Monsters. The words echoed unpleasantly in Tyrael's mind. The nephalem were monsters. He looked down at the one, the last of them, currently using his leg as a chin rest. Rathma...well, he unfortunately looked the part, even now.

Thick, ebony-black hair, smooth and curved snout, glowing horns...red eyes…they all served to make his appearance that much more fearsome. Nevermind the claws Tyrael knew were folded neatly somewhere beneath him. Nevermind the cloven hooves, which had shifted and changed into razor-sharp talons as needed, tucked against his side. Nevermind the whip-like tail, which looked so innocuous now, but Tyrael had seen him impale dozens of hapless victims with.

Inhuman was an understatement. Rathma was practically demonic.

Tyrael hissed to himself, and shook his head. No, he knew that wasn't the case. Really, he should know better.

Rathma was an even mix of angelic and demonic. 50/50. If he weren't it would've been abundantly clear. He was Nephalem, and that was all there was to it. Unfortunately, it just so happened that the nephalem weren't as...docile as Tyrael had believed.

(He hadn't forgotten Inarius's purge of the forebears of humanity. Hadn't forgotten, and hadn't understood, until now.)

The nephalem was asleep, had been for the last four days now, and Tyrael was thankful he wasn't awake to feel the troubled thoughts in his head. Their awful work in the Temple of the Firstborn had apparently sapped most of Rathma's strength, and he had mumbled something about 'enforced hibernation' before simply collapsing on his uncle. It was a good thing Tyrael himself possessed inhuman strength - Rathma was much heavier than he looked. He'd brought them both back to the commune. Cleaned the blood off best he could (was thankful when his charge briefly awoke and used some necromancer spell to simply pull all the blood from their clothing.) Only told the Horadrim that they had dealt with the threat in the Moors. Swore not to say another word about it.

And Rathma had slept. At times Tyrael thought he might've been dead were it not for the telltale rise-and-fall of his chest. Aside from a flick of his tail and flicker of the horns above his head every now and again, he did not stir. Tyrael had dropped him on the couch in the main room near the fireplace, and let him be.

The Horadrim voiced their worries, and it was all Tyrael could do to shrug and make guesses. Well, he was certain the nephalem would be fine - would wake up eventually. He just had no idea when.

Concern, of multiple types, drove him to hang around the main room more often. Concern for Rathma. What he would think, what he would do. What he had to say for himself…

That wasn't entirely fair, Tyrael knew. The necromancers as an order had been active almost since the Day of Judgement. Rathma himself, he knew, had been active far longer. Faced much more than any other mortal alive. Had he not kept loyal to his ideals of balance all this time? It would've been out of character for him to do anything that could upset that balance.

Vidian had been the one upsetting things. The Lord of Envy had died screaming rage and blood, as both bone-spear and El'Druin ran him through. Belatedly, Tyrael wondered if the demon had been able to work his infernal influence on Rathma as well. He knew well how that particular demon operated, and he was not a simple foe to deal with. Vidian wove deceit, mistrust and treachery into his enemies, made them turn on one another.

Rathma had not turned on him...but Tyrael had thought he might, for a time.

And yet...here they were, in the middle of Westmarch, laying on a couch together. The threat had been dealt with, and they both lived to tell the tale. As unnerving as he appeared, Rathma did not look like a threat right now. He looked tired.

Tyrael certainly felt tired too; physically and mentally. He had given his all in the battle against the blood cultists, and his mortal body began to tire out much easier than his angelic soul did. It recovered quickly too though.

Mentally was a different matter. He kept dreaming of all the carnage, and the thick blood-scent. Kept seeing the nephalem in the Temple of the Firstborn turning on him, red in his eyes, his mouth, on his claws. Every time he woke up gasping and clutching at his heart.

They weren't real. Tyrael knew this. If Rathma wanted him dead, he would be dead, plain and simple.

It was an awful thing to be thinking about, but the former angel found he couldn't help it. Even with the proof of his nephew's innocence literally in his lap, he couldn't shake the unpleasant thoughts. He knew Rathma wouldn't hurt him, knew he fought for the good of Sanctuary. He feared him anyway.

Was it because he was a human-angel, or an angelic-human? Tyrael couldn't say. Would another man have feared the nephalem as he now did? He couldn't say. Would another angel?

Okay that one he could answer. Imperius would not have thought twice about incinerating Rathma and being on his way. Even Auriel probably would have put him down when things got too bloody. Inarius's purge of the ancient nephalem made an awful lot of sense now that Tyrael had really seen one in action. A planet full of the monstrous creatures could've created such carnage…

Rathma's tail flicked once, and flopped onto the ground with a thwump, but he did not wake. Tyrael stared down at him, heart thudding in his chest.

Angrily, Tyrael stamped that line of thought out. Rathma was not a creature, he was a person, and Tyrael knew that. He shouldn't be letting his fears run away from him like this. Were angels not just as capable of such destruction after all? Malthael certainly had been.

So what if Rathma sometimes fought like an animal. What really mattered was who he was fighting, not how.

Tyrael kept insisting that to himself. But his heart was still uncertain.