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The Hunter and the Templar	By : BurneHazard Category: +A through F > Diablo III Views: 6471 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Diablo III (3) and all content therein is the property of Blizzard Entertainment. This story is for entertainment purposes only and I make no money from writing it.

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            It was a fool's errand. Even as good as he was at deluding himself, he knew it. He had lived this long because he knew how to read people. Women were slightly easier than men but both eventually revealed secrets they never knew they broadcast. And this matter was hardly any different. Not to mention he was not a tracker or a hunter. He had no clue how to follow a trail or signs. So, in all eventuality, he was chasing a wild fancy rather than a living person. He was not going to give up. Not even if it meant he might just be rushing to his own death.
            No one had seen anything. The description of his search was met with no recognition from any caravan or traveler, the captains of the ships that ferried said caravans across the water inlet to save time and wear had not seen or heard of anything. Even the mercenaries that were lingering in the port city had heard and seen nothing regardless of how much gold he offered. It was the lack of any sign that kept him going in this direction. Somehow it was too perfectly quiet. And it made him edgy.
            He knew that the one he was trying to follow was probably aware of his presence. If not, it would surprise the both of them--if he ever caught up to her. She was the only one that could answer questions that left him very little peace of mind let alone permitted him to rest. Too many questions, too few answers. And after all that had happened, he would not bother his friends with this particular task. It was something he had to do himself if only to prove he could. But it had been over a week without a clue.
            Trudging through the forest, he kept a wary eye on the trees for any threats. The beasts and natives in this part of the land had steered clear of the caravans due to the numbers and the carts. Alone, he was a far more tempting and vulnerable target. Even if he had no solid sign he was going the right way, he did not want to be slowed or misdirected by an unexpected attack. An attack like the one that sprang on him in the form of a black-shafted arrow barely nicking the tip of his nose and striking the trunk of the tree to his left.
            Freezing, he caught his breath sharply and fought against the urge to dive for cover. If the quarrel was not from the target of his hunt, he was a demon's uncle. He had only ever seen those particular black shafts used by one person. The feathers were ragged and shimmered faintly blue-white where the bolt still vibrated in the grip of the trunk.
            "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you, Lyndon," came a voice so rough and weary he barely recognized it.
            "Curiosity?" he tried.
            "No. That's why I haven't killed you yet. Now, give me a reason why I should not kill you before I count to ten." Her voice did not seem to be coming from any particular direction so he had no clue where to look save to his right since that was where the arrow came from.
            "Killa...please, what's gotten into you?" he asked, pushing his habit of joking aside. The shot had not been an idle threat.
            "Go back to Kingsport, Lyndon. Take the gold I left you and go free your brother. Let the dead lie."
            "And 'lie' is such an appropriate word. You're lying even now. They think you're dead!"
            "That was the intention. Why didn't you believe it?"
            "Because I saw you come back with one of them. And because I realized that Tyrael never outright said you were dead, only gone."
            Silence filled the air as he finished speaking. Remaining still, hands in sight, he waited. Leaves rustled finally and he cautiously turned his head toward the sound. In the shadows of the forest, a darker shape seemed to melt into view against a thicker trunk. Lyndon was no fool. He saw the crossbow raised and clearly placed in a shaft of dim sunlight just for his benefit. She was aiming at him.
            "Why did you follow me?"
            He was the one that remained silent for a few moments to consider her question. "I...had to. Something--a lot of things--simply didn't add up. That...and I figured if you were alive, you'd want your things back."
            "You little thief," she grumbled. "Do you remember what I said I'd do if you 'borrowed' my journal one more time?"
            "Yes. That's why I stole it back this time."
            A snort came from her shadowy figure. The crossbow wavered then lowered. Pushing away from the tree, she slowly stepped deeper into the gloom. Her free hand rose to give an idle wave. Thankful it was a signal to follow rather than an arrow flying toward his heart, he turned to follow her. Oddly, he caught up to her in five strides. She was moving extremely slow and careful as if...in pain.
            Her outfit had also changed. The armor looked like it was solid metal rather than leather. Its design was intricate with multiple pieces forming the feathers of sweeping wings embracing her arms and legs as well as resting open in front and in back of her shoulders. A heavy cloak of charcoal green was draped over her body so he could only assume the design continued. The hood was up, shadowing her face from his sight. But the metal was seared to a point it seemed more blackened bronze than onyx.
            Frowning, the scoundrel almost spoke up about the changes. There was enough hostility present in what he was picking up from her body language however that he wound up biting his tongue instead. She was being lenient and he was still alive. Both were bonuses in his opinion. An additional bonus was when he saw she was leading him toward a camp that had been established for more than one occupant if the layout was correct.
            Still moving like an injured thing, the hunter made her way to the spread bedroll. She set her weapons aside and lowered herself down with painstaking slowness. Lyndon found himself just standing in place watching as she settled herself leaning back against a brand new pack. Her breathing was increased and ragged.
            "Killa...what happened to you?"
            One gloved hand motioned to the side where there was clear space to unroll a second bedroll. At least he had been correct in believing she had known he was following. Clearing his throat, he moved to sit down near her rather than take the time to unpack his things. Her breathing slowly evened out and faded from his senses.
            "Angelic healers may be far beyond anything humans can do, but they are not human. And they cannot heal demons."
            "...how bad?"
            "Bad enough. Tyrael showed them how to best mend the broken bones. But...I suppose in the end I really have too much of a demon within me for much beyond that."
            "Is that your way of warning me not to peek?" he asked as he leaned forward slightly to peer at the hood.
            Her head rose and turned toward him. The shadow made her skin seem almost golden where it was glimpsed over the cloth covering her lower face. At least that much was familiar. "More or less. Now, ask your other questions. But don't expect long-winded answers."
            Lyndon was suddenly at a loss. Staring at one of his best friends and the most lethal lady he had yet encountered, everything he had wanted to ask fled from his grasp. All he could think about was seeing her without the cloak and armor to see how bad the damage was.
            "Why did you want us to think you were dead?" he finally asked.
            The hunter drew a slow, ragged breath. "I defeated Diablo himself. The source of my family's murder." Her breath hitched before she coughed, bowing her head. "And...I survived."
            She went silent and left him frowning in confusion.
            "I don't--"
            "I achieved a goal beyond my best hopes and wildest desires. I didn't plan to live." The hunter coughed again before reaching for the water skin near the pack she leaned against. "Tell me, Lyndon. Had they known I survived, would they have let me leave without following me?"
            He could feel the sharp look she sent at him and tried not to squirm. Clearing his own throat, he put on a charming smile and spread his hands. "Well, I'm far more a free spirit than they are. I go where I know the gold's at."
            "Lyndon," her voice was so rough it made him wince at the sound. "I made sure that you had enough gold to free your brother. Yet you're here."
            Sighing, the scoundrel shrugged and stared at the ring of stones where a fire was meant to be built. Realizing it was empty of any tinder, he almost leapt to his feet. "Right, well, this is going to take a while so since it's only a few hours before nightfall...I'll go...get some firewood. Stay put!"
            Without waiting for her to respond, he fled into the trees. He did not hear the heavy sigh or hitched breath as the hunter bit back a sound. She was still sitting there when he returned a time later with arms full of dry wood and arranged it. Casting repeated looks toward her unmoving form, he got the fire started and hesitated before setting up his side of the camp. During the time, she still did not move.
            Only when twilight had descended did she stir. A sharper breath made Lyndon jump. Her head rose slowly as she shifted. It was clear she was in pain the way she first moved almost normally only to freeze and jerk into a more...cautious way of shifting. The hood rippled and he caught a split second's glimpse of the firelight making her face shine a deep gold.
            "Killashandra?" he asked softly.
            "Dozing. What else did you plan to ask?" she said in that weary, rough voice again.
            Rather than answer, he pulled his pack open and moved to rise to one knee, offering her a familiar-looking book. Studying it, she finally brought one arm up to reach out and take it from him without moving from her position. The scoundrel sank back down onto his own bedding to lean back.
            "I thought you might like it back."
            Placing the book on one of her armored thighs, she slowly bent her knee up to better see it. The cloak slid away to confirm his suspicions on her armor matching the feathery wings design. Watching her move, he was struck by the strangest memory of a grandmother he had once helped as a boy. At least the hunter still had the full-bodied lines rather than being ravaged by age. The motions were the same however as she opened the book to a random page.
            "So..." he started and her head rose toward him once more. "Why didn't you take Kormac with you when you left?"
            It brought an entirely new type of silence that confirmed a few of his thoughts. But he kept quiet so he did not tax her too much.
            "Because I lived."
            Lyndon frowned at her. "Which really is what everyone wanted--other than yourself. I don't understand why!"
            "It made everything complicated. If I had died, things would have been so much simpler."
            "Not for us!"
            "Yes, for you. All of you would have mourned and continued on with your lives. And don't try to tell me none of you would. I was there. I saw that Eirena was helping Tyrael. I saw Haedrig happy at work. I saw Shen busy entertaining the children with his silly stories and his jewels. I even saw you surrounded by beautiful women with gold in your pockets."
            The hunter broke off into another coughing fit. She reached for the water skin near her pack and started to bring it to her lips. Something made her stop and rest it on her lap near the book instead.
            "You left someone out of that list, Killa," he said quietly.
            "He would have been able to return to his Order, untarnished and pure. Hurael removed the last of the coven's curse from him. What happened between us...he would have kept locked away in his memories...had I died."
            "Wait, you mean you two...he actually...but when? HOW?!" the scoundrel demanded.
            "The cave. Whatever Eirena's angelic Prophet did...we...had more time than the rest of you."
            "I honestly didn't think the dullard had it in him. But then again, you are quite a woman, Killa."
            She did not respond to that. Although one gloved hand rested on the water skin, the other moved to turn another page of the book. Paper tore as she ripped it free and he caught a glimpse of that bold black chant before she crumpled it slowly in one hand and threw it into the fire to burn.
            "Why do that spell on him though? I already figured out what it did, and I can't figure out how or why you would betray him that way."
            "One, because although he may love me his heart is set on someone else...and both of us know that. Two, because betrayal can never be forgiven. At least not by him. And even if he should remember...what happened..." One of her shoulders rose slightly then fell in a tiny shrug.
            Lyndon released a sigh and rubbed his face with one hand. "You're a bloody fool, Killa. But like you said, I know that type of 'nobility' all too well."
            "Good."
            The quiet descended again for all of five seconds. The fire snapped and crackled. And Lyndon moved to rise and face her as she looked up. "I'll go see if I can't find something fresher than trail-food for supper."
            Nodding wordlessly in acknowledgement, the hunter watched him take his bow and quivers from their place beside his pack. He faded into the night-embraced forest with ease. And it was beyond her to tell him it would have been wiser to try hunting during daylight. It got him out of the way for a while and gave her some privacy to tend her current problems.

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            He had managed to snag a couple of stupid but decently sized rock shrews thinking their little nest was out of reach of predators. Heading back to the camp, he wondered just what he was going to say to her next. Most of his questions had been answered save for two and she had made it clear one of those would not be answered. A sound from the source of light ahead made his head snap up. It was a sound of pain.
            Forgetting for a moment that Killashandra was still injured and not at full capacity, he broke forward from habit to see what she had encountered this time. When he ran into the camp however, nothing was there. Nothing but the hunter curled up in a ball with both hands over her face, whimpering in pain as she rocked back and forth. Her fingers alternated clawing at her face and clenching into fists against it.
            Without thinking of the danger, Lyndon dropped his things and dove to his knees beside his friend. The hood of her cloak was back and he could see her black hair was far shorter than it had once been, not even falling to her shoulders. His hands grasped her wrists--and she jerked her head up. Surprise made his eyes widen. It had not been golden skin he had glimpsed earlier but gold metal. Her face stared at him from a cold mask bearing only hollow black eyes. Beautiful and inhuman at once.
            "Get away!" she almost cried and it was the first time he had ever heard such pain and desperation from her.
            "Killa, stop! What's wrong? I can help."
            Collapsing into hitching sobs, she bowed her head, shaking it fiercely. Her hands were clenched into tight fists and he could feel tremors passing through her wrists. Easing his grip a little, he still pulled her hands away from her head.
            "It burns...I need...Lyndon, go away.....don't look...just go away!"
            Shaking his head, even as he wanted to do precisely what she said, he drew her arms down further. Whimpers rose but did not deter him even if it made small pains spike in his chest.
            "I'm not going anywhere. Let me help...come on...breathe, let me help...don't have to do this on your own..." he murmured even though he had no clue what he was trying to do.
            Eventually, she stopped resisting. "Don't say...didn't warn..."
            Confused, he was left kneeling there without a clue what to do. She tugged on his grip and he instantly released her arms. Trembling hands reached up to grip the sides of the mask. A golden crown held it to her head and provided protection for her skull at the same time. He leaned forward to help her detangle the short strands of hair from some of the elegant designs.
            Lifting the headpiece off, she kept her head bowed. He saw some traces of red on the interior of the mask as she set it down on the bedding near her knees. Very slowly, she lifted her head. Regardless of what he had seen in his travels with her, and of what he had prepared himself to see when warned of the severity of her injuries, he was not ready for what he saw. Most of her face was one great nightmare of burnt flesh.
            It was raw and a mess of white, red and yellow. Only one cheek and eye were untouched by whatever fire had struck her. Strangely, no scabs had formed and there were no bandages to be seen. Given the scarring vanished into her hair-line, he could only assume she had lost some of her hair and had it grown back when her bones were mended. Had he not been used to those stormy hazel eyes with their golden sheen, he would never have recognized her.
            "Killa..."
            "Don't. That...isn't actually my name." She was turning her head away from him and reaching for a kit he had not seen earlier. The small pack was open to display several vials of pale liquid.
            "It isn't?" Lyndon fumbled dumbly with his words. "Then, what is?"
            She had pulled a vial that was half-empty free and set it between her legs. Only then did she start a clearly painful process of removing a glove. Reaching out, he very gently stopped her with one hand. "Wait, just tell me what to do."
            Aside from her sob-hitched breaths, she was quiet. Then, she pressed the vial into his palm. "Wash your hands. Then cover them with this. Don't...touch me...without the liquid."
            Quickly, scrambling to hurry and save her further torment, the scoundrel went about doing just that. The liquid in the vials was thick and spread over his fingers like oil of some kind. In the firelight it had the slightest hint of a golden glow. When he turned toward her and his shadow fell over his fingers, he saw that the glow was part of the liquid itself. Hoping to everything he could think of that it would help, he tentatively began to touch her burnt face.
            A sharp breath and hiss made him jerk his hand away. But then he saw her relax a little as the pale gold light made the raw red fade more toward pink. Returning to his task, he took care to smear the stuff over every single inch of her face. More marks went down her throat and he wondered again at how extensive the damage was. At least she seemed to have remained mostly intact including her nose and lips--even if they were horribly distorted.
            "This is the other reason you snuck off, isn't it. You're in physical pain now. But...having to pretend around them...would hurt too much. You wouldn't be able to do it."
            "I love him, Lyndon."
            "I know," the scoundrel said.
            Finally, he had to withdraw as every injured part of her face was coated. She seemed to be breathing easier as well. When her eyes opened, he was relieved to be reminded they were both intact as well.
            "Shandra," she said.
            "Uh, what?" he asked stupidly.
            "My real name is Shandra. Killa...was my sister's nickname. Kilarah."
            As she spoke, she was carefully unfastening and removing her gloves and bracers, revealing one whole hand and one burnt one. She offered the injured one to him and he accepted it without protest to begin treating it as well. The liquid must have killed the pain as she relaxed more. Only then did he begin to understand just how tense she had been.
            "After what happened...I decided that...maybe I couldn't have saved her, but she would help me to kill the things that took the rest of our family. So, when I started training to become a Demon Hunter, I called myself Killashandra. Only my mentors ever knew differently."
            Lyndon shifted when she used her good hand to reach up and work the straps of the armor free. Although he was curious about the extent, he found a part of him also did not want to look. If he was having such difficulty, he shuddered to think how Kormac might have reacted in his place. That thought alone made him decide he was not going to tell the templar. Nor was he going to return as he told them he would. Not now.
            "Why tell me this now?" he asked as he began to spread the liquid over the arm she had bared. The armor had been crafted with so many pieces it would have been a mess had he tried removing it without her knowledge.
            "Because...Diablo is dead. And he made me realize something during the battle."
            She had managed to unfasten the shoulders and loosen the chest-piece. Lyndon paused once more, swallowing hard as he fought against the two desires within--to look and not to look. It was going to be bad. And he was not overly disappointed when she finally did bare her torso to him. The burns were a random splash over her chest, spreading across her breasts beneath the black bra and reaching down over her ribs and stomach. Here there was also nasty purple-black bruising that he knew meant a lot of broken bones.
            "And...what's that?" he made his brain work on the question as he took the vial to spread more of the glowing liquid over his fingers and get to work.
            "When you truly love someone...you can let them go," she said with only a few hitches in her words. "I can let my sister rest now, with my family."
            His brown eyes met her pain-shadowed hazel ones as he paused his work. "And...Kormac?"
            "Has his dreams set on a certain enchantress. One without a home, outside of her own time, without anything planned beyond what has been accomplished. That...combination alone..."
            Her words trailed off only for a hiss to rise. Looking up, Lyndon saw a glisten of liquid that was not the oil he was using. His hand beat her own to brush a slick thumb over her cheek and wipe away the tear. Eyes closing, she released her breath in a rush and almost slumped. It further confirmed his suspicions that the burning comment was due to the salt of her tears burning the barely-healed skin.
            "I still think you're an idiot, Shandra."
            "You aren't the only one. But...what's done is done. And I have something else to do."
            Both brows rising, Lyndon watched her unfasten the armor over her boots and set it aside, working on the legs then carefully removing sections of the leather beneath. Apparently only one leg had been burnt like her upper body had and just around the calf and knee with a couple inches up the thigh. He carefully spread the liquid over it without comment.
            The moment he was done, she began to re-dress herself. It did not seem to cause her any undue pain so he chose to clean the remaining stuff off his hands. Smears of pink were on his hands as well, attesting to what he had already seen on the inside of her mask. The wounds were so barely healed even small touches were enough to make them bleed. Her armor was likely angelic in nature since she seemed to be able to wear it without trouble.
            "Okay, so just what is this grand new adventure you've got your wild heart set upon?" he tried to lapse back into his comfortable self.
            Her head rose and he could only meet her eyes for a few moments before the ruin of her face made him look away. It was...painful to see and remember how it had looked. There was just enough beauty left to bring what he knew forward each time. She did not seem to mind that he could not stand looking at her very long...and for that he was glad. Not that he would continue that path, it would just take some time to get used to it.
            "You cannot follow where I am going, Lyndon. Not this time."
            "Why not? I've followed you into Heaven and would have gone into the Hells themselves had you not taken the templar with you. Why, I even waded through the muck in those sewers four times to follow you!"
            "Because, you are not nephalem."
            "Don't tell me you're going back to that temple?" the scoundrel said, remembering the first time he had run into her.
            Her head dipped forward slightly rather than let her shorn hair touch the burns. Combing the short strands back, she motioned to the shrews he had cast aside in his haste to get to her side. Without thinking about it, he picked them up to start preparing them. Before, he had groused when it came to camp-chores. Only something like a lady being hurt would prompt instant compliance from him. That and his own rumbling stomach.
            "It seems that...Fate...made something fall into my hands," she said as he started gutting and cleaning his kill. Looking up, he saw her pull an object from her pack and turn it so it flashed in the firelight. "And since I am still healing, it will be a simple task of revisiting Alaric to find out what this artifact is."
            The object was about as big as her palm. Primarily round and the white of marble, there were several elegant protrusions coated in gold that made it look like a runic form of a compass star. There were many smaller sigils and runes arranged around the inner circle and a single yellow-amber stone in the center. If he was any judge of treasure, the artifact was worth a lot of money to someone.
            "I've certainly never seen anything like it before," he said as he got the shrews skewered and arranged over the fire to cook.
            By the time he looked back to her, she had redressed herself save for her masked helm. That she held lightly on the thigh he was pretty sure had not been touched by fire. Nodding once, she turned to tuck the item back into her pack. Lyndon watched with the random thought that she was likely the only person who could truly say had no need to worry about him stealing anything valuable from. The journal did not really count since he always returned it anyhow.
            "I think the ghosts of the nephalem may be able to identify it. If they are willing. Which is why you cannot follow me this time."
            He had actually anticipated and expected her to try and get rid of him. Looking back to her, he locked his eyes with hers and ignored the ruin of her face.
            "Like it or not, Ki--Shandra, I'm coming with you," he held up a hand the moment her lips parted. "Hear me out, please. I'm actually being serious for once and I don't expect to do it again so just enjoy the moment."
            She settled back a little in clear indication she would listen.
            "I know I'm not Kormac or a templar. So it probably will be difficult for me to follow you. But you took him and Leah into that place and emerged without trouble--if what you told me is correct. I can take care of myself. And right now, you need someone to help take care of yourself since you are still healing. Now, I already made up my mind to stick with you. A little bit of burned skin and blood is not going to stop me."
            "A quarrel through your leg or shoulder would."
            "Yes, but only for a little while. I know where you're going. And if you really want to get me killed, trying to leave me behind is the best way to do that since I'd be trying to follow you anyhow."
            He was not entirely sure since it was hard to read her injured face, but he thought her lips curved just a little bit. It was her eyes that expressed the amusement he thought he saw there. Releasing a sigh, she shook her head.
            "Fine. You can tag along. But don't say I never warned you to go away."
            "Perfect. Now, if there's nothing else I can help you with...?" he peered at her.
            She shook her head. "No. The oil's doing its job and the armor's resumed its task. I'm fine for a few more hours."
            "Marvelous! Then let's get to fleshing out our meager little meal with some of the finest wine I've ever had the fortune of tasting. Those merchants never knew what a steal it was!"
            The hazel eyes rolled slightly and he knew she would be smiling even if her lips did not move further. When he set to digging the bottle out, he saw motion out of the corner of his eye. She had picked her journal up again. Apparently the book had been knocked aside during whatever attack had hit her earlier. Humming to himself, he worked on the bottle's cork. Sure enough, she looked toward him then tore something from the book out.
            Crumpling it as she had the first page she tore free, she tossed it toward the fire. It did not quite make it into the flames but bounced off one of the thicker branches to fall just inside the stone ring. Turning, he offered her the open bottle as she closed her journal to accept it. When she occupied herself with pouring a bit into her own cup, he turned the cooking shrews and swiftly snatched the smoldering paper to pocket it.
            None the wiser, she took a small sip of the wine and made what he thought could be a grimace at the flavor. But she had once told him she did not like such drinks. As they ate, he held his curiosity at bay. When finished, she washed the red-smeared skin around her mouth clean and re-applied the liquid to it before replacing her headdress. Pulling the hood of her cloak up, she tugged the front of it through the space between the golden mask and the sun-style crown resting over it.
            "Lyndon," she said as she eased herself further down to lay flatter.
            "Hm?" he mumbled around a mouthful of wine.
            "You said...that you stole my journal back. Who did you steal it from?"
            "Kormac," he said softly.
            "I thought as much. Should I wake you at any time, my apologies in advance."
            "If I can sleep through the templar's snoring, I'm sure I can sleep just fine through an earthquake."
            "Good night," was all she said in return.
            Once he was certain that she was asleep--difficult to tell since her breathing was still rather ragged and strained--he turned his attention to the rescued paper. Taking his time in case she was a light sleeper due to her injuries, he unfolded it so the paper would not make much noise. Another hard look in her direction and he bowed his head to read the writing on it. Even a blind man could tell it was not her handwriting...
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The Hunter and the Templar