Chapter One: Motion and Stillness
"Pa, there's a man in the lake!"
Jerem sighed, leaned on his pitchfork and gazed out across the cattle field towards where his son, Talm, was shouting. Bodies were nothing new. Wayward demon-spawn floated their direction occasionally. With luck, they were usually deceased. Which meant he didn't have to call the local demon hunters to come clean them up.
"Bloated corpses don't milk cows," he called. "Leave it for the vultures and carrion. Your mother'll tan us both if we don't get this finished."
"But, pa, he's still breathing!"
Tarnation.
Jerem sighed again. "All right, I'll bring a cart. But best we hurry. Don't need to be that far afield after sunset."
The man was indeed alive, if barely. His body had come to rest on the lakeshore, naked and without possessions. Jerem frowned, wondering if it were the work of men instead of demons. In his experience, demons were more inclined to eat flesh than clothing. A question to be answered, later, if the man awoke.
Together, Jerem and Talm lifted him onto the cart, covered him in a thick woolen quilt, and returned to the farm. The remaining twilight spilled over the horizon, eventually fading until the land was dark and permeated with the calls of night creatures. A wolf pack howled, distantly. Closer, the thick buzz of carrion flies.
"Where have you been?" Lirian called from the door. She stood sternly, hands on her wide hips, and cocked her head at them. "Hardly a night passes that someone isn't murdered while out on a stroll. We're a long way from Salvos."
"So is he," Jerem said, pointing to the cart. "Or wherever he floated in from."
Talm pulled back the quilt to reveal the man. He had dried on the return trip, but his skin was still deathly pale; long, swaths of dark hair were plastered to his gaunt face and chest, partially obscuring his eyes. He breathed shallowly.
Lirian palmed her face. "Heaven help you if you brought a necromancer into our house. Well, best get him in, before that stench draws unwanted attention."
Talm added a log to the fire; the house was drafty and the evening was brisk for mid-summer. The laid the man on a spare cot, draped a sheet across him, and waited. Aside from casual chat, they did not mention him. It was best not to, until he either awoke or succumbed to whatever had inconvenienced him. When it was clear neither would happen that night, they withdrew to their rooms and slept.
The fireplace glow dwindled. The home grew quiet.
And finally, as the first beams of morning light pierced the windows, the man opened his eyes.
Cold. It was his first thought as he awoke and realized he was in an unknown home, unclothed save a sheet someone had clearly left on him. Then, a strange rumbling sensation in his gut. Hunger? He frowned, wondering why the concept seemed new.
He sat, looked about. The home was small and filled with kitchen trappings, herb jars, and farming accessories. No books. Uneducated farm folk. Three doors, one the entryway. At least two inhabitants, then. Parents and a child?
"You're awake. Good. I thought we would have to bring the grave keeper."
He started, then realized it was just a woman, older, wearing a nightgown; she stood at the threshold of one of the doors and considered him.
"Not much of a talker, are you?" She laughed. "You can stop staring. Or haven't you ever seen a lady before? No, don't answer that. If you haven't I don't want to know why. Heaven knows we have enough strange folks wandering these lands."
Heaven.
His head throbbed as the word echoed, though she only spoke it once.
The High Heavens. Where angels walked.
"No, truly," she said, expression softening. "You can call me Lirian. Since you haven't slit our throats in our sleep, I'm hoping you're harmless. Head hurt? You didn't have the softest of beds before my husband found you. Can't imagine the dampness helped."
"What do you mean?" His speech felt forced, as if his voice was diminished somehow.
"You don't remember? Jerem and Talm pulled you from the lakeshore a few miles from here. Didn't even have the clothing on your back. Thought you might die in the night. You're still pale."
He didn't remember the lake, but instead, a white light, and floating. The sun? No, something more. And the rest, behind a wall in his mind. He had no idea how much was there; only, that he remembered none of it. The longer he considered it, the colder he felt. As if something was shouting for him to stay away. He shuddered.
"I don't remember anything," he finally said. "Except that I've…forgotten."
Something heinous, he thought, but didn't say aloud.
"I'll make you an offer," she said. "Since you seem out of sorts. I can't afford to clothe myself, let alone you. But if you see my husband and put in some honest work out in the fields for a day or two, I can provide you a warm meal and some cast offs. Enough, at least, to get you to the nearest town without dying from the elements."
"That seems…fair."
"Then consider it done." Lirian paused. "What should we call you, stranger?"
His name? His head pained again, and he ran his fingers across his temples to staunch the ache. Hair. He didn't remember having it. It was strange, like so many other things he was coming to notice. New things, overlaid with the old.
Memories then, unbidden. Melodic voices, a distant feeling of belonging. One clear word, spoken over and over by a multitude. He had his answer.
"Malthael," he said, and it felt right. "My name is Malthael."
Jerem was kind enough when Malthael admitted he had never milked a cow, and instead offered him the chance to work the fields.
"We're beginning to harvest the wheat," the farmer said, digging through a small shack and pulling out a sickle. "Load a basket, bring it back and dump it here. Talm can take care of the rest. Truth told, I appreciate the extra labour. The days are colder than we expected." He held out the tool.
Malthael took it and ran his thumb over the rough wood handle, then gave it a gentle swing. Amongst a morning of strange experiences, it felt familiar. If Jerem noticed his pause, he didn't indicate.
The work was grueling, but the day passed quickly. Talm was talkative, and Malthael was content to work while the younger man chatted. He spoke of his parents and his love for them; of the sunsets over the lake, which were no longer safe to watch due to the growing presence of strange creatures; of a woman from the farm over with raven hair, who he fancied and hoped would one day come watch the sunsets with him.
These were things Malthael quickly realized he should have also experienced, or at least variations thereof. But aside from the lingering memories he had of a family somewhere, nothing was familiar.
It was easy to brush aside Talm and Jerem's chiding over his reaction to food; the biscuits seemed luxurious in a way he couldn't describe, which was sensical enough for a thin man who had been abandoned unconscious. Even the driest loaves were feasts for the hungry.
But what man had never watched the sun rise? Or spoken dearly of a lover?
These were mere concepts for him. Ideas embedded in his flesh that he understood at a fundamental level, but drew no recognition.
As Malthael again traced the sickle handle with his fingers, Talm's voice grew distant. He ran his index finger up the blade, and tried, desperately, to will something out of it.
Not quite, something whispered. Keep looking.
"Mal, you'll grow into the field if you stand that still."
He turned to Talm and tipped his head sideways. Ambient sound returned, although it was soft; rustling crops, a crow in the distance.
"Did you own one?" Talm gestured at the sickle. "Pa noticed too. Maybe you're a farmer, like us."
No, that wasn't right. Malthael frowned. He thought again of the farmhouse and the lack of books. Those, he remembered. Millions of pages of glowing text. No pain in his head, this time, but a lingering contentedness as he briefly imagined a long hallway with ceramic shelves, overlooking a glittering waterfall that cascaded from the sky into pools cut from rock.
Home.
"No," he said. "I was something else."
"A merchant? That would explain why you were robbed."
Malthael resumed harvesting, his mind still attuned to the comforting thought of the library. "Is that what you think occurred?"
"What else? If it had been demon spawn, we'd have found your corpse. Or worse, you would have become the living dead." Talm chuckled. "Ma thought you were a necromancer because you were so pale. But they haven't been around here for a long time. Not since the spirit uprising in Westmarch, and that was almost twenty years ago."
The sickle slipped from Malthael's hand. His fingers shook, unbidden. The sun momentarily went dark, and he heard echoing screams, as if from a cavern. The ground smelled of carrion; he looked down, saw bones beneath his boots. He looked to the horizon, saw a city, burning with silver fire.
The screams grew louder. He grabbed his head, told himself it was not real. There were no boots. There were no bones. There was no city.
He came to on the ground. Talm shook his shoulders, panic on his face. "Are you all right? I didn't think when I said that. Pa says I don't think. But I guess you're old enough. You could have been there. Guess you would have been my age. Heavens. You could have had children. I'm sorry. Did you lose them?"
He couldn't remove the images from his mind. They were burned there, permanent. And that smell; the rotting flesh, mixed with sewage. It had never been that strong before.
Before. There was a before, when the sensations were muted. He had been there, in Westmarch; in the library, too. Two vastly conflicting locations, one of light, and one of soul-consuming darkness.
"We can stop for the day," Talm said, helping him up. He brushed off Malthael's tunic, which was far too wide for his frame. "Ma will have dinner ready soon. Maybe she'll have more biscuits for you."
"I…"
What monstrous horror did I witness there?
"I will stay the night," he managed. "And then I should leave."
Talm's expression grew sad, though he did not argue. They left the field, the younger man carrying the bundle and sickle on his back. Malthael felt dizzy, as though the wall in his mind was crumbling and threatening to fall on his consciousness. He stumbled to the farm house and leaned heavily against the door frame.
He no longer wanted to see what was behind the mental veil. His very first thought, that it was something awful, had been more than correct. Yet, if he was to learn who he was, he would have to pursue the memory until he uncovered it fully.
"Pa and I do appreciate the help," Talm said, returning from the barn, having dropped off the wheat and tools. "We'll bring the crop to town in a week or so, once it's ready. Hopefully we'll fetch good coin for it."
Malthael forced himself to nod. He stretched his fingers until they strained and stopped shaking. Pushed away the noise in his head, until all that was left was the wind.
He wanted the silence. Needed it. It was the only thing holding his mind together. Calm conversation, a gentle word. Warm food, perhaps a bed. Basic comforts, simple things he could focus on.
"Come," Talm said, squeezing his shoulder.
Malthael nodded again, and let the younger, naïve man direct him in.
Both Jerem and Lirian tried to convince him to stay a few days. His head had pained too many times, obviously, for him to be discreet. They had noticed, and Talm had later told them how he had collapsed in the field. They assumed he had suffered trauma in the robbery attempt; Talm had tactfully neglected to mention Westmarch.
He told himself it was robbery. That he had been travelling the roads, had been ambushed, and had his supplies and clothing stolen. That he had been left for dead. He didn't believe it, no matter how many times he mouthed it silently.
You were robbed.
They were murdered.
You were assaulted.
They won't stop screaming.
They left you for dead.
You wanted to die.
The last realization was painful; amongst the carrion and bones, he had wanted to give up. Nothing linked it to where he had been found at the lake. But a part of him instinctively knew the events in Westmarch held the answers. He needed to learn what drove him to such desperate action.
"Are you sure?" Lirian asked softly, when he declined to remain beyond the night. "You are hardly an inconvenience." Jerem nodded in agreement.
"I cannot stay," Malthael told them. "I…remember, and I must learn more before I forget."
"Then we will send you with what we can give."
He dined with them on broth, boiled chicken, and garden greens. Then, they bid him goodnight, and Malthael lay on the cot and stared into the darkness. He begged it to take him, until sleep, another strange companion he did not understand, finally did.
He dreamed of an unending sky, bisected by a glowing waterfall that flowed as far as he could see. The water was cold, and when he ran his fingers through it, he saw the reflections of countless faces. Men, women, children. Dancing, laughing. Screaming, dying. The entirety of humanity, and their emotions, written on their faces, carving themselves into his mind.
Deafening noise. He pushed it away, but it returned, flowing faster.
The waterfall grew and enveloped him. He cried out as the water ran into his mouth and filled his lungs. He struggled to escape, but he was sinking. Drowning. His eyes dimmed, and he looked helplessly towards the surface.
A hooded figure stared down at him. A long, bisected cowl flowed as if in the wind. Its face was obscured, or perhaps nothing more than shadow itself. Two gleaming, silver blades wavered as the water swirled and pulled him into nothingness.
Then, a voice, so deep it shook the earth.
"You cannot stop death."
Malthael awoke as the sun began to filter into the farmhouse. He briefly considered the dust motes as they drifted in the light beams. Small, inconsequential. Beautiful. He wondered if the farmers, who had been inexplicably compassionate to him, a stranger, paused for such moments.
They were all like the dust; limited, mortal, but capable of focused kindness. A small drop in a mighty lake, whose efforts were not lost upon him.
The night's dream returned, and he shuddered at the sensation of drowning and the looming figure that had preceded over his death. Any thought of purpose left him as he remembered its words.
"You cannot stop death."
This was true, he decided, as he gathered the clothing Lirian and Jerem had set out for him. Dust lingered, but humans eventually perished. In Westmarch. Elsewhere. Wherever they existed. Perhaps that was why he had given up; the same realization, gained in the darkest of moments. Wanting, desperately, relief.
And still he packed.
Death brought me to the lakeshore. Discarded, broken. No matter its inevitability, death is not the answer I seek. It cannot be. I had purpose, once. Books, scrolls, their meaning forgotten, but not their effect. I will find that again.
They met him in the field as he was about to depart. He had hoped to slip away and avoid farewells. He was not sure how to thank them, as words seemed hollow compared to their mercy.
"Be safe," Lirian said. She handed him a rough-hewn bag, which he tucked in his pack. "A small meal for you."
"The road is not long, but dark creatures have been out as of late," Jerem said, handing him a piece of leather with a wordless map sketched upon it. "Take care at night. Perhaps we will see you again, when we venture to Salvos."
Finally, Talm stepped forward and held out a curved bundle wrapped in scrap cloth and fastened with leather straps. Malthael took it, considered its weight. It was warm, as if radiating an internal heat, yet also cold, like fire and ice mixed. His fingers tightened, and between them he felt handles and flat metal.
The blades from his dream. Terrified and unsure of how he knew, he pushed the bundle back to Talm. He wanted answers, not nightmares.
Talm held firm, and briefly clasped Malthael's hands, supportive.
"I found them at the lake last night," he said. "Near to where we found you. They are well cared for. I know little about the magic arts, but I felt their power. No cutthroat would have left them behind. I am sure they are yours."
Words died in his throat; Malthael shook his head.
"I do not know what horrors your past contains, or how you came to possess these. But you were truthful. I do not believe you were a farmer or a merchant." Talm stepped back, left Malthael to heft the bundle alone. "I believe you were a warrior. A good man. And that perhaps, someday, you will remember that."
A good man. Is that what I was?
"Thank you," Malthael managed, his voice reduced to a broken whisper. He secured the bundle to his pack, momentarily cringing at the added weight to his load. It seemed fitting, however, that he carry them and the unknown burden they represented.
"May the Light guide you," Talm said. "And protect you." The three held his gaze, then turned and returned to the farmhouse.
And Malthael was left alone, a path set before him with an unknown destination.
He took a step, then another, and began his journey.
A/N: Thank you to anyone joining me on this new adventure! This story is the first in a set of four. They are all completed, save some minor editing, and constitute Acts I to IV of a series (approximately 90,000 words in total for the series). I love the lore hidden in Diablo III, particularly in Reaper of Souls, and I wanted to be able to continue that onward. The series will touch on elements that I hope a future game will tackle, as well as some fairly extensive moral and philosophical quandaries. I hope you all enjoy. Best buckle up for the ride.
