agreed," Aya said, also glancing Malthael's way, her expression clearly saying she had noticed the uncharacteristic outburst. "And to a good sleep tonight. I think we need it."

They turned in not too long after they finished their drinks. Lyndon knew better than to imbue heavily the night before a job; it was better reserved for afterwards, to celebrate success and help him relax. Malthael hadn't touched his at all, though that was not unusual. The only time Lyndon had seen the man drink was at the wedding they had attended shortly after they had met, and they had generally agreed to never mention it again.

Lyndon laid out his pack on the bed by the door, readied his gear for the morning, and stripped down to his breeches. He looked to the other man to ask if he could extinguish the oil lamp, but Malthael was leaning against the bed's headrest fully clothed and seemingly lost in thought.

Oh well. Lyndon blew out the light and crawled in. He prefers the dark. And he would say something, otherwise.

He was on the precipice of sleep when Malthael's voice cut the air. "I am sorry."

Lyndon groaned and rolled over. The small amount of moonlight filtering through the window showed the other man hadn't moved far. "What are you sorry about?" He yawned. "Waking me? Because yes, you should apologize."

Malthael didn't reply.

"Are we having a serious discussion, friend? Some context would be appreciated."

"My behaviour was unwarranted."

"You engage in a lot of unwarranted behaviour," Lyndon said, unable to fully subdue his innate sarcasm. "To which are you referring?"

"You and I converse often, jokingly. I should not have reacted as I did to your comment."

"Wait. Are you meaning my bit about the pastries?"

Light help him. He did not think Malthael was sensitive about those sorts of jokes. In fact, in the time he had known him, he had never seen the other man show any sort of interest in physical relationships whatsoever. He had assumed it was a safe topic to jest about. Particularly when the implied lover was baked goods.

"Farah has received notable grief due to my presence in the library," Malthael said quietly. "And because she considers me a friend. I wish others respected her more."

"Ah, I understand. Baking is no joking matter."

"No, you do not. It should be. I overreacted and assumed ill-intent when there was none. But this represents one of the…kind things she has done that has earned her others' scorn."

Lyndon was not so crass as to trivialize such admissions, particularly from Malthael, who generally spoke with dry facetiousness if at all. They had spent many moments chatting about various elements of the world, but the conversations had never turned to the other man's feelings. Lyndon had never imagined he would be privy to such a frank discussion.

Or the sort of realization that was dawning on him now. "You care about her. Don't you. More than as an acquaintance?"

The other man's silhouette shifted as if he were uncomfortable.

"Tell me. What do angels know of love?"

The silence hung heavy. Eventually, Malthael spoke. "Little. There is no Aspect of love within Anu. Each domain, I suppose, experiences a similar feeling regarding its brethren, and between Aspects. But it is more a drive to perpetuate that action and to protect Anu's nature. To bring about justice, or to seek wisdom."

"Is that why you search and travel so compulsively? And why Tyrael reforms the Horadrim, again and again?"

Malthael nodded.

"And lust. Lust is a demonic domain. We mortals have both bloods in us. We experience lust, certainly. We often enjoy it." Lyndon chuckled. "But where does love come from, then, if not from Anu?"

"I do not know."

"It simply is? A part of the mortal experience?"

"Perhaps." Malthael paused. "Mortality is overwhelming. It is hard to control and comes with scant instructions. The more I learn, the more I realize I know nothing."

"There is a mighty truth in that. And you are forgiven your outburst, my friend. As mild as it was. We all have our moments." Something occurred to him; a comment from an off-hand conversation he and Tyrael had had many years prior. "Your brother once said you were the noblest of your kind, before things went sour."

"Doubtful."

"And that you valued all life, regardless of its type. I think there is an implied love in that. Perhaps it comes from wisdom. From understanding the purpose and meaning of all things, regardless of their composition."

Malthael did not reply. But he did eventually withdraw from the wall; and a time later, Lyndon heard the shallow breathing of sleep. He hoped he had granted him some useful wisdom to calm his mind for the coming days. They would all need to be at their best. And regardless of what he often claimed, he did consider the man a friend, one who he would help without question if he ever needed it.

Which was a strange thought: that the being he had once helped kill had become one of his most reliable companions. Malthael was not the only one left to consider the implications of mortal interactions. Consumed, though not unhappily so, with the irony of his life, Lyndon turned his thoughts to rest, and was immediately drawn into vivid dreams of adventure and treasure.

"Did you sleep well?" Aya greeted them as they met for breakfast in the tavern.

Malthael nodded, somewhat truthfully. He felt a great deal better after speaking to Lyndon, though he loathed to admit entirely how much the other man had helped. Even so, he had slept restlessly afterwards, and he stifled the urge to yawn. Mortal weaknesses did not irritate him as much as they did Tyrael, but he was still unimpressed his body had chosen that night, of any, to sleep poorly.

"I owe your sister a kind word when we return," the rogue said, choosing a seat.

Aya looked surprised. "Malthael, what did you do to him?"

The rogue snorted. "He smartened me up. Truly, I joke too much about Farah. She has done wonders for the library and we are lucky to have her."

"You must have possessed him," she continued. "Did you re-work his soul while he slept?"

Before Malthael could reply, Tyrael and Chith appeared at the table.

"Soul work!" Chith asked, enthusiastically. "Do I hear mention of necromancy? Osseus did not mention sending another disciple! Though soul stitching is a dark art, indeed. I know few who would even dare dabble in it."

No, he thought. You heard nothing of the sort. Damned be their loose lips. "He did not. You must have misheard."

"You speak!" The necromancer looked genuinely shocked. "I thought perhaps you were mute."

"He does speak, as should you," Tyrael interjected. "Friends, Chith has not been entirely truthful with us."

The group turned to stare at the necromancer, whose expression rapidly turned to one of overt guilt. "I am not alone in Caldeum," he said, after Tyrael prodded him not so gently with a foot. "Before he returned to Tristram, Osseus secured me a new mentor in case I needed assistance."

Aya sighed. "Wonderful, more folks to involve. Who is your new instructor?"

"My Mistress's name is Zaira, and she is currently posing as an acolyte of those who possess the artefact."

At mention of the name, both Aya and Lyndon groaned loudly; the arcanist massaged the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger.

"Hellspawn," she hissed. "Of all the people he could have…damn Osseus."

The name was unfamiliar to Malthael; he cocked his head in query.

"I have experienced Zaira enough to last a lifetime," she said, in explanation.

"She and Osseus had a…thing. Many years ago. Before you arrived." Lyndon looked pained. "It ended poorly. In part because her methods are looked on rather unfavourably by the Church. She has a few…unhealthy fixations." The scoundrel stared at him for far longer than was required, and Malthael wondered what exactly he was trying to communicate. "Very unhealthy."

"Then why did he entrust his student to her, if they are no longer close?"

The other three glanced at Chith. Tyrael cleared his throat and tried to avoid Malthael's roving gaze, but it was too late. His expression spoke volumes; it said that the action had neither been honest nor kind.

Confusion growing, Malthael considered everything he knew about the situation thus far: that Osseus had lied about Chith still being his student; and that Chith gave off none of the personae or arcane energy Malthael associated with Rathma practitioners. Had he not been told the young man's profession, the last one he would have guessed was necromancy.

And then, the pieces fell into place and made a sudden and horrible sense.

Osseus had lied because was too proud to admit he had made a mistake. And to rid himself of said mistake without tarnishing his reputation, he had pawned his student off on his former lover. Likely out of some petty, mortal revenge. He made a mental note to rebuke Osseus next time he saw him, and immediately revised his impression of Chith.

Likely possesses no necromantic skills whatsoever. Unsure what Osseus initially saw in him, but not that. Worldly awareness marginally lacking. Potential idiocy: to be determined.

"The mentorship was a gift to Zaira," Chith eventually replied, enthusiastically enough Malthael knew he was also incompetent at reading faces. "As a remaining token of his love previously expressed. She was most pleased with it. I mean, with me. She always says I am an invigorating challenge."

Aya snorted loudly.

Ignoring her, Malthael wrenched his brain away from trying to deduce Chith's inner workings. He had more important things to consider. "Unimportant. Your letter said you had the artefact. Where is it?"

"That's the, er, difficult part." The young man tapped his fingers against the table. "I may have delayed in telling her about it."

"May have? Yes, or no."

"…Yes."

"And?"

"By the time she was in a position to steal it, it was acquired by another group."

Tyrael glanced to Malthael, as if anticipating what was coming and begging him to not kill Chith outright. Which was the appropriate reaction. He had not had near enough tea for how the morning was progressing. He required that sort information before they left Tristram, not after they arrived with a specific combatant composition and supplies.

Malthael narrowed his eyes. "Where. Is. It?"

"In the vault of the Iron Wolves."

"Well, shit," Lyndon said.

There were no words accurate enough to encompass the irritation Malthael felt at the revelation. He decided he would spend the rest of the morning thinking up colourful synonyms for 'imbecile' instead of imagining various ways of strangling Chith. Of all the places for the artefact to end up, the vault was the worst. It was the most heavily fortified location in the entire city outside of the Palace itself. He had never managed to sneak inside and did not like his chances of doing so now, even with assistance.

"I was hoping you could help," Chith said, wringing his hands. He still wore the insufferable smile, though several beads of sweat had formed and were dripping down his forehead. "Which is why I requested assistance. You can, can't you? Help?"

Tyrael glanced at Malthael. "Do you have a plan?"

"No," he said, exasperated. "But I am sure I can think of one. First, however." He levelled a glare at Chith. "You had best tell us everything you know."

The necromancer's face grew paler than it already was.

"Everything."

A/N: Welcome to Act III! I appreciate all of your patience. Life has been a bit nuts and this story struggled hard against my editing. But it's mine, now. Mwahahaha.

A Light in the Darkness is four chapters and approximately 16,000 words in total. By the gods, I think we've found more of the plot. Or at least a start. We've also found our buddy Chith! Everyone wave to him and say hi! Hopefully it'll make him feel better after he's subjected to Malthael's withering glare.

If you HAVEN'T caught up on reading "Tales From Tristram", I highly recommend doing so, as the stories help fill in some of the character development that occurs between Act II and III, particularly with Malthael.

Fun writing facts:
- This story takes place about 9 months after "Arcane and Apple" ends.
- The library door incident Lyndon references was written into THIS story before I went back and wrote "Night of Souls". It was meant to be a one-off joke reference before it ended up appearing in the actual series.
- Lyndon will just not let go of the drunk-wedding he's not supposed to talk about.
- Chapter 2 and 3 will have artwork (always accessible on my Tumblr blog).