Mind your tongue while you have one yet, you worthless fuck!
[He bites back, one wounded animal to another. Clenching his jaw, he pushes his battered body along to fall into step at Hector's side, almost desperate to make a point. He didn't need Hector; he didn't need anyone, much less now, he reminds himself, when some of the worst that could've happened had happened and he had crawled his way out of fear to a place of self-respect on his own, drying the last of his tears himself. It's what needed to happen; it's what it means to be strong. One either breaks under terrible force, or bends into a new, sometimes unrecognizable shape. A better one, he decides.]
I was learning to survive long before you showed your pretty little face in the castle!
[The breathless edge to his voice betrays him and he's all the more vicious for it. He hates it all: the way only Hector can burrow under his skin; the uselessness of his own training as his heart pumps more of the poison around and the parts of him that aren't burning grow heavier, number; that wherever they'd camp for the night, together or alone, feels too far away, and dogged determination just isn't enough.
There's no adrenaline left to buffer the pain. He doesn't know when it goes from white noise to a shrill screeching that makes the world around him all floaty and fuzzy around the edges, pushing and pulling his thoughts to half-crazy places, but suddenly he wants - needs to stop, to push his nails into himself and carve his way down, down. Carve all the sickness right out of himself.
His eyes pinch shut.
He grips the hilt of his sword tighter.]
Even with your strongest weapons and devils at your side, neither you nor Dracula's spirit could destroy me, and now... you think you know best, do you? [He huffs, tottering.] That I, I need --
[His knee goes soft all on its own and the ground lurches towards him. He doesn't snap out his arms to break his fall and drops hard, loose pebbles and clods of dirt tumbling after him as he slides partway down the side of the path.]
no subject
[He bites back, one wounded animal to another. Clenching his jaw, he pushes his battered body along to fall into step at Hector's side, almost desperate to make a point. He didn't need Hector; he didn't need anyone, much less now, he reminds himself, when some of the worst that could've happened had happened and he had crawled his way out of fear to a place of self-respect on his own, drying the last of his tears himself. It's what needed to happen; it's what it means to be strong. One either breaks under terrible force, or bends into a new, sometimes unrecognizable shape. A better one, he decides.]
I was learning to survive long before you showed your pretty little face in the castle!
[The breathless edge to his voice betrays him and he's all the more vicious for it. He hates it all: the way only Hector can burrow under his skin; the uselessness of his own training as his heart pumps more of the poison around and the parts of him that aren't burning grow heavier, number; that wherever they'd camp for the night, together or alone, feels too far away, and dogged determination just isn't enough.
There's no adrenaline left to buffer the pain. He doesn't know when it goes from white noise to a shrill screeching that makes the world around him all floaty and fuzzy around the edges, pushing and pulling his thoughts to half-crazy places, but suddenly he wants - needs to stop, to push his nails into himself and carve his way down, down. Carve all the sickness right out of himself.
His eyes pinch shut.
He grips the hilt of his sword tighter.]
Even with your strongest weapons and devils at your side, neither you nor Dracula's spirit could destroy me, and now... you think you know best, do you? [He huffs, tottering.] That I, I need --
[His knee goes soft all on its own and the ground lurches towards him. He doesn't snap out his arms to break his fall and drops hard, loose pebbles and clods of dirt tumbling after him as he slides partway down the side of the path.]