Death is the Only Answer
Tyrael sees Death.
Not in the way that so many of Sanctuary's children choose it - day by day, every day, through poetry and song, through prayer and ritual. Not even as Death struck the world so many of their years ago - unstoppable. Unabated. Souls reaped by the angel who bore Death's name.
No. He sees Death.
Right in front of him.
Death called him, and while not Her master, he obeyed. Once, long ago, before Death became as such, things were different. There was a time he fought and bled beside her. Laughed and wept. Loved her, even, in his own way. For as one who took up sword to serve humanity more times than a mortal could count, faith alone would not be enough in this broken universe.
El'druin sings in his hand. His course is just, he tells himself. Even if the sword refused his call when last summoned against Death.
He studies her face - bereft of scars, yet he knows she carries them. They all do. Wounded is Sanctuary, and the knife cuts deep. Many lives saved by Death, many lost in her absence.
He knows he will not be spared Death. He forsook immortality long ago. But here, now, in this place, in the heat of Pandemonium...
She begs for it to end.
His hand spares Death for now. Death was the first person he saw in this world. Death was the champion of two worlds. Death was the one light in a world grown cold, whose very name inspired hope in those that had none. In a world where death is commonplace, it needs the one who bears its namesake.
One thrust. One tap. One push.
He obliges.
And so ends the one called Nephalem.