Chapter Two: Emptiness and Fullness
The trail to town was well worn; Malthael imagined generations of farmers and merchants, by foot or horse and cart, traversing the fields to peddle their wares. The land contained many such hidden histories, only accessible to those who considered their creation. There, the remnants of a fire, revealed only through disintegrating tree trunks and charred earth. And there, a struggle from long ago, where the ground was left with long, deep scars.
Demons, perhaps, as Jerem had warned. Though the land gouges had been crafted many years prior.
His boots were ill fitted, and after several miles his feet pained. The pack weighed on his back, and he scoffed silently at Talm's suggestion that he had been a warrior. He did not feel much like one. He thought of the marble library, again, and its comforting familiarity. A scholar, perhaps? That seemed appropriate, both to his inclinations and his physical form.
For that reason, and although he appreciated the aid he had left behind, Malthael quickly grew fond of the road's solitude. His thoughts were left to wander, uninterrupted; he walked absently, glancing every so often at the map, but generally retreating into his mind. There, he felt safe from the shadows that lurked in his subconscious. As if internal awareness cast a light that drove away the dark, or reduced it, at least, to a buried corner.
Silence followed him, mercifully. Another sensation, another lost memory. Not the screams of Westmarch, but an incessant din he could not avoid. Here, it was gone. He heard the breeze, the distant chirps of birds, and further, a rumbling river. As if he was reduced, yet somehow more whole.
He came to a crossroads as the sun dipped. There was a risk of bandits if he camped there, but he hesitated to venture further; the road was dotted with trees in the distance, and he preferred his chances with country folk over demons or the walking dead.
The pack offered little in the way of bedding. Still, he knew it was more comfortable than the lakeshore. He found a dip in the land near the road, settled in, and listened as the world changed around him. Night truly was different from day. The natural calls changed, grew menacing. Yet, the dark was also peaceful, a strange balance between life and nothingness.
Malthael realized he had reached for the wrapped bundle, and he frowned, withdrawing his hand. He needed no comfort, and surely, he needn't confront that element of his past so soon. He chose instead to tug the bundle closer, enough for the radiating warmth to reach him, yet far enough it could not intrude on his thoughts.
As he grew drowsy, the silhouettes of creatures approached. They held fast at the edge of the grainy darkness, as if considering him. After a time, they disappeared, and Malthael assigned them to his imagination, until he saw the bundle was glowing with a pervasive, amethyst light.
Light that had frightened away whatever lurked.
Troubled, he pushed the thoughts away, and let sleep take him.
He dreamed of an unending cavern; rocks hewn from the sky and strewn across the horizon. Roiling lava, blistering light. In the centre, a battered fortress, its walls neglected, its halls occupied by the lost and discarded.
It whispered to him. A congregation of voices, mortal and other. He thought, perhaps, if he drew closer, he could hear what they said, and the incessant hum would resolve into something meaningful.
The fortress was the source of the din. In its innermost sanctum, he found a swirling mass of lost souls. They screamed and writhed in a gale, whipping his cloak and scathing his mind.
Tell me what you need, he thought, desperately. I am here. I have finally found you, though I could not see the way. Tell me how to bring you peace. Help me find silence.
The mass spoke as one, a rasping gestalt that shook the fortress and brought a cascade of dust down from the ceiling:
"Bring us death."
By the time he reached the town several days later, Malthael's body ached. He had run out of food a day earlier, and unending hunger pains struck his gut. His sleep had also been disturbed with endless dreams that he could barely remember, but which often awoke him with gasps and sweat. Only brief flashes of fantastical landscapes stayed with him into the waking hours. That, and a lingering sensation of dread.
He sighed, relieved, when the first tips of the buildings appeared from behind the trees. The map Jerem had given him was unlabelled – unsurprisingly, as he doubted the man could read or write. He only knew the town's name because they had told him – Salvos.
He arrived in the streets proper as the sun peaked in the sky. The laneways were congested with residents bustling about, some riding horses, others pushing hand carts. Merchants hawked their wares, calling about foodstuffs and linens. Mixed amongst newer structures were old stone buildings, some still with standing walls, others having fallen into such disrepair that only the foundations remained. Malthael stopped at one and ran his hand across the weathered stone. Age, but also violence; he smelled gunpowder from demon hunter grenades on his fingers and noted several sharp edges on the wall where a blade had struck.
A lively and vibrant settlement that had seen death. A pristine example of survival, and the desire to grow and thrive. It was very human. The thought confused Malthael. Why feel that differentiation, when he was one of them? Then again, from what he had been told, Westmarch, which he had come to think of as his-city, had not faired so well. He had reason enough to be jaded.
Which meant he had to learn more. Unbidden, the true destination of his search rose to conscious thought. He would go where he always went when he had questions.
To the place where knowledge and wisdom dwelled.
The monastery did not have the marble halls Malthael remembered from his past. But it was tidy enough, with a clean stone floor and several shelves of texts. Near the altar, a bearded man in white robes swept lingering dirt into a loose pile. He looked up as Malthael approached, face expressionless save for a slight crinkle of his eyes.
"Stranger," he said, studying Malthael head to toe. "You look weathered. Can I help you?"
"I…hope so." He dropped his pack to the floor; the wrapped bundle gave a muffled, metallic pang. "I seek answers."
The priest cracked a faint smile and gestured about the sanctuary. "Those we have, in abundance. Though you may have to be more specific."
Where to begin? His story seemed implausible even to himself. His appearance at the lake. The blades from his dream brought to life, clearly infused with magic, yet with no indication as to why they were his. He decided to start with the easiest question.
"May I use your library?"
"I rarely meet someone learned in the old languages," the priest said, as Malthael set a third stack of books down and began to flip through them. He had dusted a table in a side room off the sanctuary and invited Malthael to stay as long as necessary. He had also brought him a small meal and a set of worn, yet better fitting, robes, which Malthael had changed into immediately.
"Where did you study?" asked the priest. "Your teacher was thorough."
"Somewhere," he said absently. It was as much truth as he could tell. He hadn't realized the extent of his knowledge until he had opened one of the older scriptures and read it without difficulty. "It is…complicated."
The priest laughed. "As is life. I will not pry. Although I will apologize for our dismal collection. Our population has outpaced my ability to grow the library. There is certainly enough interest in preserving the Light if the message is passed along orally. Few have interest or ability enough to read the original texts."
A shame, Malthael thought. There was a certain holiness in seeking knowledge. One could hardly make decisions on weighty matters without comprehensively understanding the issue from all directions.
He stopped and considered where such a compulsive feeling had come from. Outside of the lingering horror that hulked in his mind, no other idea had garnered such an impassioned reaction from him. This one seemed like an absolute truth, or even more profoundly, the fundamental fabric of his soul.
"I see you have found some answers," the priest said, as if there were words in Malthael's silence. "You are familiar with the basic tenants of the church?"
"Of the Light? Yes." Words tumbled from his lips. "From Anu's body itself, which was forged from the eternal battle against the Prime Evil, Tathamet. Most radiant in the High Heavens, where dwell the Seraphim-"
He blinked and he was elsewhere. The monastery vanished, replaced by glittering marble halls. Brilliant shapes drifted by. He squinted against the glare and tried to see their true forms, but they were obscured, as if he viewed them through a veil.
Through a window, in the distance, was a towering crystal archway, from which the Light itself emanated. He felt an unquenchable longing, a stabbing pain and resilient hope that intensified the more he stared.
Feeling his consciousness slide, he forced himself to look elsewhere. There, on a worn stone dais, was a chalice. It was filled to the brim with glowing water. Light. He leaned over it, drawn as strongly as he had been to the arch.
Whispers. A hundred, a thousand voices calling his name. He tried to hear them all, to hold each of them in his mind, to know their pain, their desires. But there were too many, their thoughts rich and profound.
The surface rippled, and he was back in the monastery, crumpled over the table, his forehead pounding from where it had hit the polished wood.
"That must stop," he said, realizing the priest had come to his side and was helping him sit.
They considered each other for a long moment, before the other man finally spoke. "You do not know what you are looking for," he said. "You do not even remember what it is."
Malthael leaned back and buried his face in his hands; he was faintly dizzy, and unsure if it was from his collapse or something less tangible.
"I would assume, then, that you have lost something very important." When Malthael tried to speak, the priest held up a hand. "I have seen this before, when those unlearned in the arcane arts have attempted strong magics. Souls may be weak. Or sometimes, the spell is too great for even the most practised wizards. Rarely does the individual remember what they have done." He paused. "There is power in this world, stranger. It flows through the realm like a river, uncontrolled. We may, if we dare, wade into it. Some step too far and drown."
His mouth was dry. "They found me by a lake."
"Then you knew, at least, how to swim." The priest stood and gestured at the books. "You could spend a lifetime searching every library for your truth. I see in your eyes something more tangible. What is it you truly wish to know?"
"Westmarch." His hands grew cold as he spoke the name. "Tell me about Westmarch."
"In the year 1300, the city of Westmarch was consumed by a creeping horror." The priest carried a thin, dust shrouded book to the table. He turned the pages slowly, searching. "Survivors spoke of the dead rising from their graves, and of malevolent spirits reaping souls in the streets. The city was abandoned, and even to this day, the darkness lingers there." He gestured about, generally. "Many of those who escaped settled here. Our town, Salvos, grew from tragedy. We have only known peace since then, although there has been an increase in fel-attacks as of late."
"I remember," Malthael said, wrestling with the renewed images of carnage that came to his mind. He forced them down, made himself look at the text. The words blurred into nonsense. "What stopped the spirits?"
"A necromancer and his companions journeyed to Westmarch and fought the evil at its heart. You would have to find them to ask what occurred. However, I sincerely believe they were Nephalem, for no one else could have stood against such darkness and triumph."
Nephalem. Malthael swayed and mouthed the word. It was familiar. Extremely.
"The children of Angels and Demons," the priest continued. "At least according to the histories. There are varying accounts of whether the High Heavens and Burning Hells exist, or are simply a symbolic extension of the mortal experience."
"What do you believe?"
"I believe the Light is real, and that Nephalem walk this world to protect us from the Eternal Conflict. It is eternal for a reason, after all. This world cannot have light without darkness. As one grows stronger, so does the other. Have I witnessed their champions myself? No, I have not. But the stories persist with remarkable consistency. Even Westmarch's legacy carries indelible images."
The priest turned one, final page. There, sketched in careful charcoal, was a towering, hooded spirit dressed in black. It carried twin blades, curved, which it used to draw a wisp-like essence from a writhing figure.
"It would take power of equivalent proportion to defeat such a demon. Tell me, stranger. What power do you wield?" He lingered on the last word, glancing briefly at the bundle on the floor. "The Priests of Rathma sometimes carry such blades. Their nearest sect lies in New Tristram. They may offer you answers I cannot, if you were to seek them out."
Malthael only heard him distantly. His world was dark again, filled with shadowed streets and crumbling buildings. A pervasive mist blanketed him; each breath he expelled felt like a piece of his soul drifting away. He walked slowly through Westmarch, unable to stop, the hairs on his arms rising in anticipation.
At the end of the street stood the spirit. Malthael felt the stare from under its hood. He tipped his head, confused as to why the demon hadn't struck him down yet, as it had every other living being there. The spirit returned the gesture and raised a blade.
"Nephalem," it rasped. "I will end the Eternal Conflict. In death, there is peace."
"No. There is only violence in death." He pointed at the ruins. "It lingers, in memory, in place. You destroyed this place and its people."
"I brought them a reprieve from suffering. As I would all mortals."
Mist-like spirits rose around Malthael. Faces of those he had spoken to since he had awoken. The priest. Lirian. Jerem. Talm. They smiled at him and waved before fading away into the night. Others formed, ones he did not recognize; vague figures under cloaks, others clad in golden armor and wielding mighty blades.
"The only peace I have witnessed in these few days has come from the living. From mortals. We struggle, persevere, even against the darkest evil."
The spirit stepped forward, boots clacking loudly on the stone. It raised a second blade, and laughed, a hollow, crackling sound, like bones shattering.
"Mortals are a sickness," it said, growling. "They have made wisdom unattainable. Demons pervert whatever they touch."
Why did it speak as if it wasn't one? Malthael held his ground, though the closer the spirit drew, the more he shook. "And you believe you are above that?" He raised his voice, and it echoed in the mist. "What fool are you?"
"What fool am I? Do you remember who you are?" Then it swung its blades.
Malthael cried out and threw his arms above his head. There was a flash of blinding light, and Westmarch and the demon were gone. He stood in the monastery, the table asunder, books scattered about the room. He gasped, breathless, as sweat pooled in his hair and across his forehead. The priest had fallen backwards and stared up at him from the floor, eyes wide. Terrified.
Confused, Malthael let his arms fall. He saw why the man was afraid. His palms glowed faintly, a deep, pulsating violet that made him shudder.
"By the Light," the priest whispered. "I thought you were Nephalem. Wrongly. What are you?"
"Do you even remember who you are?"
"I—"
"Do you remember what you've done, Malthael?"
He clutched his head and screamed. "Begone, spirit!"
"Have you found wisdom amongst the mortals? Are their souls sweeter from the inside?"
What he had found was evil, angrier and more malevolent than he could begin to fight. He grabbed the bundled blades and heaved them onto his shoulder. The spirit was somehow buried inside of him; it wanted to escape. Which meant that wherever he went, no one was safe.
He looked briefly at the priest, his vision wavering. He felt like weeping and laughing; a host of emotions he had no right to possess, but that were there, regardless.
Far away, nowhere and everywhere at once, he felt the wall of memory begin to crumble.
While he still had a semblance of control over his being, Malthael fled.
A/N: I have a playlist up for this story now on my tumblr. You can come find me at mal-likes-biscuits. (User name is reference/joke to Chapter 1. I make no apologies.) Also, lots of behind-the-scenes commentary on writing and such.
Chapter 3 will be a bit delayed as I'm waiting for (epic) art for it that I want to share at the same time as posting. Sorry!
