Life became normal. Routine. Simple.
Tyrael could honestly say he wouldn't miss the constant tension and fear that the last few months had brought. Since he'd fallen, it felt as though events had charged forward at a breakneck pace - Leah, Adria, Arreat, Diablo, the Heavens, Malthael - all within the span of a few months. This was a lot for a mortal, let alone an angel, who was used to having all the time in the world at his disposal.
And so the days of dull nothingness had come to him strange, but welcome. All there was to worry about was rebuilding, and the Horadrim. And, of course, Rathma. The Nephalem was adept at taking care of himself though, so really, just the first two.
After a few weeks, Rathma had finally settled into something like a routine. He still came and went as he pleased, but there were certain days he would most certainly be present, and others he most definitely would not.
Tyrael memorized the pattern, and reacted accordingly. There was always a room prepared when Rathma needed it. Neither one of them discussed the arrangement, and Tyrael decided to be pleased with the fact that he could keep track of the wayward Nephalem, at least some of the time. At no point had he expected Rathma to respond to his consideration with gifts of his own.
They would appear in random, often hidden locations, but always where Tyrael was likely to happen upon them. (That the Nephalem could so easily predict his movements was vaguely unnerving, but also touching.) So far, he'd acquired an old Nephalem blade, texts citing the policies and government of several nations that no longer existed, a gabbering gemstone, one very big mushroom, and a book that he could swear let out satanic mooing on occasion. It was an odd assortment of gifts, but Tyrael happily studied all of them, and took steps to ensure their preservation.
Life went on. They continued their pattern, and Westmarch grew around them.
The capitol city had erupted into a hub of activity in the days following the attack. Structures needed repair, leadership was a question, families were broken. There was also the neighboring cities in the kingdom to account for, and send aid to. Something could always be found to do, but that something was rarely so life-threatening as charging out across ice and brimstone to face the armies of Hell.
Repair, Tyrael could deal with. It was a nice change of pace really. It felt good to help the people around him, and watch them rise up.
As the people sorted out their governing issue, Tyrael and his group lent their hands where they could, when they could. And they kept their ears open, and eyes watchful. Rathma had made a point when he brought up Imperius's wrath, and it couldn't hurt to be prepared for the worst.
Really though, there wasn't so much to worry about now.
Buildings were raised. People banded together, as humans did. Tyrael continued learning more and more about mortality, about humanity, and all its little nuances. He was quite sure there would always be more to learn about the people of Sanctuary. Always some cultural quirk, or some physical thing he'd previously not noticed.
Tyrael watched a child get a splinter, and learned just how frail human skin could be. He watched that child's mother tend the splinter, and give comfort. He watched several dozen strangers come together and raise an entire house from nothing, for nothing, but the sake of that woman and her five homeless children. The mortal's capacity for compassion continued to astound him. Where they were needed, good people came. It was an utterly fascinating phenomenon to be witnessing first hand.
Around the time Tyrael had been wondering if it would be impolite to record his thoughts on the matter, Rathma had thumped a set of three thick journals down on his desk. Yet another of his strange 'gifts'. They were old, worn out things, and at the time, Tyrael had been between errands. He'd thanked his nephew, asked him if he could check on the Horadrim for him, and been on his way.
It was much later in the evening that he'd rediscovered the tomes, and finally gotten the time to read them. And what a marvellous gift they turned out to be.
To his amazement, Tyrael found writings that mirrored his own thoughts. Apparently, humans were just as prone to helping one another at the dawn of modern mortals as they were now. The former angel had eagerly read through half the first book before he even thought to check who had written them, or where they'd come from.
The answer was perhaps the last one he'd expected. Tyrael was shocked to learn that Rathma had kept his father's writings all these years. Just how the Nephalem had come into their possession, he was violently curious about.
Reading his brother's journals made his heart ache and throb in ways he previously hadn't experienced. Inarius had found much the same as he had, felt like he did. Tyrael longed for his brother's presence more than ever at that point - longed to speak to him, to discuss the wondrous thing he'd curated here upon his creation. It...hurt, knowing what had become of , it hurt, and he could admit that now that he was not bound to the rigidity of the Heavens.
What changed brother? What drove you to such mad destruction as we found upon Sanctuary around you?
For a brief moment, Tyrael considered asking Rathma about it, but decided to let that conversation wait. For now, he would simply read, and experience, and maybe record his own thoughts on the newfound normalcy around him.
Tyrael hadn't felt this connected to his brother since long before Sanctuary's creation.