Lord of Terror

"No…no…get away…get away!"

She sprung out of the bed, drenched in sweat. Her hair, her skin, her clothes. Her head was pounding as well, and her throat was as dry as the sands of Aranoch. She rested her forehead on her palm, a whirlwind of emotion swelling within her. Shame, mostly – she was supposed to be above nightmares. She'd faced the most dangerous, most terrifying foes Creation had to offer her, what she'd seen in the cultist recreation of Tristram should have been nothing. How could such a minor ordeal give her nightmares?

And yet, the whirlwind remained. The fear remained. The basic terror of the dark, that forced her to light a candle at her bedside. The primal instinct of every human being to seek the light, and avoid the dangers of the unseen. She frowned, even as she made her way down the stairs of the Slaughtered Calf Inn, holding the base of the candle tight, and wrapping her night clothing around her. Fear kept her within the light. Fear was also preventing her from returning to slumber. Because on some level, she was still human. On some level, even after all that had happened, she needed the comfort that lower mortals enjoyed.

So she entered the inn's main floor. With a flick of her fingers, the oil lamps ignited, casting an eerie glow over the room. Bron wasn't there – he couldn't stop her from walking behind the counter and reaching for a tankard. For a moment, she lingered, looking at the barrels before her. Then, she thought better of it, and headed outside for the well. Water. It was all she wanted right now. All she needed. The wind blew a bitter breeze, but she barely felt it. As she drew the barrel to the surface and drunk the life-giving liquid, she barely tasted it. Not that water had much taste anyway, but then, not much did these days.

"Li-Ming?"

She spun around, tankard in one hand, a dagger in the other. Her magic was her greatest weapon, but she had long since learnt to never be bereft of steel, no matter how small. Her eyes squinted through the gloom, and discovered that her steel was unneeded. After all, Tyrael was a friend – one of the few friends she had in this world.

"Tyrael," she said, standing straight. "You're up late this night."

"I believe it's technically morning," he said. "In fact, the sun is close to rising."

She glanced towards the east – indeed, the first rays of light could be seen. The East would see the sun before her. Home of her birth, home of her life, they would bathe in their rays before her. For some reason, it made her feel…sad.

"Well then," she said, taking another sip of water. "I suggest we enjoy what little of night remains."

She walked back into the inn, hoping that her friend would take the hint that she wasn't in the mood for conversation. But if he did, he ignored it, as he followed her into the tavern. Frowning, she sat at a table in the corner, and in turn, so did the angel. The lamp flickering between them illuminated the furrows on his brow, the concern in his eyes.

"Water?" he asked eventually.

She took a sip. "What's wrong with water?"

"Nothing. I just thought you'd have wanted something with stronger taste."

"Everything tastes of nothing to me now," the wizard said, finishing off the water and gesturing towards Bron's supply of alcohol. "And it's not enough to help me."

"Help you?"

"Help me sleep," she grunted, rubbing her eyes. By the Light she was tired. Far more tired than she'd been since…well, since the Pandemonium Fortress.

"If you wish to talk-"

"No," she grunted. "I don't. Malthael is dead, and I am Death, and for all you know, a destroyer of worlds." She forced a smile. "Well, fear not. I'm not so arrogant as to believe that I am completely invincible."

"Perhaps. But you're perhaps arrogant enough to believe that I didn't hear you. That I didn't hear the Lord of Terror's name escape your lips."

The smile became a frown, and her dagger felt the touch of her skin again. She didn't want this. Any of it. Slowly, she said, "Diablo is none of my concern. I defeated him in Heaven. If he dares show his face upon Sanctuary, I'll banish him to oblivion all over again."

"And I would enjoy seeing that," Tyrael murmured. "But we both know that's not the Diablo of your nightmares. We both know that seeing Tristram as it was two decades ago is the source of your terror."

She felt ice spreading down her back. And it wasn't from the sweat evaporating in the cool morning air.

"Your friends told me about it," said Tyrael. "That you descended into the labyrinth as Aidan did before you. That you saw the Tristram Cathedral as it appeared in Adria's memories. That you faced the Lord of Terror himself."

"An illusion," she snapped. "A lie. Nothing more."

"Nothing more than an illusion from a time of nightmares, taken from the mind of one who gave that nightmare flesh once more." Tyrael frowned. "It is Diablo's greatest weapon, to take the fears of those who oppose him and use it against them. Scarce wonder that the nightmare of that demon is more terrifying than the demon himself."

"I killed him. Both of them. One of them is nothing more than a memory, the other is Light-knows where, likely cowering in fear."

"Says the one who cries out in their sleep."

The dagger felt her palm grasp around it even tighter, even as she leant back in her chair. Eventually, she let go, and folded her arms. "What would you ask of me Tyrael?"

"To talk," he said. "Something that you've done very little of since Malthael."

"Talk," she spat. "I cleansed Sescheron, I braved Greyhollow Island, and I've hunted down what few wretches remain of the Coven. Talk is cheap."

"There are many who would disagree with you."

"Let them," she said. "Let words be the domain of old men. Let them talk about my deeds long after I've done them. Meanwhile, I'll act." She rose to her feet. "I don't need your help, angel."

"Perhaps," Tyrael said. "But the ones who actually did brave the labyrinth twenty years ago believed they were above the need of aid as well. Did Cain ever tell you what happened to them?"

This time, she not only grabbed the dagger, but drew it out. "Is that a threat?"

"No," said Tyrael, his voice low, his eyes dark. "I am saddened you would think it so."

She sheathed the dagger. "I don't care what you think."

And with that, the conversation was over. She walked back up to her room, curses upon her lips, her heart beating deep beneath her breast. Fools, all of them. She was a nephalem. The one who had conquered terror and death itself. She'd sleep for what remained of the morning, and set out upon the sun's rise. And she'd do so regardless of what petty concerns her fellows heaped upon her. Do it all, and damn those who stood in her way.

In her dreams, she saw Diablo again.

He was laughing at her.