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like-tears-in-rain-storms · 11 days ago

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Brother In-(My-)Arms by NinaMadou (Ao3)

A Warhammer 40k / Horus Heresy Oneshot

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Jago Sevatarion x Alastor Rushal

Words: 2,771

Warnings: Violence typical for the setting, Unhealthy Relationships, Past Torture & Non/Con, Explicit Language, Allusions to Sexual Acts, Questionable Humor & Bad Puns

Furthermore, Sevatar wouldn't need much prompting to admit that the admirable martial prowess of his Raven is a key component of what makes him so irresistible

Sevatar is moving down the ship's lower deck level northern corridor leading to the cargo hold, slithering in the shadows of the walls on all fours like a monstrous spider. Rushal is with him, or, well, he is supposed to be. Night Lord he might be now, but though he has renounced his former legion down to his own geneseed, the shadows have not renounced him in turn. When Rushal melts into the shadows, it is unlikely anything Sevatar has ever seen, and unlike anything a Night Lord is capable of. It is like he becomes immaterial, nothing but particles of absence of light, so he can watch a target from above for hours, invisible, soundless and ominous, and then slip from the darkness and end him in the middle of a full room, disappearing before anyone else realizes what they witnessed and turns their head to look. He travels unobserved the same way shadows lengthen with the passage of the hours, and the only way Sevatar has to know he's still close by and following him is the fact that Sevatar ordered him to, and thus so shall Rushal do.

He could slide behind me and kill me with such ease, stick a blade through the joints of the armor or put a bolt round directly through the back of my head, Sevatar thinks, a frisson of excitement at imagining the risk, almost like challenging it to manifest. It is nothing but fantasy, of course, but the improbability of it happening makes it only more stirring, while at the same time sending a pang of frustration through him. Rushal has had, by now, countless opportunities to kill him, or at the very least maim, assault or plainly disobey him, take revenge for everything Sevatar has put him through, if only he so wished. But Rushal won't, no more than an Ork will suddenly start composing imperial poetry in flawless High Gothic. Some would say it is because Sevatar broke him.

Sevatar smiles a dead, mask-like smile upon the fake smile he already always wears, where the corner of his mouth curls eternally raised, split to the bone by an ugly scar. The actual reason is too nebulous to put into words, and would perhaps require copious amounts of navel-gazing from Rushal himself, which he is at present unable to perform, in any public capacity at least. The only thing he knows is that Rushal landed into his arms and is right now, unseen and unheard and for everyone else non-existent, sliding along the plasteel of the curving walls in the interior of this vast supply ship, because Sevatar, true Night Lord stock of the finest quality old Nostramo had to offer, enjoys inspiring fear and inflicting pain the same way a Death Guard enjoys stinking the place up or a World Eater enjoys killing things that cross his line of sight - not only is it an intrinsic part of who he is that he couldn't help if he tried, but he is just so damn good at it for better or for worse, and Alastor Rushal turned out to be such a messed up, deranged, delicious little bird that sooner or later he would have forced none but the best to step in and take up the challenge.

Still, Rushal is not only his personal array of holes he can fuck into and body parts he can do as he pleases with, he is a former captain, a seasoned warrior, and he is his brother, now, part of the Kyroptera no less, - Sevatar vouched for him, which famously included presenting in laconic, almost dismissive terms Rushal's abilities and the reasons they had had to trust him until then, and then, when the painfully predictable warpstorm of outrage and threats and jeers began, calmly reiterating his position, adding that whoever had an objection was free and entitled to rise up and express it, and when the first idiot did so, Sevatar put a bolter round through both of his hearts, and then cordially called for the next one to step up, but no further objections were raised, and Rushal was officially inducted in the Legion and the top of its hierarchy. Sevatar had found it disappointing that there were brothers among them that thought he was so sentimental as to offer such authority and position amidst the exalted VIIIth to a former loyalist traitor of Corax's geneseed, simply because he happened to relish abusing him every which way in his spare time, but he didn't take it to heart overmuch - Night Lords, bless their doubled little black hearts, were not known for their even-headed thought or their goodwill amidst the Legions, with very good reason.

And furthermore, Sevatar wouldn't need much prompting to admit that the admirable martial prowess of his Raven is a key component of what makes him so irresistible - a broken-in little fucktoy incapable of doing anything but kneeling collared in his room all day, trembling in dread and anticipation of his return has certain charms, sure, but it could never replace having a ruthless, efficient warrior of exceptional ability and well-earned rank, whom you can drag aside and bend over like a common Nostraman whore in the waits between offensives, use unashamedly in any way you like under the eyes of your men - his brothers, too, at that - and leave hard and wanting in the end to tuck himself painfully back into his armor with your seed running down his legs, and all this without protest, if anything, one could say with gratitude.

This is hardly the right time for this, though, knowing the Astartes assigned to accompany the human crew of the ship are straight ahead, with no idea of their number - the crew has ceased being a problem for the most part, the most combat-worthy having been dispatched on the bridge and in the surrounding area before they could retreat and be covered for by the Salamanders sent to defend them in just such a situation - Night Lord stealth isn't remotely close to the Raven Guard's, but it's more than enough to draw the Astartes away from their stations and leave their charges all but undefended. They had flooded the bridge suddenly and mercilessly like the sudden fall of midnight, lining every surface with blood and guts and making short work of the two remaining Astartes - well, not as short as Sevatar would have liked perhaps, but the important thing is they have experienced no losses yet. Now, the others had run to the cargo hold along with whatever baseline remained, and had presumably called their brothers over the ship to join them there, expecting, most likely, to defend the hold, and having the arriving Astartes fall on the already attacking Night Lord from behind, so they would find themselves pressed between two lines of fire.

Not a bad plan,but no points for imagination, Sevatar muses, hearing the heavy thunder of Astartes' sabatons slamming on the deckplates in a sprint. Without worrying about Rushal, he easily twists and hides himself in the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, the darkness embracing him like a lover and letting him count the Salamanders who run past below- six of them, from the north of the ship, so he can expect at least another eight in the next intersection. He glides easily along the ceiling, following them, the shadows that might be hiding Rushal becoming shallower and shallower, until more thumps come, and then, just as he had predicted, a dozen or so Salamanders, the newer ones arriving horizontally from the west. Sevatar hangs head down on the ceiling like a great big bat, if a little more handsome, he hopes, flexing his red-ceramite dressed fingers, and gauging whether they intend to circle around east or continue south, straight to the hold. To his astonishment and indulgent outrage, the Salamanders part again, half continuing southwards, the first six running eastwards, attempting, he supposes, to make sure no humans remain in those parts, before heading back to trap the just-arrived Night Lords between a rock and a hard place. Just like the sons of Vulcan to be this exact kind of morons, thinks Sevatar, but it isn't really his job to lament the bad decisions of loyalist troops, and he smiles slowly, planning his next moves. The humans and Astartes at the bridge have been dispatched quickly in order to exploit to the full the element of surprise - they have had no time to play any mind games with their prey, and Sevatar could use a little sport. He signals to no one the steps they are going to take, and then he falls from the ceiling, landing steadily on his feet before ditching the magnetic function of his sabatons and sprinting down the horizontal passage, jumping at an inhuman speed from wall to wall, following the thickest shadows and using his momentum to propel himself momentarily across the vaulted ceiling above when the surrounding darkness is not to his satisfaction.

His Raven remains quiet, as is his way, but the Night Lords follow a different doctrine than the Raven Guard - whereas Rushal makes sure no one knows he is there, much less that he will attack, before he attacks, his victims unable to act as the walls sprout grasping arms, power claws and bolter muzzles, the Night Lords intentionally make their victims aware of their presence - they count on it. Their prey knows that they are out there somewhere, without ever knowing exactly where and when they will choose to make themselves known. Complete surprise is indisputably a significant advantage, but Sevatar would argue for the paralysis and irrationality fear brings to his victims to the end of his days. They only need the slightest suspicion that they are not alone to start crumbling, eyes, ears, mouth and brain becoming useless, terror making of their senses and reflexes a pungent stew that to a Night Lord couldn't be but the most appetizing feast they could be invited to. The Ravens target, but Sevatar and his brothers hunt. And like all hunters, Sevatar likes playing with his food.

He smells the effect his warning has had on the Salamanders before he sees it - the rank, sickly sweet odor of anxiety, hightened heartbeats and new sweat. He breathes it deep, feeling his body react and his armor's combat hormones flooding his already charged bloodstream. He wonders if Rushal's have kicked in as well - brings to mind the way his face ripples when other kinds of hormones set his body on edge, and indulges momentarily in visualizing how ravishing he would look if he ever went into battle without his helmet on - which he himself will make him sorely regret if he ever decides to do.

The Salamanders, to his satisfaction, have split - three have run ahead, and the other three are following, walking facing back they way they have come , scanning the dark behind them and pointing their bolters at every slight ripple of the scarce light. How delightful. He reaches them in fractions of a second, and spiders unseen across the top of the curving wall, soundlessly landing behind their backs while they are suspiciously trying to gauge some presence in the blue-tinted shadows.

Sevatar cannot resist. He steps directly behind the one closest to him, further ahead and facing the backs of the other two, and, opening his vox, he growls in his most intimidating voice right behind the Astartes' nape, just as the soldier feels something shift in the air and right before realization hits "Ave Dominus Nox."

For less than a fraction of a second, the aroma of incontrollable fear floods Sevatar's senses, and were he any less experienced or cold-blooded, he wouldn't have been able to react in time. But before the Salamander has even turned a couple of degrees, his bolter is right against the back of Salamander's neck, right on the vulnerable line between armor and helmet, and the round shot at almost point-blank range explodes half the loyalist's head in a cloud of red mist and green dust; and just as his two brothers turn, way faster than Sevatar is used to - good lads, pity for them - aiming for him, Sevatar has grabbed the still standing body of his victim and thrown it with all his strength against the Salamander closest to him, who doesn't have time to avoid the impact, only moving enough so his dead brother's body doesn't hit him at the center of his weight, but only makes him lose balance, falling heavily on one knee, yet rising again before the body has even hit the ground. But it is too late, Sevatar is on him, and his blood red gauntlet, targeting first the eye lenses, smashes into the green ceramite of the helmet of the Salamander, denting it so bad it becomes partly embedded in the face below, and as Sevatar pushes him down, his whole weight settling on the Salamander's chest, and gets ready to punch again, he sees at the corner of his eye the other Salamander having raised his own bolter and taking aim at him, and then out of the shadows behind his aspiring killer, that are not nearly thick or deep enough to believe anything could lie concealed in them, a pure black shape in black ceramite without any legion standard extends two black gauntlets around the only-just-shooting Astartes and drags him into the shadows in the blink of an eye, and Sevatar ignores the round that scrapes his midnight blue pauldron and shatters one of the skulls adorning it, punching into the weakened mask of the Salamander's helmet, feeling it give and pushing his gauntlet into cracking bone and soft brain matter, dragging it out even redder than before, abandoning his victim as soon as he is certain of his death and returning to his feet, Rushal already having made short work of the last Astartes, standing above the mangled body, bolter at the ready on his side and contemplating Sevatar.

He really enjoys watching Rushal kill. His Raven, the black shining armor he has purged himself from the XIXth's insignia splashed with blood, still and combat-ready and lethal. And his.

It does things to him.

"I was hoping there would be Dark Angels this time," Sevatar says, the harshness of the vox not concealing his amusement. "Been really feeling the mood to get my hands on some of them."

Rushal doesn't respond, although Sevatar can imagine the slight twitch of his ruined lips, the twinking darkness of those void-dark eyes, which sometimes look at him with what could only be described as fond indulgence. In truth, he finds it endearing, though he doesn't miss an opportunity to discipline Rushal for his insolence. But that could just as easily be thought of as a treat.

It's just then that a terrible noisestorm of firing shots and panicked metallic orders sounds right ahead of them, along with vox-distorted cries and other, shrill and raw - human ones. The smell of fear washes over them like a tidal wave, along with blood, charred plasteel and burning organics.

"I guess the others didn't quite manage the patience to pick out quietly those in the cargo hold, before taking on the Salamanders outside", Sevatar sighs, Betcher's glands itching as he brings to mind the tedious job of spitting again and again at the wall of his cell aboard the "Invincible Reason", the holes widening and widening, until he could have easily slipped through....the faces of his guards, though, single-handedly had made it all worth it. What would his Legion do if their kind and wise First Captain didn't have such neat little tricks to generously share with them? He will have to ask some other Chapter at some point.

Well. They have dispatched the first batch in a hurry. He can't deny his brothers the opportunity to wreak a little mayhem, cause a little terror. Too much time without the screams of those going insane with horror make Night Lords voidsick.

Rushal raises his arm, pointing in question ahead. Time to go make sure the party is running smoothly and everyone is having fun.

"Let's keep our promise and come for them, my Raven", he coos to his vox as he steps into the darkness stretching ahead of them again. "And then, to celebrate the catch, I will let you prove how much of a Night Lord you are now by coming for me."

The static that answers him from Rushal's vox might have been a ragged cackle as he, too, becames one with the shadows.

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