The sun was obscured today, but the heat remained. Visenya sat on the wall of the watch tower, accompanied by Adria, Tyrael and Lyndon. The three talked - or Adria talked and the others listened. Their topic was Zoltun Kulle. From what Visenya could discern, he was one of the Horadrim, a betrayer, consumed with madness, who had constructed a Soulstone, capable of storing the souls of the Prime Evils.

Visenya yawned, touching her pounding temples; she was exhausted. Her slumber was troubled last night despite swiftly falling asleep, Tyrael at her side. She still wore his cloak, draped casually across her shoulders, shielding them from the unforgiving sun. Even though it hit behind a sheath of cloud, it still burned her skin. She scratched her nose, red from the sun and winced in pain.

Visenya pulled his cloak around her bare arms and recrossed her legs, watching, trying to listen to the three.

'You - his - his what?' said Lyndon, pausing his incessant pacing.

'His head,' repeated Adria, her fingers that gripped her staff turning white.

Visenya rubbed her eyes, feeling weary from their words, from their arguments. 'So, let me get this right,' she said, interrupting the three. 'We take his head - that talks - with us to where the vials of his blood are kept then reform his body and he gives us the Soulstone?'

'Correct,' said Adria, simply.

'Right,' said Visenya, running her hand through messy hair. She watched Tyrael shake his head, his hand hovering by the hilt of El'druin, fingers twitching to grip the sword. Through fear, through anger, she couldn't tell.

'Well, at least this job isn't dull,' said Lyndon, folding his arms as he leant against a pillar.

'I do not trust him,' said Tyrael, clenching his fist that lingered by El'druin.

'Or is it me you do not trust, Tyrael?' asked Adria.

Lyndon smirked. Visenya stepped off the ledge. Tyrael turned away from the witch and leaned forward on the ledge, hands splayed across the stone. He stared down at the city, crowded, oblivious to the tendrils of hell that weaved through their home. 'Your timing is highly convenient, Adria,' said Tyrael, still staring at the city below.

'Your age has made you cynical. We mortals do not have that luxury to wallow in thousands of years of mistakes,' said Adria, moving her staff to her other hand.

'Only eighty or so years of mistakes instead,' said Lyndon, chuckling at himself.

Visenya joined Tyrael's side, setting a hand on his arm. He relaxed beneath her touch, but the worry did not leave his face. 'You knew Zoltun?' she asked Tyrael, sliding her fingers across his gauntlet, feelings the intricate grooves etched into the metal.

'He was part of my Horadrim. A powerful wizard - inquisitive, obsessive. I never knew he actually created the black Soulstone,' he said, watching Visenya's hand. He stretched his little finger, hooking her thumb, pausing her restless hand.

'Are you questioning my knowledge now?' asked Adria.

Tyrael closed his eyes. 'No. I just dislike placing our faith and fate in the hands of a betrayer. A dead one at that.'

'Nephalem?' said Adria.

Visenya started, slipping her hand free from Tyrael's hold. 'What? Do you want my permission for this? It seems we have no choice.'

Adria smiled, pushing back her hood. 'We don't. And it will work.'

'This is what you gave up Leah for?' said Visenya, readjusting her cloak.

Adria's smile left; she switched her staff to her other hand and began to walk away. 'I did not give up my child - I gave her a better future than I would have given her.' She turned and left, giving no time for a reply.

'She knows how to make an entrance - and exit,' said Lyndon, pushing himself off the pillar.

Visenya watched her leave, her head held high, long, dark hair swaying in echo of her hips. Each movement of her staff sent a glint of magic from the tip, and an aura hung around her. It quivered as she spoke, as she moved and breathed. It wasn't pleasant - but was almost threatening.

She is so unlike her daughter.

'When do we leave?' asked Lyndon, resting a hand on his hip.

Visenya looked between the men and back to the camp. It was almost midday, and the heat was rising. Visenya wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to ignore the pounding against her skull. It had lingered since she woke; a mixture of exhaustion, the bottle of mead she had drank and the wound on her cheek that still burned.

Lyndon still stared expectantly, awaiting an answer. Tyrael still stared at the city, awaiting nothing.

'Today.'

'You sure? You don't look so good, Vis. The bags under your eyes are particularly impressive,' said Lyndon, setting a hand on her shoulder.

Visenya laughed, but her smile dropped, wincing as she stretched the stitched wound.

'Not to mention that beauty on your face,' said Lyndon.

'Belial could appear any time - we have to be ready, wounds and all,' she said, trying to keep her cool front together; she was the Nephalem, afterall. They all looked to her, followed her, sought her guidance. She had to let them believe in her; for them as much as herself.

'I'll let the others know. Am I coming?' he said, squeezing her shoulder.

'Yes-'

'As am I,' said Tyrael as he turned away from the ledge and the city, and towards the other two.

'Two hours?' said Lyndon.

Visenya nodded. 'Ask Kormac if he could prepare my shield. It took some damage yesterday,' she asked as Lyndon walked away. His reply was a wave of his hand.

Visenya turned to Tyrael as he approached her. She pulled his cloak around her again, even though the heat gripped her skin, sending small droplets down her neck.

'He is right,' he began, stopping a foot before her. 'You deserve to rest, Visenya.'

'I'll rest when evil rests,' she said, tilting back her head. He was almost a foot taller than her when she was unarmoured. Her feet were bare, now, covered in sand, comfortable against the warm ground. Tyrael was armoured; he almost always wore it, whether fighting or not. She had asked him once.

'Why do you always wear your armour?' she had blurted the morning they had left Tristram.

He had paused, silent for a while as he pondered her words. Visenya opened her mouth for a quick, short apology, but he smiled, and began to speak.

'We - angels - wear our armour always, but mostly for status. It serves us in battle too of course, but it is a way to define each other.' He stopped, touched El'druin and flexed his armoured hand. The rivets moved like silk, rippling across his hand like a second skin. Visenya watched, mesmerised, as he continued to talk. 'We have no faces as angels, our bodies….although shaped like mortals, are… light.'

His voice faltered. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the quiver of emotion that shook his words.

Visenya smiled. 'It is a part of you. I understand that. I am sorry I made you remember.'

'You need not apologise, Nephalem. The memory of who I was as archangel is not something I should want to forget. I may no longer have my wings, but I am still Tyrael.'

Tyrael laughed, readjusting the cloak that slipped off her shoulder. 'You remind me of myself when I was younger.'

'Not now?'

He pulled his hands back and stared beyond Visenya, to the camp, where a thin cloud of sand lingered. 'Falling from heaven has changed me - reforming changed me. But for the better.'

'I would have liked to have known young Tyrael,' she said, trying to catch his gaze.

'He...was not the best of me,' he said. 'I am glad I have met you now.'

'Why?' Visenya took a step closer; they were but an inch apart now. She tilted back her head, watching, waiting.

He avoided her eyes, glancing beyond her shoulders, to the floor, to her feet. But at last, he submitted. 'Because -' he faltered.

Visenya touched his cheek.

'Because now, I am mortal,' he said at last.

'But you are still Tyrael.'

He held her hand that cupped his face and closed his eyes. He sighed, content. 'But I would not feel your hand on my skin like I do now. With my wings, I would have had no face.'

'You do not have to have a face for me to - to -'

Tyrael opened his eyes. Visenya brushed her thumb across his lips.

'To what?' he asked, his words no more than a whisper.

'Visenya!'

She jumped, startled at the call of her name, like a cold dagger to her ears. Before she had time to find her words, to finish her sentence, Tyrael stepped back, breaking their connection.

'Ah, my lady, there you are,' came the thick, brusque accent of Kormac.

Visenya turned, crossing her arms beneath her chest. 'What?'

'I - uh - ' Kormac looked between the Nephalem and Tyrael, trying to understand what he interrupted. 'Your shield is too damaged to be used. You'll need another.'

'Fine. Do you have a spare I could used?' she asked, conscious of her curt tone.

'I do, m'lday, it'll be ready for when we leave.'

Tyrael walked past her, briefly look behind him as he spoke. 'I'll come find you when we are ready. I am just going to the city for an errand.'

She made to halt his retreat, but the curious eyes of Kormac stopped her. 'Be - be careful.'

'Always.' And he left.

Visenya glanced to Kormac, her arms still crossed, defiant and rigid. 'Well?'

'Well?'

'My shield, Kormac.'

'Oh - yes. Of course. It'll be ready in time for when you leave,' he said, giving her a half, rigid nod.

Visenya watched him leave, walking over the footprints Tyrael had left behind.