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Chapter Text

The air was thick with the smell of blood, burnt flesh and betrayal– an appropriate musk for a battlefield of this magnitude, in every sense of the word. Astartes were cutting down Astartes. Brothers butchering their battle-kin. Friends turned foes by some perverse twist of fate – or rather thanks to the massive ego and hubris of one individual, Stryga thought dryly as he rammed the jagged teeth of his bardiche through yet another helmet-covered skull.
Not that he complained. At least not out loud, where one of his bloodthirsty ‘allies’ could hear him. He had survived this long because he knew exactly when to zip it and just do what he was told. A skill that proved extremely valuable when you were part of the VIII and had to deal with the insane lunatic who was your gene father.
A skill that has put him on the winning side of this so-called war – at least, that is what he hoped.

The warning rune on his display was flashing angrily and he moved to block the incoming chainsword, before it could rip into his left arm. The Salamander radiated burning anger and hatred – understandably so – as he brought his weapon down again with a fierce war cry. Stryga used the forward momentum of the warrior, to sidestep his attack and simply firing a bolter round in the exposed armor joints. All is fair in war and more war. Stryga moved away from the dying Salamander, ignoring his gurgling curses and insults.
Why would anyone waste their last breath on something so pointless? He surely couldn't expect Stryga to suddenly feel remorse for killing a battle brother. It was too late for that. They had already gone too far down the path to damnation. However, it remained to be seen which of the two sides would ultimately end up in hell...

~~~~~

From a short distance away, obscured by smoke and fire, there was the high-pitched whining of a jump pack pushed to its limits. Then the roaring of chainaxes and the screeching of their teeth on ceramite. Even over the never-ending noise of the battlefield one could hear the slightly maniacal laughter of an Astartes pushed to the brink, and then the wet noise of ripping meat. A short moment later a dark figure peeled itself out of the fog. Armour dripping just as much with blood as their twin chainaxes. The posture almost hunched, reading to pounce like a wild animal.

His helmet’s HUD was flickering angrily, electronics damaged some time ago. Azgareth was tempted to just rip it of his head, like so many of his brothers had already done. What use was a failing helmet but a danger to the wearer?
And yet, he kept it on. He knew that with the smell of blood and gore, of burning metal and fire he would not be able to resist the pounding bite of the nails. It was already difficult enough to not lose himself fully in the rage, with every kill it got harder and harder to pull back from the precipice. The headache was blurring his vision, along with the blood splattered on the eye lenses, bathing everything in a red hue.

The killing instinct shot through him when he saw the solid form of an Astartes from the corner of his eyes. Axes raised he turned, tensing, the servos in his armour growling, ready to jump, to hack and slash. The nails telling him to kill, kill, kill. In the last second he recognized the blue and bronze, lightning bolts on dark midnight colour. One of their own side. Not to be killed, at least not while he still was in control. A Night Lord, strolling over the battlefield like it was just another day. To his feet a dying Astartes, a Salamander judging by the green armour.
His muscles burned and a slight tremor went through his whole body. The nails bit and bit, he wasn’t sure how long he could hold. A nod to the battle brother and then his jump pack fired again with a roar, carrying him somewhere else, somewhere with actual enemies.

~~~~~

Stryga watched the World Eater jet away, wishing he could simply up and fly from this slaughterhouse. Not that he usually minded a good wholesale murder, but this, this was somehow different… It felt like he was standing on the edge of a bottomless pit and told to jump. No other options. No questions allowed. Just… jump.
Stryga sighted and turned away from the now dead Salamander. Couldn’t leave all the fun to his “lovely” Legion brothers or, false Emperor forbid, to the World Eaters.

After several hours of the same deadly dance – block, dodge, strike, shoot, repeat – his internal vox line came to life: ‘Sergeant Horváth,’ the rough voice of the Night Scythe captain sounded tense: ‘Congratulations! Effective immediately, you are promoted to lieutenant. Try to outlast your predecessor.’ The vox line was cut off and Stryga remained behind to ponder what had been said.

“… Shrilla la lerril!”, the newly promoted lieutenant spat and charged with his bardiche at the armoured back of the first Astartes he saw, hacking at him with satisfying cruelty.
After that, everything became a fog, a bloody feast of screams, groans and raw violence. Stryga didn't know what had triggered it, and he didn't care. The melancholy that had weighed on him since the Night Lords arrived on Isstvan V was gone. He felt the song of blood and fire in his bones again, and he enjoyed it.

This was right. This was how it should be. He had been told to jump, so he jumped. The false Emperor and his loyal fools could all go to hell.

Perhaps, if he was lucky, he would find the World Eater with the jump pack and ask if he could ‘borrow’ it...

~~~~~~

He sped away from the Night Lord, wondering for a short moment if he too felt the surreality of the situation. Breaking away from the Imperium and everything they had known so far was one thing, but this? Fighting against brothers, killing people you fought together with not too long ago, killing people you called friends once? Many of his brothers didn’t care, all they lived for was fighting and killing. It made no difference to them who or what, as long as they could lose themselves in the spilling of blood.
Azgareth shook his head, cursing loudly. He could not claim to be different. Not with the constant pounding behind his eyes and the pangs of lightning pain that shot through his brain. He scanned the horizon for enemies when his vox crackled and the scratchy voice of his company captain called anyone still able to listen to an amassing of hostile forces not too far from Azgareth’s position.

He could feel himself being pulled along with his brothers that were falling in the throes of the nails. He tried to fight it, tried to break out from the red haze that settled over his eyes but this time, resistance was futile. From one moment to the other he was no more. His mind, his self, his consciousness overwritten. Overwritten by the insatiable urge to fight. No, not to fight. To kill. To kill everything that tried to stand in his way. For hours and hours or maybe days upon days, he didn’t know how long, there was nothing but the deadly movements of his chain axes, and after they had lost all their teeth, punching, clawing, ripping with hands and teeth. There was nothing but the rage.

When Azgareth woke up he was standing almost knee-deep in dark bloody mud. His armour dripping and dark red, nothing left of the white and blue it had been.
At some point he had also lost his helmet; whether he had ripped it off or it had broken completely, he could not remember. The stench of congealing blood and spilled guts was so thick it almost choked him. A layer of dried bodily fluids caked on his face, cracking and flaking off now that he could move his facial muscles again, his face not a screaming mask of berserker rage anymore.
Slowly turning his head around, he tried to figure out where he might be. He could hear some noise in the distance, too far to identify what it was, fighting or something else. Maybe they had finally won and could leave this damned mass grave.
Or maybe it was just more cursed oblivion waiting for him.

~~~~~

The world was quiet again – after hours (or was it days?) of ear shattering sounds of war, the silence was almost deafening in its absoluteness.

Stryga waded through heaps of corpses, discarded armour pieces, broken weapons and veritable lakes of blood and gore. He picked up some souvenirs here and there, shiny trinkets and pieces of particularly interesting flesh. Anything he could use for one of his next “art projects”. Though, with how things were going, he didn’t think that there would be much time for idle tinkering in the near or far future. Either the long war was going to snuff him out, or – and this was honestly more likely – his Primarch.
While following this dark strain of thoughts, he passed some of his battle-brothers, both Night Lords and World Eaters, who were “dealing” with the few remaining survivors. The occasional pain-filled groans and whimpers told him all he needed to know about what was going on, and he hastened his pace.

To the victors go the spoils, Stryga thought sardonically as he passed a pair of Night Lords he didn’t recognise, doing… something, to the not-so-dead Legionnaire (Raven Guard, from the looks of it) under them.

After some minutes of aimless wandering, he finally saw it: a truly masterful tableau of horror, presenting itself to him in all its gory and feral beauty.
A World Eater Legionnaire standing in the epicentre of self-created carnage. His once white and blue armour was painted in all possible shades of red and his dual axes were covered in bloody viscera. The warrior's helmet was lying discarded some feet away, which is why Stryga could see his scarred face and the expression on it. It was calm, almost serene, with brows only slightly furrowed as if lost in thought, full lips parted to take in more air. His nails were partly pulled away from his face into a half top-knot revealing red warpaint on the smooth forehead.

The juxtaposition of the relaxed warrior amidst the chaos stirred something deep inside Stryga, that he promptly pushed to the farthest and darkest corner of his mind.
And then he saw the Legionnaire’s back…

“Hey, you are the jetpack-guy!”

Chapter Text

Azgareth felt a sense of almost peace, of serenity wash over him, standing in the carnage he had apparently caused. His veins still flooded with adrenaline, which in turn dampened the usual bite of the nails to a faint buzzing. He slowly breathed in and out, ignoring his brothers and several Night Lords some distance away. They were… playing with a few survivors; unlucky ones that had not died fast enough and were now subjected to whatever horrors the legionnaires, especially the brothers in midnight blue, were devising.
For once he was not in pain, a condition so rare that he could not bring himself to care about anything but purely existing.

Suddenly a voice broke through the haze, shattering the peace, and he had to suppress the urge to let out a frustrated scream right before the words registered in his brain. No orders to form up with others, no one telling him to continue fighting; instead someone greeting him with something akin to… joy?... in their voice.

“Hey, you are the jetpack guy!”

It took a few moments for the words to register and even then he blinked confusedly at the Astartes in front oh him. Dark blue armour splattered with blood, red glowing eye lenses staring at him from out of the distinctly formed helmet of the infamous Night Lords.

“I… Wha-… Who…”, he spluttered. Confusion visible on his face, before finally a look of recognition settled.
“Oh, I remember... I think.” He could not be sure but he remembered seeing a Night Lord, standing over a dead Salamander, watching Azgareth with a stillness that spoke of a pensiveness one would not expect of one of the VIII Legion. Or maybe that was normal for them and he had simply judged by his own Legion’s standards. His brothers usually were not know to be deep thinkers…
He shook himself out of his thoughts. He could at least try and make an effort to keep a conversation going. No reason to confirm the other Legion’s preconceptions about the World Eaters. Not like they were completely wrong…
“What can I do for you, Brother?”, he finally asked, wincing about how rough his voice sounded. He probably had screamed his throat raw while killing everything in the vicinity. Hopefully only enemies, and not again one of my brothers...

~~~~~

No sooner had he uttered the words than Stryga wanted to facepalm, hard. What the hell had he been thinking, shouting such nonsense at another Astartes? One who didn't even belong to his own Legion, a complete stranger. No wonder people whispered that the Night Lords were all antisocial and uncivilized...

The World Eater looked at him in obvious confusion, as if he had awakened from a deep trance. He muttered something that Stryga couldn't quite understand, then a spark of recognition flashed across his broad face. At that moment, as the Astartes looked directly at him, Stryga noticed the angry burn scar on the right side of his face. It looked nasty, but strangely enough, it did not detract from his rugged handsomeness – on the contrary, it made his features more intriguing.

Hang on, what? Where did that come from? He must have a concussion or some other brain malfunction if he thought a World Eater was handsome. The idea defied logic, and was as ridiculous as a sober Space Wolf or a sensible and loving Night Haunter.

“What can I do for you, Brother?”

The rough voice rumbled like approaching thunder and reverberated in Stryga’s brain, ripping him out of his strange musings.

Stryga decided that it would be best to finish what he had started (it couldn't get any worse, could it?) and slowly approached the other Astartes.

“I said, you're the guy with the jetpack. Or jump pack, if you want to be pedantic. Depends on how you use it in combat. Jetpacks are mostly used for heavier units and allow continuous flight, while jump packs are intended for assault troops and quick air strikes...” His mouth moved as if of its own accord, spouting useless information about the use of flying devices, and that to a bloody World Eater! What was wrong with him?! Why was he babbling like a green neophyte who had swallowed an encyclopaedia?

His voice trailed off and silence descended upon them. Until...

“By the way, I'm Horváth.”

And now you can shoot me. Thanks.

~~~~

Azgareth had expected anything really but the Night Lord starting to talk about the differences between jet- and jump packs. Does he think I don’t know because I am a World Eater? For a moment anger reared its ugly head but then he hesitated... Even with the Nostraman accent colouring the words there was no condescension in the Night Lord’s voice, nothing to indicate that he was making fun of the World Eater. Instead there was something akin to... faint embarrassment and insecurity to his tone… like he wasn’t sure what to say. Is he... trying to make conversation?
He could feel a smile tugging on his lips. The rambling was actually quite charming now that he thought about it, and to be honest he couldn’t really fault him for not knowing what to say. It wasn’t like he was any better.

He realized he had been lost in his own head – again – when silence descended upon them. Answer him, you idiot! He tried to think of something to say when the Night Lord in front of him added a hurried, “By the way, I'm Horváth.”

Right, names first. That you can do.
“Azgareth, my name is Azgareth”, he answered, and before he could stop himself, he added, “And yes, it’s a jump pack, I’m an Assault Trooper after all”, while lifting his twin chain axes a bit, ignoring the blood that was somehow still dripping from them.
“Even with a different intended use jump packs can be used for continuous flight too. How good they do depends on a few factors though, like carried weight, fuel reserves, wind, flying height, angle and speed, and general elevation of the landscape. You need to know what you’re doing and continuously calculate your flight path or you’ll end up a bloody splatter on the ground…”. With a sharp inhale he stopped talking, closing his mouth so abruptly that he could hear the loud clacking of his teeth. Fantastic. Well done you fucking idiot. Be weird and chase away the Night Lord with the pretty voice.

He was pretty sure Horváth had only mentioned his jump pack to be polite and to start the conversation, and not because he was actually interested in it. This was exactly why people always looked at him like there was something wrong with him and then slowly moved away.

“I’m… sorry.”

~~~~

Stryga stared at the Astartes in front of him, unsure of what to do or say next. He couldn't believe that, of all the people on this sodden planet, he had met the one person who was apparently just as good at not being a weirdo as he was... That is to say, not at all. Even more surprising was the fact that this individual was a World Eater who spoke as eloquently about jump packs as a Thousand Son might about the intricacies of the Warp. Stryga had heard all the rumours and crude jokes about the XII, and had fought alongside their Legionaries often enough to confirm some of them. However, he was also well aware of what people said about the Night Lords and knew from personal experience that there were always exceptions to the rule.

In any case, he would rather stay here and have an awkward conversation with the World Eater – no, Azgareth – than return to his Legion brothers and participate in whatever they considered entertaining post-battle activities. From the information he had been able to glean from the internal vox channels, he concluded that a Raven Guard had defected to their side (was he crazy?) and that First Captain Sevatarion was ‘taking care of him.’ Yeah, no, he really didn’t need to see this. He preferred his subjects to be already dead when he skinned them and took them apart for materials…

Wait, what did Azgareth just say?

“I’m… sorry.”

‘What the fuck? Why are you apologising?’ Yep, that came across exactly how it shouldn't have: accusatory and aggressive. Stryga quickly continued in a calmer and, as he hoped, apologetic tone: 'Don't be sorry for talking about things you enjoy. I mean, I started it and dumped all this info on you without warning." He tried to flash a reassuring smile but was pretty sure that it came out like the grin of a manic murderer, which in all fairness, he was.

And then he almost facepalmed again – his helmet was still on, and he was pretty sure that Azgareth didn’t have an x-ray vision.
Stryga cursed softly, released the fasteners on his neck and pulled off his helmet, which he then mag-locked to his side.

“Let's just hope we killed all the snipers. I don't want to end up with a bullet in my head after the fight.” The grin from earlier returned to his face, causing the scars above his left eye and on his right cheek to crinkle.

Chapter Text

His face is as pretty as his voice.
Azgareth shook his head slightly trying to chase away the thought that had invaded his head when Horváth’s face had been revealed. This time the nails really must have done a good job scrambling your brain if you think a Night Lord is pretty, he berated himself, let’s hope you can still keep a conversation going…

It took a little bit of effort to actually look Horváth in the eyes instead of staring at the charming crinkles on his face.
“You might have dumped all the info on me, but I started holding a lecture”, he blurted out, hoping that his – even if slightly forced – grin conveyed his amusement well enough. His facial muscles were still stiff from the rictus caused by the rage and he wasn’t sure it actually looked like a smile and not like a grimace.
“I don’t think we have to worry about snipers though. If there were any left, they already would have gotten me. Would have been unlucky for me, but you could have had a jump pack for yourself”, he joked, adding a quick wink for good measure

He was pretty sure that for miles and miles around there was nobody left standing that wasn’t on their side. And those that were not on their side and still alive, well, they were probably wishing they weren’t. His ears could still pick up the screams of a few unlucky… victims, and the Nostraman taunts and insults spewed at them. He didn’t want to actually see what they were doing to those poor bastards. At least his brothers killed fast if they found one alive. No taunting, no playing with their prey like a cat.
But if the Night Lords were still busy with post-battle activities, why was Horvàth standing here, enduring his awkwardness? He scanned his pretty face for any clues that would tell him more about the intentions of the Legionnaire but finding none – either he was still not back to normal after coming down from the nails or the Night Lord was too good at keeping his facial expressions in check – so he begrudgingly resigned himself to the fact that he would have to actually ask. Aaaand another opportunity to weird him out.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you talking to me, and I always enjoy exchanging experiences or information about the use and capabilities of jump packs but… Why? Wouldn’t you rather go to your brothers and…”, he tried to keep his face from looking like he just had bitten into a lemon ”have some… fun?”
He wasn’t sure if what he had said was rude or insulting for a Night Lord, or not, but he couldn’t take his words back now. Always such a charmer… fucking idiot.

~~~~

Well, would you look at that. A World Eater who was not only coherent and making an actually funny joke BUT was also smiling and winking at him?

Now I have seen it all, Stryga mused, his face resetting in its usual neutral expression, as if the little bit of smiling he managed was too much effort for the underused muscles.
He now stood as close to the other Astartes as his prudence and rigorous training would allow. From this distance, and without the limited field of vision imposed by his helmet, Stryga could make out further details on the other man's face. Such as the jagged scar that stretched from his right ear across the bridge of the nose to his left cheek, almost touching the burn mark there. Or the rune-like symbol, smeared into the red paint on the forehead. He wondered briefly whether it had a particular meaning or was simply meant as an embellishment, and was about to ask, when he thought better of it. This was neither the time, nor the right place and he had already made enough of a fool of himself. Instead, Stryga looked directly into Azgareth's eyes (which the other could not perceive due to the peculiarities of his gene seed and birth planet) and was immediately mesmerized by the warm amber glow that was so different from the cold ebony abysses that prevailed among his Nostraman brethren.

They were so expressive, so full of emotions half of which Stryga couldn’t even name or recall ever having experienced… However, there was also one he knew all too well, having seen it time and time again in his hapless victims: pain.

This wasn’t right! An Astartes wasn’t supposed to feel pain or sorrow or any other of those pesky human emotions. They were mentally suppressed, flushed out by chemicals and cut with chirurgical precision during the initiation process. They were weapons, and weapons neither had nor needed feelings. They were… complicating things.
Stryga understood all that, logically, rationally. It made sense. So why, hells dammit, was he getting angry? Why did he have this freakish urge to charge the man in front of him and … hold him? To protect.

Suddenly, he realised that he must have stared at Azgareth unblinking for some time now and that the other was talking.
Fuck. What was he saying?! Stryga refocused and caught the last sentence:

”... have some… fun?”

Before Azgareth broke off and looked at him intently.

"'Erm... Fun?"

Did he ask what Stryga liked to do for 'fun' or.... If he wanted to have fun with the World Eater? No, probably not....
Stryga took a deep breath, mentally cursing himself for not paying more attention, and decided to just go with his gut.

“I read. Non-fiction and encyclopaedias, mostly. To improve my Gothic”, he hesitated and then added “and I craft… things…”

The silence that followed was almost deafening.

~~~~

What. The. Fuck?

Azgareth could not help but stare dumbfounded at the Night Lord who just had answered his question with an account of his… hobbies?
Was he okay? He didn’t look like he had sustained a head wound... Maybe he was not quite here... mentally?
He knew that sometimes brothers didn’t come back quite right from a fight, that they stayed there, became catatonic or non-verbal. Could the Night Lord experience something like that? He didn’t think that abruptly changing the subject of a conversation was a sign of this “not completely back”-state but what did he know? He was no apothecary.
His eyes flickered over the Night Lord’s face, searching for anything that would confirm his theory, but the pitch-black eyes wouldn’t betray anything. Instead he could feel himself sink into those deep dark pools of almost liquid black, captured by the pure darkness of the gaze. You could lose yourself in those…

With a slight gasp he pulled himself out of the thought. What the… What was happening? This was… dangerous. What was he thinking? Marvelling at the eyes of a fucking Night Lord? It must have been you who had gotten hit over the head.

He again shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He needed to turn this around, he needed a… distraction. What had they been talking about? Right… hobbies. Hobbies were safe… more or less.

“I… I whittle. Carve things out of wood and bone. Well, mostly bones nowadays. Wood is harder to come by than bones,” he motioned at the mountains of corpses strewn about with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I also like to fiddle around on my jetpack, but don’t tell the ad mech or our tech marines,” he chuckled. Then he looked around suspiciously before leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially, though not completely serious, “I am sure some of those red robes would consider this tech heresy but… I might have changed the power distribution a bit, and the controls are also a bit more sensitive than they usually are…”

~~~~

Stryga forced himself not to instinctively recoil when the other Astartes leaned towards him. It was all good, he told himself. Just a normal, social interaction, or at least what he assumed to be normal… Not like he was an expert in that particular department.

Ah, another joke! And one he even understood. Good. He was back on safe ground.

“You know… “, Stryga began, when the vox module in his collar came to life with a crackle and Vibius’ rough voice snarled a command in Nostraman.

“Night Scythes, gather immediately at the marked rendezvous point! Coordinates transmitted. Vibius out.” ‘Ah yes, the Captain of the 22nd, always to the point and as communicative as a pet rock, Stryga thought dryly.

A soft pinging sound from his helmet signaled an incoming message – presumably the aforementioned coordinates of the assembly point.
This was followed by another noise which was coming from Azgareth’s discarded helmet. It sounded as if someone was bellowing commands from the top of their lungs. And bearing in mind that Astartes had three of them, one could only imagine how loud the Vox transmission must have been.
Well, that was nice while it lasted. Back to business as usual. Stryga sighed and pulled his helmet back on to read the message. As he skimmed through it – great, the meeting point was a shitty ruin about 6 kilometres from his current position – he strolled over to Azgareth's helmet and picked up the now silent armour piece. Whoever had been shouting their head off earlier might have burst a vein and was now lying in a pool of their own blood. Dark thoughts, but oh, so amusing.

‘Here, brother. Don't lose that again, or you'll end up losing your life,’ he said and turned around, only to realize with a start that the World Eater had followed him silently and was standing just a few steps away. Stryga suppressed his astonishment and managed a dry chuckle.

‘Hmm, are you sure you're in the right Legion? The way you're sneaking around, you could be one of us. Or,’ Stryga lowered his voice and whispered in a mockingly serious tone, ‘are you perhaps an Alpha Legionnaire masquerading as a World Eater?’

~~~~

Azgareth could feel heat starting to crawl up his neck. Was that a compliment the Night Lord just had paid him?
No, probably not. It had to be a hidden insult, nobody would compliment a World Eater on his abilities. They had nothing to compliment on unless you counted senseless slaughter as a skill.
He stared at Horváth, ready to tell him off, but nothing in the Night Lord’s face showed a hint of the usual arrogance with which others often treated the XII legion. Nothing that spoke of a hidden joke at Azgareth’s expense. Sure, the beautiful voice had carried a hint of humour, but there had also been honesty in these words. This was… He didn’t know what it was and that made his mind came to a screeching halt. He couldn’t grasp one single coherent thought, even less formulate a proper answer.

The silence stretched and grew uncomfortable. Horváth still looking at him, his arm extended, holding the helmet that used to be white but was now a dark red out to him, waiting for Azgareth to take it.
Say something, say fucking something!

Taking the helmet he blurted out the first words that came to his still puzzled mind, “I.. ah… thank you…” He could not help but wince, avoiding the Night Lord’s eyes while distracting himself with trying to decipher the message that had been sent. The HUD was flickering angrily but he managed to recognize the order to regroup and coordinates a few klicks away.
He sighed and felt his shoulders slump. There was nothing to be done, he had to leave, no matter how much he had enjoyed the conversation with Horváth, even with all the awkwardness.
“Time to go back”. He could hear the sadness in his words, a certain roughness in his hoarse voice he immediately hated. Get a grip, you are pathetic. You are a fucking Astartes, not a weak little boy, desperate for a scrap of niceness. Sometimes he hated the little voice in his head, always ripping into him so deeply, criticising him, dragging his faults into the open. Was that really what he thought about himself deep down? Did he really hate himself so much?

He would have ruminated for much longer if his vox hadn’t started crackling again, followed by another bellow of Captain Skaralax to regroup with the others immediately or he would be left behind to die. “You would fucking like that, you bastard, wouldn’t you”, Azgareth grumbled, before he sent a ping to confirm.
He looked up at Horváth in front of him. “Well, I gotta go or my captain will get a brain aneurysm…”. He turned the helmet in his hands, preparing to don it. “It… it was nice making your acquaintance.” He shot the Night Lord a last smile, white teeth flashing, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and then he pushed the helmet onto his head.
“May you hunt well, Horváth of the VIII Legion.”

The jump pack activated with a malicious hiss, and then he shot upwards into the sky with a carefully calculated trajectory that would carry him directly to the set rendezvous point.

Only when he was already several hundred meters away from where he had left the Night Lord Azgareth realised he could have offered him a ride.
You fucking idiot!

This time he really couldn’t contradict the voice in his head.

Chapter Text

Dumbfounded, Stryga watched the other Astarters jet away. What kind of reaction was that? Did he say or do something wrong? On the other hand, he mused, maybe it was nothing at all, and Azgareth was simply done standing around and chit-chatting with a Nigh Lord. Fair enough, he wouldn’t want to engage in small talk with some of his brothers either…

With one last glance in the direction Azgareth had disappeared – it seemed to be more or less the same one he was heading in – Stryga set off at a comfortably brisk pace.

….

After a few hours of trotting through a landscape littered with craters, debris and mangled Astartes bodies, the Night Lord's mood had returned to its original melancholy state. All of this was man-made madness. No matter the outcome, everything and nothing was going to change… The Great Crusade, the noble cause of reuniting the whole of humanity, was a farce, a comedy – the biggest the Galaxy has ever seen. And a devastating tragedy for everything not human.
This rebellion – a fucking family drama, really – would only replace one dictator by another. The end-game might become a different one, but the rules by which they will be playing, will remain the same: kill and slaughter in the name of the one sitting on the throne.

Stryga shook his head, enough of this bullshit! He was getting closer to the meeting point, judging by the passing Legionnaires heading the same way. Most were moving in groups, only a few walked alone, like him. No one spoke much, the clanking of their armour and the heavy stomping of their boots on the blood-soaked ground being the most prominent sounds. Some of the Astartes were sporting new grisly trophies, ranging from pieces of armour and weapons to whole body parts. A few World Eaters even managed to acquire skulls … Wait! Stryga focused on the battle brothers around him, and realised that not all of them were Night Lords, as originally assumed.

Indeed, there were several World Eaters and even a few Legionnaires of the newly renamed Sons of Horus present. One of them strode a few paces in front of Stryga and recounted a supposedly funny story to his fellow brothers, who roared with laughter. Suddenly, the man turned and looked directly at Stryga, as if he felt the Night Lord's gaze boring into the back of his head. Although surprised, Stryga did not flinch and kept his gaze fixed on the other man's face. A faint buzzing ringed in his ears and a strange, cold pressure coated his head. Stryga has never experienced anything like this before, and was irritated but also curious. However, before any proper question could be formed, the sensation disappeared and the strange man flashed a toothy grin at Stryga. With a final, almost playful wink, he turned back to his group and continued on with his story.

Stryga breathed out, shook his head like a confused dog, and briskly jogged the last couple meters to the bunker. He could already see members of his squad huddled in the shadows, only their red and green lenses glowing like angry laser points. Other Astartes were giving them a wide breadth. Wise.

Before he could reach them though, he heard it. The deep, rough voice. A thunder approaching on the horizon.
He turned, and spotted him almost immediately: to the left of the Sons of Horus he overtook earlier, there he was. The jetpack guy. Azgareth.

~~~~

He knew he should have tried to conserve fuel but he could not resist the temptation to extent his flight a bit longer than absolutely necessary. Flying in intricate manoeuvrers, utilizing air currents to gain elevation and steep dives to pick up speed. He might not be able to actually feel the wind on his face through his helmet but he could still feel himself relax, calm down, and for a short, merciful time even the nails were a bit quieter, their bite not as harsh. A rare moment of peace and quiet, a rare moment of introspection and reflection.

Unfortunately the landscape below didn’t exactly promote positive thoughts. Mountains of bones and armour, interspersed with lakes of blood and mud, interrupted by broken up, burned out husks of tanks and bunkers.

He could feel the foul mood taking hold of him, reminding him that this would not be the only time an extinction like this would happen. Astartes fighting Astartes, brothers killing each other, and for what? Just somebody else on the throne, sending them out to fight and die for a stupid reason. In the end it didn’t matter who won this conflict, it wouldn’t change anything, especially not for the XII. Whether it was the Emperor or Horus – neither would lift a finger to save them. Ultimately they were blunt tools for one power-hungry dictator or another, to be used until they broke. And break they would; sooner or later they would all fall to the Butcher’s Nails.
Many of his brothers didn’t care; as long as they could fight and kill, they would be satisfied. He couldn’t blame them, not really. They all were in pain. The whole Legion, all the time. Only fighting provided the blessed freedom of pain, let them feel something else. So of course the World Eaters would, no, could only care for shedding blood in battle, no matter what it took from them.
He could only hope for a good death before the nails robbed him of everything that made him up, before he lost himself completely to the madness.

An alarm ripped him out of his dark thoughts. His jump pack was struggling, dust clogging up the exhausts, and if he wanted to land in a manner that was not a crash with a potentially deadly end, he would have to do so very soon. He turned his fleet-footed soaring into a controlled descent and soon landed on the remains of some sort of bunker, now a blackened and crumbling husk. This is what soon the galaxy will look like. Dead and broken.

He was not too far off from the meeting point judging by the small groups of Legionnaires gathering, all moving in the same direction like packs of predators, drawn by the same goal. He could see different armour colours, sea green, white that had turned red, beige, gunmetal grey. And then the midnight blue of Night Lords. He felt hot shame growing in him again for leaving Horváth behind instead of at least offering him a ride. Apparently they had had the same rendezvous point… If he ever saw Horváth again he would have to apologize.

Before he could look around and find his new… friend, a hand clamped onto his shoulder and he twitched, letting his hands fall to the handle of his axes. He aborted the movement when the loud voice of Karek boomed in his ears. Karek was one of the few members of his Legion Azgareth considered a friend. They had met some years ago and, for some weird reason that Azgareth didn’t understand, Karek, a member of the Triarii, had had decided that he liked him. Even though they had never much in common, considering that the Triarii were specialized in ship-to-ship boarding action and Azgareth was an assault trooper with a jump pack. But that didn’t keep Karek from pulling Azgareth along whenever he could, and here and now he seemed especially happy to see him. Well, as happy as a World Eater could be. He pulled Azgareth with him and almost pushed him in the middle of little group of other Astartes that stood nearby, a mixture of Sons of Horus and a few World Eaters Azgareth didn’t recognize. “Here he is”, Karek’s voice boomed again, “one of the few jump pack Troopers that still have their brain left!”.

Azgareth stilled and stared at the other, one eyebrow raised. “That’s not the compliment you think it is, brother. You know that Settar and Ratash share exactly one braincell.” The Son of Horus next to him snorted and Azgareth glanced over to him. Even the black hair and scarred face couldn’t completely hide that it was a true son. One of those that looked like their father.
But there was more to him than just the primarch’s looks. Azgareth couldn’t put a finger on it, but apart from a mischievous twinkle in his eye there was something else in this Son’s gaze, something sharp and powerful, something that made the hairs on his neck rise.

He softly breathed in, ready to introduce himself properly, trying to find out who this Son of Horus was, when suddenly he felt like he was being watched. His instincts telling him there was a predator nearby.
A quick look around revealed nothing – nothing but a Night Lord staring at him. A Night Lord whose armour looked very familiar.

A Night Lord he owed an apology.

Chapter Text

Stryga couldn't help but grin, and his feet moved as if of their own accord toward the small group of Astartes—toward Azgareth. However, he caught himself just in time before he could start waving wildly like a complete idiot. What the hell was wrong with him?!

Soon he was standing in the middle of the motley group, nodding as his brothers in arms greeted him and introduced themselves. He dutifully memorized all their names and ranks and stored them away for later. You never knew when you might need such information or what advantage it might bring. The strange Son of Horus from earlier was called Barakyle and, as Stryga had suspected, was a witch. The laughing World Eater – another anomaly – was called Karek, and when he good-naturedly slapped Stryga on the back in greeting, Stryga almost fell to his knees. The other two made no particular impression and were quickly forgotten. Azgareth needed no introduction, but still, Stryga gave him a nod and a smile – thanks the stars he was still wearing his helmet – in acknowledgment.

Soon, the witch – Barakyle – began to tell another story that made everyone erupt into raucous laughter. Stryga listened politely, but couldn't quite understand what was supposed to be so funny. Something about serfs who gave off a certain smell while helping their Astartes masters get ready for battle? The only smell the baselines working for his Legion were emanating was the sour stink of fear and despair. Nothing funny about that. Although.. some of his brothers might have disagreed with him.

Suddenly, Stryga felt a light tap on his right pauldron. He tore his already waning attention away from Barakyle and found himself facing the amber eyes of Azgareth.

When did he take his helmet off?

“Brother Horváth, do you have a moment?” The World Eater sounded casual, but Stryga's keen ears picked up a tense, almost nervous undertone in the man's voice. Well, that took an interesting turn. At least more interesting than whatever the hell the others were discussing now.

“Sure,” Stryga said, motioning for the other to lead the way. They walked toward one of the larger craters, from which a drop pod protruded like a broken bone sticking out of a wound. The sight was made even more graphic by the mangled corpses lying around the metal shell. The poor bastards hadn't stood a chance. They were slaughtered as soon as they set foot on this cursed planet. While he pondered the cruel fate of the legionnaires, Stryga took off his own helmet—it seemed only fair, since the World Eater wasn't wearing his either.

Azgareth stopped abruptly, causing Stryga to almost collide with his back and thus with the still red-hot jetpack. He immediately regained his balance, but was still somewhat shaken by how close he had come to getting his own brand wound, similar to Azgareth's.

“That was close. As much as I'm fascinated by your jetpack, I don't feel like fusing my face with it,” he said, adding jokingly, “Dinner first would be nice.”

~~~~

“Dinner first would be nice.”

Azgareth almost choked when the words hit his ears. He was pretty sure that a sentence like that counted as flirting, he had once heard a serf explain the implications to an interested brother of his.
But the Night Lord, Horváth, could not have flirted with him, could he? It didn’t make any sense to Azgareth. Why should he do something like that? It must have been a joke, definitely.
Answer with another joke, you dumbass, the usual voice in his head raged. Don’t let him hanging there! - and he felt inclined to comply, even though he felt his hearts race in a way that should not happen, at least not because of a simple joke.

“I still have a few of the good ration bars left, the ones that actually taste like something”, he chuckled, “I am not sure about finding a place with a nice view though.”
His eyes flickered upward but as soon as he saw those beautiful pitch black eyes that reminded him of the vastness of space he felt his attention waver again. If he wanted to actually apologize, he would have to do so now, before he would forget every rational thought in his brain.

“But before we have dinner”, at this one corner of his mouth twitched upwards, “I wanted to apologize.” He hadn’t actually planned before what to say but he just barrelled on. “I have left you standing there without asking where you had to go, without offering you a ride. That was pretty thoughtless of me, especially because of our pleasant conversation beforehand, and I apologize for that.” Finally he dared looking at the Night Lord. Searching his face for anything that would betray his emotions. His words were in no way eloquent or especially impressive but he hoped that Horváth wouldn’t hold it against him.

He could feel his hearts race even more. ‘Why did it matter to him so much what Horváth thought of him? Why did he even care.? He was just one of many Astartes, and it wasn’t like Azgareth didn’t have any friends in his own Legion. So why did he want the Night Lord to like him, to keep talking to him? Since when did he care at all what others thought of him? It should not matter, but it did.’
Sweat was gathering in the nape of his neck, under his bodyglove, making his skin tingle and itch, and even his hands felt sweaty in their gloves and gauntlets. He didn’t understand what was happening to him and it was an uncomfortable and utterly new sensation he could live without.

~~~

‘What...?’ was all Stryga could weakly utter. His mind was blank, unable to process the possible implications of what the other had just said. For a moment, he just stood there, his black eyes staring ahead, his mouth slightly open, frozen to the spot like a fly stuck to adhesive tape.

Then all his thoughts came rushing back at once. Chaotic, unfiltered, and without rhyme or reason. ‘WHY did Azgareth apologise? Did he say he wanted to take him for a ride? With the jump pack? How?’ Before the Night Lord’s inner eye, an image of Azgareth holding Stryga like a bride as they disappeared into the night sky flashed briefly. And was immediately banished to the deepest corner of his subconscious.

That corner was getting pretty crowded’ was another unwelcome thought that popped up and vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Then there was that strange reaction to his dinner joke. Stryga was by no means an expert when it came to ‘courting’ someone – in the Eighth, there was no courtship. You had an agreement and a quick romp with a brother you least expected to murder you as soon as you took off your armour. But this, this sounded suspiciously like proper flirting!

How in the world was he supposed to respond to that? ‘Dinner with a nice view’ was not something he had ever expected – neither as an idea nor as a sentence directed at him. He was even pretty sure he had never heard those words in his immediate vicinity before.

However, Stryga's important considerations were interrupted abruptly when he was suddenly struck by a sharp – but not unpleasant – chemical odour emanating from Azgareth. He turned his attention back to the larger man and was surprised to see that he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat! And now that he was fully focused on the World Eater, Stryga couldn't help but notice a slight flush on his cheeks and hear the loud beating of his twin hearts.

A stress response? Was Azgareth nervous? Although it shouldn't have mattered to the Night Lord, Stryga felt something akin to… relief. It appeared that he was not the only overthinking dumbass here, and that Azgareth felt as much at ease with the entire situation as he – namely not at all.

This welcome realisation made Stryga grin a little, and all the tension drained from his body. Armed with this new knowledge, he made sure he got the other man out of his misery as quickly as possible.

‘No need to apologise, brother. I could just as easily have told you where I was going, and besides, what would it have looked like if we both turned up at the meeting point with a single jump pack?’ Stryga laughed melodiously before continuing: ‘Can you imagine the faces of our dear brothers? And as for your gallant invitation to “dinner with a view”,‘ with these words, Stryga stepped closer to Azgareth and gazed intently into his eyes, ‘the view here is as good as it gets. No need to wait for better opportunities that may never come.”

~~~

The silence that had followed his apology and dinner invitation – because it really wasn’t just a joke, Azgareth had to admit to himself, he would be happy to spend some more time with the other Astartes – had been deafening and he had almost expected anything from rejection to humiliation, but then a brilliant smile had grown on Horváth’s face and Azgareth’s hearts started beating even faster. How can a Night Lord be that fucking pretty?
He hastily pushed that thought away just to hear the end of the next sentence out of Horváth’s mouth.

“...what would it have looked like if we both turned up at the meeting point with a single jump pack?”

Azgareth couldn’t help but to let out a short bark of a laugh at the picture that flashed through his mind. Him, soaring through the air, carrying the Night Lord on his arms, like a dashing knight would carry a princess. Not that he would make a good dashing anything really, but it was an amusing idea. And you wouldn’t mind carrying him around, would you?, whispered a little traitorous voice in his head.

Horváth apparently had a similar thought because he too let out a laugh that Azgareth was sure he would not forget very soon. So far he had only heard sarcastic or threatening laughs from Night Lords, dark laughter that promised pain or death, that made even Astartes nervous. This delighted sound that escaped Horváth’s throat was… beautiful. It was beautiful.

The slightly nervous chuckle that tried to crawl out of Azgareth’s throat turned strangled when the other Astartes stepped even closer, his voice suddenly deeper, richer. An acceptance of his invitation, delivered in a purr that travelled through his bones and settled deep in his belly.
He wasn’t exactly sure how they had gone from making awkward jokes to actual, honest flirting but he wouldn’t complain. Not when there was a pretty Night Lord with an even prettier voice interested in him.

Azgareth looked around, trying to find a place to sit down when his eyes fell upon the empty drop pod. It was stuck in a crater, surrounded by swathes of broken bodies. Not exactly a romantic location – Or maybe it is, you never know with Night Lords – but the top was big enough for both of them to sit down comfortably without having to plant their asses in mud saturated with blood and other bodily fluids.
He could feel a slightly impish grin grow on his face. “I have an idea”. With that Azgareth pushed his helmet back onto his head, and stepping even closer he grabbed Horváth, letting his fingers curl around the belt and lower edges of the armour pieces that protected his waist. “Hold tight.”

A few runes blinked at him angrily when he activated his jump pack, reminding him of the clogged exhausts. I only need a short burst so stop fucking whining. He activated the override and with an angry roar the engine fired. A short burst of acceleration carried them into the air before he eased them down again skilfully on the top of the half-buried drop pod. There was no danger of falling or losing balance but he still loathed the idea of letting go of Horváth. The proximity of the Night Lord sending a shiver through him that wasn’t born from unease. He smiled softly before he realized that he had his helmet back on and his facial expressions were hidden.
With a frustrated grunt he finally eased the fingers from where he had grabbed the other Astartes and pulled off his helmet again. In a reflex he pushed his left hand through the long coils of the nails, pulling them back so they wouldn’t obscure his view.
“Sorry, this was faster”, he murmured. “I promised you dinner, didn’t I?”. With that he started digging through one of the larger pouches on his belt, and after a few moments he felt the smooth packages of the promised “good” ration bar under his fingers. With a triumphant ‘Hah!’ he pulled them out, offering them up to the Night Lord like an offering. “Choose whichever you like best.”

~~~~~

An undignified high pitched yelp escaped Stryga as soon as he was yanked up into the air with a sharp tug around his waist. The world was suddenly a flash of dark colour smudges, filled with an angry roar of an engine that was definitely not meant to support two fully-armoured Astartes. Before Stryga could start to worry or imagine horror-scenarios in which he all but ended up as a smudge on the rocky ground of Isstvan V, he was firmly planted on a solid surface and carefully let go.

Although his thoughts were still all over the place and his eyes probably wider than saucer plates, a tiny part in Stryga wished that he was still roaring through the air. It was such an alien feeling to be detached from the ground, detached from all the worries and weight, it fascinated and scared him at the same time. It didn’t help his confusion that Azgareth was currently so close to him, that he could almost make out his own reflection in the World Eater’s eyes and count the fine lines in the other Astartes’ face. The last time he allowed another person to invade his personal space like this ended in pain, blood and a very embarrassing talk with the apothecary.

Stryga quickly banished the uncomfortable memory, and focused his attention to the Astartes in front of him and their – date with a view.
Any sane person, and some not-so-sane ones, would hardly describe the ghastly landscape around them as a ‘view’ (air quotes and implications included), but for Stryga it seemed only too fitting in all its morbid irony. And when Azgareth actually pulled out two ration bars from one of his belt pouches – he didn’t lie, those were the good stuff – Stryga realized that this was a date befitting of them both. Two monsters, meeting in a field of mutilated bodies, covered in blood and gore, sharing a nightmare and ration bars. It was truly romantic.

‘You are a real gentleman’, Stryga chuckled bemusedly and picked the bar with added artificial sweetener. ‘Be careful, if you continue like this, I might swoon right into your arms and then you will never get rid of me’. The words were spoken light-heartedly and in a joking tone, but there was something hesitant and almost earnest in the Night Lord’s eyes.

‘By the way, call me Stryga. Horvàth is for my subordinates and anyone who is not a friend’, he flashed a toothy smile at Azgareth and plopped down into a comfortable sitting position, before unwrapping his bar and taking a healthy bite out of it.

~~~~~

Azgareth could only stare at the back of the head of the Night Lord that was now sitting in front of him on the edge of the drop pod, feet dangling, heels softly tapping against the metal. The picture of nonchalance, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like he hadn’t just hit Azgareth with the verbal equivalent of a sledgehammer. ‘...I might swoon right into your arms and then you will never get rid of me’.
Heat was creeping up the sides of his neck and he was glad that his darker skin hid the violent blush that settled over his whole face. Fucker…How the fuck am I supposed to be calm now? He must have known what he would do to me with a sentence like that, must he not?
And then a different thought hit Azgareth, again like sledgehammer; the implication almost bowling him over. I wouldn’t mind not getting rid of him.
He could hear his own pulse thumping in his ears, his breath getting stuck somewhere in his chest. This was beyond the purely physical, he realized. Their “dinner with a view” wasn’t just a step towards physical pleasure. He wanted to actually get to know Stryga, wanted to know his opinions, his… dreams and wishes, what he liked and disliked.
Azgareth was familiar with the conditioning every Astartes received, knew it should suppress anything like that. Astartes shouldn’t feel more than friendship for a brother. They weren’t created for affection, only for violence, for war and death.
But there had always been those that had broken through conditioning, through deeply ingrained behaviour and etched mental pathways. There had always been some that were deviant. Wrong, broken, they were called. Defective. And now he was one of them apparently. Or maybe he had always been...

He was ripped out of the dark hole his thoughts had dug themselves into be the tension growing in the air. The silence was almost palpable now, a leaden blanket pressing down on them. He realized he hadn’t said anything – or openly reacted to Stryga’s words, letting him stew in obscurity instead.
Azgareth shook his head, dispelling the darkness that had settled in his mind with the movement. The ends of his Nails clicking together softly, almost like a signal to the end of his brooding.
Racking his brain would not help him now. It wasn’t like they had unlimited time left on this planet, and neither of them knew where they would be heading to next. Or if they would even see each other ever again.
He would have enough time later to decipher what he was feeling right now, what it meant for him, what he would do with the knowledge of his faultiness. Or if he even cared.
For now, he wanted to enjoy it, wanted to bask in the attention of those black eyes, wanted to hear the accented voice that could make even the most mundane words sound mysterious and special.
You’ve fucking lost your mind, the little, nasty voice in the back of his head whispered but he pushed it aside with determination. He would not ruin this moment for himself. Not now. Now he would let himself have something nice for once.

The World Eater slowly sunk down next to the blue-armoured Astartes, mirroring his posture, close enough for the pauldrons to almost touch each other.
“Stryga”, he repeated the name, slowly, like it was a treasure, a secret gifted to him. Letting it roll over his tongue, tasting it like one would taste a morsel of a sweet delicacy, the “R” a deep rumble in his throat. “A very pretty name…”. He let the sentence trail off, not having the courage to follow through and finish it with what he really wanted to say.
“Only took a good ration bar to become a friend then, heh?”, he chuckled before taking a bite of his own ration bar. Cherry, his favourite. Not that he knew what a cherry really was – some fruit he figured – and he was sure that a real cherry wouldn’t taste like this, but it was his favourite nonetheless. The sweet, slightly tart taste tingling on his tongue.
Now that he thought about it, it fit to his new friend sitting beside him. Azgareth stifled the giggle that crept up his throat; he was pretty sure that Stryga would not appreciate being compared to a – probably – fruit.
“So”, he blurted out, desperate to distract from the little snort that had burst out despite his efforts, “is this good enough for a ‘dinner with a view’?”

~~~~~

Stryga flashed a toothy grin at the World Eater, before nodding and taking a bite out of his sweet treat.

‘It's not too shabby. Nice and quiet, not too crowded, I like it. The landscape could be really picturesque if one were to ignore the mountains of organic and military waste.’

After a short pause, he added, ‘It is appropriate... for us.’ Stryga looked up at Azgareth as if he wanted to add something, but reconsidered and simply nodded again.

A few blissful minutes passed without either of them saying a word. The empty wrappers from the ration bars were neatly tucked into one of the countless pouches on Azgareth's utility belt and the two Astartes simply sat there, lost in their thoughts. Stryga tried his best not to let his attention drift to more unpleasant topics such as the Isstvan V campaign – no, the massacre – or its significance for the future of the VIIIth. However, the more pressing thought he was trying to avoid concerned his current situation and what it meant for him personally.
As much as he enjoyed the company of the World Eater and the ease with which they seemed to understand each other, he was also painfully aware of how fleeting this anomaly was. In a few short moments they would have to go back to the rendez-vous point, where they would receive further instructions from their respective superiors and then… they would never see each other again.
Isstvan may have been a nightmare for many of his brothers, but for him it brought something good into his life: the amber-eyed man who sat quietly beside him.

He couldn't help but stare at Azgareth's profile. Memorizing every line and scar on his handsome face, the golden glow of his soulful eyes and the occasional slight twitch of the muscles beneath his caramel-coloured skin. He wanted to remember him exactly as he was now: peaceful, with a slight smile on his lips that hinted at an amusing thought. Before he could do something stupid like touch the other Astartes' face or even... no! Stop it!

Stryga shook his head, took a deep breath and stood up.

‘We have to go back, Azgareth. I don't feel like being stuck on this infernal rock just because we missed the last ferry back to our ships.’

His smile was thin but genuine as he watched the other man take a deep breath and push himself up.

When they finally faced each other, Stryga stretched out his hand as if to give in to his previous impulse. After a moment's hesitation, however, he let it fall onto the right shoulder plate of the World Eater and cursed himself inwardly for his cowardice.

“For what’s worth, thank you for… “ he gestured helplessly around “… this.”

‘It was the best “dinner with a view” I've ever had, and I hope,’ here Stryga hesitated again, unsure how best to encapsulate all the swirling thoughts and unfamiliar feelings into mere words. He finally settled on simply tapping the blood-stained shoulder plate and uttering a sincere ‘thank you.’

~~~~ the End ~~~~~

Chapter Text

Dinner with a view