The Hand of Terror
I have three visions of him, he who was Tristram's salvation and destruction. The first two are pleasant images that warm my aging bones more than any hearthflame. The warrior as a young, untried youth, frozen in memory with his head thrown back as he laughed at one of Griswold's truly awful jokes. It was before he'd visited the defiled church and seen the horrors of the pits, but in that moment I remember thinking that perhaps he was the one after all. But memory is a frail and mutable ether; perhaps I had just felt the first stirring of desire, and hadn't wished to admit it.
The second vision that I hold close to my heart is not of a youth, but a hero ascending in triumph from the depths of the infernal Hells. His eyes sought out mine before any of the others, and our gazes locked. When I look back, I refuse to search my memory of his face for corruption. If there was a hint there of what would come, I cannot bring myself to find it. So all I see in my friend's, my lover's, eyes was relief and joy--the same things that I know filled my own. And as the town celebrated, I allowed myself to be led away from questioning the changes in his behavior, the dark silences and small cruelties that began to fill our time together. Even when he brushed aside my concerns about his nightmares, I let him. I thought it only natural that he should be changed by experiences; no mortal may face the Lord of Terror and come away completely unscathed. And, truth be told, in some aspects our relationship had gained a certain passion that a man whose life had entered its twilight couldn't help but find...exciting.
I have been guilty of many failures in my life, and learned to accept their consequences. To accept and, eventually, to move on. But my failure to realize what the corrupted Soulstone was doing to he who I would have said that I knew better than any other, this is a failure that I cannot accept. My mind returns to the past whenever it has a quiet moment, re-examining with hindsight all the clues that seem to glare from the corners of my memory. The only recollection that I have not allowed to be tainted by this is my picture of the Hero Ascendant. Regardless of everything that came after, in that moment, he was everything that a mortal could hope to aspire to, savior of this Sanctuary, and even of Heaven itself.
If my first two memories bring me solace in the darkness, it is the third memory that makes such comfort neccessary. I had journeyed briefly from Tristram, lured by my lover's casual mention of a monument in the nearby forest that might be Horadric in origin. Not having known of such in the vicinity, I immediately showed an interest. As I can only presume he knew I would. I left in the morning, carrying only my staff and a small pack containing a few tomes that dealt with the area. I followed his instructions to a clearing in the forest, and there found the rotting corpse of a cow. I would not have previously considered it possible for an animal's face to show such terror, and from the broken and bloody ground surrounding the stinking, broken flesh, I knew that the cow had been alive through most of its torment. Fear, as sharp as any demon's talons, clutched at my insides.
"A fitting tribute for your brethren, don't you think, Cain?" I turned to face the mocking voice. He stood on the path back to town, shrouded in the folds of a brown robe. His sword hung loosely at his side. A breeze sent the stinging fragrance of fresh dye to me, and a jagged rip on the bottom seam of the robe marked it as one of my own castoffs. He smiled as the shock and hurt settled into my features.
"What is the meaning of this?" My voice shook, as did the hand that clutched my staff. There was a small spot of crimson light showing through the skin of his forehead. I didn't fear him, not yet, but I feared _for_ him with all my soul. I took a tentative step foward and held out my free hand.
The expression of cold amusement he wore seemed to crack, then to collapse. Behind it I found anguish and pain like nothing I'd ever seen. I laid my hand gently on his shoulder, and he sagged beneath its slight weight. "I have to leave, Cain," he whispered, his voice once more familiar, "I just came to say goodbye."
I couldn't help glancing behind me. "Is that what this is?" He flinched, and I went on in a gentler tone, "What is going on? Is it the nightmares?"
Beneath my hand, I could feel his skin's unnatural heat through the thin fabric of the robe. His shoulder began to jerk minutely, and as I stepped back in alarm, he burst into laughter that even I, as unwilling to see the truth as I was, could only characterize as insane. "Nightmares, Cain?" His firm lips twisted on my name. "What would you know about nightmares? You, who stood safe in Tristram and horded your power while I and others like me fought...and died in that stinking Hell!" I gasped at the hatred in the look he gave me then. "Damn you, Cain. Damn you for what you've done to me."
His words hurt, then as now. They were unjustified and cruel, but close enough to my own insecurities to strike me to the core. I looked away. How could I answer him? He already knew about my own nightmares, the dreams in which the dead of my brotherhood and of all the innocents in the Sin War demanded that I answer for their demise. As I couldn't speak to them in sleep, now I could not speak to him.
I felt him move in a rush of wind, and strong, fevered hands clutched at my shoulders. He shook me, violently. "Was it worth it, Cain? All those deaths, all the people that _you_ delieved into darkness for the sake of your war? Was. It. Worth. It?" Each word was punctuated with a bone rattling shake.
"Yes," I said finally. My voice cracked on the syllable. "Yes, it was worth it." I raised my head, and stared into dark eyes that burned with pain and rage. "To imprison the Three, it was worth three times the innocent lives." I believed it, of course. I am Horadrim. But the words gave me no comfort, for as I searched his face, I realized that Diablo had won. And the lives lost in the catacombs beneath Tristram truly meant nothing if I could not stop him here, now.
My free hand had just begun to sketch the first runes of a binding spell, when he kissed me.
I burned alive beneath his touch, spell forgotten as his hands and lips roamed over me. I admit that I responded just as urgently. Even as a part of my mind wept in shame, my staff fell unheeded to the forest floor as my arms went around him and pulled him close with all the strength I could muster. This one time, we had no consideration for each other--indeed, I know he took pleasure in my gasps of pain. Indeed, I left my own marks on his tanned, muscular frame as we rutted (and rutting it was, mindless physical action, with nothing of love or sensuality softening it) only a scant few feet from the rotting corpse of the cow. When he thrust into me for the final time, I screamed, caught in a climax that was as much self-hatred as it was anything else. He roared approval in an inhuman voice, and slammed his fist into the back of my head. As darkness swarmed me, I can remember feeling nothing except gratitude.
So ends my final memory of Tristram's hero, and her destroyer. Sometime afterwards, I awoke with the taste of blood-soaked soil in my mouth. To this day, I cannot say whether the fact that I woke up at all brought more relief or disappointment. After a while, I rolled over and climbed gingerly to my feet in the evening gloom. Old scars and new bruises throbbed, and I used a small healing spell to stop the bleeding...elsewhere. Filthy and torn robes about me, I limped my way back to Tristram. My pack with its priceless tomes was nowhere to be found in the dim light of the moon, and staying to search was not to be thought of.
I caught the scent of smoke while I was still beneath the trees. I hurried my stumbling pace, and crested the hill to see the village laid out before me, bathed in the hellish light of uncontrolled flame. Sillouetted in the blaze that had been Peppin's cottage was the reassuring bulk of the blacksmith. He gestured at someone unseen in the village square. I half-ran, half-tumbled down from the forested hill. "Griswold, old friend, what has happened?"
He turned stiffly, and I groaned in horror. Half of the man's face had been ripped away, and the empty sockets of his eyes blazed with hellfire. Around me, I heard the sounds of dozens of clawed feet in the darkness and now I could see the twisted, malformed shapes that cavorted in the flames. My staff blazed with its own light, and I fought them, my eyes blurring with desperate tears. But it was not enough; more and more of the demons were born from the flames and the accursed earth itself. Gradually, I felt my energy, already taxed, be drained completely, and the demons piled upon me.
They dragged me to the square, and imprisoned me in this gibbet, which I still inhabit. It has been five days since the destruction of Tristram. The demons no longer emerge from the earth, but the ones that are here seem to be guarding something...perhaps me. My staff has been torn away and is placed just out of reach below me. Without it, I cannot break the bespelled iron bars. Griswold knows his work well. The demons taunt me, and I have several new wounds from the touch of their weapons, but I barely notice.
After all, they can do nothing to me that I do not deserve. Perhaps some other hero will seek out this damned place and release me, but at the moment, I hope not.
I have three visions of him, he who was Tristram's salvation and destruction. The first two are pleasant images that warm my aging bones more than any hearthflame. The warrior as a young, untried youth, frozen in memory with his head thrown back as he laughed at one of Griswold's truly awful jokes. It was before he'd visited the defiled church and seen the horrors of the pits, but in that moment I remember thinking that perhaps he was the one after all. But memory is a frail and mutable ether; perhaps I had just felt the first stirring of desire, and hadn't wished to admit it.
The second vision that I hold close to my heart is not of a youth, but a hero ascending in triumph from the depths of the infernal Hells. His eyes sought out mine before any of the others, and our gazes locked. When I look back, I refuse to search my memory of his face for corruption. If there was a hint there of what would come, I cannot bring myself to find it. So all I see in my friend's, my lover's, eyes was relief and joy--the same things that I know filled my own. And as the town celebrated, I allowed myself to be led away from questioning the changes in his behavior, the dark silences and small cruelties that began to fill our time together. Even when he brushed aside my concerns about his nightmares, I let him. I thought it only natural that he should be changed by experiences; no mortal may face the Lord of Terror and come away completely unscathed. And, truth be told, in some aspects our relationship had gained a certain passion that a man whose life had entered its twilight couldn't help but find...exciting.
I have been guilty of many failures in my life, and learned to accept their consequences. To accept and, eventually, to move on. But my failure to realize what the corrupted Soulstone was doing to he who I would have said that I knew better than any other, this is a failure that I cannot accept. My mind returns to the past whenever it has a quiet moment, re-examining with hindsight all the clues that seem to glare from the corners of my memory. The only recollection that I have not allowed to be tainted by this is my picture of the Hero Ascendant. Regardless of everything that came after, in that moment, he was everything that a mortal could hope to aspire to, savior of this Sanctuary, and even of Heaven itself.
If my first two memories bring me solace in the darkness, it is the third memory that makes such comfort neccessary. I had journeyed briefly from Tristram, lured by my lover's casual mention of a monument in the nearby forest that might be Horadric in origin. Not having known of such in the vicinity, I immediately showed an interest. As I can only presume he knew I would. I left in the morning, carrying only my staff and a small pack containing a few tomes that dealt with the area. I followed his instructions to a clearing in the forest, and there found the rotting corpse of a cow. I would not have previously considered it possible for an animal's face to show such terror, and from the broken and bloody ground surrounding the stinking, broken flesh, I knew that the cow had been alive through most of its torment. Fear, as sharp as any demon's talons, clutched at my insides.
"A fitting tribute for your brethren, don't you think, Cain?" I turned to face the mocking voice. He stood on the path back to town, shrouded in the folds of a brown robe. His sword hung loosely at his side. A breeze sent the stinging fragrance of fresh dye to me, and a jagged rip on the bottom seam of the robe marked it as one of my own castoffs. He smiled as the shock and hurt settled into my features.
"What is the meaning of this?" My voice shook, as did the hand that clutched my staff. There was a small spot of crimson light showing through the skin of his forehead. I didn't fear him, not yet, but I feared _for_ him with all my soul. I took a tentative step foward and held out my free hand.
The expression of cold amusement he wore seemed to crack, then to collapse. Behind it I found anguish and pain like nothing I'd ever seen. I laid my hand gently on his shoulder, and he sagged beneath its slight weight. "I have to leave, Cain," he whispered, his voice once more familiar, "I just came to say goodbye."
I couldn't help glancing behind me. "Is that what this is?" He flinched, and I went on in a gentler tone, "What is going on? Is it the nightmares?"
Beneath my hand, I could feel his skin's unnatural heat through the thin fabric of the robe. His shoulder began to jerk minutely, and as I stepped back in alarm, he burst into laughter that even I, as unwilling to see the truth as I was, could only characterize as insane. "Nightmares, Cain?" His firm lips twisted on my name. "What would you know about nightmares? You, who stood safe in Tristram and horded your power while I and others like me fought...and died in that stinking Hell!" I gasped at the hatred in the look he gave me then. "Damn you, Cain. Damn you for what you've done to me."
His words hurt, then as now. They were unjustified and cruel, but close enough to my own insecurities to strike me to the core. I looked away. How could I answer him? He already knew about my own nightmares, the dreams in which the dead of my brotherhood and of all the innocents in the Sin War demanded that I answer for their demise. As I couldn't speak to them in sleep, now I could not speak to him.
I felt him move in a rush of wind, and strong, fevered hands clutched at my shoulders. He shook me, violently. "Was it worth it, Cain? All those deaths, all the people that _you_ delieved into darkness for the sake of your war? Was. It. Worth. It?" Each word was punctuated with a bone rattling shake.
"Yes," I said finally. My voice cracked on the syllable. "Yes, it was worth it." I raised my head, and stared into dark eyes that burned with pain and rage. "To imprison the Three, it was worth three times the innocent lives." I believed it, of course. I am Horadrim. But the words gave me no comfort, for as I searched his face, I realized that Diablo had won. And the lives lost in the catacombs beneath Tristram truly meant nothing if I could not stop him here, now.
My free hand had just begun to sketch the first runes of a binding spell, when he kissed me.
I burned alive beneath his touch, spell forgotten as his hands and lips roamed over me. I admit that I responded just as urgently. Even as a part of my mind wept in shame, my staff fell unheeded to the forest floor as my arms went around him and pulled him close with all the strength I could muster. This one time, we had no consideration for each other--indeed, I know he took pleasure in my gasps of pain. Indeed, I left my own marks on his tanned, muscular frame as we rutted (and rutting it was, mindless physical action, with nothing of love or sensuality softening it) only a scant few feet from the rotting corpse of the cow. When he thrust into me for the final time, I screamed, caught in a climax that was as much self-hatred as it was anything else. He roared approval in an inhuman voice, and slammed his fist into the back of my head. As darkness swarmed me, I can remember feeling nothing except gratitude.
So ends my final memory of Tristram's hero, and her destroyer. Sometime afterwards, I awoke with the taste of blood-soaked soil in my mouth. To this day, I cannot say whether the fact that I woke up at all brought more relief or disappointment. After a while, I rolled over and climbed gingerly to my feet in the evening gloom. Old scars and new bruises throbbed, and I used a small healing spell to stop the bleeding...elsewhere. Filthy and torn robes about me, I limped my way back to Tristram. My pack with its priceless tomes was nowhere to be found in the dim light of the moon, and staying to search was not to be thought of.
I caught the scent of smoke while I was still beneath the trees. I hurried my stumbling pace, and crested the hill to see the village laid out before me, bathed in the hellish light of uncontrolled flame. Sillouetted in the blaze that had been Peppin's cottage was the reassuring bulk of the blacksmith. He gestured at someone unseen in the village square. I half-ran, half-tumbled down from the forested hill. "Griswold, old friend, what has happened?"
He turned stiffly, and I groaned in horror. Half of the man's face had been ripped away, and the empty sockets of his eyes blazed with hellfire. Around me, I heard the sounds of dozens of clawed feet in the darkness and now I could see the twisted, malformed shapes that cavorted in the flames. My staff blazed with its own light, and I fought them, my eyes blurring with desperate tears. But it was not enough; more and more of the demons were born from the flames and the accursed earth itself. Gradually, I felt my energy, already taxed, be drained completely, and the demons piled upon me.
They dragged me to the square, and imprisoned me in this gibbet, which I still inhabit. It has been five days since the destruction of Tristram. The demons no longer emerge from the earth, but the ones that are here seem to be guarding something...perhaps me. My staff has been torn away and is placed just out of reach below me. Without it, I cannot break the bespelled iron bars. Griswold knows his work well. The demons taunt me, and I have several new wounds from the touch of their weapons, but I barely notice.
After all, they can do nothing to me that I do not deserve. Perhaps some other hero will seek out this damned place and release me, but at the moment, I hope not.