[For all the maneuvering of his body Hector has done since finding him, it's that gentleness, again, that makes Isaac flinch. He's in no position to pretend he's gone cold to it and that he's managed to kill his own gnawing human need, or to fight the idea that Hector, with every feathering touch, is no better than succubi and incubi, conspiring to leech him of his hard-earned power in his own way. So he weathers it out, quiet for a while, his mind drifting back to the castle where he remembers he'd have been his own help, forcing himself back to his feet before he was ready out of sheer desperation not to miss any chance to prove himself and win the dark lord's favour.

No rest for the wicked, indeed.]

You cannot promise me that.

[It's the answer that squeezes past a sudden knot in his throat, and in it are the shades of betrayal, of devastation made fresh and raw again, as if Hector always had the power to reach into his past and stop everything that had folded in his heart and chose instead to stand back, letting him scream into the void. But when Isaac presses on, his tone is toothless and resigned again.] Nor have I need of it. My blade and my devils... are enough. And when the day comes that I fall... to hell with me I will drag my enemies.