[Isaac scoffs, having nothing to say to that. Pretty - he's heard that before. Pretty ink, pretty mouth, pretty hole. Not a word he'd have ever chosen for himself. It's too delicate, too often sharpened with a mocking edge.

He steps over the rim and smoothly dips a foot into the bath, never needing to ease himself in. Near-scalding is a comfortable temperature for him; it's holy water that burns.]

Remind me... [He begins, sliding the rest of himself into this tea-like brew and leaning back with a weary sigh, water lapping his collarbones] ...what is it you enjoy in tending to my whims?

[Lazily slinging an arm over the tub, he slants Hector a look as if this exchange is and has always been their normal.]

I had thought you above acts of servitude when you fled the castle.