[Chains rattle and metal clink together, all his scuffed up armour pieces and plates sliding off him to form a pile by his feet. Isaac reaches for the back of his neck to unclasp his collar last, movements calm and purposeful, unhurried.
He had never actually said yes to the offer turning over and over in his mind. Not once in the weeks it has taken for him to make peace with his stalling plans to take to the freedom of the skies and embrace a more nomadic life. But leading Hector up into his study for the first time and letting him draw a bath, involving him in a ritualistic strip down with a long, pointed look through his lashes, is as close as Isaac comes to it. It's no coincidence that he has finally scrapped the wooden basin he's done his washing in and forged a wood-fired tub from metals and rough-hewn stone; something more comfortable, more proper for his height. Beside it lies a pail and washcloth, and some soap.]
Is this indeed a bath or your attempt at making a broth of my bones?
[He asks, pausing in the middle of tugging at his boot to consider the sprinkling of crushed herbs in the bathwater with a wry, barely-there twist of his mouth. Lavender, especially, has become a familiar scent in his ongoing struggle to sleep through his nights, perfuming a space often smelling of sweat and sex and wood smoke.]
no subject
He had never actually said yes to the offer turning over and over in his mind. Not once in the weeks it has taken for him to make peace with his stalling plans to take to the freedom of the skies and embrace a more nomadic life. But leading Hector up into his study for the first time and letting him draw a bath, involving him in a ritualistic strip down with a long, pointed look through his lashes, is as close as Isaac comes to it. It's no coincidence that he has finally scrapped the wooden basin he's done his washing in and forged a wood-fired tub from metals and rough-hewn stone; something more comfortable, more proper for his height. Beside it lies a pail and washcloth, and some soap.]
Is this indeed a bath or your attempt at making a broth of my bones?
[He asks, pausing in the middle of tugging at his boot to consider the sprinkling of crushed herbs in the bathwater with a wry, barely-there twist of his mouth. Lavender, especially, has become a familiar scent in his ongoing struggle to sleep through his nights, perfuming a space often smelling of sweat and sex and wood smoke.]