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Chapter 74

After Lyndon's tale, Tyrael found it best to slowly start getting himself comfortable with eventually having to meet Malthael in person. Just like Edith had taught him, he began thinking about scenarios where that could happen, trying to imagine them as detailed as possible, so he could build up some familiarity with it. Unfortunately, he got little time to practice, as the next day during lunch Lyndon suddenly yelped from pain and slammed his face into his plate.

Of course everything had to happen the moment Sophie was not by his side. In the morning Jacob and Shanar arrived back to the mansion, having tracked back from Kingsport as fast as they possibly could with the help of Waypoints. They were checking on the state of the city that was slowly healing itself from the Lord of Wrath Zaboul's influence, and thankfully they had good news to share. As for their relationship… it was as messy as ever. Even Tyrael started to feel like they should just let it go as he looked at them. But it was their problem to figure out, not anybody else's. The mortal angel was just grateful they were alright, and that Kingsport was also doing well.

Tyrael had visited the small statues in the courtyard again, lingering on Eirena especially. He needed to get used to this grief and guilt, it was something he would carry with himself for the rest of his days. He somehow already knew it, but Edith only reinforced this knowledge – forgiving himself is possible, forgetting is not. Once again, a part of him longed for the days of old when he was the emotionless Archangel of Justice. That made him feel guilty for thinking that, which made him long for his former life again.

Tyrael suddenly understood the real meaning of "vicious circle".

Lunch came and the group gathered around the main dining table, catching up on things and just generally having a good time over some well-cooked chicken, courtesy of the maids they were hiring to keep the mansion in order.

- You doing okay, Tyrael? – Lyndon asked him as he was scarfing down his meal.

On his right, Quiet was very eagerly eating a small jar of honey. At first Tyrael had believed Quiet did not eat meat, but it became clear soon that the child simply went for the sweet foods which were mostly fruits and of course copious amounts of honey. Because of course he would have a sweet tooth, somehow that fit him and Inarius so well, despite normal angels not having a sense of taste at all.

- Yes, as much as I am currently able – Tyrael nodded, uncertainly stabbing a piece of meat with his fork.

He ate far far less than he used to, but he was eating something at least. Sophie told him it was healthier anyway to slowly raise the portions after a longer fasting, as not to overwhelm the stomach.

- Fair point. Honestly you should just lean back and relax, let us do the—ACK! – Lyndon slammed forward, face first into his plate.

- Papa! – Quiet shouted in alarm.

- Are you okay?! – Lorath and the others jumped up from their seats.

Lyndon hurriedly peeled himself up from the plate, wiping the vegetables off his face.

- Yes! Yes, I'm fine! – he gasped, spitting out a few pieces of carrot. – Bloody fucking hell, he can do that?!

- Lyndon, your nose is bleeding – Tyrael pointed out in alarm, handing over a napkin.

- Wha—is it? Oh hell, yeah-yeah, I guess it was strong enough – the scoundrel coughed, wiping his nose and seeing it for himself.

Quiet immediately placed his palms on his father's cheeks, pouring his magic into him to heal him. Lyndon smiled gratefully at his son.

- Are you sure you are alright?! – Jacob demanded.

- What was that?! I didn't detect anything! – Shanar hissed, holding her staff in one hand, standing ready for an attack.

- Neither have I – Zayl added softly, keeping his dagger at the ready. – Humbart?

- Nah, I saw nothing, lads!

- It was a mental… call, I think – Lyndon coughed as he pulled away from Quiet. – From—from an ally. One of the important guys in that massive story I told you about.

- That wasn't a call, that was a mental assault! – Lorath insisted.

- No, I swear it wasn't that! – Lyndon stood up rather quickly and nervously. – It was just really freaking loud—and urgent. I have to check on him! Sorry about that!

With that, he made for the door, with Quiet immediately following him. Tyrael needed a moment, but suddenly it dawned on him. He ran after Lyndon and managed to catch him in the upstairs corridor leading among the rooms. Lyndon was crouching in front of his son, trying to make him stay in the mansion.

- I'm going too! – Quiet insisted loudly.

- No, Quiet, this could actually be dangerous!

- That is why I want to go! I will protect you, papa!

- Was that Malthael?! – Tyrael panted, staring at the duo.

Lyndon glanced up at him then stood up, exhaling loudly.

- Yes. Bloody hell, I did not know he could still reach me telepathically – he snorted in frustration.

- Did he truly attack you?

- No, I told the truth! It was a call! He screamed into my head—

- Screamed?!

- Yes, for help, of all things! That's why I have to go right the hell now!

- What did he say?

- Nothing, just "please help" and "I didn't mean to", I think? – Lyndon grimaced, trying to remember. – Maybe the Archivists turned on him for some reason? He pissed them off somehow? I don't know, but he legitimately sounded panicked, and by all the gods, Malthael never panics!

- I didn't know he was capable of that emotion – Tyrael balked, his mind desperately trying to catch up.

Anu help him, he just wasn't ready to meet Malthael! But something was going insanely wrong straight in the heart of Westmarch, from the sounds of it, and he just couldn't ignore that.

- I am going with you, papa! – Quiet shouted angrily, holding onto Lyndon's coat stubbornly.

- Quiet! – Lyndon snapped at him angrily.

- I'm going!

- Oh Arch save my soul, I am going too! – Tyrael blurted out.

- Wha—Oh hells no, definitely not you! – Lyndon glared daggers at him in helpless anger.

- Yes, well – Tyrael summoned El'druin by his side with slight difficulty –, I have to meet Malthael sooner or later, right? Might as well get to it now, and maybe also stop a catastrophe in the meantime.

He could feel his hand trembling around the hilt as he set his sword down so it rested on its point. Honestly he was just stunned that he could still call upon it. Actually fighting with it might prove to be a challenge, however.

- I am not dragging you into danger, Tyrael! Not after everything! Besides, Sophie would absolutely murder me if she realized I let you get into trouble, and she would have every right to do so. Forget it! – Lyndon angrily waved.

- But we can help! – Quiet insisted, his good wing flaring up from determination.

- No, both of you! That is my final—Eh? – Lyndon fell silent and stared off into the distance for a few moments.

Tyrael and Quiet shared a very concerned look, but the scoundrel quickly returned to them.

- Oh hells – he huffed in annoyance.

- Malthael again? – Tyrael chanced the question.

- Yeah, somewhat calmer. Barely, that is – Lyndon scratched his head. – He apologized, and asked me to help because he, uh… well, he managed to summon his sickles again.

Tyrael could practically feel the color of his face turn ashen.

- What's a sikkel? – Quiet asked.

- "Sick-le". It looks like a large knife that has the shape of a crescent moon, firefly – Lyndon explained. – Normally people use them to cut off plants and crops when they are ripe and gather food.

- And Maltael used them for bad?

- He killed people and tore their souls out with them – Tyrael pressed the words out of himself.

He could almost feel the edge of the blade gliding across his skin under his neck, dragging his life essence with it.

- He said he didn't mean to. I'm sure it was an accident – Lyndon quickly said, although somewhat uncertainly.

The scoundrel defending the Angel of Death somewhat knocked Tyrael out of the way of the incoming panic attack.

- We definitely need to go! – he choked out, but at least it sounded determined.

- Let me handle this!

- Do you know how to handle an archangel's weapons, Lyndon?! Do you know what they represent even?!

- Uh… no? They represent something?

- Then you'll need me! I guarantee this is terrible news he just told you!

- And I will go too! I don't want to lose either of you again! – Quiet stomped his feet angrily, causing a small ripple in the timber floor.

Lyndon titled his face at the ceiling and let out the world's loudest and longest sigh. Tyrael dismissed El'druin but prepared to argue his case further. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to just bolt and get as far away from Malthael as possible, but he surprisingly easily ignored that need. The sheer anxiety did not escape him, but he instinctively knew this was once again one of those moments where he had to step up to avert a disaster.

And by Anu, in this trio apparently only he understood just how big of a disaster was looming over their heads.

Lyndon turned to them, he was definitely angry but he also clearly lost the fight.

- I'm so gonna regret this, but alright! Come along, the both of you – he pointed at Tyrael. – But if Sophie murders me for this escapade, I swear I will haunt you for the rest of your days, and not even Rathma will be able to peel my ghost off you!

- A fair trade, I accept – Tyrael quickly bowed his head.

- And you, Quiet! – Lyndon turned sternly to his son. – At the first sign of trouble, I am teleporting you back to this mansion. No buts!

- But—!

- What did I say, Quiet?!

- Sorry – the child mumbled, staring at the floor.

With that, Lyndon, still grumbling under his nose, grabbed Quiet's and Tyrael's hands, and teleported with them straight in front of the Great Library.

oooOOOooo

There was an almost suspiciously empty reception desk in the anteroom, but the trio did not stop to check things out. They rushed into the great hall and Tyrael found a moment to gawk up at the ceiling depicting the constellations of many cultures and the annual path of stars with golden lines. Not to mention the hundreds of candles floating mid-air, providing an almost daylight inside the fortress. There were some Archivists around, but they seemed occupied with their own work, and didn't spare the guests more than quick glances.

- Tyrael, how do I speak telepathically? – Lyndon whispered to him, not daring to talk louder in the all-enveloping silence.

They already felt like Beasts trampling their way across the hall.

- Wha-what? – Tyrael needed a moment to refocus on the task ahead, almost falling over his own feet.

- How do I ask Mal where the hell he is?

The Angel of Death was getting nicknames now, just amazing.

- Well… if you already have a connection, try to picture him in your mind and think of your question as if you were asking him directly – Tyrael offered half-heartedly.

They stopped behind some bookcases where there was nobody else and Lyndon very visibly tried to focus. He screwed his eyes shut and grimaced, his mouth soundlessly uttering the question.

- What is tele-telepact—? – Quiet helplessly looked at Tyrael.

- Telepathy. It's a form of comm—talking to each other, Quiet. You talk through thoughts instead of words, and you send those thoughts into the mind of the other. It has other uses as well, but this is the most basic part of it. Some can do telepathy over very large distances.

- Oh… that sounds useful!

- It can be… or it can be a very dangerous weapon – Tyrael looked back at Lyndon.

The scoundrel opened his eyes with a frustrated snarl.

- I have no idea if I did anything – he admitted.

- He didn't acknowledge your question? – Tyrael asked.

- Well, if he did, I sure as shit did not hear him – Lyndon blew the air out.

Hurried steps broke the silence, and an urgent whisper rang:

- Lyn! Lyn, are you here?

- Abd! – Lyndon called back louder than Tyrael would have liked.

The steps changed course and soon the fabled scholar of Sanctuary itself appeared from behind some bookshelves, sporting the usual pine green attire of Archivists. Tyrael had never met the Caldeum-born traveler in person, but he had gotten his hands on quite a few of his writings regarding species and historical facts of the world. He held a great respect for the man and it felt mind-boggling that he was not only a good friend of Lyndon's, but also the apparent patron of Malthael himself. Truly, Sanctuary knew no bounds when it came to strange situations.

- Oh, you are here! Thank goodness! Malthael is absolutely besides himself, truly! – Abd panted, quickly making some order among the books hanging from his tunic. – Ah, my apologies, good sir! Abd al-Hazir, scholar, chronicler, relatively freshly appointed Savant in the Archivist order – he quickly said, offering his hand to Tyrael.

- Tyrael… Aspect of Justice and founder of the Horadrim – the mortal angel accepted the handshake. – I have read many of your works before. Your dedication to documenting is truly respectable.

- Wait, you—You are! You are the angel who walks among us! By the gods, it is truly an honor! – Abd whispered happily, almost bouncing in place from excitement.

Tyrael smiled awkwardly:

- I am certain most of what you've heard are rather blown out of proportions…

- It was us who told him about you ages ago – Lyndon grinned at him. – Back when we rescued him from Sescheron during a mission there, if you recall. So believe me, those "stories" are pretty accurate.

Tyrael decided it was best not to argue.

- I'm so glad you are all here. Truly, this whole mess could not have happened at a worse moment. With the trial being so close and all – Abd told them, anxiously wrangling his hands.

- Was anybody hurt? – Tyrael asked.

- No, thankfully not! Mal, he—well, I think it's best if he tells you. This way! – Abd took off hurriedly.

He led them out of the great hall, through some corridors, past rooms, and down some stairs into the bowels of the fortress itself.

- Where the heck are you guys housed here? – Lyndon asked bewildered.

- Oh no no, nobody has living quarters here, do not worry! – Abd reassured them, looking over his shoulder. – But after the, uh… incident, we found it best to retreat into a more secluded part of the Library.

- Fair.

- I do not like this place much. The big candle bookroom is much nicer – Quiet commented uncertainly.

- I'm sorry, little one. I promise we will try to solve this problem as soon as we can – Abd smiled apologetically at the child.

- Let us make sure it is solved properly, first and foremost – Tyrael quickly chimed in, his anxiety returning as they left behind stairs after stairs.

Eventually they did exit the staircase a few floors before it could lead to its very bottom and they rushed through some more corridors.

- These are the archives – Abd explained as he took a lit torch from the wall to light the way. – We keep relics, magical items, important pieces of history here. Some call it a glorified storage which is… kind of fair, to be honest.

- Hey, if it keeps stuff out of the hands of madmen who can kill entire towns with those relics, this is the best storage ever – Lyndon shrugged, and the rest of the group had to agree.

Abd herded them inside a seemingly completely random room where not only the torches lining the wall gave light, but also the rows and rows larger smaller gemstones that all shined in all manner of colors on the cupboards. It was a rather large hall, and a bit like the Hall of Maps, this one also had a lot of cupboards lining the entire room, and a round table in roughly the middle, although this one was much smaller.

That table now was occupied by two large terrible sickles that gleamed with a downright evil glint. They appeared as menacing as the day they were last seen in the hands of the Angel of Death, their blades clearly didn't lose their edge in the slightest. Tyrael had to force himself to step inside the room as he looked upon the weapons. The right side of his chest started to ache where the sword once hooked into him and once again he could feel his soul leave his body. This was one of the worst ideas he had ever come up with, he realized, but it was too late to go back.

Behind the table Malthael walked up and down with uncharacteristically jerky movements, staring everywhere but at the table, his hands clasped so tight they looked like they were about to break every finger. Instead of the intricate and horrible armor he once wore, Malthael's outfit was now a surprisingly simple dark blue tunic that turned pine green at the edges. He had a satchel similar to Abd's hanging from his left shoulder but not much else. His appearance was so different from what Tyrael had pictured up to this point that it stunned him to his core. Although never as gilded as his siblings, Malthael had always had a sort of subtle but definitely present regal appearance to him, as the firstborn of the family who always knew better (and he most certainly did, for ages upon ages). This plain tunic was a far cry from his usual presence.

Not to mention his anxious behavior.

- Mal! They are here! – Abd called out as he placed the torch into an empty bracket next to the entrance.

- Lyndon? – Malthael turned to them, only to pause at the sight of the entourage he was greeted with.

He and Tyrael locked eyes.

- Bro—Tyrael – Malthael ducked his hood quickly, his clasped hands grew even tighter somehow.

Tyrael realized he lost his voice, his mind going blank. He surprised himself that he was able to even nod.

- I'm sorry for the crowd, I couldn't leave them behind – Lyndon huffed in annoyance.

- We thought there was big trouble – Quiet argued.

- You thought right – Malthael glanced at the sickles before quickly turning away, speaking faster than normally. – I did not mean to summon them, I swear. I do not know what credence you want me to offer but I—

- Hey, hey, slow down, Mal! – Lyndon quickly interrupted, walking up to the table. – Start from the beginning, alright? How did this even happen?

He was clearly not fearing the weapons, but he did look over them with utter disgust.

- Bloody hell, I so did not miss these sons of bitches. Nasty-looking as ever – he grumbled under his nose. – I thought they were destroyed in that fight.

Next to him, Quiet slowly reached out to touch one of the blades, but Lyndon thankfully gently but firmly grabbed his hand and pulled it away.

- It was my fault – Abd spoke up crestfallen as he stepped there as well.

- No, it was not! – Malthael angrily cut him off.

- I got into yet argument with some other savants about Malthael's presence here and my protection of him – the scholar explained.

- They seek you out with their petty squabbles!

- Still, I didn't do a good job of cutting the episode short – Abd went on, waving at Malthael. – And Mal was nearby…

- You attacked the other Archivists?! – Lyndon balked.

- No, I did not! – the archangel defended himself.

- But he accidentally summoned his sickles. Nobody saw it. We think, at least – Abd said.

- I… I grew angry. I have been listening to these worthless arguments for almost two mortal months now. None of them ever dare to come up to me, they only ever attack Abd!

- Only verbally – the scholar quickly clarified.

- But y-yes, I… – Malthael chanced another quick glance at his sickles, as if they could come alive at any moment and pounce him –, I wanted to do something and… and they were in my hands. I almost—no, I did drop them. I did not call on them, I swear by the—!

- Yes, you did.

Everyone turned to Tyrael. The mortal angel did not even realize he was the one who spoke. Up to this point he had felt as if his soul detached itself from his body… perhaps in an effort to be as far away from Malthael as it possibly could. It felt like he was staring through a window, witnessing the others having that conversation about the "accidental" weapon summon, but he himself wasn't present among them. It was surreal and wholly unpleasant, but a part of Tyrael did not truly want to find his way back to his body. Distance from the Angel of Death was good, the more the better. But then he heard that last statement and that basically yanked him back into reality at the speed of an arrow, and he finally felt something as he walked up to the table.

- Yes, you fucking did call on them! – he shouted as he slammed the table with his fists so hard the sickles jumped and rattled, as he stared straight into the hood of Malthael with pure fury.

He dimly registered the protests from the others, but he was so past the point of caring, he had no idea what they actually said.

- Tyrael, I swear—! – Malthael backed away from the table.

- Stop swearing on the Creator you have betrayed! You were given a second chance at life that none of your victims got, and you waste it on lying! – Tyrael roared at him.

- I am not lying – Malthael tried to say but he had no conviction behind his words.

- Yes, you are! You know exactly how our weapons work, you know damn well why they are here! They did not just appear out of nowhere, yet you act like they did!

- I have left—I want to leave that path behind!

- Clearly not! – Tyrael gestured wildly at the accursed blades in front of him. – You are practicality itself! You betrayed us and the entirety of the High Heavens and killed millions for that practicality! Why would you stop to debate your stance among the Archivists when you can just lop off their heads instead?!

- TYRAEL, HEY! – Lyndon's shout finally registered with him and he could feel the man pull him back by his shoulders.

Tyrael stumbled back, trying to regain his senses. Lyndon came to stand between him and Malthael and his eyes blazed green.

- Look, I get it. You are angry, and this is a big deal. But if you stopped me from exploding on Rathma before, then I'm gonna do the same now! Stop being an idiot! – the scoundrel snarled.

- How else do you want me to react to this, Lyndon? – Tyrael returned the glare with full force.

- The same way how you've wanted me to react to Rathma's bullshit: with some dignity, damnit!

- We humans have this habit of… returning to the familiar, when we are in a bad spot – Abd suddenly spoke up timidly, cutting the ensuing argument short. – I do not know how angels work, truly. But when we feel like we are stuck in place, or—or when we feel that we have failed in something despite our best efforts to move forward or to improve… we often return to what has worked, or seemingly worked in the past. Even if we know it isn't the right solution, we still seek that feeling of safety and stability that old habits give us. Endless cycles of revenge work very much the same way.

He took a deep breath and made some order in his attire yet again, before continuing:

- I don't think you did it consciously, Mal. But maybe… maybe now that you are unsure of what you can do to help your people, you are now seeking something familiar to fall back unto as well… no? If we could somehow destroy these cursed things, we can help you move forward, I think. We just need to find the right method.

- There is no "right method", sir Hazir! – Tyrael interrupted desperately. – An archangel's weapon is not just an object, it is the physical manifestation of our faith in our path and role in Creation. It is ultimately who we are and what we choose to do with our power!

- Didn't Diablo break Imperius' spear during the siege of the Heavens? – Lyndon stared at him.

- My point exactly, Lyndon! – Tyrael glared at him.

-… Oh damn – the scoundrel shrunk back, his mind visibly busy processing the realization.

Tyrael bitterly swatted at the sickles.

- After everything, you are still the Angel of Death, Malthael. You just don't want to admit it out loud! – he finished miserably, choking up.

A part of him had wished Lyndon was right: that Malthael changed, that somehow someway his eldest brother could be saved from the path of unspeakable horrors he had been on. That maybe, maybe one small thing in Creation could go back to normal, and Malthael could return to the Silver City to once again lead the Angelic Host. He felt like such a colossal fool now – the same fool when he lost track of Leah in the Caldeum sewers, when he realized Adria had betrayed and used them, when he thought he could retrieve and keep the Black Soulstone safe from everyone… when he killed Eirena in a fit of blind rage.

Tyrael was just a blind fool who was destined to constantly fall prey to his own naivety, he realized.

- Wait! You are going to cut yourself! – Quiet's alarmed shout grabbed everyone's attention.

Malthael lifted the two sickles with madly shaking hands. His left palm wrapped around the handles while the right held onto the blades themselves, and he started to bend. The weapons did not seem to budge in the slightest, but the angel tightened his grip on them. Quiet reached out to help but Lyndon quickly pulled him back and away from Malthael.

- Give him a moment! – he whispered.

- But he is getting hurt! – Quiet whined, but did not really dare the fight his father's arms.

Shining angelic blood spilled from Malthael's right palm where the two blades dug into his flesh, but Malthael was only exerting more and more effort. The sickles shuddered, a distant scream of rage coming from them. Malthael bent forward, leaning over his weapons. His grip seemed to falter for a moment but it quickly tightened again. The sickles bent. A small silver crack ran down in the middle of the blades, close to where they meet the handles. The screaming was definitely getting louder.

- This is not the right way. There are other ways! – Malthael defiantly pressed the words out of himself.

The silver crack was engulfed in a blinding light. It sounded like the sky itself was shattering. An explosion of unholy screeching and sickly greyish light swept over the entire room, bringing a terrible cold with it. Lyndon shielded Quiet with his body. Abd hid his face behind a book. Tyrael's breath that he had withheld up to this point was knocked out of him. The gems' and torches' light changed to white.

Then warmth reconquered the room just as suddenly. The lights turned normal, color returned, the screaming stopped. And Malthael stood there, shaking madly in his entire body, blood was flowing from his right hand and spattering onto the floor. He held the sickles in each hand… now broken in two. He let out a shaky breath, staring at the pieces in a trans-like state. After a heavy pause, the sickles shattered further, as if made out of dark glass. They slowly crumbled out of Malthael's fingers and into fine dust, only to disappear into thin air without a trace.

- You—You did it. You did it! – Abd shouted in ecstasy. – YOU DID IT, MAL!

He rushed there, propping up the suddenly weak archangel, he was already rummaging in his satchel for something to dress the nasty deep cut with.

- Bloody hell, Mal, stop scaring me like that! – Lyndon complained but he too rushed there with Quiet. – Still, fine work pulling it off!

He helped keep Malthael's shaking arm upright and in place so Abd could bandage it properly. Quiet patted the archangel's left hand, his wing anxiously darting around. Tyrael walked up there, stunned to his core.

- You did it… you actually did it – he kept muttering in a daze. – You broke your own weapon…

- See?! I told you it was just an accident – Lyndon glared at him in annoyance.

- No… no… he was right – Malthael spoke up, alarmingly weakly. – He was right…

Abd and Lyndon gently set him down, while Quiet quickly raised the ground behind him to keep him sitting. Tyrael sighed as he crouched down next to the much taller angel. Malthael leaned back against the stone pillar entirely, but he did slightly lift his left hand. After a moment of hesitation, Tyrael gently accepted it and held it in his own. Malthael's touch was cool on the skin, but not terribly cold like it had originally been. Tyrael stared at their joined hands, not sure what to think. His mind was mostly occupied with processing what had just transpired.

- I am sorry… sorry for everything – Malthael whispered. – It changes nothing, I know… but I am.

Tyrael swallowed and nodded, turning his gaze away. Malthael's grip grew slack and he allowed his arm to fall back down after a few moments as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

- Will he be okay? – Abd asked him worriedly.

- He will. He only needs to rest – Tyrael reassured him, although his own voice was weak.

- I'm sure that took a lot out of him – Lyndon mumbled.

- Why did he hurt himself? I don't understand! – Quiet whined, wrangling his hands, looking up to his father.

Lyndon gently hugged the child to calm him down.

- He wanted to make sure he wouldn't turn bad again, firefly – he told him softly. – It was a very difficult decision to make. I'm not happy either he had to hurt himself in the process, but now it will be easier for him to turn good again. I hope, at least.

- A new conviction will need to take root first and foremost – Tyrael let out a loud breath. – But yes… it is an… incredible start, no doubt.

Getting Malthael back to their shared dorm was a team effort. Abd and Lyndon carried the tall but thankfully light body while Quiet and Tyrael scouted ahead, making sure they did not run into anyone. It would have been impossible to explain their way out of this one otherwise. Thankfully, their mission went off without much issue and soon Malthael was sleeping undisturbed in his bed in their well-lit dorm on the first floor of the fort. His legs dangled over the far edge almost at the knees but it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.

- The trial is in two days – Abd told Lyndon, nervously wrangling his hands. – Oh dear, truly I hope you can help!

- I will do my absolute best. I can promise you that much – Lyndon nodded with conviction.

- I am certain of that, friend, do not worry.

- Will… will the Arkivists accept him? – Quiet asked uncertainly. – They fought the Reeeperz, right?

- Yes, they did. That is why it won't be easy – Lyndon gently patted him on the head. – But we will give it our best shot.

- What if it won't work? – Tyrael asked from behind them.

- Then… we will come up with another plan. For now, let's keep our eye on the next step! – Lyndon quickly said.

- True… true – Abd smiled, trying to put up a brave front.

After saying goodbye, Lyndon, Quiet and Tyrael left the Library just as fast as they came through, only hoping nobody would find their presence suspicious. They found it better to keep the silence as they walked back home, each contemplating what they had witnessed in their own way. Tyrael found it best to retreat into his personal quarters once back home. His room was one of the larger ones in the house, it also had a wide desk for his writing, covered in mostly burnt-up candles, a few thin but tall bookcases and a wider bed. He stopped in the middle of the room and let out a deep sigh.

He still didn't know what to think about the whole situation. He knew what effects Chalad'ar, the supposed Vessel of Wisdom could have on the mind. He had seen what insane depths Malthael had sunk to supposedly eradicate evil from Creation. He still remembered facing his brother down in Corvus, losing people to him, seeing the streets of Westmarch covered in corpses. Anu only knew how horrible Caldeum must have looked upon the impact of the Black Soulstone. He remembered the twisted appearance of the Pandemonium Fortress, acting as one titanic window into the soul… or at least, what remained of the soul of formerly Wisdom.

Malthael had been right. "Sorry" changed precisely nothing to remedy any of that.

But Anu help him… did Tyrael not feel the exact same way about murdering Eirena? Or bringing down the wrath of Rathma and Rammanu on the heads of all those on the Meridian? Or causing the deaths of Thomas and dozens of angels who had tried to stop them during the Black Soulstone Heist? Not suspecting Adria of deception? Resurrecting thousands of unjustly killed people who ended up murdering a third of New Tristram's population?

"To the deaths of millions. Brother."

Indeed, "sorry" did not cut it. That was a fact both Tyrael and Malthael now would have to live with. Where they go from here was solely up to them, however. And perhaps… it was wise of Lyndon to not give up on the former Angel of Death yet. Tyrael knew he would not be able to support him, not after everything. He honestly could not fathom how the scoundrel could get over the past, even though he had been just as affected by Malthael as Tyrael. Maybe the insane adventure in Sescheron had helped with that, or maybe the scoundrel was simply far better of a man than the mortal angel was, Tyrael had no idea. He had to see how the future unfolds. Until then, he would keep his distance. He just couldn't trust Malthael. Not anymore.

But something kept bothering him. At first he couldn't place it, but after minutes of silent contemplation, something occurred to him.

"An archangel's weapon is not just an object, it is the physical manifestation of ourfaith in our path and role in Creation. It is ultimately who we are and what we choose to do with our power!"

Tyrael closed his eyes, reached out and concentrated. After a moment of hesitation, he felt a familiar weight appearing among his fingers. He looked at his hand which now held El'druin. The weapon hummed softly with power, its pearly white blade and blue highlights filled the room with a mystical glow. Perhaps it wasn't as shining as usual… but it was still shining. And it still answered his call. The reason why Tyrael's and Imperius's symbols of power were their weapons and not other objects, like in the case of Itherael, Auriel and Malthael, was because fighting off the tides of darkness and protecting others were their full calling. Of course how to achieve those was a philosophical debate between Tyrael and Imperius, and that difference did eventually lead them down on vastly different paths, a fact the mortal angel greatly regretted. And perhaps… Imperius did as well, even if Valor would have rather let a dust imp kill him than to admit it out loud.

But the fact that Tyrael still had El'druin… it had to mean something. Something good. Or at least hopeful. He still had to be a protector deep within his soul, even if he did not feel like one at all. He had unfortunately become very adept at doubting literally everything about himself and his life in these past weeks, but there was simply no arguing about this one, his symbol of power was too clear of a sign.

Tyrael gently set El'druin down so it was leaning on its point on the floor. He realized he was smiling. Faintly, uncertainly, but he was smiling as he ran his thumb over the familiar golden handle.


Oooohohohh, man, I've been waiting for the sickle breaking scene to finally arrive! For years, I have waited for this opportunity! To hell with those ghoulish things, we got much better weapons coming up – books and sheets of paper! This is merely the first step down the road for Malthael, but an important step. Let's see where it all leads, yeah, cupcakes? :3

Fun fact, Chapter 74 was done on the exact same day as Chapter 73, since they were originally one chapter! But by dividing them, not only did they become much readable in length, but also ensuring that Chapter 74 can go up in September like clockwork. With a bit of luck and work, Chapter 75 can continue the monthly trend in October.

Thank you for taking your time to read, even more so if you commented! See you all next time!

Lore & Trivia corner

- "There are other ways" is a reference (and a denial) to one of Malthael's many voice lines during his boss fight: "There is no other way".

- Symbols of power: although never quite referred to by such names, Chalad'ar, Al'maiesh, El'druin, Solarion and Talus'ar can be considered symbols of power for the archangels. Much like in pretty much every religion ever, for example Ancient Greek mythology or even Christianity, each notable figure has at least one object that identifies them, even if their depictions change over the ages. It is also rather clear that an archangel's weapon is not necessarily the same as their symbol of power, but it is safe to assume that even those objects reflect the soul of the archangel, much like their entire appearance does.