A/N

Basically the Legacy of the Horadrim system from Diablo Immortal mixed with Diablo IV lore, in case you're wondering where the idea for this came from.


Last of the Horadrim

Westmarch.

The City of the Light. The capital of the most powerful kingdom on Sanctuary's western continent. The martial and mercantile capital of the world. A place of culture, of light, of learning, of faith. Westmarch, the melting pot of the world.

Westmarch, now a city in ruins. The fallen capital of a kingdom that no longer existed. A world where light had long receded, where faith was replaced by fear, knowledge by ignorance, and where the remnants of humanity separated ever further, in a world forever broken by one of his own kind.

Ironic, he thought, as he made his way through the city's empty streets. Ironic, that in a matter of weeks, one of his own had accomplished what the forces of Hell had not accomplished in eons. Through the Black Soulstone, Malthael had wiped out 90% of the human race, and in doing so, destroyed entire kingdoms and peoples. He had, in a sense, ended the Eternal Conflict.

And replaced it with eternal horror.

None would have guessed that the old man who made his way into Rakkis Plaza was named Tyrael. That once, he was a being of light and sound, now reduced to failing muscle and withered bone. If he had told them that once, justice and wisdom were his virtues, the people would have laughed – what justice was left in this world, they would ask? Wisdom has long since departed, so why should we listen to you, and not the hundreds of madmen, would-be prophets, and false oracles, all of whom promise salvation? Why you, and not another?

To that, he would have no answer. So in this shattered city, under the gaze of long-dead kings, he took, however briefly, solace in his solitude.

His feet likewise gained solace as he took a seat at the fountain. Murky water remained, filled with leaves and grime. Water no longer flowed from its depths, its pipes having long since fallen into ruin. No water, to clear away the dirt. No water, to remove the stench of blood, that even now, lingered in this place. No sight of the living, bar the small creature that skittered up to join him. Staring at the wandering traveller, as if it had never seen a man before.

Which, he supposed, the rat hadn't.

"Hello," Tyrael said.

The rat made no move, towards or away from his companion. It just sat there, looking up at the broken shell of a man. One of tattered tunic and broken armour. One whose sword hung limply at his belt, its owner no longer possessing the strength to wield it.

Perhaps the rat wondered why the man was here…and how soon he would perish, so his body could provide sustenance.

"Such a simple creature," the fallen angel mused. "Innocent, and unaware."

There was a nagging feeling in his breast. A reminder that this was a new low. He'd eaten rats, yes, so bereft of food to find, but now, he was talking to one, as if it be his companion. Not even to demons had he extended such a courtesy.

"Perhaps you wonder why I have come here," Tyrael asked. "To the ruins of a fallen kingdom, struck down by one of my own."

The rat just sat there.

"I would tell you, little one, but I know not the answer myself. For what is here is the same as elsewhere. Cities where the dead outnumber the living, their souls cruelly torn from their bodies. In the decades I have walked, I have seen my brothers' greatest fears justified. The depravity of Man, as when stripped of order and comfort, they turn on one another."

The rat said nothing. Did nothing. Turning away from it, Tyrael shifted his gaze to the statue of a king. Rakkis, ever looking down over the plaza of his namesake. Parts of the stone had crumbled, but otherwise, the sculpture endured. Warrior. Conqueror. Philosopher. The visage of a long dead king, watching over the ruins of a long dead city.

"Perhaps I came to pay my respects," Tyrael mused, talking to himself as much as his companion. "Or perhaps…" He turned to the rodent. "Perhaps I came here to die."

The rat scuttled off, disappearing into the shadows. Odd, Tyrael thought. If I came here to die, you'd think such scavengers would be grateful.

Or perhaps it knew better. Perhaps through its nose, it could sense that the man before him was not of this world. Perhaps death would have to wait.

And yet Death came early, Tyrael thought, as he cast his gaze over the empty stone. And Death was once my brother.

He did not know when death would come to him. Death came to every man, soon or late, and even before Malthael's genocide, more often than not, the answer to when death came was "soon." Be it through sword, claw, disease, or other general mishap, the lives of humans were often short, and filled with misery. Moreso now, perhaps more than any other time in their history, but the truth remained the same.

Death always found you. And while he could no gauge how long he had, he sensed the end was near. The ache in his bones. The pain in his heart. The shadows beneath his eyes, and the empty hope within his breast.

Once, there had been a time when he'd dared hope that the dark might be kept at bay. He stood at the head of a new order of Horadrim. The Nephalem, even as her heart darkened, had been committed to Sanctuary's salvation. As they made their plans, as they thwarted schemes, as the Nephalem travelled as far as Greyhollow, the Temple of the Firstborn, and even beyond Sanctuary itself, there had been hope, however pallid its flame.

But that was a long time ago. Hope had dried up, as surely as the waters of this fountain. Taking to his feet, and looking down at the sludge that now filled it, Tyrael searched in vain for his reflection. Wondered if perhaps all his tears might cleanse it.

And how many it would take to cleanse the world.

"Tyrael…"

He winced, as the wind taunted him. Bitter was its taste, and cold was its touch. It was midday, and yet, dark clouds covered the sky, as they so often did. As if Sanctuary itself was dying.

"Tyrael…"

And indeed, he couldn't rule out that possibility. But if so, what could he, or anyone do?

"Tyrael, hear me."

He took a breath, and closed his eyes. "Begone, spectre," he whispered. "My ears have no need for the whispers of the dead."

"Not dead. A memory."

"Memory?" Tyrael's hand tightened at his sword's hilt, even if he knew it was useless. "Yes, of course. Memory and death. One dominated by the other. Death eradicated the memory of this world, and death defines its future."

"Perhaps."

Tyrael sighed. "Take me, spectre. I am ready."

A lie. He wasn't. He never would be. Demons and angels were ever reborn in their realms, and he had seen the process more times he could count. Demons, slain centuries ago, returned to the battlefields of eternity. The Song of the Arch weaving new angels into existence, replacing their fallen brothers. As an angel, death had not given him fear, for he knew his cause was just, and be it in victory or defeat, he would play his role in the Eternal Conflict. Until the sons and daughters of Anu ever sundered the plains of Hell, or until fire took the Silver City, and all who called it home.

But for the souls of mortals, of mankind…he had no answer. Knew not if he would join them in whatever hereafter awaited their spirits, or if only oblivion awaited the former Archangel of Justice.

"Tyrael," the voice whispered. "Tyrael, open your eyes."

He sighed. "Look death in the face?" He whispered. "Well, why not? One last time, before these eyes are forever shut."

With heavy breath, Tyrael looked upon the spectre. And with wide eyes, stared at his companion.

A single ball of light. Flickering pallidly in the unnatural gloom, but clearly no wraith nor ghost come to torment the mortal realm. Not nearly enough light to drive back the dark, and no warmth accompanied his glow, but still, Tyrael found comfort in its presence.

"What are you?" He whispered. "Who are you?"

"A memory," answered the light. "And a friend."

"A friend's memory?"

"…you may call me that."

Tyrael frowned. "There are those that I called friends once," he whispered. "All of them are long gone."

"All but one, perhaps?"

"That is a complicated matter," Tyrael murmured. "And one that is beyond my reach."

The spirit remained silent. Its glow dimmed, however slightly.

"Begone, sprite," Tyrael whispered. "The light has died, and no amount of rage shall bring it back. Leave me, so I may join the dead of this city."

"This is not the Tyrael I knew," whispered the light.

"Know me?" Tyrael asked. "How can you claim to know such a thing?"

The light just hung there.

"Well?"

"Follow me," said the light. "And perhaps you shall find something beyond rage or regret."

Tyrael very much doubted that. But then, what could the light do to him that was any worse than what had been done to this world? The gates of Heaven forever shut, the mortal realm forever damned, his friends and companions long dead, bar one, whose name he had long refused to speak? If grief was a blade, there was no blood for it left to draw.

"Very well, little light," Tyrael said. "Lead on.."

The sprite's glow increased.

As if it were laughing.


Westmarch had been built on secrets, so Tyrael was unsurprised when the light revealed a new one.

A statue against the walls of the plaza swung open, revealing a spiralling staircase that led to a pit of darkness. Following the light, Tyrael descended into the gloom, taking his time with every step. His heart was old, and his bones frail, and any slip here could spell his doom.

Of course, he thought, as he watched the light, he might have been descending into his doom regardless. It was tempting to think that all that was light was good, but he knew better. Even his own kindred had nearly destroyed this entire realm at the end of the Sin War. And more than one angel had descended to Sanctuary over the millennia that followed, and not only for magnanimous reasons. The Zakarum had given praise to the Light, and that devotion had turned them into fanatics. Mephisto's hand had guided them, yes, but if the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, as so many said, it was safe to say that the priests had walked it.

And Malthael, for all his sins, had still been a child of Anu, he reminded himself, as he descended further beneath this dead city. All of Sanctuary had suffered the effects of the Black Soulstone, the souls of men, women, and children ripped from their bodies, but Westmarch had suffered his trespass even before that. The Rakkisguard overwhelmed within hours, the dead raised to join the ranks of the Reapers, the living scattering to the winds when it was over.

"You are troubled."

Tyrael frowned as the light continued to lead him down into the gloom.

"We are all troubled."

"We?" Tyrael murmured. "Who is we?"

The light remained silent.

"Speak, little firefly. Even without tongue, I know you can manage it."

"It is better that I show you," the light said.

Tyrael scoffed. "Of course it is."

No other word was spoken between them as they continued down the winding stairs. No sound but that of the fallen angel's breath, and the drip-drip-drip of water above. Landing with the force of blood.

It was long…too long, for Tyrael's reckoning…before they reached the base of the stair. Even from above, he saw what the light was leading him to, but it was only when he reached its base that he could fully comprehend the sight before him.

"By all that is holy," he whispered.

"Not holy," said the light. "But used in a fight against those who are not."

The light's words were naught but wind, in a world where few were holy, and fewer still were righteous. Tyrael counted himself not among the former, and whether he fell in the ranks of the latter, it made no difference. He neither worshipped, nor demanded it. He was no false prophet or true believer. But here, now…

He fell to his knees in front of the device. This great swirling gateway. A portal, providing passage from one place to the next. Did its road cut through the Ether, or was it more advanced than that?

"By whose hands was this made?" He whispered, as he looked at the light. "Who among this realm could create such a marvel?"

"The Horadrim," answered the light simply. "Used to provide passage from here to the Sanctum of Iben Fahd, and back again. Built before this land saw the coming of Rakkis. When its people were naught but squabbling clans, ignorant of worlds beyond their own."

Tyrael was barely listening. The name of Iben Fahd had been spoken. And that mattered more than all the history of Westmarch.

"There is recognition in your eyes," the light said. "You know the name of Iben Fahd?"

Tyrael took a breath. "I could never forget."

"Could you not? The world has long forgotten the Horadrim of old."

"But not I," Tyrael protested.

"Even as the new Horadric order likewise into ruin?"

Tyrael remained silent. The light's words were not an accusation. And yet, their words carved through his heart.

"I cannot lead the Horadrim," he whispered. "My time is done. Their time is done. My only purpose is to find a place to die."

"And you have found such a place?"

Tyrael looked back at the portal. "If this leads to Iben Fahd's sanctum…I would see it with my eyes, before they are forever shut."

The light made no sound, and spoke no word. Perhaps it was satisfied with his answer. Perhaps not. Perhaps this was an elaborate trap. Perhaps not. Perhaps not of this mattered at all, and he was but a dead man walking. Left to rot in the shadows, while so many sought light…and at least one of whom fully embraced the darkness.

So with heavy heart, and heavy breath, he rose to his feet.

With heavy footstep, he walked towards the portal.

And stepping through, all the heaviness of the world disappeared.

Breath escaped his lungs, as he felt himself flying.

Through space…across a world…falling…until, at last…


…he landed.

He stumbled forward, his hands preventing his lips from kissing the ground. He got to his feet, his hand at his sword's hilt, his eyes wide open – pupils dilated in the gloom.

"Little light?" He asked.

There was indeed light, flickering from countless candles. Kept alit through magic no doubt. For there was no sign of the living, or any construct, that might have kept the flame burning.

"Little light, where are you?"

Still, it was absent. He turned around and saw the portal behind him. An identical construct to the one beneath Westmarch, yet inactive. If there was a way to turn it on, to return to the dead city he'd left behind, he could see no mechanism.

So, little light. Did you lead me here to die?

If so, it was a waste of time. Death was coming for him anyway. And all the knowledge in his head, accumulated through aeons of conflict, could avail no-one, whether they sought Sanctuary's salvation or its demise. If he were to die here…well, there were worse things in this life.

So he walked. Not towards the portal, but away from it. Down the single corridor that lay before him, under flickering candlelight. Shadows danced upon the stone walls, and upon them, he could see the carved visages of those no doubt long dead.

Mostly men. Some women. For a moment, as he hesitated in the gloom, he thought they looked familiar. Almost as if…

He shook his head and continued his march. The dead were dead, and they could not hear him, or see the look in his eyes. He had seen many mortal faces over his years – from Uldyssian, to Siggard, to the Horadrim, to those of more recent times. The heroes who had pursued the Dark Wanderer. The heroes who had aided the Nephalem. The new Horadrim he had formed…all dead, or fated to be.

So he kept walking, but not for long. Because stepping into a large, circular chamber, his unease was temporarily replaced by awe.

A single crystal. Carved to perfection. Shining with amber light, providing more illumination than all of the torches around it combined. So perfect, he reflected, as if it had been carved from Anu himself. For a moment, he reached out for it…

"Welcome, Tyrael."

…and stopped short, as his hand reached for his sword. Though looking at the sphere of light before him, he was reminded that it would do him no good

"Welcome home."

"Home," scoffed the fallen angel. "My home is forever barred to me. And nothing in this world will ever become a likewise abode."

It was silly, but the light looked taken aback. "Do you not recognize us?"

Sounded taken aback as well.

"Did you not see the faces in the corridor behind you?"

"I have seen many faces over the years," Tyrael responded. "I cannot remember all of them."

"Then…is this a face you recognize?"

Tyrael went to ask what the light meant. But as he shielded his eyes from the flash that followed, illuminating the chamber with the glow of a hundred suns…he had no opportunity.

And as the light cleared, as he saw the figure before him, the need to ask such a question was gone. Replaced by a dozen others.

"This face," said the glowing man. "Do you recognize it?"

Tyrael strained his eyes. Stared in bewilderment. Stared, gazed, and eventually, with baited breath, whispered, "Iben Fahd?"

The man bowed. "The same. In a sense."

Tyrael took a step towards the man. Gingerly, he extended his hand to the glowing entity's chest, only for it to pass through.

"A ghost?" Tyrael whispered.

"More, and yet less," the man said. "A memory. Created by the real Iben Fahd, with all the Horadrim. Your followers. Your family. Those who rose to this world's need at your command."

Tyrael tried not to weep. Tried, and failed.

To see the face of the dead, smiling back at him.

To recall the days of the Hunt for the Three. Where thrice he had appeared before the Horadrim, providing guidance every step of the way. He had remained in Heaven, and each member of the first generation of Horadrim had eventually left this world. Leaving few descendants, and fewer still with every passing generation.

"I tried to rebuild the Order," Tyrael whispered. "Once again, it failed."

"Failed?" The memory asked. "How did we fail?"

Tyrael couldn't even begin to count the ways. The Horadrim had sealed the Prime Evils, but Izual had revealed that this had all been their own scheme. And beyond that, Diablo's scheme within a scheme, to become a singular Prime Evil. Where all of Creation trembled at his footsteps, and howled at the sound of his voice. How even then, when life and light had been saved at the final hour, his hopes for the future had been shattered by his brother.

The world was broken. The Horadrim broken. He could not call any of that a success.

"We are here, are we not?" Asked Iben Fahd. "You, and I, if only as memory. The world has not ended. Hell has not taken it. You walk like a broken man, in the shadow of a broken city, and yet you do not see what has endured. You lament what was lost, rather than celebrate what was saved"

Tyrael chose his words carefully. Murmured, "you have watched?"

"As best as these eyes can manage."

"Then you know I approach life's end. That with every step, my heart beats slower, and my eyes come nearer to being forever closed."

"I know," Iben Fahd whispered. "Which is why you are here. Where, in your final days, you may be in the company of friends."

Friend. The word was alien to Tyrael's ears. In a sense, humbling. That any Horadrim, ghost or not, would call him as such.

In another, harrowing. Because there had been one that Tyrael had called friend. One who had saved this world twice-over. One who, now, was forever lost to him. But-

"Friends," Tyrael whispered. "Not friend?"

Iben Fahd smiled, as if satisfied that Tyrael had finally caught on. "Behold," he whispered. "The legacy of the Horadrim."

The crystal began to shine. Brighter than anything the golden figure before him had managed. There was a flash of light, more brilliant than the light before him. More brilliant than the Crystal Arch itself. Had he not shielded his eyes, Tyrael would have been blinded.

But the light faded, and in its place, around the crystal, were nine golden figures. All of whom looked at Tyrael, smiling.

Smiling, as the fallen angel looked upon them…and began to weep.

"Memories," Iben Fahd said. "Channelled essence, maintained in vessels. Memories to guide the Horadrim of future generations. The vessels lost, with the disintegration of the Order, but returned to this place by the Shard-bearer."

Tyrael was scarce listening. In this moment, sight was more important to him than sound, as to each golden figure, he looked into their eyes, and saw the past.

"Jered Cain," he whispered, before turning his eyes to the next. "Nor Tiraj. Nilfur. Cathan. Caldessan. Tal Rasha." His eyes narrowed as he reached the penultimate one. "Zoltun Kulle."

The memory of Kulle chuckled. "Saving the best till last, eh? You always were a people person, Tyrael."

That, Tyrael doubted. And yet he smiled, as he beheld the face of the Ennead mage. As he was reminded of the man Kulle had been, not the monster he'd become.

There was one other figure, standing at the back of the circle. A man of mask, and no name. The Nameless. The one who gave Tyrael pause.

"We are here," Iben Fahd said. "The legacy of the Horadrim endures." He smiled. "Your legacy."

"Legacy," uttered all of the golden figures.

Tyrael, even as he wept, shook his head, and went to sit at the base of the crystal. Every figure stared at him in silence. Fahd followed him. Stood before him, like Akarat himself tending to the sick. Understanding, as the prophet had, that sickness could affect the soul as much as the body.

"The legacy does not endure," Tyrael whispered. "We failed. I failed." He looked at Jered. "Your descendant, I failed, and his foster-daughter too." He looked at Kulle. "You. The man you became tried to warn us of a witch's treachery, yet our ears and eyes remained shut until all paid the price." He looked from one Horadrim to the next, speaking as he did so. "The world is broken. The Horadrim are no more. Heaven will offer no aid, and Hell, while shattered, is no friend to this world. And the hero of our times…" His eyes finally reached the Nameless. "She is lost to us."

"Lost?" The Nameless asked.

"Nephalem. Master of Death. One who pursued power above all else. One who has turned her back on this world. One who I once called friend." He turned his gaze to the stone-cold floor. "One whom I now call monster."

None of the Horadrim spoke. Perhaps they had the eyes to see what she had done, and just as egregiously, what she hadn't. Perhaps, like the Nameless, they understood why he dare not speak the name of the Nephalem. Why he could not look at the shining figure of Kulle, or even Tal Rasha, and not be reminded of what they had become.

One, a monster. Another, the vessel for one.

"Tyrael."

"Begone," the fallen angel whispered. "Begone, and let me die alone. The world is cold, the mountains no longer green. The moon casts long shadow, and bitter is water's taste."

"Tyrael, we shall not abandon you."

"Go!" Wisdom's aspect cried. "Go, my friends. Fade into memory. Death is no friend of mine, for death has become her aspect, but death I shall face nonetheless. Go, and leave me to these dark halls. I seek neither harp nor song, or any comforts of this realm. I…" He trailed off.

"Tyrael?" Fahd whispered.

The fallen angel put a hand to his chest. Weary was his heart, and long since wounded. Feeling it now…and more importantly, what he didn't feel…he knew what it meant.

"This body knows the end is near," Tyrael whispered. "And I…"

"Do you fear death?" Nilfur whispered.

"That black abyss?" ventured Caldessan.

"Of course I fear it," Tyrael whispered. "I have feared death from the moment I descended to this world in fire. I have faced death, defied death, seen an angel of death fall, and death be seized by a mortal, now immortal, and I…" He took a breath. "Yes, I fear death."

"So did we all," said Nor Tiraj. "But we endured."

"We had those who followed us," said Cain.

"And even while we linger in this world," said Cathan.

"We shall not abandon you," said Fahd. "Not you, who have given more to us than any son or daughter of Heaven."

Tyrael remained silent.

"Not you, Archangel of Justice. Not you, Aspect of Wisdom. Not you, Father of the Horadrim, Shepherd of the Lost, Sanctuary's Shield. Not you, our friend, and father." Fahd smiled. "Not you."

"Never," whispered Kulle.

Tyrael nodded, and looked upon his friends and companions all. These brave souls, who had cast aside everything to bind the Three. The greatest minds and mages of their age. Those, who like Tal Rasha, had sacrificed everything. Those who, like Cain, had given rise to heroes of their own. Those, even like Kulle, who in their own way, had done their service even beyond death.

"I am glad to be with you my friends," Tyrael whispered. "At the end of all things."

Fahd nodded, and disappeared, only to reappear in his own place within the circle. Only to, along with the rest of the Horadrim, begin to sing.

"Angels, sing thee to thy rest," Tyrael whispered.

The song continued. The lights shone.

And as he sat, and listened, Tyrael closed his eyes.

No longer marred by tears.