[By the time he notices Hector closing in, he's already got him by the collar, crushing his lips to Isaac's - a language that, unlike tenderness, is something Isaac understands. A snap of adrenaline shoots up his spine and his body locks for a moment, alarms screaming in his brain, cutting through a haze of nausea, arousal. A kiss is never just a kiss, not from Hector. Not while aggressively hard with no give in either of them, hot breath and lips and tongue suffocating him. Isaac's hand clamps around Hector's cock, still holding on when he wrenches his mouth from his, panting. His lips are raw, peeling back in a wolfish snarl. Slapping Hector's hand from his collar, he pulls back, feeling a sharp jolt of emotion - something jerking in his chest - when their eyes meet, his own fierce behind his lashes.]
Fuck. Me. [He pushes the words out, grits them out through his teeth, shoving against Hector as if he knows what he's doing. While the past and the present play tug of war for his sanity, pain may be the only thing that makes sense.]
[Hector follows forward as Isaac pulls back, not willing to surrender just yet. Needing pain, needing punishment, he can understand at least in part. He'd felt despair, early on with Rosaly, though she'd soothed it away with gentleness instead of forcing it down with pain and pleasure mingled.
He pushes further into Isaac's space, claiming his lips again while his hands push Isaac's legs down. He straddles Isaac, returning to the very position Isaac had rejected from the start. His cock, still in Isaac's death grip, prods Isaac's abdomen as Hector positions his ass so he could, if Isaac allows it, sink down and take it all in.]
'm not...fucking you...'til we have a proper bed....
[And on that day, he will have prepared Isaac for him, have worked him open 'til Isaac begged for more. That day will likely never come, but Hector has a vision of it and he's not going to let Isaac compromise it with a rash decision they'll both regret.]
...tell me you want it.... [He pants into Isaac's ear, then bites down on it. Not enough to mark or tear, but certainly enough to force Isaac to feel it, to make him stay within his own skin.]
[Isaac's lips push together, a hard, white line carved into his face.
The only thing more unexpected than hearing himself ask for - beg for - what he does and nearly convincing himself that he'd throw what's left of his pride and dignity for it, is being refused, and by a man seething with lust. By Hector.
He doesn't know what to do.
Nothing seems like it's really happening. Half-pushed and half-leaning back, he expects for the bottom of this fever dream to drop out and for him to fall through, to fall back into his body. Waking, like he has before, once or twice, to the reality that he isn't alone and there really is a succubus or incubus on him, grinding down on him, feeding off his energy. But the rocks burrowing into his shoulderblades and the goosebumps that chase the chill sweeping across his neck and chest feel real. And, lust or not, he's more wired than he should be for scraping by on a few hours of sleep.
He bristles when Hector mounts him, legs framing his hips. Like the victor. Were this anyone else, he'd have thought about twisting his fist and tearing their dick from the rest of their body, lodging it down their howling throat. And for just a moment, while Isaac stares into the face looming over his, Hector does become someone else, something else, his features flickering so subtly, shifting out of alignment, throwing everything he thinks he knows into question. It's like the spores all over again, filling his throat and lungs and every hollow in his skull.
His hands shift to brace Hector's waist when the man lies on top of him, the magic in Hector's blood and bones vibrating at a keening frequency in harmony with his own. Isaac shivers into him at the sly sting of teeth catching his earlobe, at his voice as it slides, boldly, under all the layers of scar tissue he's built up and pries them loose, lifting them away, wanting and not wanting and twisting his face away. A twitch curls his lip, his muscles tightening like an uncocked spring.
Then comes a knee-jerk burst of power, an effort to heave Hector off him, to flip him onto his back.]
[Hector knows Isaac wants him, can feel it in the electricity sparking between their bodies, but he won't force Isaac against his will. Push, yes, but not rob him of agency.
So Hector lets Isaac shove him back, but he seizes Isaac's wrists and pulls Isaac down on top of him, not letting him retreat from this.]
...fine, like this, then....
[He parts his legs to make room for Isaac's body between his thighs. His nails scrap Isaac's skin where he can get to it around his gauntlets. He glares up at Isaac, face flushed and demanding satisfaction.]
Fuck me like you would if you weren't a coward.
[Hector with either get himself fucked or strangled. Either way, he'll at least find some form of release by Isaac's hands.]
[With their long stint at the castle behind them, he never thought Hector had it in him to challenge him again, threaten his ego, to push back, much less while wounded and weak. And on some level he can see this for what it is: an attempt to goad him to action, urging him to finish what he started the way he's never left loose ends untied, before. But even knowing this, they are only ever a single word away, a single word at the right time - or wrong time, from waking a rage inside him that would see Hector dead in the ground.
With a cracked half-scream, he swings his forehead into Hector's, pain splitting into his skull, half-blinded by flashes of light and blood dripping into his eye as he winds back to hit him again. He jerks his hand free from Hector's grasp. His right finds his own cock and he pumps fiercely, a beast in heat, thighs and abdomen flexing and frantic energy popping off the ends of his nerves as his balls pull tighter, tighter. Huffing, he shudders and comes, finally, hot ropes slapping Hector's skin, over chest and face. As if all he is and ever will be is as good as the dirt he walks on. He wrings himself dry, his breath short and rasping and hard. No sense triumph or bitter satisfaction. Only anger boiling black in his veins, all of him shaking with unspent violence.
It crosses his mind to let Abel finish on his behalf. To give Hector more than he ever bargained, driving home his mistake with every brutal, tireless thrust. But he waits for another careless word out of Hector's mouth, as if he needs permission, an excuse.]
[The crack of Isaac's skull- the hardest part of him, by far- has Hector seeing spots for a moment.]
Fuck!
[He kicks and scoots himself back, though not in time to avoid the jets of seed Isaac squeezes out of himself.
That. Fucking. Bastard.
Hector's anger has always burned cold within him, and when he finally reaches the tipping point into fury, he goes quiet and distant.]
We're done.
[A low, unwavering tone. Hector stands while Isaac is still shuddering from orgasm, snatches his discarded pants from the ground beside him, and stalks out of the cave. The fairy flits out after him.]
[He hitches up his pants and smudges away the trickle of blood from his face, hardened to the note of icy finality Hector takes with him. They were done minutes ago, as far as he was concerned; they were done when he pulled out and sat off to the side, raw and vulnerable, and everything that came after is what Hector brought on himself.
The pain in his skull is like an ice pick chipping into it to the rhythm of his heartbeat. A vicious, nagging pain. But it's worth it.
He spits off the side, balefully watching Hector as he turns his back and leaves before he reclaims his cloak and slings it around his shoulders, summoning a glowing magic circle that whisks him away to the edge of the woods closer to the mountain pass. The space to breathe what he needs -- and in the silvery light and cool dew of the early morning, he unleashes his wrath on the first animal to wander into view and is left with more half-raw rabbit than he has the appetite for. But he's in no mood to share, not with Hector or other woodland creatures.]
[A long soak in the icy water of the pond freezes Hector's fury into numbness. He scrubs away every trace of Isaac from himself, inside and out. The fairy heals the torn skin on his hips and the welt forming on his forehead, and he puts an extraordinary amount of energy into healing the stab wounds until not even a scar remains.
The next time Isaac sees his bared chest --if he sees it at all, and Hector isn't planning on stripping for him again-- he will see that he has left no mark on Hector at all.
He finally wades back out of the pool when he looses feeling in his fingers and toes, and he lays out on the rocks to dry as the sun rises.
This is all his own fault. Hector should never have given in to his carnal desires. No more. Hector will take his satisfaction into his own hands, and rely on no on else from now on. It is what he should have done after Rosaly's death. Isaac can find some other warm body, if anyone else can stand to be around him long enough to finish the job.
Hector feels the feeble warmth of the rising sun, but he does not thaw. Future plans...where will he head now. Not back to Julia, except maybe to collect his belongings. That door, he closed the moment he fucked her brother. But having his weapons and supplies would be helpful.
He must find and rejoin Isaac eventually. Hector had let him live, and the lives that Isaac takes from now on will be on Hector's hands as well as his own. Hector has no purpose in life now, except to try to temper Isaac's darker impulses and make sure he does not wreck havoc on the common folk. It is Hector's penance and Isaac's punishment.
When he is dry enough to dress, Hector pulls on his pants and returns to the claim. That Isaac has left is no surprise. Hector gathers up the rest of his possessions and packs them up. The vague awareness he has of Isaac's presence feels like it is not too far off from Hector's chosen path, so he starts off that way.]
[It comes as no surprise, when he senses Hector's approach on the edges of his awareness. But it doesn't make it any less frustrating, reminding him that one of his many regrets is never learning how to suppress his magic and cloak his presence, making himself invisible to men and monsters. His pursuit of raw power had come first, starting early, from when he was still fresh meat among the human arrivals to the castle. For close to a year he'd request the same grimoires from the library, reading and rereading them cover to cover until he had memorized entire passages and basic magical seals, having no more need to glance over the notes he had taken.
Most of the library's keepers wouldn't give him or anyone else the time of day, absorbed in their own studies or with making copies of yellowing, disintegrating tomes when not preserving the dignity of the space and the priceless collection of books and maps and blueprints it housed through brute force. But after a whole year of the barest of exchanges between them, one demon scholar began sharing a few quotations from the latest philosophical text or work of poetry it was reading. Hell, boy, is not the world beyond these doors, but a door locked from the inside, it had told him, once. It all smacked of pretentious bullshit to Isaac, an annoying waste of time for a kid desperate to get his hands on some books on alchemy and devil forging. But it's only now that Isaac thinks he understands what it meant.
His mind is his own worst enemy. And he's rattled by how little it has taken for his defenses to crumble and for him to feel like a stranger in his own body and trapped in his own head, like he had for years, back when all it would take is a simple touch, a careless few words, to jack fury or panic into him.
That anger is all he has now, keeping him alive and alert and willing him to pay at least some attention to the path Hector's taking. It's not quite as much of a beeline towards him as Isaac suspected -- and he can only wonder what Hector's intentions are, hating that it matters in the least to him.
He might not know what to do with himself, but any thought of joining Hector on the road again has soured. Let him board a vessel and plunge to watery grave. If destiny called from the other side of the world, Isaac is sure he'd find a way across without him.]
Edited 2019-09-30 03:21 (UTC)
imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
[Isaac's locations stays static as Hector moves; he supposes Isaac has no need to hike when he can teleport where he wishes. It should be a full day's travel back, supposing he does not have to contend with the hunter attacks, injuries, and other distractions that had increased the time it had taken them to get this far out.
Hector takes it at a run, pushing his body more than he has since his quest for revenge. It's a relief to focus on the burn in his muscles, the cadence of his breathing. Unhindered by a traveling companion, other than his winged fairy, he can determine his own grueling pace.
He doesn't take the path that will cross with Isaac's, for now. He wants to do that when he's rested, properly supplied, and most importantly, completely cool-headed. So to Julia's cottage it is.
It is well into night when he reaches her home, but she rouses at the sound of his knock- a pattern they worked out together, to be cautious of her opening a door in a world of vampires and shapeshifters.
Hector's account of the past few days is brief and vague to the point of dishonestly, but Hector still gives Isaac enough respect to honor that wish of his. He makes no mention of another traveling with him, just that he'd been beset by hunters, wounded, and had needed to lead them away before he could return.]
It is safer for both of us for me to leave. I thank you, Julia, for your kindness and hospitality. Be well when I go.
[She sees in his eyes that he won't be persuaded otherwise, so with a sigh, she insists upon at least seeing him fed and rested before he wanders off into the wild unknown. She reheats some stew for Hector's dinner, and they divide up his devils as he eats. Julia is bequeathed Hector's strongest battle type Rasetz for protection, a Crow to keep watch without drawing too much attention, and a chef Pumpkin, in theory to help with cooking and chores, but really because Hector can think of no other use for it. Julia will accept no more fully-forged devils than that, saying the shards she still has will be more than enough.
When Hector sets out at dawn, he does so with his inventory full weapons, coin pouch, and enough supplies to actually support him on a journey. He also goes with Julia's resigned blessing, which lifts a weight he had not realized had been burdening him so heavily.
Turning back one last time to wave at Julia before she fades from view, Hector then takes a deep breath and reaches out his senses to pinpoint Isaac's direction. It is time for their reunion.]
[The small castle he returns to is not home in any sense.
More of its stonework has crumbled in his absence, though it otherwise has largely remained the same, frayed tapestries and rugs and furnishings slowly rotting away and the few books left on it shelves blackening with mold. But it offers a roof over his head he doesn't care enough to mind sharing with spiders and snakes and the odd, wandering ghost. There's no point putting work into repair and reinforcements on a larger scale when he doesn't imagine staying long. It's just a place to haul in and skin carcasses from the hunt, to eat and rest, and consider his next move as Hector closes in. The world feels smaller and smaller by the hour as he does, and the silence doesn't help. Just magnifies his bleaker inner-narratives in the echo chamber that is his skull, his wariness sharpening as he waits up in a tower for sounds other than the wind whistling through the cracks it finds in wood and stone and glass.
His growing restlessness sees him flexing his magical prowess, daring to break away from existing templates and visual references to create new creatures from his own visualizations instead. It's harder than it has any right to be after the years of practice he's poured into the devil's art; but he knows, as the ancient incantation rolls off his tongue and he gathers his energy into the palms of his hands, drawing one of the lingering spirits from the castle walls to toy with, that his headspace isn't what it should be, what it could be. With Hector more on his mind than he isn't, Isaac ends up giving shape to a screeching, swollen mass of flesh and bone fighting for life. The second struggling, desperate attempt is less abstract in form: a beast-demon that thrashes into being like Abel had in its earliest evolutions, lashing out at him and drawing blood before it bends to his steely will. It's an imperfect being in all regards: small and asymmetrical, patches of its tawny fur missing along its chest and back. While responsive enough to commands, it stares blankly when left on its own, not noticing or recognizing the threat in a spider nearby that rears up on its back legs until it has already been bitten.
Isaac growls, refusing to give either mistake of his a name.
He's always taken failure hard. But he has the sense, even the maturity, to remember that, when it comes to dabbling with magic, setbacks are only temporary and his persistence would be rewarded. There has always been a sense of fairness, that way, when it comes to working with magic. Someday, he's sure he could surpass what was thought possible and impossible. Maybe even coast briney ocean air currents on a devil's back, casting a shadow over vessels slicing through the water below. It's something to look towards, to work towards. A thought he takes to the wooden tub with him where he soaks for a while, scrubbing a film of grime and sweat and blood off his skin, still feeling dirty afterwards. But it's not too long before another thought shoves its way to the forefront of his mind and sticks when he settles into one of the beds.
Sleep never comes, and at dawn he can't stand it anymore, cursing everything under the sun as he throws on the armour and leathers he had only just cleaned and sets out into the woods to meet Hector halfway, sword in hand. His expression darkens, his nerves on edge. That Hector and Julia met last night doesn't need confirming; he knows what he felt. It's the question of whether Hector's word still means anything at all that is begging for an answer, curiosity and suspicion eating him alive.]
You came all this way seeking my sister's company -- why?
[He demands, forgoing a more civil greeting. But at this point, his scathing bluntness should come as no surprise.]
[Traveling with Isaac these past few days has strengthened Hector's sense for him, and he senses Isaac's presence before he shows himself. Hector is armed now, but doesn't have steel bared. The fairy is gone, replaced for now with a wingosaurus, which he has been using to shorten his journey by gliding down the mountain.
Hector is dressed in a fresh pair of clothes, a new sash around his waist, looking as put together and aloof as he ever did in the castle.]
I went to collect my things, and to make sure she is well. Julia is compassionate, and leaving her to worry over my fate did not rest well with me.
[He knows what Isaac really wants to know, but in this regression into the colder version of himself, before Rosaly had melted through his walls of ice, he does not offer the information. If Isaac cares to know, he will have to ask it.]
[He meets that coolness and distance with disdain, teeth and claws out, ready to draw blood while the weaker, wounded parts of himself pull deeper inside him. Shoulders squared and chin tipped up, it's as though what happened in and around and the cave was never more than a sweat-soaked dream and he hadn't left feeling shaken and unbalanced. But the resentment in his eyes says otherwise.
He lifts his seven bladed sword to point at him with it. Gloved hand squeaking as it tightens around the hilt.]
What did you tell her?
[It's not like Hector to hurt her, not even out of spite for him. But he needs to hear it, needs to search his face for any trace of a lie if and when he says it.]
[Hector pauses before responding, just a little longer than needed. The old Hector, the Hector at the castle, never jumped to answer to anyone but Lord Dracula. He pulls that old persona around him like a cloak against the cold.]
Nothing about you. She still thinks you dead.
[The drawn sword and the hostile tone are nothing. That Isaac thinks that Hector would be so petty as to run to tell Isaac's secret? That offends him. It's a confirmation that he is best off keeping his distance.]
Where were you? Off at your castle?
[That was the right direction, and the right level of melodrama....]
[There's no sweeping sense of relief, hearing this; when he finally lowers his blade, his breath is still tight in his lungs and there's a readiness to his stance, as if something might jump out from the trees at any moment. They fucked here, only a few feet away, the air between them thrumming with another memory he's tired of keeping alive, giving so much of his power to. A lot has changed and hasn't changed at all in a week's time.
He's not sure what he expected when they banded together and set off, for Julia's sake - and in a way, he's grateful he's had the chance to see more of Hector, enough to suppose that he's better off breaking the last of this monstrous codependency and living alone but free than keeping the company of a man intent on controlling him, softening his edges, robbing him of his choice to end his life if and when he sees fit. He has survived without Hector before, for years, and he would again.
There's little left to say that he's willing to talk about. It has always been a challenge, the act of willingly exposing some emotion other than rage, let alone letting himself feel it. And now a wall has come back up between them that neither may be able to break through again.]
Yes - [a muscle jumps at the corner of his jaw] ...although I'm afraid there is no vacancy.
[He finds himself eager to return to his work, if sleep won't have him.]
Nonetheless, if you are bound to return there, I am coming. You’ll have to make room.
[It won’t happen without a fight; Isaac is worse than a wild horse, bucking at any sort of rein. Hector expects to be attacked, or for Isaac to teleport away and leave Hector to chase after. Hector’s penance, indeed.
He doesn’t draw a weapon, but his stance is open, ready to dodge or summon up a devil to serve him if he needs it.]
How many times have we parted this week, only to find ourselves forced back together? We may as well accept that our destinies are intertwined.
[A sick little laugh bubbles up in his throat.] ...Is that so?
[He was prepared for pushback and channels his fight into generating a portal for himself, his exit plan, willing to bounce around from one location to another ad nauseum to make a point. All the more incentive to invest more time and ambition into devil forging until he gained the means of pushing even further out, far enough to put Hector out of his mind and attempt to fill that gaping void he'd leave behind with something else.]
I escaped one curse already; I have ill need of another. [He declares, unsmiling. The sigil's steady, pulsing glow accentuates his sloping nose, the unyielding sharpness of his jaw.] Perhaps we shall meet again in ten years' time, assuming you haven't managed to drown yourself in the ocean.
[Isaac and his little teleportation trick. It would be more impressive if Hector hadn't seen him teleport himself away countless times before.
Part of Hector thinks he should just leave, and let Isaac rot away in his castle. Isaac would be upset if he drowned, he imagines; an end to Hector that didn't involve him.
But there's the dead and the living to think of. If Isaac is left to his own devices, more people will die.]
Go on ahead, if you must. I'll be there in a few days.
[There's no smugness in his tone. It's pure matter-of-fact. Hector's not going to wear himself out rushing there, but his arrival is inevitable. Isaac can play cat and mouse all he wants. The truth is, Hector has nothing better to do than follow.]
[Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months; the days grow longer and warmer and then cool off again, and it's not until they're deep into autumn's chill that Isaac grows annoyed of zagging from place to place and builds his life around the West Wing his tower, leaving Hector to make a place for himself anywhere else in the castle. There's no offer made to help; letting him in was never an act of forgiveness or grace or generosity. If Hector couldn't respect him enough to have kept his distance, than he deserves nothing in turn, and, in Isaac's mind, should consider himself lucky to be alive.
With no real means of keeping him out, Isaac settles for slowing his progress with a lock and a magical seal on the door at the top of the stone stairs winding up the tower, so he can at least hear him coming when he's too deep in his experiments - or deep between the legs of the occasional demonic guest lured over by the surges of magic his work is generating - to sense Hector's approach early.
While he's made headway on the forging front, it's still not enough. The pursuit of perfection consumes him like a fresh obsession: he forgets to eat or skips it willingly, time slipping away from him as he throws himself into trial after trial, aggressively challenging his creations through exposure to stress and attack and pain in a bid to will them to evolve sooner, until they're both wholly exhausted.
Tonight he's hit another wall and has the sense to step away from his worktable before smashing it in half, hoping to clear his head. His latest devil - a wingless black dragon barely the length of two hands - takes in the world from its perch up on his pauldron while he leans up against the outer wall and closes his eyes a moment, filling his lungs with his first breath of raw, bracing air in nearly two days.]
[Hector follows after Isaac as he flees, and eventually ends up at the castle. Isaac hasn't violently expelled him, so Hector takes it as tacit invitation and picks a set of rooms to move into. While Isaac forges, Hector renovates his quarters. Isaac cares little about keeping himself fed, so Hector hunts and brings back game, which he cooks. Half of what he makes, he leaves out for Isaac. It goes unclaimed when Isaac is in the middle of a project, but Hector is not about to break into his tower to shove a meal down his throat. The worse breach of privacy he engages in is sending a bird or a fairy to make sure he still breaths if Isaac doesn't surface for a few days.
Hector tans the hides of his game for blankets and uses the down from slaughtered fowl to make a cushion, and soon enough he has a comfortable little bed to sleep in. It's a strange life, but not a bad one.
He worries for Isaac, though he tries not to let it show. His rival's work borders on obsession, far more than Hector's ever did. Some of the forged creatures he creates feel wrong. Hector had benefited from Dracula's tutelage in his youth, but it seems Isaac hadn't been afforded all of the same privileges.
So Hector takes up his hammer once more, and begins to practice again. It's the only true connection he has with Isaac, now that whatever was growing between them chocked and died that morning in the cave. Hector doesn't want to compete with Isaac; he wants to tempt Isaac to work with him. Even when they both served in Dracula's war, they had never actually collaborated. If there is to be a breakthrough, Hector thinks it would come from that.
Isaac hides away in his tower as he forges, but Hector takes to doing his work out in the open. On this particular morning, he is outside, (not unintentionally) beneath the window to Isaac's tower. He is working on a new project, building off of the pumpkin devil idea, but with a base of thorns and corpseweed. Mostly he wants to see if he can give the design some sort of use.
He goes through the motions slowly and precisely, demonstrating the foundations of forging that have always come naturally to him, but that could give another forgemaster trouble if they didn't know them. Isaac hasn't looked out the last few times he's forged out here, but today could be the day.]
​[While awake, he's able to dampen if not filter out his awareness of the sorcery and spellwork of others by concentrating his own. But asleep, he's defenseless. And like a cold draft, Dracula's magic creeps through stone and into the dreamless darkness behind his eyes, prodding him to consciousness, little by little, until he wakes again, hissing as he rubs his raw, heavy eyelids and drags his hands down his face. With the irregularity of his sleep schedule these days - lying down only when he's fed his devils everything he has to give and splitting headaches from long hours of intense, unbroken focus and self-neglect have interfered - it's not the first time Hector's pursuits have served as an alarm clock. He tosses aside his furs and sits up, letting himself stew in groggy bitterness a minute before making for the barred window. He knuckles away blood-grit from under his nose and shakes his head clear, looking out on the scene.
Devil Forging? On HIS lawn?
The sight of Hector below stirs up a mean desire for a bucket of bubbling pitch from the days of defending the castle from raids on the part of the church's so-called army, though more of him just wants to bury himself under his blankets for another hour and disappear from the world. Hector is doing this on purpose - of this, he has no doubt. And it's hard not to consider it a challenge, when Hector hasn't shown this much interest in devil forging since they swore their loyalty to the dark lord.
He closes his eyes, the world feeling like its spinning even while he stands perfectly still.
With the memory comes the hot sting of something approaching jealous. Inescapable.]
What do you want?
[Months of avoidance, and yet it feels like they haven't missed a beat.]
[Hector turns his face up to the window, masking any signs of triumph from his visage. He's pleased, though, to have finally broken through their standoff.]
I want nothing. [That is a lie. He wants to be noticed, to find some way to connect to Isaac, to have some small piece of evidence that his time here hasn't been wasted.
He takes a step back from the partially-conjured mass of plant and crystal so Isaac has line-of-sight on it.]
Should I give it true arms, or leave it with vines and focus on imbuing them with poison?
[Hector doesn't really care about the destructive properties of his creation. For him, the intellectual puzzle is the interesting part, how he can balance his design with the strange laws governing magical physics. But hey, if he makes it strong, it can act as a guard-plant for the castle and keep out potential invaders.]
[He folds his arms, shifting his weight. He isn't sure what he's looking at, when Hector steps away, though it's his answer that has him rolling his eyes more than anything else.]
It's your damned devil. [A beat.] ...Or a pathetic excuse for one.
[He can't remember a time when Hector consulted him on how to proceed on any of his own projects, but he's also wise to Hector's intentions to, as he sees it, weasel his way back into the closest thing to his good graces as he can get. It's like Hector's offering left untouched - none of these efforts equate to an admission of guilt, to an apology. But Isaac also realizes that if he ever heard one, someday, it wouldn't be of much use to either of them because nothing could be changed. The damage is done, and to forgive would mean that he's found some semblance of peace with Hector and with himself, with the hate and anger and fear that still shakes him in the cold, still hours of the night. It's possible Hector doesn't even know where he misstepped, or that he had at all; it's hard to say with the way they can dance around each other for years if they wanted to, smouldering and guarded, not saying what they mean.
Words can have fearsome power. Words can be mirrors. They can take memories and stir fire from the ashes, bringing pain roaring to life. For all his self-loathing, he doesn't want to explain, to talk to Hector about the demons of the past that have gone unconquered and relive his failures, opening himself up to pity or disgust, to any sort of judgment. He does enough to himself, on his own.]
Do not think I cannot see this ruse of yours for what it is. 'tis not my opinion that you want.
[Hector shrugs a shoulder up at Isaac. Just as friendly and chipper as ever, it seems.]
'tis not all I want, but I would be curious as to your thoughts all the same.
[But it is not as if Hector can pry them out unwilling, so he does not press more than that.]
We could test them, your creature against mine. [Hector makes the offer lightly, trying to feel Isaac out. Isaac is fiercely competitive, but if he looks with a cool head, he might see the value in such a match. There is no better way of assessing a forged creature's strengths and weaknesses than to see it in action.
It is also an excuse to be in the same area of the keep at the same time, which is so rare these days. Hector doesn't know how to mend what's been broken between them, but whatever steps there are, they won't happen at a distance.]
...one test. [He says, finally, disappearing from the window.
Trading his robe for a heavy winter cloak, one with a collar he can pull up to cover his nose and mouth, he locks his study and makes his way down on foot. The devil that keeps at his side for now is unlike most of Isaac's works, in that its design prioritizes form over function. It has no horns, no jagged, bony plates, or teeth like a mouthful of broken glass. From the waist up, its shape is even unmistakeably human, sculpted with a poetic attention to detail, from eyelashes and fingernails to the bony knobs of its wrists and the tendons threading its long, lean arms. A tribute to the beauty of a man in his youth. Isaac has given it hair, curls that fall to the shoulder and skin that looks so soft it could bruise, white on white. On its head sits a delicate, equally pale antler crown not unlike a crown of thorns, that glitters with crystal shards.
It doesn't walk; not in the traditional sense. Below the navel, its body tapers sharply into a pillar of blood-red tendrils that flex and slither and help move it along, like prehensile ropes of gut.
Isaac didn't create it with the intent to fight with it so much as to test the level of complexity and detail he's able to incorporate at this stage - a worthwhile effort, even if he had nearly killed himself by way of overexertion. But he's content to let this mock-angel challenge Hector's beast and let Hector believe his focus is simply on his creatures' usefulness in battle and on aimless experimentation while he continues to work towards the ultimate goal of forging his own transport.]
This devil is meant to poison at the touch, although this has yet to be put to the test.
[It turns its head, regarding Hector with gentle indifference. It has Trevor's jaw and Hector's lips, but there's nothing of Isaac in its face or its smooth, scarless torso.]
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Fuck. Me. [He pushes the words out, grits them out through his teeth, shoving against Hector as if he knows what he's doing. While the past and the present play tug of war for his sanity, pain may be the only thing that makes sense.]
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He pushes further into Isaac's space, claiming his lips again while his hands push Isaac's legs down. He straddles Isaac, returning to the very position Isaac had rejected from the start. His cock, still in Isaac's death grip, prods Isaac's abdomen as Hector positions his ass so he could, if Isaac allows it, sink down and take it all in.]
'm not...fucking you...'til we have a proper bed....
[And on that day, he will have prepared Isaac for him, have worked him open 'til Isaac begged for more. That day will likely never come, but Hector has a vision of it and he's not going to let Isaac compromise it with a rash decision they'll both regret.]
...tell me you want it.... [He pants into Isaac's ear, then bites down on it. Not enough to mark or tear, but certainly enough to force Isaac to feel it, to make him stay within his own skin.]
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The only thing more unexpected than hearing himself ask for - beg for - what he does and nearly convincing himself that he'd throw what's left of his pride and dignity for it, is being refused, and by a man seething with lust. By Hector.
He doesn't know what to do.
Nothing seems like it's really happening. Half-pushed and half-leaning back, he expects for the bottom of this fever dream to drop out and for him to fall through, to fall back into his body. Waking, like he has before, once or twice, to the reality that he isn't alone and there really is a succubus or incubus on him, grinding down on him, feeding off his energy. But the rocks burrowing into his shoulderblades and the goosebumps that chase the chill sweeping across his neck and chest feel real. And, lust or not, he's more wired than he should be for scraping by on a few hours of sleep.
He bristles when Hector mounts him, legs framing his hips. Like the victor. Were this anyone else, he'd have thought about twisting his fist and tearing their dick from the rest of their body, lodging it down their howling throat. And for just a moment, while Isaac stares into the face looming over his, Hector does become someone else, something else, his features flickering so subtly, shifting out of alignment, throwing everything he thinks he knows into question. It's like the spores all over again, filling his throat and lungs and every hollow in his skull.
His hands shift to brace Hector's waist when the man lies on top of him, the magic in Hector's blood and bones vibrating at a keening frequency in harmony with his own. Isaac shivers into him at the sly sting of teeth catching his earlobe, at his voice as it slides, boldly, under all the layers of scar tissue he's built up and pries them loose, lifting them away, wanting and not wanting and twisting his face away. A twitch curls his lip, his muscles tightening like an uncocked spring.
Then comes a knee-jerk burst of power, an effort to heave Hector off him, to flip him onto his back.]
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So Hector lets Isaac shove him back, but he seizes Isaac's wrists and pulls Isaac down on top of him, not letting him retreat from this.]
...fine, like this, then....
[He parts his legs to make room for Isaac's body between his thighs. His nails scrap Isaac's skin where he can get to it around his gauntlets. He glares up at Isaac, face flushed and demanding satisfaction.]
Fuck me like you would if you weren't a coward.
[Hector with either get himself fucked or strangled. Either way, he'll at least find some form of release by Isaac's hands.]
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With a cracked half-scream, he swings his forehead into Hector's, pain splitting into his skull, half-blinded by flashes of light and blood dripping into his eye as he winds back to hit him again. He jerks his hand free from Hector's grasp. His right finds his own cock and he pumps fiercely, a beast in heat, thighs and abdomen flexing and frantic energy popping off the ends of his nerves as his balls pull tighter, tighter. Huffing, he shudders and comes, finally, hot ropes slapping Hector's skin, over chest and face. As if all he is and ever will be is as good as the dirt he walks on. He wrings himself dry, his breath short and rasping and hard. No sense triumph or bitter satisfaction. Only anger boiling black in his veins, all of him shaking with unspent violence.
It crosses his mind to let Abel finish on his behalf. To give Hector more than he ever bargained, driving home his mistake with every brutal, tireless thrust. But he waits for another careless word out of Hector's mouth, as if he needs permission, an excuse.]
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Fuck!
[He kicks and scoots himself back, though not in time to avoid the jets of seed Isaac squeezes out of himself.
That. Fucking. Bastard.
Hector's anger has always burned cold within him, and when he finally reaches the tipping point into fury, he goes quiet and distant.]
We're done.
[A low, unwavering tone. Hector stands while Isaac is still shuddering from orgasm, snatches his discarded pants from the ground beside him, and stalks out of the cave. The fairy flits out after him.]
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The pain in his skull is like an ice pick chipping into it to the rhythm of his heartbeat. A vicious, nagging pain. But it's worth it.
He spits off the side, balefully watching Hector as he turns his back and leaves before he reclaims his cloak and slings it around his shoulders, summoning a glowing magic circle that whisks him away to the edge of the woods closer to the mountain pass. The space to breathe what he needs -- and in the silvery light and cool dew of the early morning, he unleashes his wrath on the first animal to wander into view and is left with more half-raw rabbit than he has the appetite for. But he's in no mood to share, not with Hector or other woodland creatures.]
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The next time Isaac sees his bared chest --if he sees it at all, and Hector isn't planning on stripping for him again-- he will see that he has left no mark on Hector at all.
He finally wades back out of the pool when he looses feeling in his fingers and toes, and he lays out on the rocks to dry as the sun rises.
This is all his own fault. Hector should never have given in to his carnal desires. No more. Hector will take his satisfaction into his own hands, and rely on no on else from now on. It is what he should have done after Rosaly's death. Isaac can find some other warm body, if anyone else can stand to be around him long enough to finish the job.
Hector feels the feeble warmth of the rising sun, but he does not thaw. Future plans...where will he head now. Not back to Julia, except maybe to collect his belongings. That door, he closed the moment he fucked her brother. But having his weapons and supplies would be helpful.
He must find and rejoin Isaac eventually. Hector had let him live, and the lives that Isaac takes from now on will be on Hector's hands as well as his own. Hector has no purpose in life now, except to try to temper Isaac's darker impulses and make sure he does not wreck havoc on the common folk. It is Hector's penance and Isaac's punishment.
When he is dry enough to dress, Hector pulls on his pants and returns to the claim. That Isaac has left is no surprise. Hector gathers up the rest of his possessions and packs them up. The vague awareness he has of Isaac's presence feels like it is not too far off from Hector's chosen path, so he starts off that way.]
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Most of the library's keepers wouldn't give him or anyone else the time of day, absorbed in their own studies or with making copies of yellowing, disintegrating tomes when not preserving the dignity of the space and the priceless collection of books and maps and blueprints it housed through brute force. But after a whole year of the barest of exchanges between them, one demon scholar began sharing a few quotations from the latest philosophical text or work of poetry it was reading. Hell, boy, is not the world beyond these doors, but a door locked from the inside, it had told him, once. It all smacked of pretentious bullshit to Isaac, an annoying waste of time for a kid desperate to get his hands on some books on alchemy and devil forging. But it's only now that Isaac thinks he understands what it meant.
His mind is his own worst enemy. And he's rattled by how little it has taken for his defenses to crumble and for him to feel like a stranger in his own body and trapped in his own head, like he had for years, back when all it would take is a simple touch, a careless few words, to jack fury or panic into him.
That anger is all he has now, keeping him alive and alert and willing him to pay at least some attention to the path Hector's taking. It's not quite as much of a beeline towards him as Isaac suspected -- and he can only wonder what Hector's intentions are, hating that it matters in the least to him.
He might not know what to do with himself, but any thought of joining Hector on the road again has soured. Let him board a vessel and plunge to watery grave. If destiny called from the other side of the world, Isaac is sure he'd find a way across without him.]
imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
Hector takes it at a run, pushing his body more than he has since his quest for revenge. It's a relief to focus on the burn in his muscles, the cadence of his breathing. Unhindered by a traveling companion, other than his winged fairy, he can determine his own grueling pace.
He doesn't take the path that will cross with Isaac's, for now. He wants to do that when he's rested, properly supplied, and most importantly, completely cool-headed. So to Julia's cottage it is.
It is well into night when he reaches her home, but she rouses at the sound of his knock- a pattern they worked out together, to be cautious of her opening a door in a world of vampires and shapeshifters.
Hector's account of the past few days is brief and vague to the point of dishonestly, but Hector still gives Isaac enough respect to honor that wish of his. He makes no mention of another traveling with him, just that he'd been beset by hunters, wounded, and had needed to lead them away before he could return.]
It is safer for both of us for me to leave. I thank you, Julia, for your kindness and hospitality. Be well when I go.
[She sees in his eyes that he won't be persuaded otherwise, so with a sigh, she insists upon at least seeing him fed and rested before he wanders off into the wild unknown. She reheats some stew for Hector's dinner, and they divide up his devils as he eats. Julia is bequeathed Hector's strongest battle type Rasetz for protection, a Crow to keep watch without drawing too much attention, and a chef Pumpkin, in theory to help with cooking and chores, but really because Hector can think of no other use for it. Julia will accept no more fully-forged devils than that, saying the shards she still has will be more than enough.
When Hector sets out at dawn, he does so with his
inventory fullweapons, coin pouch, and enough supplies to actually support him on a journey. He also goes with Julia's resigned blessing, which lifts a weight he had not realized had been burdening him so heavily.Turning back one last time to wave at Julia before she fades from view, Hector then takes a deep breath and reaches out his senses to pinpoint Isaac's direction. It is time for their reunion.]
LOL fucking pumpkin
More of its stonework has crumbled in his absence, though it otherwise has largely remained the same, frayed tapestries and rugs and furnishings slowly rotting away and the few books left on it shelves blackening with mold. But it offers a roof over his head he doesn't care enough to mind sharing with spiders and snakes and the odd, wandering ghost. There's no point putting work into repair and reinforcements on a larger scale when he doesn't imagine staying long. It's just a place to haul in and skin carcasses from the hunt, to eat and rest, and consider his next move as Hector closes in. The world feels smaller and smaller by the hour as he does, and the silence doesn't help. Just magnifies his bleaker inner-narratives in the echo chamber that is his skull, his wariness sharpening as he waits up in a tower for sounds other than the wind whistling through the cracks it finds in wood and stone and glass.
His growing restlessness sees him flexing his magical prowess, daring to break away from existing templates and visual references to create new creatures from his own visualizations instead. It's harder than it has any right to be after the years of practice he's poured into the devil's art; but he knows, as the ancient incantation rolls off his tongue and he gathers his energy into the palms of his hands, drawing one of the lingering spirits from the castle walls to toy with, that his headspace isn't what it should be, what it could be. With Hector more on his mind than he isn't, Isaac ends up giving shape to a screeching, swollen mass of flesh and bone fighting for life. The second struggling, desperate attempt is less abstract in form: a beast-demon that thrashes into being like Abel had in its earliest evolutions, lashing out at him and drawing blood before it bends to his steely will. It's an imperfect being in all regards: small and asymmetrical, patches of its tawny fur missing along its chest and back. While responsive enough to commands, it stares blankly when left on its own, not noticing or recognizing the threat in a spider nearby that rears up on its back legs until it has already been bitten.
Isaac growls, refusing to give either mistake of his a name.
He's always taken failure hard. But he has the sense, even the maturity, to remember that, when it comes to dabbling with magic, setbacks are only temporary and his persistence would be rewarded. There has always been a sense of fairness, that way, when it comes to working with magic. Someday, he's sure he could surpass what was thought possible and impossible. Maybe even coast briney ocean air currents on a devil's back, casting a shadow over vessels slicing through the water below. It's something to look towards, to work towards. A thought he takes to the wooden tub with him where he soaks for a while, scrubbing a film of grime and sweat and blood off his skin, still feeling dirty afterwards. But it's not too long before another thought shoves its way to the forefront of his mind and sticks when he settles into one of the beds.
Sleep never comes, and at dawn he can't stand it anymore, cursing everything under the sun as he throws on the armour and leathers he had only just cleaned and sets out into the woods to meet Hector halfway, sword in hand. His expression darkens, his nerves on edge. That Hector and Julia met last night doesn't need confirming; he knows what he felt. It's the question of whether Hector's word still means anything at all that is begging for an answer, curiosity and suspicion eating him alive.]
You came all this way seeking my sister's company -- why?
[He demands, forgoing a more civil greeting. But at this point, his scathing bluntness should come as no surprise.]
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Hector is dressed in a fresh pair of clothes, a new sash around his waist, looking as put together and aloof as he ever did in the castle.]
I went to collect my things, and to make sure she is well. Julia is compassionate, and leaving her to worry over my fate did not rest well with me.
[He knows what Isaac really wants to know, but in this regression into the colder version of himself, before Rosaly had melted through his walls of ice, he does not offer the information. If Isaac cares to know, he will have to ask it.]
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He lifts his seven bladed sword to point at him with it. Gloved hand squeaking as it tightens around the hilt.]
What did you tell her?
[It's not like Hector to hurt her, not even out of spite for him. But he needs to hear it, needs to search his face for any trace of a lie if and when he says it.]
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Nothing about you. She still thinks you dead.
[The drawn sword and the hostile tone are nothing. That Isaac thinks that Hector would be so petty as to run to tell Isaac's secret? That offends him. It's a confirmation that he is best off keeping his distance.]
Where were you? Off at your castle?
[That was the right direction, and the right level of melodrama....]
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He's not sure what he expected when they banded together and set off, for Julia's sake - and in a way, he's grateful he's had the chance to see more of Hector, enough to suppose that he's better off breaking the last of this monstrous codependency and living alone but free than keeping the company of a man intent on controlling him, softening his edges, robbing him of his choice to end his life if and when he sees fit. He has survived without Hector before, for years, and he would again.
There's little left to say that he's willing to talk about. It has always been a challenge, the act of willingly exposing some emotion other than rage, let alone letting himself feel it. And now a wall has come back up between them that neither may be able to break through again.]
Yes - [a muscle jumps at the corner of his jaw] ...although I'm afraid there is no vacancy.
[He finds himself eager to return to his work, if sleep won't have him.]
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[It won’t happen without a fight; Isaac is worse than a wild horse, bucking at any sort of rein. Hector expects to be attacked, or for Isaac to teleport away and leave Hector to chase after. Hector’s penance, indeed.
He doesn’t draw a weapon, but his stance is open, ready to dodge or summon up a devil to serve him if he needs it.]
How many times have we parted this week, only to find ourselves forced back together? We may as well accept that our destinies are intertwined.
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[He was prepared for pushback and channels his fight into generating a portal for himself, his exit plan, willing to bounce around from one location to another ad nauseum to make a point. All the more incentive to invest more time and ambition into devil forging until he gained the means of pushing even further out, far enough to put Hector out of his mind and attempt to fill that gaping void he'd leave behind with something else.]
I escaped one curse already; I have ill need of another. [He declares, unsmiling. The sigil's steady, pulsing glow accentuates his sloping nose, the unyielding sharpness of his jaw.] Perhaps we shall meet again in ten years' time, assuming you haven't managed to drown yourself in the ocean.
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Part of Hector thinks he should just leave, and let Isaac rot away in his castle. Isaac would be upset if he drowned, he imagines; an end to Hector that didn't involve him.
But there's the dead and the living to think of. If Isaac is left to his own devices, more people will die.]
Go on ahead, if you must. I'll be there in a few days.
[There's no smugness in his tone. It's pure matter-of-fact. Hector's not going to wear himself out rushing there, but his arrival is inevitable. Isaac can play cat and mouse all he wants. The truth is, Hector has nothing better to do than follow.]
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the West Winghis tower, leaving Hector to make a place for himself anywhere else in the castle. There's no offer made to help; letting him in was never an act of forgiveness or grace or generosity. If Hector couldn't respect him enough to have kept his distance, than he deserves nothing in turn, and, in Isaac's mind, should consider himself lucky to be alive.With no real means of keeping him out, Isaac settles for slowing his progress with a lock and a magical seal on the door at the top of the stone stairs winding up the tower, so he can at least hear him coming when he's too deep in his experiments - or deep between the legs of the occasional demonic guest lured over by the surges of magic his work is generating - to sense Hector's approach early.
While he's made headway on the forging front, it's still not enough. The pursuit of perfection consumes him like a fresh obsession: he forgets to eat or skips it willingly, time slipping away from him as he throws himself into trial after trial, aggressively challenging his creations through exposure to stress and attack and pain in a bid to will them to evolve sooner, until they're both wholly exhausted.
Tonight he's hit another wall and has the sense to step away from his worktable before smashing it in half, hoping to clear his head. His latest devil - a wingless black dragon barely the length of two hands - takes in the world from its perch up on his pauldron while he leans up against the outer wall and closes his eyes a moment, filling his lungs with his first breath of raw, bracing air in nearly two days.]
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Hector tans the hides of his game for blankets and uses the down from slaughtered fowl to make a cushion, and soon enough he has a comfortable little bed to sleep in. It's a strange life, but not a bad one.
He worries for Isaac, though he tries not to let it show. His rival's work borders on obsession, far more than Hector's ever did. Some of the forged creatures he creates feel wrong. Hector had benefited from Dracula's tutelage in his youth, but it seems Isaac hadn't been afforded all of the same privileges.
So Hector takes up his hammer once more, and begins to practice again. It's the only true connection he has with Isaac, now that whatever was growing between them chocked and died that morning in the cave. Hector doesn't want to compete with Isaac; he wants to tempt Isaac to work with him. Even when they both served in Dracula's war, they had never actually collaborated. If there is to be a breakthrough, Hector thinks it would come from that.
Isaac hides away in his tower as he forges, but Hector takes to doing his work out in the open. On this particular morning, he is outside, (not unintentionally) beneath the window to Isaac's tower. He is working on a new project, building off of the pumpkin devil idea, but with a base of thorns and corpseweed. Mostly he wants to see if he can give the design some sort of use.
He goes through the motions slowly and precisely, demonstrating the foundations of forging that have always come naturally to him, but that could give another forgemaster trouble if they didn't know them. Isaac hasn't looked out the last few times he's forged out here, but today could be the day.]
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Devil Forging? On HIS lawn?The sight of Hector below stirs up a mean desire for a bucket of bubbling pitch from the days of defending the castle from raids on the part of the church's so-called army, though more of him just wants to bury himself under his blankets for another hour and disappear from the world. Hector is doing this on purpose - of this, he has no doubt. And it's hard not to consider it a challenge, when Hector hasn't shown this much interest in devil forging since they swore their loyalty to the dark lord.
He closes his eyes, the world feeling like its spinning even while he stands perfectly still.
With the memory comes the hot sting of something approaching jealous. Inescapable.]
What do you want?
[Months of avoidance, and yet it feels like they haven't missed a beat.]
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I want nothing. [That is a lie. He wants to be noticed, to find some way to connect to Isaac, to have some small piece of evidence that his time here hasn't been wasted.
He takes a step back from the partially-conjured mass of plant and crystal so Isaac has line-of-sight on it.]
Should I give it true arms, or leave it with vines and focus on imbuing them with poison?
[Hector doesn't really care about the destructive properties of his creation. For him, the intellectual puzzle is the interesting part, how he can balance his design with the strange laws governing magical physics. But hey, if he makes it strong, it can act as a guard-plant for the castle and keep out potential invaders.]
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It's your damned devil. [A beat.] ...Or a pathetic excuse for one.
[He can't remember a time when Hector consulted him on how to proceed on any of his own projects, but he's also wise to Hector's intentions to, as he sees it, weasel his way back into the closest thing to his good graces as he can get. It's like Hector's offering left untouched - none of these efforts equate to an admission of guilt, to an apology. But Isaac also realizes that if he ever heard one, someday, it wouldn't be of much use to either of them because nothing could be changed. The damage is done, and to forgive would mean that he's found some semblance of peace with Hector and with himself, with the hate and anger and fear that still shakes him in the cold, still hours of the night. It's possible Hector doesn't even know where he misstepped, or that he had at all; it's hard to say with the way they can dance around each other for years if they wanted to, smouldering and guarded, not saying what they mean.
Words can have fearsome power. Words can be mirrors. They can take memories and stir fire from the ashes, bringing pain roaring to life. For all his self-loathing, he doesn't want to explain, to talk to Hector about the demons of the past that have gone unconquered and relive his failures, opening himself up to pity or disgust, to any sort of judgment. He does enough to himself, on his own.]
Do not think I cannot see this ruse of yours for what it is. 'tis not my opinion that you want.
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'tis not all I want, but I would be curious as to your thoughts all the same.
[But it is not as if Hector can pry them out unwilling, so he does not press more than that.]
We could test them, your creature against mine. [Hector makes the offer lightly, trying to feel Isaac out. Isaac is fiercely competitive, but if he looks with a cool head, he might see the value in such a match. There is no better way of assessing a forged creature's strengths and weaknesses than to see it in action.
It is also an excuse to be in the same area of the keep at the same time, which is so rare these days. Hector doesn't know how to mend what's been broken between them, but whatever steps there are, they won't happen at a distance.]
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...one test. [He says, finally, disappearing from the window.
Trading his robe for a heavy winter cloak, one with a collar he can pull up to cover his nose and mouth, he locks his study and makes his way down on foot. The devil that keeps at his side for now is unlike most of Isaac's works, in that its design prioritizes form over function. It has no horns, no jagged, bony plates, or teeth like a mouthful of broken glass. From the waist up, its shape is even unmistakeably human, sculpted with a poetic attention to detail, from eyelashes and fingernails to the bony knobs of its wrists and the tendons threading its long, lean arms. A tribute to the beauty of a man in his youth. Isaac has given it hair, curls that fall to the shoulder and skin that looks so soft it could bruise, white on white. On its head sits a delicate, equally pale antler crown not unlike a crown of thorns, that glitters with crystal shards.
It doesn't walk; not in the traditional sense. Below the navel, its body tapers sharply into a pillar of blood-red tendrils that flex and slither and help move it along, like prehensile ropes of gut.
Isaac didn't create it with the intent to fight with it so much as to test the level of complexity and detail he's able to incorporate at this stage - a worthwhile effort, even if he had nearly killed himself by way of overexertion. But he's content to let this mock-angel challenge Hector's beast and let Hector believe his focus is simply on his creatures' usefulness in battle and on aimless experimentation while he continues to work towards the ultimate goal of forging his own transport.]
This devil is meant to poison at the touch, although this has yet to be put to the test.
[It turns its head, regarding Hector with gentle indifference. It has Trevor's jaw and Hector's lips, but there's nothing of Isaac in its face or its smooth, scarless torso.]
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no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
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HOW DARE HECTOR HAVE NEEDS OF HIS OWN
HE’S NOT SAYING IT SHOULD totally absolutely BE HIM
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hope this timeskippery is okay -- let me know if you wanted anything changed
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