#calistarius

Kali was badly abused in childhood and at some point prior to his aspirancy spent time (lived?) with a different adult, in part due to his father's "outbursts of murderous violence" (Darkness in the Blood)

this same someone else talks about attempting to hide Kali from the Blood Angels, who "[took] him" (DitB)

despite this potentially partially-unwilling induction and rough background, Calistarius grew into an incredibly social Astartes who was rather gentle, even at his own risk (Sanguis Irae), and sensitive to his brothers' non-curse emotional struggles and grief (Space Hulk), rather than failing to assimilate

Mephiston frequently struggles or outright fails to access memories of events and loved ones (Quirinus, Rhacelus at his first emergence) from his time as Calistarius throughout his novels and can't recall anything from Kali

he also has frequent lapses in memory and behaviour where he acts oddly and doesn't realize it's even happened, even outside of his... conductive trances, I suppose, throughout his trilogy

despite his induction, he talks with the Sanguinius apparition about giving up "far more than I thought there was to give" (DitB) Combine this with his uncertain belief that he saw Sanguinius under Hades Hive and his first emergence, where it was an explicit possibility that he could flee and never come back, and I think it builds an interesting idea of his choice to be an Angel

we keep seeing Mephiston retreat into his mind, which is nearly treated as a physical space to him where he can flip through books and stuff, while his body continues to act

the first time I can recall, between his trilogy, novella, the Guy Haley books, AND the dubiously canon James Swallow books, that we ever see him make an expression* with his face is after the Rubicon

* except for, of course, him losing his shit and behaving erratically and swinging his sword at ghosts after he thinks Rhacelus has died (Blood of Sanguinius)

"As usual, there was no hint of emotion in his voice" (BoS)

in both dubiously (Deus Sanguinius) and absolutely (Lord of Death) canon contexts, he has to grapple with the Rage despite supposedly having "overcome" it and now being immune (though there's admittedly some Bull Shit going on), which would personally fit very well with him not having done that, because it was Calistarius who was sick and Calistarius who never recovered, just retreated

Mephiston's voice being unusually "dry and whispery" (Devastation of Baal) and difficult to understand (Rafen quadrilogy)

"This is not your rage, said a cold, impersonal voice. His voice, Mephiston's voice, though it seemed to come from without." (DoB) during a period of time where he's freaking the hell out and behaving erratically again

It trickled as a reminder of his failures. His heart skipped a beat, then two and he could feel the adrenaline coming off. All around him were corpses of marines, humans, tyranids and the steps of those alive trying to make best of the situation. The air was too suffocating for him, it was too much for him to face alone, he wanted to scream, to lift off and to throw the death mask as far away as possible.

His head came in contact with his gloved hands “What do I have to do…what must be done?” he wanted to cry. The deep gashes all around his body manifested at the same time. Blood curling pain filled his nerves yet he was too tired to scream. He was not young anymore, they were not healing and they continued to bleed.

The irony scent engulfed his lungs, it made him yearn for that feeling of fullfillness again. He looked down at a mangled corpse of a Termagaunt and with one of his hands, he scooped up the red essence and brought it to his mouth. He licked and mouthed at it, he bit down and savoured every last inch until there was nothing left to feast on. His gums hurt again, his canines elongated and his whole maw started hurting again.

The sounds of orders and Thunderhawks soaring the skies stopped, everything around him came to a halt and for a moment he saw through he eyes of that vile creature. He saw himself come at its presence and violently picking it up, he saw his death mask filled to the brim with dust and blood and then nothing.

Violent, he was a violent being, made and forged for war and battles, battles that lasted all of his 1.500 years of agonizing living. He carefully layed down, the engines of his jump pack and life sustaining protocols came to life.

A severe wound on his kidney, trauma to his left tibia, a broken right femur, a collapsed lung, poisoning to a majority of organs and a collapsed second heart. He layed down and turned to his right, in the not far distance he saw the silhouette of Roboute Guilliman giving orders to his personal guards and whoever was nearby. Funny, he talked to him moments prior with whatever vigour was left in his veins but he could not bring himself to care now.

He looked at the sky, a scorching and suffocating grey mixed with brown clouded the once beautiful red sky, red like the cape of his beloved Mephiston. “Where are you…where are you when needed” these were the last words he pronounced before closing his eyes and laying on the ground. He was depleted…he was tired of it all.

Strangely the smell of burning flesh dissipated, his senses where met with a familiar scent, the common sterilized atmosphere of the medical bay. He recognized the hanging cables and the burning of the lit candles near the main interface of the room. The medbay was empty and whatever priest and apothecary was there must have left the floor for quiet some time. He was clad in only his undergarments, a simple red and white cloth tied to his waist.

He sat up and looked around the dimly lit room. His bones protested but he ignored them, instead his gaze was fixaed onto the deathmask at his right. It was placed apon a small shelf and beyond it stood his armor. His battered golden armor was now being repaired by some mechanical arms.

It felt wrong to not wear his helmet, he reached for it and grabbed it by the sides. It was shining like new, a work only he or his lover could do. That shine was supposed to inspire combatants and non belligerant loyalists but also infuse fear to the one stading on the other side.

He took a simple robe, typical of the Blood Angels, and directed himself to the private quarters. Never he lets himself be seen without it for he fears the judgement of others. His room was simple, it had its standars primaris bedding, a table with the lithanies of the chapter and emperor, a small hand where his weapons were set and a small wardrobe where his personal effects were.

Dante knew that some of them were were not his. Mephiston and him shared countless passionate nights there. They renowed their oaths to one another or simply seeked guidence for problems, though they were much different from one another. Dante looked at one of the many books on a pile near his desk, one of those talked about the dangers or, how they called it, the obstacles Psyckers had to endure in order to use their powers to their fullest potential.

His lover was one of the most powerful psyckers in existance, able to directly link and disrupt the Hive Mind, a task only their close ally Tigurius managed to do. His helmet clinged to his face but Dante did not mind, it grew like a second skin overtime. Sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he was not sure if he could see himself or his Primarch.

He layed down on his bedding and tried to close his eyes to sleep but nothing worked. He tossed and turned around but to no avail. The previous battles felt him exautes yes, but not physically. He needed to repose mentally. As if the Emperor had granted him a single wish, he felt his familiar presence, “There is no need to knock”, he put down the book and then turned to the opening door, there he was.

“Sharp as ever aren’t you?” Mephiston came closer after he pushed a button and closed the door. He was wearing a simple tunic with gold markings and a leather belt with the symbol of the chapter.  Silence corrugated the air, Dante did not want to speak. Minutes passed, afterall it was normal for them to be like this. The Chapter Master sighed, a static coming through his helmet. Mephiston knew already what was wrong with him, he did not need to pry in his mind.

He came closer to his master with an apprehensive expression. He took the mask in his hands and slowly lifted it up “Can I see my beloved’s face? Or is this a privilige reserved only for himself?” His tone was unusually quiet, coated with sadness even, but Calistarius was right nontheless, Dante could not hide his face from his lover and so gave a faint nod. His beloved lifted the helmet a small bit, white hair fell on his shoulders and his chapped lips showed. Dante remained silent until he felt the other’s lips on his.

Dante felt the hesitation radiating from the other like a burning furnace and so wispered he could get it off.  Mephiston did and was met with a tired gaze. It mirrored his completely. “Can I...help better this expression?”.

Rare were these moments and, even if this was temporary, a piece of Dante’s soul burned with unwavering passion. He was the first to seek comfort, he took the other’s hand in his and kissed on the red nuckles until he made eye contact with Mephiston.

The Lord of Death was hungry, his claws embraced Dante’s jaw and kissed him roughly, he demanded access to his mouth and the Chapter Master obliged. His hands placed themselves on the hips of the librarian and kissed back with dampend fervor. From his mouth then Mephiston moved to his jaw, he bit down and nipped at the angle conneting the masseter to the rest of the jaw before moving down to the upper base of Dante’s neck. Dante moaned and shortend the distance between them, making sure their bodies were connected.

“You…calm down Mephiston!” he blurted out with half a smile at the assault on his neck. The other did not speak and in Dante’s mind few words were spoken “You like it and you yearn it”. The Warden did not know how to answer and instead his hands cupped the upper sides of the other’s torso. He was leaning back a bit, trying to maintain balance and not fall on the cot.

Calistarius’s motions became much more precise, as he aimed towards the submental triangle earning a quiet moan in the process. He smiled with pride through his mouth and eyes and began to bite and suck. Dante left him free access and to compensate Mephiston put a hand on the nape of his neck to support it. “You enjoy this, don’t you?” The Lord of Death spoke in a state of trance, his arms snaked up on the back of his lover.

“Luis…” he asked again. The Death Lord heard a groan, a clear…needy filled groan. “Even though you are past your Golden Age, you still manange to suprise me Luis” he laughed. Dante’s right hand was resting on his left shoulder then slowly moved towards the other’s mouth. He looked at his librarian with fatigue yet he smirked.

“I hope you won’t mind…” In a swift manner he bit down Calistariu’s trapezius and closed his jaw, locking him in place. He knew the Vampire would not and so began to suck what blood flowed from the wound. His left hand snaked lower, on the other’s covered navel but dared not to go down further.

Mephiston rested his head onto the other’s and bit down his ear but not applying any dangerous force. Dante’s consciousness flooded with memories of the most recent moments; what happend to his dear Mephiston, how he found him laying on the ground, the shear and absurde pain of the rubicon surgery and…

“𝔑𝔒𝔗 𝔏ℑ𝔎𝔈 𝔗ℌℑ𝔖”

“P҈E҈R҈I҈S҈H҈ B҈Y҈ M҈Y҈ N҈A҈M҈E҈!”

“…”

“W̸h̸e̸r̸e̸ a̸r̸e̸ y̸o̸u̸?”

“M̶y̶ b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶s̶, a̶l̶l̶ g̶o̶n̶e̶...”

“T̺͆h̺͆i̺͆s̺͆ s̺͆h̺͆a̺͆l̺͆l̺͆ n̺͆o̺͆t̺͆ b̺͆e̺͆ t̺͆h̺͆e̺͆ d̺͆e̺͆a̺͆t̺͆h̺͆ o̺͆f̺͆ m̺͆e̺͆!”

“𝖂𝕳𝕰𝕽𝕰 𝕴𝕾 𝕳𝕰?!”

“𝔏𝔲𝔦𝔰”

…

“Where are you Luis…”

He did not realize he was trembling, only the voice of his Lord shook him awake, the Omophagea. His mouth and maw were covered by blood, his hand still carefully wrapped around the navel. “You...” he did not find any words to give, any answers to propose, anything to say.

“Luis…you do not need to formulate words” his gaze sincere. Mephiston slowly broght him to his lap as they sat down on the cot. Dante kissed him and Calistarius answered, their arms embracing the other body as they did not let go. A small string of saliva carefully connected their lips and rich red blood plasteres their faces. “I am not as young as I used to be. My body is weary, my mind is broken my spirit-” He looked away but before continuing “You need not be” the Death Lord gave that knowing look and kissed him again, this time with quiet passion.

Soon the Chapter Master lowered Mephiston’s robes, exposing fully his toned torso. His hands lingered for a moment to his collarbone and then proceeded further down. The skin was marred with scars which carved canions on the hardened flesh. One went from the right collarbone to the upper side of his pectoral while others directed themselves to every inch of his body.