Blood and Violence warning! Bumping up the rating bcuz of this chapter specifically lmao. Rathma goes a wee bit feral, and poor Tyrael has to deal with that.
Rathma was not human. Tyrael knew this, had known this, understood this better than most ever could.
(He was not human either, not truly.)
He and his Horadrim had come to terms with what the old necromancer was long ago. At least, on the surface they had. It wasn't like it was hard to accept Rathma with the way he behaved around them. Honestly he acted more like a giant version of Bentley than an ancient being of blood and fire. He lounged about by the fireplace and read books for hours and ate one of the pumpkins they'd decorated their dwelling with. For as fierce as he looked, he never made anyone of them feel unsafe.
Tyrael suspected that part of this had to do with how few of them had witnessed him in a battle. None but Lorath had seen him fight during the attacks against the reapers, and even then he had been very tame. Very proper, very careful. He had stuck to his spells and his skeletons. While grisly and gruesome, it was no more awesome and terrifying than what the barbarians of demon hunters did.
Without the neo-nephalem around though, it seemed he was less inclined towards fighting in such a...coherent way.
One chilly desert evening, when the sun had just about set and the landscape began to lose its heat, Tyrael discovered this for himself. His breath billowed out before him, and El'Druin gleamed in his hands reassuringly. The air was full of steam, and the chants and shrieks of men.
Squashing down the rising horror, Tyrael continued to cut through the skin and bone arrayed before him. Nearby, he did not hear or see so much as feel one of Rathma's spells go off. He ignored the red mist that followed that abrupt flash of power.
It was ignore it or be sick, really.
Rathma was no human, and if he didn't have to, he did not fight like one. Long ago, when Tyrael had first met the ancient nephalem, he had noticed his less-than-solid appearance, and how easily he'd shifted to suit his needs. Of late, he'd had no need for anything other than the usual semi-humanoid form he usually bore. On this night however, he had need of that which would grant him the capabilities for violence and death.
He had finally come to Tyrael with the truth of what was beneath the moors, and they had brought themselves here to take care of it all. They had a job to do, Tyrael had a job to do, and he wasted time with his musings. Onto the next opponent.
Parry-swipe-Thrust! And another man went down, nearly cleaved in two. Tyrael moved on. They needed to reach the entrance to the Temple of the Firstborn, as Rathma had called it. (It was all too clear he didn't want to talk about it or involve anyone else, but he alone could not deal with what lay beneath.)
A low call that he'd come to recognize as coming from his nephew sounded out, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted the mess of black and white and red that was Rathma.
Pale limbs gripped a man tightly, and he spat frantic words of power before a spear-like tail ran him through completely. His spell died without the air to complete it, and he died shortly thereafter. Onto the next victim, this time with a spray of blood and viscera and bone fragments. They pelted over the cultists converging over them, felling not a few.
Tyrael's attention was re-focussed as a curved dagger came much too close for comfort, and he kicked out blindly. Thus, battle was rejoined.
They could've fought for hours or minutes. Tyrael felt himself surrender to the heat of battle, let his mortal-mind be overtaken by the thrill his angel-self once felt. His attacks became smooth, and lightning flicked from his sword and fingers. Around him, Rathma lashed out with blood and claw and death.
There was no Blood Moon this night, but by the Heavens there was blood spilt nonetheless.
And then it was over, and there were no more foes. Tyrael stood, gasping, staring at the charred and torn remains around him. Rathma perched nearby, up on one of the crumbling statues that littered the grounds. He stared down at the former angel with red-red eyes, and Tyrael had never before noticed how bright and unsettling they really were, set in that pale, sharp face. The nephalem did not speak, but Tyrael thought there may have been some admiration in the way he looked at him.
Rathma did not linger, but hopped down and slunk off to the next battle. It was utterly unnerving the way he moved like some sort of feline or...or even a demon. Humans and angels did not prowl. They did not stalk about on four limbs, but then, they did not have hooves and tails and limbs that could stretch into whatever was best for stalking.
(That was okay, Tyrael supposed. Rathma was not human after all.)
He ran after the nephalem, an electric charge building about him as they moved. The air was growing frigid, and Tyrael briefly worried that Rathma might become sluggish, as he did whenever he came to Westmarch. His pace only quickened though, and they were all but sprinting towards the dark crag that would lead them down to the temple below.
Tyrael could feel it now, the pull and call and taint of something evil beneath the dried earth upon which they ran. No wonder Rathma had been so troubled by this place; whatever was here was nearly as old as Tyrael.
It had to be a demon lord. But which one?
The deeper they went into the dark temple, the worse Tyrael felt about the place. It was called the Temple of the Firstborn, yes, but the walls and halls were adorned with depictions of a beautiful demonic woman. One that looked eerily similar to the nephalem with which he fought beside.
Rathma barely seemed to acknowledge the building, save for using it as leverage whenever he needed to jump down on some poor unsuspecting thing that got in their way. Tyrael wondered what memories he was suppressing.
Neither of them spoke, save the rare hiss of words of power. The King of Necromancy did not favor his own magic though. Almost every foe was met with the slash of claws, the whip of a tail, or the snap of too-strong teeth. The Nephalem simply tore his enemies apart, and Tyrael followed in his bloodstained wake.
When he wasn't focusing on the horrors in front of him, Tyrael was glancing up furtively at the walls around them.
His brother's handiwork was all to recognizable. Inarius always did have a flair for the dramatic, and he'd apparently applied that whole-heartedly to the creation of this place. (Just what had it represented to the angel? Tyrael longed to know, even if he could make some guesses of his own.) Knowing he walked where his sibling once tread was doing strange things to his heart, but Tyrael had bigger things to worry about.
Apparently there was another level to the place, and it already reeked with blood-scent so strong it sent Tyrael's mind back to his first few days as a mortal on Sanctuary.
All this he could accept and deal with, if not for what being down here seemed to be doing to Rathma. He wondered if it was the Temple itself, or the presence of the cultists within the Temple that was driving the normally-calm and cautious being to such violence and cruelty.
The nephalem looked unhinged. Each battle, each death was bloodier than the last. A few times, Tyrael had dodged out of the way of a spell or slash of that tail, and he didn't think his nephew even noticed. At this point he barely even needed to participate in the fights, and Tyrael was starting to suspect the real reason the old nephalem had wanted him here.
Who's to say Rathma could stop himself once they reached the demon lord?