The paladin awoke with a start. The warm, dry air of Hell was stifling, as though with it some adhesive substance had seeped into his lungs, filling them and sealing them. He stretched painfully, his bones seeming to cry out in protest of his movement. The very air seemed to be pressing in on him, crushing him beneath it like some great ocean wave. There was no ocean, however, no refreshing, cool water, only the endless black plains of ash and dust and the distant, perpetually darkened sky.
It had been three nights since Sankekur had been slain, three nights since he and his companions had crossed through the Infernal Gate into Hell. They had tumbled through a great vertical tunnel, fallen through the depths of the void towards the great, dark Abyss below, certain that they would never again feel solid earth beneath their feet. The darkness had churned and swirled around them, swallowing them up, and then their reason had given way to delusions of the greatest grandeur.
Angels had come, hundreds of them, a flock of winged soldiers from the highest kingdom. Cascio had seen them above him, behind him in the tunnel, struggling through the quagmire of the void to catch up to the paladin and his comrades. At their head he had seen a ghost – the archangel, Tyrael, who had died at Cascio's feet in an empty desert tomb.
It was a vision out of a dream, a hallucination only brought on by the trauma of the fall, he had told himself. His faith was broken, after all. He did not believe in such things as angels anymore.
Tired, confused, his feeble mind stretched beyond its capability, Cascio had blacked out.
That had been three nights ago. The next morning – if it could be called that, for the sun never truly rose in Hell – he had awoken in a place that did not, could not exist. It was a palace of impossible dimensions, its ceiling rising higher than where the skies of Hell seemed to be. It was a light in a place where anything but darkness felt simply wrong, a doorway and a barrier at once. It was paradox, it was oxymoron, and it was called the Pandemonium Fortress.
There he had seen another vision of the impossible, the ghost of the slain angel once more in his presence. Tyrael had been there, his great, mythic wings swirling idly around him as he leaned against one of the Fortress' white stone columns.
Each hero had spoken to the angel separately, and then left the Fortress with their own personal instructions. The barbarian had marched proudly into the twilight afternoon, his armor creaking with each step like a trumpeted announcement of his quest. The necromancer had stalked grimly through the Fortress' gates, his robes swishing as he walked, his task as plain in his face as his companion's had been in his body.
Cascio had been last. The others, he imagined, had left in search of their quests, in search of some artifact to recover or demon to slay in the name of the Light. The paladin had left to die.
He was sick of the endless quests, the nameless and numberless demons that existed only to impede his path. He was finished with crusading and battling evil, finished with taking orders from ghosts that did not exist. He was finished with the Light.
The angel's short words, as if of their own accord, returned to his thoughts as he sat, leaning against a boulder. He saw in his mind the featureless face tilting slightly with each inflection, heard each subtle implication of necessity.
"There is a dark, tortured soul," he began, "trapped within this forsaken realm long ago. In ages past he was my trusted ally, and my dear friend. Yet, against my wishes, he gave himself over to his own zeal and vanity. He thought that he could challenge the Prime Evils alone, without the rest of Heaven. He has paid dearly for his offense.
"He became a corrupt shadow of his former self - a fallen angel trusted neither by Heaven nor Hell. For his transgressions, his spirit was bound within the form of a terrible creature summoned from the Abyss. His maddened spirit has resided within that tortured husk for many ages now.
"It seems to me that he has suffered long enough. I implore you, hero, find him and release him from his cruel imprisonment. Put an end to his guilt and suffering."
Cascio had listened attentively to the archangel, and then departed the paradoxical structure forever. He fled Tyrael and his quests, fled Deckard Cain and his riddles, fled the Palace and its impossibility. He fled his task, his calling, and his life. He went out into the chaotic wilderness of Hell without an aim or a direction, intent to wander until some horrific beast stumbled upon him and killed him.
And stumble upon him they did, flocking by the dozens to torment and harass this soldier of the Light who dared to enter their realm. But Cascio had then learned something which frightened and frustrated him. He found he was unable to stand by and let them attack. He found he was compelled, propelled by some intangible force, to keep living, to keep fighting. He slew them all.
He had rested then, here, on this spot, against this rock. And though three nights had passed, the visions of Sankekur's death had once again come into his mind. He had slain both friend and foe in that battle, embracing a great victory in the war for the Light but at the same time a grim defeat in the battle for his own soul. He understood, now that it was not his belief in the Light which had been deflated. He believed in angels and demons and holy quests more than any priest could hope to, because he had seen more than his share of each.
What he lost was his faith. He knew these things existed now more than ever, but he no longer cared. He only wanted to stop and die, to escape his troubles and the war against Hell forever. Yet he could not, for that strange, invisible force had moved him to defend himself, long after he had already died inside.
He drew his sword from his scabbard, and angled the point towards his abdomen. He moved a finger over the gold letters inscribed on the blade, and the horrid black stains where demons had bled on the weapon. He moved both of his hands to the hilt, squeezing his eyes shut and preparing himself for death.
A moment passed. He did not move. He opened his eyes, looked the weapon over again, and again closed them tight. Again, he did not move. He could not bring himself to plunge the blade into his flesh.
He opened his eyes again, his hands lowering the weapon.
"Why do you keep trying?" said a voice he reluctantly recognized. He looked up to find the form of Tyrael hovering several feet off of the ground, just ahead of where he sat.
"I do not want to fight anymore," the paladin whispered feebly. "I have done my part."
"You are all such fools, you mortals," the angel boomed. "You think that whenever you grow weary your work is over. For you, the time to surrender is when you tire of the fight." He alighted on the dusty ground silently, shaking his head in disgust. "You forget the oaths which made you, the covenant that allowed you to fight at all."
"My covenant has been fulfilled!" Cascio yelled back. "I defeated killed Mephisto, the oldest of the Prime Evils, something no mortal or angel has ever done alone! I crossed through the Gates of Hell themselves to bring his Soulstone here, to be destroyed, and you tell me my covenant has been broken?"
"Do you recall the day you were knighted, paladin?" The angel asked.
"Of course."
"Do you remember the oath you swore that day?"
"Yes."
"Recite it for me." Cascio sighed. He knew he was beaten.
"'From breath to death, to coffin come, my body and soul to Heaven alone.'"
"Your body and soul belong to Heaven, little fool. As long as I have need of you, you will fight."
"For what? For an angel of Hell? A demon who was once your friend?"
"For whatever I tell you to fight for." Cascio sighed again. "You will find this angel and free him from his prison. You will do what you are told, and you will not once think of failure." There was a pause.
"As you wish, Lord Tyrael."
"You may call me Bright One, for that was the name by which I first was called. I in turn shall call you by name, Cascio, and not by 'mortal'."
"As you wish, Bright One."
"Now go."
It had been three nights since Sankekur had been slain, three nights since he and his companions had crossed through the Infernal Gate into Hell. They had tumbled through a great vertical tunnel, fallen through the depths of the void towards the great, dark Abyss below, certain that they would never again feel solid earth beneath their feet. The darkness had churned and swirled around them, swallowing them up, and then their reason had given way to delusions of the greatest grandeur.
Angels had come, hundreds of them, a flock of winged soldiers from the highest kingdom. Cascio had seen them above him, behind him in the tunnel, struggling through the quagmire of the void to catch up to the paladin and his comrades. At their head he had seen a ghost – the archangel, Tyrael, who had died at Cascio's feet in an empty desert tomb.
It was a vision out of a dream, a hallucination only brought on by the trauma of the fall, he had told himself. His faith was broken, after all. He did not believe in such things as angels anymore.
Tired, confused, his feeble mind stretched beyond its capability, Cascio had blacked out.
That had been three nights ago. The next morning – if it could be called that, for the sun never truly rose in Hell – he had awoken in a place that did not, could not exist. It was a palace of impossible dimensions, its ceiling rising higher than where the skies of Hell seemed to be. It was a light in a place where anything but darkness felt simply wrong, a doorway and a barrier at once. It was paradox, it was oxymoron, and it was called the Pandemonium Fortress.
There he had seen another vision of the impossible, the ghost of the slain angel once more in his presence. Tyrael had been there, his great, mythic wings swirling idly around him as he leaned against one of the Fortress' white stone columns.
Each hero had spoken to the angel separately, and then left the Fortress with their own personal instructions. The barbarian had marched proudly into the twilight afternoon, his armor creaking with each step like a trumpeted announcement of his quest. The necromancer had stalked grimly through the Fortress' gates, his robes swishing as he walked, his task as plain in his face as his companion's had been in his body.
Cascio had been last. The others, he imagined, had left in search of their quests, in search of some artifact to recover or demon to slay in the name of the Light. The paladin had left to die.
He was sick of the endless quests, the nameless and numberless demons that existed only to impede his path. He was finished with crusading and battling evil, finished with taking orders from ghosts that did not exist. He was finished with the Light.
The angel's short words, as if of their own accord, returned to his thoughts as he sat, leaning against a boulder. He saw in his mind the featureless face tilting slightly with each inflection, heard each subtle implication of necessity.
"There is a dark, tortured soul," he began, "trapped within this forsaken realm long ago. In ages past he was my trusted ally, and my dear friend. Yet, against my wishes, he gave himself over to his own zeal and vanity. He thought that he could challenge the Prime Evils alone, without the rest of Heaven. He has paid dearly for his offense.
"He became a corrupt shadow of his former self - a fallen angel trusted neither by Heaven nor Hell. For his transgressions, his spirit was bound within the form of a terrible creature summoned from the Abyss. His maddened spirit has resided within that tortured husk for many ages now.
"It seems to me that he has suffered long enough. I implore you, hero, find him and release him from his cruel imprisonment. Put an end to his guilt and suffering."
Cascio had listened attentively to the archangel, and then departed the paradoxical structure forever. He fled Tyrael and his quests, fled Deckard Cain and his riddles, fled the Palace and its impossibility. He fled his task, his calling, and his life. He went out into the chaotic wilderness of Hell without an aim or a direction, intent to wander until some horrific beast stumbled upon him and killed him.
And stumble upon him they did, flocking by the dozens to torment and harass this soldier of the Light who dared to enter their realm. But Cascio had then learned something which frightened and frustrated him. He found he was unable to stand by and let them attack. He found he was compelled, propelled by some intangible force, to keep living, to keep fighting. He slew them all.
He had rested then, here, on this spot, against this rock. And though three nights had passed, the visions of Sankekur's death had once again come into his mind. He had slain both friend and foe in that battle, embracing a great victory in the war for the Light but at the same time a grim defeat in the battle for his own soul. He understood, now that it was not his belief in the Light which had been deflated. He believed in angels and demons and holy quests more than any priest could hope to, because he had seen more than his share of each.
What he lost was his faith. He knew these things existed now more than ever, but he no longer cared. He only wanted to stop and die, to escape his troubles and the war against Hell forever. Yet he could not, for that strange, invisible force had moved him to defend himself, long after he had already died inside.
He drew his sword from his scabbard, and angled the point towards his abdomen. He moved a finger over the gold letters inscribed on the blade, and the horrid black stains where demons had bled on the weapon. He moved both of his hands to the hilt, squeezing his eyes shut and preparing himself for death.
A moment passed. He did not move. He opened his eyes, looked the weapon over again, and again closed them tight. Again, he did not move. He could not bring himself to plunge the blade into his flesh.
He opened his eyes again, his hands lowering the weapon.
"Why do you keep trying?" said a voice he reluctantly recognized. He looked up to find the form of Tyrael hovering several feet off of the ground, just ahead of where he sat.
"I do not want to fight anymore," the paladin whispered feebly. "I have done my part."
"You are all such fools, you mortals," the angel boomed. "You think that whenever you grow weary your work is over. For you, the time to surrender is when you tire of the fight." He alighted on the dusty ground silently, shaking his head in disgust. "You forget the oaths which made you, the covenant that allowed you to fight at all."
"My covenant has been fulfilled!" Cascio yelled back. "I defeated killed Mephisto, the oldest of the Prime Evils, something no mortal or angel has ever done alone! I crossed through the Gates of Hell themselves to bring his Soulstone here, to be destroyed, and you tell me my covenant has been broken?"
"Do you recall the day you were knighted, paladin?" The angel asked.
"Of course."
"Do you remember the oath you swore that day?"
"Yes."
"Recite it for me." Cascio sighed. He knew he was beaten.
"'From breath to death, to coffin come, my body and soul to Heaven alone.'"
"Your body and soul belong to Heaven, little fool. As long as I have need of you, you will fight."
"For what? For an angel of Hell? A demon who was once your friend?"
"For whatever I tell you to fight for." Cascio sighed again. "You will find this angel and free him from his prison. You will do what you are told, and you will not once think of failure." There was a pause.
"As you wish, Lord Tyrael."
"You may call me Bright One, for that was the name by which I first was called. I in turn shall call you by name, Cascio, and not by 'mortal'."
"As you wish, Bright One."
"Now go."