Fan fiction:Return of the Three
Return of the Three is a fan fiction piece by Kire, originally posted in the Diabloii.net Fan Fiction Forum. This story was posted on February 12th 2011.
Contents
Return of the Three
By Kire
Part I: Destruction’s Return
“You don’t have to do this. There has to be another way…There HAS TO!”
Tal Rasha glanced over at his friend’s worried visage. Jered Cain had been opposed to the idea from the beginning. Even now, wading through dank, dismal tombs from ages past, he desperately tried to persuade Tal Rasha to change his mind, to find another way. There wasn’t.
“This is the only way to ensure his imprisonment. I don’t particularly like the concept of having him within me, but this is more than me.”
Only hours earlier, the two had expected to perish along with many of their brethren in a monumental battle with their captive. Baal, the Lord of Destruction, fled across the deserts of Aranoch towards the north with the Horadrim in close pursuit. As they caught up with him, he fiercely resisted their attempts to capture him, unleashing the violent and deadly fury of Hell upon them. Many had fallen to the uncontrollable magical chaos he threw at them; it took all of their skill and spells to bring him to his knees. Yet the demon had fallen beneath his blade and was sealed within the mystic soulstone. Unfortunately, the demon lord had lashed out at Tal Rasha in desperation and managed to shattered the stone meant to contain him; it could only hold him for so long. It was then that that the archangel Tyrael had come to them to resolve the problem with the only solution: sacrifice.
According to him, the stone created a spiritual vacuum through its connection to mortal energy. In its damaged state, it would not work properly. But should someone offer his body as an extension of the stone, the combined mortal energy of the stone and the flesh would suffice to imprison the demon. However, to do so would be to allow the essence of the Lord of Destruction to flow freely into the man’s body and mind. Tal Rasha refused to allow anyone else to suffer eternally in such a way –he offered himself. Jered deeply disliked the concept.
“You’ve seen what he can do. How do we ever know this will work?”
The same question had swirled through Tal Rasha’s mind for hours. Could it work? The vast empty tombs left him feeling disillusioned and doubtful. He couldn’t think of anything to say. There were only the steady clack-clack-clacks of their boots on the endlessly descending staircase and the faintly glowing flame of their torches fighting back the darkness. The rest had gone ahead of them, leaving Tal Rasha to prepare himself for what was to come. Soon it would be time.
“I don’t. I can only hope. I believe in Tyrael’s words. My sacrifice allows the world peace from destruction. How can I turn my back?”
Jered remained silent. Immense solemnity weighed on his brow. Though he did not like it, he understood what had to be done.
“I know. I just wished it wasn’t so. Your loss will be a loss for all of us. I’ll miss you, friend.”
If for nothing else, for Jered. He had given him strength over the years.
“Me too, brother.”
The stairs ended and they came at last to a great hall. Beyond were the doors. The chamber within would be his resting place…for eternity. He took a breath, willing his mind to show courage to his brothers when he entered; they needed to feel assured that their suffering had not been in vain –that hope remained against the dark.
“Are you ready?”
He mustered a smirk.
“Ready as I can ever be.”
They entered the chamber and beheld the sight before them. Their Horadric brothers had gathered in a circle around the edges of the room. They wore tired, desperate looks and tattered robes from their battles. Each regarded Tal Rasha with respect and reverence. A vast pit of molten fire lied in the center with a pillar of earth rising from the heart of it. Only a small wooden bridge lead to the island, upon which there was a mystic stone. Like many across the world, this stone was a natural focal point of magical energies; no doubt that was why the ancient builders of the tombs had chosen this place. Sacred glyphs had been carved upon its surface to channel the binding spells placed on it. The stone would serve to bind him and the demon with the magically forged chains his brothers had prepared. In front of the stone…was Tyrael waiting.
Tyrael was a beacon of light in the lurid darkness. His armor shined with such holy energies that his face was obscured in shade. His wings were luminous tendrils that stretched to the limits of the chamber, beating and undulating as if by their own will. In his hand was the soulstone: a shard of crystal with a sickening yellow light. Even as Tal Rasha beheld it, he could feel the wicked spirit within, struggling to destroy the prison and once more bring its chaos to the world. He came to the threshold of the bridge. Now was the time to do what was necessary. He turned to Jered and set his forehead with his. This was it, the last.
“Be strong, Jered. One remains. The others will look to you to be brave against Terror.”
Jered made no attempt to hold back the tears threatening to push forward. He was losing someone as close to him as anyone could be. His voice came out as a broken whisper.
“I will finish this…for you. Your sacrifice gives us all strength.”
Tal Rasha closed his eyes and breathed a prayer to whatever power there was. He straightened himself and solemnly strode to where Tyrael waited. The angel’s light itself gave him courage and tranquility. When he spoke, Tyrael’s voice resonated with an encouraging tone, abating his doubts.
“Remember the virtue of your choice, mortal. By your actions, the forces of Destruction lie dormant. Though your tribulation will be great, never forget the merit of this sacrifice. Are you ready?”
He nodded slowly. His back to the stone, he kept his face resolute as the chains were bound across his flesh to ever immobilize him. Tyrael brought forth the stone and rested his hand on the mage’s shoulder. In his last moments, Tal Rasha turned to seek out the face of his greatest friend –he was there, watching in worry.
“Goodbye.”
The stone entered him. He contorted against the stone, struggling to escape the unnatural perversion crawling into his body; his mouth could not resist letting out the painful shouts of his soul. He felt the twisted chaos stretch through him, seeking to tear him apart. As the magic of the binding stone surged to life, he saw the angel lead the Horadrim from the chamber; there was nothing more they could do for him. As he felt his mind slipping, he heard that one word from Jered as he sealed the door to the chamber.
“Goodbye…”
Then he saw nothing. Instead he sensed the malignant miasma of the demon lord fill his being. It pushed its essence on him, trying to dominate his being and establish authority over his mind. At first the voice was brutish, savage –speaking in horrible demonic tongues. But as the evil melded with his own mind, the voice became colder, sharper, growing closer to being his own.
“Tal Rasha of the Horadrim…I shall have you.”
He grimaced as the cruel voice sliced into his soul. Even now he had the greatest desire to bring destruction to all he saw. Pushing this aside, he fortified his thoughts.
“No demon, I will fight you. I will remain here in an eternal wrestling with you. Vanquish me if you will, but you have eternity in this place.”
Cold laughter met him.
“Yes, fight. You will struggle, but for naught. At this moment you feel me at the edge of your thoughts. I will grow. I will overtake. That is the nature of destruction, all things fall: mountains, kingdoms, man. All I need is time…and as you said, we have an eternity here...”
As the Horadrim somberly ascended towards the light of day to carry on their quest, the last sounds they heard were the unearthly screams of Tal Rasha echoing through the unending tombs.
- - -
The years had passed. Within this decrepit tomb, in its deepest chambers, the shape of a man stands bound to an ancient stone. He has the wrappings of a mummy, yet as the figure strains against the chains bound across him one realizes he was surely entombed alive. The eyes glow with a nefarious, sulfur-yellow light, revealing no human soul within the shell. Beyond him the room’s structure warps and shifts under the chaotic influence of this creature as though it was its own personal hell. After a while it settles again against the stone, a small sadistic smile filling its decaying face. All the time in the world…an eternity.
“I am destruction. I wait for the world to find me again.”
Part II: Hatred’s Return
He would see reason. He would…or perish. Khalim was a fool. They all had seen the wondrous power of their lord, his ingenious ways, his irresistible will. Sankekur knew. His lord Mephisto had come to them in their thoughts and dreams; he promised unending rule and dominion over the wilderness. The pagans of this world, they would know of the salvation of the Zakarum! They would open their hearts to the teachings of the light and the care of their lord or die for their infidelity. Yet how could they begin their holy crusade, their worldwide mission, if their own leader did not see the arrival of Mephisto as the ascension of their faith? The head of the church, the Que-Hegan, must show unshakable loyalty to the light; if he had his doubts, he was unworthy to remain as Que-Hegan.
He now stood amidst the members of the High Council, lost in debate with Khalim. They crafted insidious arguments to persuade him to the side of Mephisto and spare him the certain consequences of refusing. Lord Mephisto had already told them what must be done if he dissents. Maffer addressed Khalim once more, placating his temper with empty flattery and fraudulent assurances.
“Hail, Que-Hegan Khalim, holy light of the Zakarum. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Khalim, Maffer throws before your seat a humble heart…”
Khalim held up his hand and beckoned Maffer to rise.
“I must prevent you, Maffer, these crouchings and these lowly courtesies. What heart within you beats, I feel a shadow upon it. What is it you truly seek?”
Maffer’s face tightened in indignation; he withdrew in failure, only to give room to Ismail, who came forward with more enticements and adulation. His voice was deep and soothing, though it now crackled with slight malice.
“Is there no voice more worthy than my own to sound more sweetly in great Khalim’s ear? Surely, you have felt the presence of the prophet and heard his voice reach to you in the silence. Hear his words; they are the promise of greatness and salvation.”
Sankekur kneeled to his side.
“I kiss your hand but not in flattery, oh Que-Hegan, that you may listen to our words and see the truth of it.”
Khalim withdrew his hand in surprise. The harsh shock across his face told all too well the disdain he felt towards the men he had served with for so long. The fool.
“What, you as well, Sankekur?!”
Wyand, the first to had embraced the majesty of Mephisto, approached and gave reverence to his Que-Hegan. It was he who had shared with all of them the power of their lord, the promise of his words and the mission to share his teachings with the world. The dark lord had told them that his teachings were the completion of those of their founder Akarat. His compelling speech had swayed them, opened them to the truth.
“Pardon, Khalim; Khalim, pardon: As low as your foot does Wyand fall to entreat you to know our lord Mephisto’s truth. He is the completion of our faith –if you would only acquiesce to lay aside the law and give ear to him.”
Khalim drew up to his full height, stretched his hands upwards, and resolutely gave forth his declaration.
“Perhaps I could be moved to do so, if I were as you are. But I am constant as the northern star. This truth you bring before me is the evil stink of demons. If your hearts were still filled with the holy teachings and not the perverse corruption of this ‘prophet’ as you call him, you would know the resolve in my words and too fight the influence of this monster. Be it seven days or seven years, I will never yield to this malevolence. Brothers, councilmen, hear me and turn away from Hatred’s words!”
He had chosen, Sankekur knew. If he could not see the incomprehensible promise of Mephisto’s power, there was nothing left to do. The others drew closer. Geleb called out in mocking, sinister voice:
“O Que-Hegan…”
Khalim stepped away toward his chair in unease.
“What, therefore? Will you throw away the light and law of order? Will you lift up Arreat itself?!”
Toorc followed with cruelty in his eyes.
“Great Que-Hegan…”
Khalim could not hide the trepidation in his eyes as they darted about in panic and he cried aloud:
“Does only Sankekur still kneel before his leader? What of you, Bremm?”
Bremm removed from his robes a dagger –as did the others. Their intent was now so simply known.
“My hand speaks for me!!”
He was the first to rise up against his Que-Hegan, the dagger tearing into his side. The others followed. Each brought his blade against him, nothing left in their eyes but pure hatred for the fool that refused their offer. He was unworthy, and now dying. Again and again the stabs came on him, ripping away his lifeforce. Blood flowed from beneath his robes, his mouth dripped. He looked at the man who had remained behind, who had almost been his closest council member and who now slowly rose and approached him. His ragged breath pleaded in immense sorrow. He could only beg.
“And you…S-s-sanke…kur?
Sankekur briefly beheld his leader, whom he had served and trusted for countless years. He felt regret, for how could he have allowed such horror to befall his benevolent Que-Hegan. Khalim…they had betrayed Khalim! Then, the familiar voice came over him in his thoughts.
“Who is the betrayer? It is not you, Sankekur. He turned away from you, he gave up the chance to rule at your side forever…HE is the traitor.”
His lord was right –he always was. He looked at Khalim again and felt that twinge of regret and sadness. Then, it was gone…snuffed out. There was only hatred now. Wordlessly he raised his blade, and brought it into Khalim’s neck. The blood poured endlessly from the wound as he crumpled onto the floor, the council standing over him with malice in their hearts. He gasped in finality:
“Then fall, Khalim.”
His eyes lulled and rolled upward. He stopped moving, his life leaving him with his blood. They regarded him a moment more and turned to Sankekur –there was more to be done. Bremm spoke:
“Go to the pulpit, Sankekur. The people must know it is done.”
Of all the council members, the people had always held great respect for Sankekur –fitting that he would replace the traitor. They brought the body before the masses, and declared an end to the tyranny of Khalim. The zealots cheered, for they had already accepted Mephisto as their lord. Sankekur announced the beginning of the great conversion, to spread their teachings to the entire world –offer salvation to the repentant and death to the unbelieving. He was made the new Que-Hegan, the spiritual head of this new faith. The council kneeled to him, and ask what was to be done with the body of Khalim.
“His body is filled with holy light. Divide him, tear him apart and scatter his remains across the land. No burial, no funeral pyre for such an infidel to out lord. Dispose of the traitor.”
So it was that Khalim’s body was dismembered and hidden in the darkest recesses of Kurast under the care of vile demons –punishment for his unwillingness to see reason. A powerful sphere called the compelling orb was crafted to firmly control the vast multitudes of followers and guard Mephisto’s lair. Now the greatest reward was coming. In the depths of the temple, the stone that contained our lord was shattered, each a piece for the six archbishops who had put to death the traitorous Khalim. In the left hand of each member a shard was placed and Sankekur watched as the bodies of the council twisted, changed by the immense power coursing through there bodies that came from the essence of their lord Mephisto. The seventh and largest shard was for him –he was to be the very embodiment of the Lord of Hatred. No higher honor could there be. He stabbed the stone into his hand and felt his beloved lord released into his body; he welcomed Mephisto as he became the very form of Hatred itself.
“My lord, let my body be your vessel. I exist to serve your will. Together, we will bring your desires to this world.”
There was a snarl and disturbing chuckle in his mind.
“Foolish mortal, you stink of the living. I despise you for it, the very notion of life. You WILL be my vessel, but I alone shall have it! Farewell, Sankekur, you have served me well.”
He opened his mouth in protest but no words came as the unstoppable strength of the demon lord invaded his being and erased who he was. He convulsed in the darkness and was consumed without a struggle –for he had opened himself completely to Mephisto. The council entered and gazed worriedly upon his body. Then, he rose up, a malicious blue glow in his eyes. They bowed before his magnificent visage and Wyand implored of him:
“My Que-Hegan, are you well?”
The voice that emerged from his throat was cold and hateful…and the voice of but one individual. Even as he spoke his form grew less like that of a man –Sankekur was no more.
“I am now. There is much work to be done. Hatred must be known…to all.”
