[Hector's thumb grinds into a nerve cluster and weakens his stubborn grip, little by little, until Isaac is forced to let go, hissing. He wants to grab Hector by the collars and shake him senseless for thinking it's his place to choose and to judge what he does with his own life. But Hector's last few words to him, before he collapses, land like a gut-stab, reminding Isaac that what he deserves isn't and never will be an easy out.
His arms drop and he falls back onto his knees, sagging.
The wind picks up, swirling around them and tugging at his cloak, but not enough of Isaac is there to notice while he throbs with hate, hate for himself and for Hector, and for the howling, furious sobbing he can't bite back.
Hector may have fought and won the battle for Isaac's life, but not the war.
Mid-crying jag, he doubles over with a coughing fit that's just as violent, hacking thick and wet until he brings up a whitish phlegm from the bottom of his lungs. Gulping down deep, shuddering breaths, Isaac dries his face on his arm, his mouth, slowly going cold. His head hurts; his skull is clamped tight around his brain. And for the first time in a long time comes a thought he had as a boy the nights he had huddled in some dark, dusty corner of the library - the only place, it had seemed, where there was some semblance of order: he wants to go home. But home is nowhere. It's just an idea of a warm, comfortable place that never existed.
Shadows and projections shimmer around him, fading. When he knuckles his eyes dry one more time and dares to look around, he realizes both Julia and the demon's remains have disappeared. No trampled, blood-slick grass marking where either corpse had lain. Only Hector is still there - at least for the moment - with more wounds than Isaac remembers inflicting.
He doesn't know when he finds the will to climb to his feet again, and then, finally, to drag Hector over dirt and grass and the ragged cave floor to the fire, for what feels like for hours. Or why, beyond petty tit-for-tat. He feeds the dying embers with a barely-controlled wisp of magic, struggling to push past the aggressive ache in his temples and have Crimson pull a small measure of energy from Hector's fairy and from his own body to pour into Hector's. Crimson's capacity for healing can only pale in comparison to a creature whose sole purpose revolves around treating injury and disease. But what his devil offers is enough to buy some time until it has absorbed and returned with something more.
The glow of the fire draws Isaac's attention to the dust furring Hector's cheek. He thumbs it off him, rubbing it between his fingers. It the same stuff that had smudged off on his glove when he had wiped his own face.
Soon, there'd be wood to gather. But for now he sits himself down, moving only to grudgingly unshoulder his cloak. More dust clouds the air, when he does: a piece of a puzzle slotting into place in his head. He vigorously shakes it out, away from Hector, before tossing it over him.]
And what gets high... must come down. Something like that.
His arms drop and he falls back onto his knees, sagging.
The wind picks up, swirling around them and tugging at his cloak, but not enough of Isaac is there to notice while he throbs with hate, hate for himself and for Hector, and for the howling, furious sobbing he can't bite back.
Hector may have fought and won the battle for Isaac's life, but not the war.
Mid-crying jag, he doubles over with a coughing fit that's just as violent, hacking thick and wet until he brings up a whitish phlegm from the bottom of his lungs. Gulping down deep, shuddering breaths, Isaac dries his face on his arm, his mouth, slowly going cold. His head hurts; his skull is clamped tight around his brain. And for the first time in a long time comes a thought he had as a boy the nights he had huddled in some dark, dusty corner of the library - the only place, it had seemed, where there was some semblance of order: he wants to go home. But home is nowhere. It's just an idea of a warm, comfortable place that never existed.
Shadows and projections shimmer around him, fading. When he knuckles his eyes dry one more time and dares to look around, he realizes both Julia and the demon's remains have disappeared. No trampled, blood-slick grass marking where either corpse had lain. Only Hector is still there - at least for the moment - with more wounds than Isaac remembers inflicting.
He doesn't know when he finds the will to climb to his feet again, and then, finally, to drag Hector over dirt and grass and the ragged cave floor to the fire, for what feels like for hours. Or why, beyond petty tit-for-tat. He feeds the dying embers with a barely-controlled wisp of magic, struggling to push past the aggressive ache in his temples and have Crimson pull a small measure of energy from Hector's fairy and from his own body to pour into Hector's. Crimson's capacity for healing can only pale in comparison to a creature whose sole purpose revolves around treating injury and disease. But what his devil offers is enough to buy some time until it has absorbed and returned with something more.
The glow of the fire draws Isaac's attention to the dust furring Hector's cheek. He thumbs it off him, rubbing it between his fingers. It the same stuff that had smudged off on his glove when he had wiped his own face.
Soon, there'd be wood to gather. But for now he sits himself down, moving only to grudgingly unshoulder his cloak. More dust clouds the air, when he does: a piece of a puzzle slotting into place in his head. He vigorously shakes it out, away from Hector, before tossing it over him.]