Chapter 8

Guilt


Rosethorn Riffle's rooms were much less comfortable than those of the Slaughtered Calf. Lear leaned back in his chair, headless of its groan as its wooden joints shifted out of place - it was better than sitting in the lumpy mattress.

He sniffled and grimaced, wondered how many fervent smokers had made use of this room before him. The sound of his own irritated airways led him to remember what he had heard last night; the wall between his room and Anarei's was thin, after all.

She'd retired to her room in a state, obviously wearied in both mind and body. Nonetheless, she'd insisted upon seeing to it that the old man was unhurt. Afterwards, she'd crawled into bed. He imagined she'd fixed up her own wounds - eventually, anyway. But what really resounded was the way she'd cried; quietly, yet he witnessed it all. Saw her anguish as she'd laid awake, heard the whimpers as she'd tossed and turned in her sleep.

It annoyed him to no end. Between her conscious sobbing and her unconscious moaning, he didn't catch a wink of sleep.

And he knew she was still going; she'd been breaking into tears sporadically all morning, since she'd awoken and gathered some books to read as she rested in her room.

He wasn't sure why she was in such distress. Perhaps she was homesick? Or maybe it was the way the old man seemed not of the soundest mind, the way he phased between being excited, confused and downright terrified - all in the span of a few seconds - when he first caught sight of his rescuers. He also considered the possibility of her being distinctly annoyed at Leah. Or at him.

The more he thought about it, the more confused and frustrated he got. For all he knew, she could've been crying because her injuries were sore. Those always hurt more the next day, after all.

He rolled his shoulders, gritting his teeth just a bit as the burns stung and his joints complained; his abdomen felt stiff and bruised inside, and his new scar tissues itched. His arms were folded over his chest, and he considered stretching them, before recalling the raw burns and cuts there and deciding otherwise.

He wondered how much time and distance he's lost with this setback, and wanted to kick himself for being blackmailed into such a petty errand. It was frustrating that the damned little witch knew things about him, and he had no idea how she found out about them in the first place. Then again, with all the days he'd slept away, he had to admit, grudgingly, that he wasn't surprised.

Maybe you should've let her die in there... silence the healer, too, since she'd most likely be against that, however cool-headed she tries to appear. Then you'd be on your merry way by now, instead of having to occupy your time by breaking your brain and chair.

Chair?

For an instant he was confused by the abrupt and sharp turn in his train of thought, and by the time he realised he was on the wrong end of the precariously-balancing chair, it was an instant too late.

He tried to jump off the chair before it brought him along with its fall, but his aching body only managed sluggish, half-hearted movements, and he crashed to the floor.

Grunting loudly, Lear crawled back to his feet, ignoring the pain from various old and new injuries. Stupid pain. Stupid errand. Stupid confusion. Stupid witch of an archivist.

He was about to curse the stupid crying, too, on the healer's part, but it wouldn't be fair - considering it had now stopped.

Don't get too comfortable, now. It'll start again soon enough, and because you'd been anticipating it, you'll only get more annoyed when it does.

It was like a bloody leaking tap. Just go and put a stop to it.

Fine. He would.

For a second he thought of just knocking on the wall and calling through it, but deemed that much too rude. Besides, she'd realise that he'd heard her all night, then, and as much as he did not care for Anarei - she needed to grow up, anyway - that would be needlessly cruel.

So he knocked on her door. "Anarei?"

She looked so young when she'd opened the door - just a timid and bashful girl with her face downcast, her eyes flickering up quickly before she lowered them again.

"I'm sorry." She swallowed - somehow it made him feel a little rueful to hear that she was so genuinely apologetic. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

Something more familiar flashed in his mind; he found his former emotions going out the window, and couldn't keep himself from dismissing her apology. "No, no. I must've startled you." He looked her over, taking in her messy hair, her puffy eyes, her wrinkled skirts. "How's your leg?"

"Hm?" She blinked once at him, before recognition flashed in her eyes. Her skirts rustled as she shifted her leg under the layers. "Fine. It's fine." She sniffled once, then dared to gaze up at him once more, her red-rimmed eyes taking in his face before moving to his shoulder and injured arm. Her voice was muffled. "How's your arm? I'm sorry I didn't see to you personally."

She'd been too tired to help both him and the old man - his own injuries had been minimal, anyway, and the Tristram healers had cleaned them up without much trouble. They did not, however, know of the raw scar tissues of his abdomen. If he had pulled a stitch inside or bruised anything important, the vial of potion he drank should have taken care of those well enough. At this point, he really didn't need any more unwanted attention.

"I'm alright. Nothing to worry about." He brushed his hair back with his hand. "You're alright, otherwise? Haven't caught a cold, now, have you?"

Anarei bit her lip, her bangs falling into her eyes as she lowered her head again. "I'm fine." She likely noticed that he was unconvinced, and added, hastily, "Or will be, anyway. Don't worry about it - I'll be quiet."

No point beating about the bush. You're annoyed and frustrated about this, remember? Put a stop to it. Just ask her. "So which is it? Are you in pain? Or are you mad at Lady Leah or her uncle, or is it me?" His voice softened despite his lack of intention for it to do so. "Or perhaps you're homesick? Missing your siblings or your parents?"

She looked incredulous at his suggestions. As she lifted her head, he thought he saw a glint of defensiveness flash through her eyes - then it disappeared, and she backed a step into her room, her hand moving towards the doorknob, gripping it firmly.

He wondered if she was surprised that he'd asked. She certainly looked it.

"It's not that." The answer was succinctly made.

Her tone recalled recent memories - a still, cold night, the air filled with a different sort of smoky smell.

"...Could it be that you're still sore over having to kill?" He felt his brows furrow, but his voice failed to harden. He felt exasperated, yet there was a surprising lack of real annoyance. "For the sakes of whatever gods are out there, Anarei, those weren't even human."

Her sharp inhale was enough of a sign that he'd hit the mark. She stared at him, her hand tightening further upon the doorknob. He half-expected her to cry out again, but her voice was only faint; hoarse and helpless as she appealed to him, it was as if she didn't think he would understand at all. "They used to be, Lear."

"We did them a favour by putting them out of their miseries. You did. The dead should remain dead, and all we did was set things right." There it was; the annoyance was returning - annoyance for her innocence, her idealism. Her naivete. "I'd have thought you'd be proud of doing that for them, as one who's meant to heal and help."

She looked stung at his suggestion, her downturned lips pursing somewhat as her gaze lowered. The expression of hurt did not suit her face - yet it seemed almost permanently etched into her features as of late. Either way, she sounded resigned, evidently unwilling to argue in her own state of weariness. "Maybe we did. Maybe I should be proud. But right now, I'm not proud, and I'm not healing or helping anyone."

That look of weariness, that tone of despair - you know it all too well, don't you? Eyes that had cried too much, seen too much loss; voices that had begged too hard, pleaded too long, screamed too loud.

My Lady. Lear drowned out the welling emotions with cold anger - anger that this girl was making him homesick.

"...Maybe you should go home," he offered. "Go back to your family - to your siblings in Lut Gholein, or go home to Virkove. You shouldn't be out here alone, or get tangled up in this kind of mess, in any case." His hands felt restless. He jammed them into his pockets. "No-one can make you stay; not even Lady Leah."

She seemed to consider him for a moment, the muscles of her throat tensing as she swallowed. "I likely should."

For a moment, he almost believed her - but then she managed a faint sort of smile, her brow furrowing nonetheless. He got the distinct feeling that she was aware of his intention to get rid of her. "I should, but that wouldn't be very decent of me. I wasn't made to run. Not like this."

"You shouldn't be out here, Anarei," he reiterated, the usual frustration and irritation surfacing alongside a new surge of desperation. "If this keeps happening, you're not meant to be out here."

He'd seen what happened to people who couldn't handle the stress, people who couldn't overcome the horror - they broke. Most of the time they never quite fully recovered. Some of the time they didn't recover at all.

She met his eyes, the hazel locking intently in her focus upon his green-and-grey. Her smile had taken on a touch of determination amidst the predominant worn anxiety. "Are you meant to be out here, then? I don't think now is the best time to be trusting to fate and destiny. We make our own way. We have to."

"So you'll keep cutting down these... things? These corpses that were once people, these poor souls that can't even find rest in death?" He pushed harder against her stubbornness, turning the focus back onto her. "You're willing to make your own way by carving through them and leaving a trail of bodies, are you?"

She was young again in that moment, her eyelids drooping as she shrank further into her room, the opening between them narrowing as she pushed her door forward a little. Her voice was faint in her quiet, helpless admission. "I don't know, Lear."

Lear sighed. "Go home, Anarei." He turned away, pushing his weight off the doorjamb. "You're too young to be involved in this sort of mess."

"You go home." She'd responded so quickly, yet without a trace of defiance despite her words. It was all genuine resignation - after all, she certainly knew more than anyone that he didn't want to be there at all. "I know you have somewhere else to be, Lear. Go if you want, go if you need. We owe each other nothing. I'm staying, at least for now."

Oh, but do you? You have no place you really can be, do you?

"I can't." He hissed. Felt his facial features betray his anger and desperation - his brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. "Lady Leah's got me... she wants me to stay, wait for her word."

Anarei's expression softened a touch. Pity? No - it was a grave sort of sadness that she wore on her face. "You owe her nothing, neither."

He bit hard on his lip, considered explaining more of the blackmail to her, and found himself at a loss for how to even begin. "I don't, but she's making me pay, anyway." He looked aside once more. "Nevertheless, it's my own problem, and my own fault. You shouldn't concern yourself with it."

She watched him for a while - there it was again, the childlike hurt, the doe-eyed dejection. Already, the fire that had burned so bright in her spirit when they'd first met had begun to diminish. She nodded curtly, however, the gesture nonetheless dignified. "Okay, then."

Lear shifted after a somewhat awkward moment of silence. "...Well, okay."

He turned on his heels. Then he hesitated, stopped, and without quite knowing what he was doing, reached out and pressed his hand down upon Anarei's head. He rubbed it quickly, feeling her thick, coiled hair, and hurried back to his room without sparing a backward glance.

If the little witch of an archivist called on him now, she'd have to wait. He was going for a walk, exposure be damned.


The door fell shut with a click. Hastily, she glanced towards the wall she knew to be separating her and Lear's room, took a faint, deep breath that she prayed was silent.

Moments later, she heard his door open and close once again, the sounds of footsteps echoing in the musty hallway. She imagined he was headed out, either to meet with Leah, or to find some measure of calm. The footsteps were crystal clear - was that how loud her own sobs had been?

She felt her cheeks flush, and lifted one hand to rub at the feverish skin. Once again, she'd unwittingly revealed the depth of her vulnerability to him - this stranger whom she was sure had cared nothing for her.

I can't believe he thought I was crying because I was in pain.

The broken flesh of her thigh stung as she made her way gingerly to her bed; she winced as she sank into the lumpy mattress, curled up in the sheets and nestled her face into the pillows. As much as the injuries had hurt, his perception of her had hurt even more.

Do I look that weak?

Squeezing her eyes shut as she shifted to lie on her side, she drew her legs up close against her chest. I probably deserved that. I've been crying all night and all day and he'd heard it all. No wonder he thinks I'm a weak little girl.

She barely managed to suppress the resentful smile that curled her lips. He even patted me on the head as if I were one.

Letting out a grunt, she slammed her fist into her pillow, then muffled the shrill grumble that followed after by pressing her face in. The smell of old feathers and lint made her choke. Gasping, she sat up, lifted the pillow and tossed it aside onto her chair, watching as it landed and released another puff of dust.

Well, I'm going to have to sun that, I guess.

Normally, she'd have checked that the pillows and mattress were suitable - clean. One could pick up all manners of diseases and illnesses from unclean linens, after all. But this was war, and she'd had little choice - everyone suffered to a certain extent.

This is nothing compared to those who've had to watch their loved ones reanimate before their very eyes - the deceased who have been mourned and entombed, those who had once loved, who had once been loved. I can take a few grimy pillows.

She gnashed her teeth together, swallowing the lump in her throat as the now-familiar pang of restless distress returned the mist to her eyes. The faces had haunted her in her sleep, taunted, begged, beseeched. Some had cried to be spared; others simply wanted to know why she had taken their lives.

They had all worn the same expression: anguish.

No. I don't want to think about this right now. I can't.

She pressed a hand to her eyes, blocking out the dim light that streamed in through the crack between her drifting curtains. Bitterly, she wondered if Lear had been right after all - if she wouldn't really have been better off in Lut Gholein or in Virkove. It was war after all - she'd said it so many times, whispered the fact aloud to herself so that it seemed all the more real. And yet, at the frontlines, facing the remains of the people she'd vowed never to harm, she'd found herself helpless.

Unable to help, unable to hurt. The problem is, you have to hurt to help this time, Rei.

Because, as much as she detested, loathed the idea of having to kill the risen dead, she knew without a doubt that Lear was right. They were gone - recently mourned or long deceased, the dead had to stay dead.

The trouble now, was finding the strength to do it.

Curling up closer into herself, Anarei wrapped her arms around her legs and forced back a sob. It wasn't until a second later that she realised Lear wasn't around to judge her for it - if he hadn't, already.

Alone, she cried.


"What do you mean, we have to go back in there?"

"We've found Uncle Deckard, but the fallen star is still deeper down." Leah tilted her head where it rested in her hand, licking the fine crumbs of tea biscuits from her lips. "My uncle was after that."

"The old man was after a huge piece of rock?" Lear managed to keep his voice flat, rather than shouting in his outrage. This was ridiculous, even for blackmailing.

Oh, it could be worse.

He supposed it could be much worse.

"Don't talk about Uncle Deckard that way." She frowned in disapproval, patting the shoulder of the frail elderly man seated beside her. He seemed to have taken an immense interest in his cup of tea. "The fallen star was no ordinary comet. You know that well enough; you were in town when the undead began to spawn."

"...Magical rock or not, I'm not your lackey." Lear focused his mind's eye upon the old man - he was weak, probably senile. He likely had very limited control of his body, with the way his muscles spasmed and quivered, the way his joints were swollen and misaligned with age and use. When he had looked up to regard Lear, his eyes were glazed and unfocused, fogged by cataracts.

He looked close to death, and it would seem that he himself knew it. Was the fallen star of such importance to this weak old man, that he was compelled to go after it with such single-minded determination?

Then again, perhaps he really was just senile. "You're telling me to reawaken an ancient evil, slay it, and go after a piece of rock. Are you even hearing yourself?"

"You are the one who needs to listen better." Leah was unamused, by the way her eyes were narrowed, yet her tone was unfailingly mild and warm. "Shall I make it simple for you? We have to go after the fallen star, for a chance to put a stop to this undead business. Leoric's throne and his cursed remains stand in the way. Therefore, you have to get rid of Leoric before you can get to the star, and in order to do that, you'll first have to reanimate those remains." She feigned encouragement in her voice, smiling condescendingly at him. "Do you understand it now, hmm?"

"This is ridiculous." He crossed his arms, resisting the temptation to overturn something.

"Well..." The old man finally spoke up; his voice was hoarse, and he coughed - the sound was wet with phlegm - before he managed to rasp, "...if you slay him, you'll be ridding our town, and indeed Sanctuary, of this evil forever. Take pride in this task that has been bestowed upon you, boy."

"I beg your pardon, Elder Cain, but this errand hasn't been bestowed as much as it was forced down my throat." Lear leaned back in his seat, ignoring his full mug of tea. "Your niece forced me into this, sir. Does that sound right and just to you?"

"And should your kind be talking about righteousness and justice, hound?" Her tone was sharp, yet she only smiled as sweetly as ever as she picked up another tea biscuit. "Think of it as atonement."

"What kind is he, Leah?" The old man asked with a soft, almost childish tone of inquisitiveness.

"A hound of the Viz-Jaq'taar, Uncle Deckard."

"Oh." Deckard Cain's face fell, somehow looking even more haggard than he did. "They killed so many, after the last war... those who were showing signs of weakness - mere signs..." He turned his cloudy eyes upon Lear; despite how weathered and faded they were, Lear caught the cold glint within them as the elder choked out his accusation. "You killed them, and kept the horrors alive."

Oh, come on.

Lear rolled his eyes, and tried his best to ignore Deckard Cain's words. He was senile, for certain. Then he found himself unable to ignore the old man's words, after all, and started to think of a retort.

The retort died away even as he opened his mouth to speak - a mass of jumbled curls caught his eye from the largest window on the other side of the dining hall. The owner of the curls was striding purposefully into the inn - the peridot was coming for them.

Anarei looked a touch better than the last time he'd seen her - cleaned up, a little less haggard in appearance, seeming less likely to burst into tears. She gave him a faint smile that didn't meet her eyes as she made her way to their table, uninvited. Her tone was nonetheless light, if a little clipped. "On your first date?"

"Hardly." He grunted, failing to sound as apathetic as he'd intended.

"Oh, dear girl!" The old man was elated, at least, and Lear was thankful that he seemed to have forgotten about the previous conversational topic. "Come, sit. Stay a while and listen! There's tea and cookies."

"Hm." Anarei's response could not have been any more unimpressed. Nonetheless, her smile was gentle as she regarded the old man, a placating little thing so often seen on mothers. "I won't disturb you long, sir. I just wanted to see if you were feeling better."

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Anarei." Leah beamed at the younger woman as she nudged the chair beside her uncle with her foot, pushing it out from the table. "Sit. We're just telling your companion about... the next step."

Anarei arched an eyebrow, glancing towards him. Lear thought he saw a flash of confusion in her eyes, though it passed quickly and was soon replaced with resolve and resignation. She lowered herself onto the offered chair. "Is there a next step?"

"There are levels further down, and the hole in the ground was still going." Leah's tone was matter-of-fact, as if there were nothing more obvious. She shrugged. "There's still the matter of the fallen star, which made that hole, and - goes without saying - the demons along the way."

Anarei fixed her eyes upon him again, as if attempting to read his thoughts. Her brows were furrowed, though Lear noted her voice lacked any real venom. "What are the both of you hoping to accomplish by seeking out the fallen star? We only know so much - that it corrupted the dead and twisted them to some dark purpose."

"Precisely, young healer-miss." Leah grinned, her voice ringing, evidently - or apparently; he couldn't be sure about the woman anymore - impressed by Anarei's words. "And that's not going to stop any time soon. It only started after the star landed, so if there's a way to put a stop to this mess, we want to know about it."

"So you're using me - as what, a scout?" Lear couldn't quite believe just how bold and shameless the woman was. "Just because you and your militiamen aren't willing, you're going to toss me in there. I'm that disposable to you, am I?"

The shameless little witch seemed unperturbed by his coarse words; though, thankfully, her smile became just a hint more subdued. "Well, you're my best bet at the moment, and I have you now. What makes you think I'll let you off so easily?" Her grin widened again. "In short, yes. You're useful enough, as a hound."

Anarei pursed her lips, evidently displeased with Leah's response. It was likely - he hoped, anyway - that she was irritated at the little witch's blatant disregard for life, as opposed to her harsh treatment of him. "That's not entirely fair to him either, is it, Miss Leah?" Her diplomatic tones did little to hide the edge of distaste in her voice. "Like it or not, this fallen star is Tristram's problem. Some like myself, may choose to stay, to help, but to coerce an unwilling person into doing your militia's dirty work seems rather low. You may turn other would-be helpers away in the future, if this were to get out."

"Oh, but it won't." She turned a sly little smirk onto Lear, and he scoffed, knowing he had no say in the matter when he was the one being blackmailed. "I don't deny that this is a low tactic, but it works... oh, so well." She placed her hand onto the elderly man's back, before sidling up close to her uncle, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "The hound can pay by helping Tristram, right, uncle? If he helps us with this, will you forgive him?"

The old man nodded in a resigned sort of approval. "Alright... alright, Leah. But just this one, and just this once."

Anarei's eyes gleamed. How much had she understood? The peridot flared, and he could practically hear her in his mind. Say something. You don't need this old man's approval, nor do you need his forgiveness. Whatever you've done, this isn't your responsibility.

He almost felt bad for going against the girl's obvious wishes. "I'll go, but you're not coming."

Leah responded straightaway, "Fine by me, but I'll still escort you there and back."

"Fine."

Anarei had gone silent, now. Her lips thinned further as she glanced between him and the other woman; then she got to her feet and lifted her head. He heard her voice go cold. "Sir," she addressed Deckard Cain stiffly, but politely. "Shall we see that you're well now? I have other patients to see to, and not quite enough time for them all."

Lear watched as Deckard Cain allowed Anarei to help him out of his seat, and followed her obediently to a table in the far corner. Dropping his voice anyway, he snarled at his remaining company. "You're a bit of an evil genius, aren't you? I bet that's what you tell yourself when you look into the mirror every morning."

She giggled, sounding very much heartened by his words. "And you're pretty confident for a stray. You're a good one, too - makes me wonder..." She cut herself off, shaking her head gently. Her smile was sweet, but coy, and all too knowing. "Don't die in there. It'd be a bit of a waste."

"Be careful with what you wish for, Lady Leah." He stood and tried for a malicious smile. "I may be defiant enough to die, just to provoke you."

He didn't want to hear another word from the woman, so he strode off, exiting the higher-classed inn at which the uncle-and-niece pair currently resided. The setting sun cast a vermillion glow over the town; he lowered his eyes to his feet as he walked.

"Wait."

He heard her long before he saw her - the way her footsteps echoed softly upon the stones as she took long, brisk steps after him. When Anarei caught up, her voice was low, retaining the gentler quality from their last talk, though he wondered if she were rather less calm than she appeared. "Lear."

He turned to nod at her. The movement felt stiff and uncomfortable, and he realised how tense his shoulders were. "Anarei. How's your assessment of Elder Cain?"

She shrugged her own shoulder helplessly. Her fingers worked to loosen the knot of the white healers' apron wrapped about her waist, only to tighten it again afterwards. "He's fine - there's nothing wrong with him that medicine can fix, anyway." Her gaze was hard, stern. "Are you really going to go back in there?"

He crooked a bitter, ironic little smile. "Would you believe me if I said I don't have a choice?" He widened his stride and turned back to the front. "I'm going back. You're not coming."

She sounded as affronted as she looked. "Aren't I?" Her footfalls grew louder as she made to catch up once more, hurrying until she fell into pace by his side. "You'll die in there."

He felt a small flare of annoyance in his chest for Anarei's verdict, the way she sounded so sure of herself, so convinced.

Being a little overconfident now, aren't we? You know there's a good chance you'll die. Or maybe you just don't care?

"You can't go in there again." He rounded a corner and stepped over a loose paver without breaking his stride. "You won't be able to stand it. I don't want to have you cracking on me."

She flinched, as if he had struck her physically. Lear saw her hand fist out of the corner of his eye. "You think I won't be able to stand it. I'm made of stronger stuff than you think, Lear."

"However strong the stuff you're made of, this is not your problem, Anarei."

This time, she snapped. "And it's yours?"

"No, but if I don't deal with it, I'll have an even bigger problem."

"Like what?" She blocked his path. Now that he faced her properly, he saw the glower on her face as she hissed. "Oh, right - you won't tell me, anyway, right?"

Lear raised his voice - he couldn't help it, couldn't hold back the frustration, the confusion, the exasperation and despair. "Why do you want to help me, Anarei?"

The words sounded familiar to his ears, felt familiar upon his tongue. Had he asked that before?

She looked surprised at first. The faint smile that graced her lips immediately afterwards was wry, a little sad - it was familiar, too. "Because you look in need of a little kindness."

Oh, come on!

"Look." Anarei had barely breathed out the word, before ceasing to speak, likely mincing her words inwardly. "Like it or not, we're stuck here together for the time being. We're just strangers, but still, we've helped each other out so far. Let me help you now."

He remembered the gods-awful crying, and resisted the urge to sigh. "Help me get better, then." He gave in and sighed anyway. "Help me so I can fight harder and longer again, because I do not want to see that face on you, alright?" He snarled as he realised how sentimental that sounded, and amended, "It's bloody irritating."

She looked both embarrassed and amused, her smile deepening just a touch. Evidently pleased with the offer, her voice softened almost instantly. "I'll try my best."


"Alright, let's see. Four levels beneath this one before we get to the royal crypts, and then some more digging around before we find Leoric's tomb. Was that what your friend said?"

He let out a soft growl - she was starting to get used to the particular sound he made every time he was frustrated or annoyed, but couldn't do anything about it. "That manipulative little witch of an archivist is not my friend."

She couldn't help but to chuckle as she glanced aside toward her companion - Lear was by far a better sight than the littered corpses and severed body parts lining their path. In their fear of the unknown, the people of Tristram had neglected to clear the cathedral of corpses - not even the parts that were safe from the undead. As a result, the corpses lay piled in corners, entombed within the darkness amongst festering flies. These, they avoided as they poked about, seeking what information they could in the meantime.

In the days following their mutual agreement to help and to accept help, Anarei had learnt to look away from the empty, vacant faces of the dead. It ached, still, to think about them - but that, at least, she could deal with in the privacy of her own room.

And so she watched Lear instead, wondered what he thought, considered the implications of Leah's hold over him.

She'd come up with absolutely nothing.

"Was that what the little bitch had said, then?"

"Language, Anarei. That was hardly befitting of a lady of your age and upbringing."

Mam would not approve, neither.

Still, she didn't quite feel as repentant as she ought, and, instead, chuckled again. "You've never been surrounded by rowdy northerners, then. Besides, I've been calling her that in my head all this time."

"I have been surrounded by crudely-spoken folk, thank you. I just don't think it's... necessary to be crude." He kicked at a piece of rubble, watch as it bounced down the walkway until it was stopped by a pile of bones. "Thinking something and saying something are entirely different matters, after all."

The idea amused her, somehow - that Lear was more inclined to be polite in speech in comparison to Taranis. He had never given her reason to be unhappy.

Dear old Taranis. I wonder how he's doing back home. Chasing skirts, probably, if uncle hasn't gotten him into the officer ranks already.

The thought of her friend made her a touch homesick. She swallowed, shook her head quickly, then turned to her current companion, pointedly refusing to look at the pile of bones. "Was that what Miss Leah had said, then?"

Please don't make me repeat the question a fourth time.

"The crypts are four floors down, and then a few more until we reach the tomb we're ultimately after, yes." He responded quickly and instantly, and she got the feeling that he had been readying his answer all along, and only wanted to take his time to make her life difficult.

She narrowed her eyes a little, biting on the sides of her lip as she peered at him. "And then we'll need to find Leoric's bones afterwards. Does Cain know what we'll be facing down there besides that? He was vague about the fallen star - for all we know, it could be a giant potato."

A giant potato that raises the dead. Gods, Rei - the things your mind comes up with. She hoped he'd understood the sarcasm.

He merely crooked an eyebrow at her, looking genuinely puzzled. "It doesn't smell like potato... usually when stars fall from the sky - comets and the like, they're heavy rocks, rich in rare metals. Perhaps it reacted oddly with the air, or the soil, or the dead bodies in the ground..." He trailed off, looking to be in deep thought.

So serious. He's actually considering it.

Anarei bit her lip, then let out a sigh. "Lear, I'll eat my shoe if the fallen star's a potato. I was just kidding - you know, making a point? That it could be just about anything in there?"

Lear blinked at her, before realisation dawned in his eyes. He grunted and turned away. "One thing at a time, Anarei. I just hope the 'crown' we need to find actually looks like a crown. What if it's... a wreath? A headpiece? Or even just a funny hat?" He snorted roughly, though he seemed more than a little amused, himself. "Can you believe it, though... a demon that refuses to awaken unless it's crowned? What is he, a petulant child doing role-playing?"

"Apparently there's some kind of magic imbued in that crown." Now she turned serious. She wrinkled her nose, her eyes crinkling with the movement - it obscured her vision, but only briefly, and then the corpses were visible again. "I'm not too sure what that's all about, but it was done so Leoric's skeleton couldn't be stolen away for whatever purpose."

Lear sounded disgusted by the notion. "Who'd want to steal a skeleton, of all things? Then again -"

He paused as a low groan came from ahead. For a second or two he tapped his foot on the ground, as though deliberating, before suddenly shooting forward to swing the heel of that foot directly into an undead, kicking it into another animated corpse and causing them both to be thrown into the wall. They splattered against it, trailing brownish-red blood and greyish-pink tissue as they slid to the floor.

" - some people have weird fetishes." He finished as he turned to continue on his way.

Anarei forced herself to look away, but was not spared the thick, squelching sound. It did not go unnoticed that Lear had disposed of them without so much as batting an eyelash. Don't think about it. Don't even consider what they were - what they are now, is dead. Dead and at peace, for real.

She hoped Lear wasn't watching too closely. After all, she'd promised to be strong. "Leoric's soul was tainted, after all. He was consumed by Diablo's evil. It's not unnatural to consider that those who serve a darker power might attempt to poke about, see if there's magic left in those old bones."

"Well, he's just another one we have to put to rest, then." He started to descend the stairs, beyond which low keening and moaning could be heard. "Ready your swords, Anarei, and remember - we're doing them a favour."

She followed him, drawing her swords, gripping them tightly. Then she prayed, prayed with all her heart and soul to the gods, that he was right.

Prayed that it would, in time, become easier to believe that she was, really and truly, doing the dead a favour.


Authors' Notes:

Em: Well, what do you know? Here's another chapter! We hope you've enjoyed the ride so far. Here's us getting the important things out of the way: We do not own any part of the Diablo franchise. Or Leah. Or Cain. (But we do own his insanity.)

Oph: We also own Leah's manipulative bitchiness, and very much prefer it to her wide-eyed innocent-fragile-flower character in-game. Glad you like that, too, Patches! And thanks also to Tarnished Libris for the reviews!

Em: Oh, yes. The reviews - the reviews that gave the both of us multitudes of giggles and lots of brain-juice (no zombie pun intended)! But we do love the reviews, though, so keep them coming, please? Pretty please?

Oph: It keeps us churning out quality chapters with gusto! Also, this chapter's really very quick... not sure how good we're gonna be with the next one, but we hope to get it out soon. It'll be another action-packed one!

Em: With lots of battle scenes, ethical discomforts for healers, and... gore. If Oph has her way, there will be gore. Anyhow, thanks for your support, and go right ahead and hit on that review button - it's feeling a bit lonely. Cheers!