[Hector's gone for the throat and he's gashed him open, far too easily.
Isaac's eyes goes wide and blank and stricken, blood slamming his eardrums --
-- and in his hiving thoughts he sees himself reaching out to snap Hector's neck in a single, decisive jerk of his hands. No more torment; no more doubts. And with his death, a return to what has always been: misery, but at least, he knows what to expect and where he stands, a cold comfort found in that predictability.
There's a sense of purpose in the set of his jaw, when he rips his knife from its sheath at his boot and holds the point inches from Hector's throat. Only his hand won't follow through. It shakes and shakes for a minute, Isaac's lips hard and white as he fights it and fights against it, a vein throbbing hard in his temple.]
Look me in the eye -- [he seethes, spit frothing through his teeth] -- and tell me this is no ruse! Tell me this show of camaraderie is not your revenge!
[His face tightens as desperation gains momentum with nowhere to go, and for a moment, he's dangerously close to tears.]
You have ruined me once and you will not live to do it again - I swear it. Should you lie to me now, I will run you through your heart where you sit.
[There's a knife at his throat, but it's not the first time, and Hector meets Isaac's wild gaze without wavering.]
I've never been one for farce, and my quest for revenge has come and passed. My companionship, I offer freely. You can accept it or no.
[He leans forward a little, putting his neck dangerously close to the blade.]
Do not speak of her again. That is what I ask of you. If you do but that...then I will stay by your side.
[Hector isn't sure what it is that Isaac wants from him; he runs hot and cold like a feral cat, hissing one minute and demanding attention the next. Hector's willing to learn, though, if it can bring some peace to those wild, pained eyes.]
[Tunneled vision, the deafening rush of air in and out his lungs -- it's like being sucked under the curse all over again, watching everything unfold from someplace deep in the back of his mind. Watching Hector dare to lean towards the sharp, trembling point of his knife, trusting Isaac more, maybe, than he does himself. His control is slipping, fingers squeezing the hilt so hard he barely feels them.
Why he's even searching Hector's face at all for something that goes against his conditioning, against all the coldness and ruthlessness that kept him alive, he doesn't know. No good has ever come of letting his heart want what it wants, or placing his faith in anything other than himself and his devils - and he can't promise Hector he wouldn't speak Rosaly's name again, just like he's sure Hector couldn't promise him that he'd never run away, run towards a brighter future, a prettier face. Better to strangle any hope left in his heart while it's was still so young, too frail to thrash as violently.
At least, if he expected nothing, he'd never know disappointment.
Isaac blinks, shoulders dropping. His ears are still ringing when he growls and finally wrenches the knife away, staring hazily at it in his hand. His demons clamor for blood - and if they can't have Hector's, they'll settle for his, when he'd be alone with them.]
[Hector watches the struggle in Isaac's face before he finally lowers the knife. It's not unexpected, but it is a relief to see the blade move away from him.
He reaches out slowly to touch Isaac's shoulder, a confirmation of their nearness. It's a brief touch; he is trying not to overstep while navigating these uncharted waters.]
I do not lie. Tomorrow, where you go, I'll follow. For now, we both need rest.
[One night of restless sleep is unfortunate; two in a row is a curse. He blames Hector and their traveling arrangement in the hours he's left brooding until dawn, whittling animals and gargoyles and sharpening the end of a walking stick until sunlight breaks through the trees. By then the pond sprawling across them is slightly warmer - at surface-level, at least - and a little more conducive to peeling off his layers and rinsing off before they breakfast and set out. Abel guards his belongings, looking on as he braves the chill the way he knows best - throwing himself in and thrashing to move his sluggish blood around. It's much less pleasant than he was hoping for and exactly what he was expecting, all at once - but the shock brings on an immediate sense of clear-headedness and vigor, at least. He bobs up for air, parting the wet curtain of his hair for a look around. A fish darts past his leg, tail kicking up a swirl of sand.]
[Hector, for his part, sleeps as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. Their camp is a far cry from his bed in Julia’s cabin, but it’s better than the cave, and no worse than what Hector is accustomed to when traveling.
He decides to join Isaac for a quick swim in the pond. He strips and wades in, shuddering at the bracing chill of the water.
When he gets waist-deep, he ducks under and pops back up, shaking the water out of his hair like a dog. Gooseflesh prickles his arms.]
Gods, that’s cold. Summer can’t come soon enough.
[Hector is generally comfortable in the water, having learned to swim in his youth, but there will be no lingering to paddle around today. A quick in and out to wash, unless the two of them want to catch their deaths.
After everything they’ve been through, that would be an anticlimactic way to go.]
Awake at last... [He muses when Hector splashes in, mildly surprised he's gone for more than washing his face. Pausing, Isaac lets his gaze slide down his body, a look no detail can escape, one that lays claim to every inch yet unexplored by his touch. Then it strays with a sudden rippling in the water: more curious fish all but begging to end up their first meal of the day.]
Burning pits, lakes of fire... [he plunges his arms in after a one, scoffing when it slips from his grasp.] ...Hell hardly seems so wretched a place.
[Glancing up at him through his lashes:] 'Warmer climes', indeed.
[Hector's not expecting the scrutiny Isaac directs toward him. It's nothing he hasn't seen...well, Hector didn't undress last time, but he's seen enough to satisfy idle curiosity, right?
The breeze makes it colder having his dripping body out of the water than in, so he lets himself sink lower, to his shoulders. It helps him think, being more hidden from Isaac's predatory gaze.]
It's a bit early in the day for Hell. I was thinking Greece, or the islands off of the Ottoman Empire to start.
[He runs his hands over his limbs beneath the water, scrubbing away any dust and grime still stubbornly clinging. Hopefully the movement will keep the fish away. He's not quick enough to catch one by hand, so until he goes back to the shore for some tool or another, they're safe from capture by him. A quick wash, and they can be back to store to dry off and warm up. Isaac's been in longer than Hector has; he's not sure how the man's not a block of ice yet.]
[Sheer stubborn will - if only to prove he isn't as weak to the chill as he is - is the answer; but even Isaac, at his fiercest, can only hold out so long and fail at a few more bare-handed attempts at trapping fish before he swallows his pride and wades back to shore, leaving Hector to finish on his own. He plucks his cloak from the heap of his clothes, briskly drying his hair with the inside and throwing it on before moving to sit on a flatter, sun-warmed rock, watching while he shivers. Spear-fishing could wait until he wasn't as miserable as a wet cat.]
Hell of a different sort, perhaps. [He wrinkles his nose.] Although were my travels to take me in that particular direction, I suppose I would stop to taste of those cheeses unique to the Greeks.
[There are few things he misses of the castle, but one is the easy access to foods and flavours he had never been exposed to otherwise, a privilege enjoyed after climbing the ranks and becoming someone of import. In some ways, he's a man of simple needs, and a fine cheese always paired well with wine and casual violence.]
[Hector gives the rest of his body a perfunctory scrub to wash away the last of the blood, sweat, and come. He dunks under one more time, combing his fingers through his hair to undo the worst of the tangles before he swims back to shore.]
Gods, I would go to Hell itself for a good Greek cheese right now. You can’t tease me with Greek cuisine if we’re not going. It’s been far too long.
[He spent a few years in that area and living off of the simple Romanian peasants fare after that has been a trial.
And great, now he is cold and starving. He uses his shirt as a towel and dries himself quickly. It’s never graceful to shimmy into his leather pants while he’s still damp, but he does it.
He sprawls beside Isaac, barefoot and bare chested.]
Is there anything else you want to sample?
[A food tour is as good of a starting point as any for their travels.]
hector and isaac then start a food-reviewing youtube channel
[Hector's choice of words, as he lies back and suns himself, pulls Isaac's lips into a crooked little half-smirk for a brief moment; and again, looking down at him with hunger of a different sort, he can only admire the hard planes and ridges of a body that has not known idleness.]
I shall know when I see it. [He dries his nose with a swipe of his knuckles, sniffing.] Though what I fancy at this very moment is a cut of slanina alongside fresh-baked bread, olives, and a crisp, sweet onion.
[It's the simple things, all the classic finger foods that could constitute an entire meal on its own, that he craves most. But they'd have to make do with what they could get living off the land - at least until the opportunity to put stealth and swift reflexes to good use presented itself. It's too late in life to feel any shame for stealing when he's already broken more than his fair share of commandments.]
...Would that we should soon happen upon a traveling merchant in need of being relieved of his goods.
Edited (LAST EDIT I SWEAR) 2019-08-28 05:44 (UTC)
Bone Appetit, They'll review food that's to die for.
[Hector closes his eyes as he suns himself, so he misses Isaac's hungry look. He groans at the mention of meat and bread. It's not fair to speak of such things when they have nothing with which to sate themselves.]
Well, our options are fish or what flora we can forage. We'll pick up supplies when we reach a town.
[He snorts at Isaac's aspirations of highway robbery.]
We will buy or trade for what we need. There's no need to steal and draw more attention. Do you have any coin on you? If not, we will stop and hunt for something to barter with before we reach civilization.
[Hector hadn't been expecting to flee when he'd left Julia's house the day before, so he didn't bring his coin purse with him. He's hoping Isaac is more prepared than he, but if not, they will make do in a way that doesn't involve thievery and/or murder.]
[He nudges him lightly in the ribs with his foot, no playfulness to it.]
You vastly overestimate how very willing most humans are to have me stand in their presence, let alone do business with me, regardless of what I carry in my coin purse. You and your pretty face, on the other hand...
[The thought is left hanging bitterly. Unfinished, but needing no elaboration.
To no surprise, maybe, he hasn't tried making contact with others for the purpose of trading more than once or twice after being terrorized as a child, finding it much easier to take what he wants. It's part of the reason why he doesn't often have money on him; the other half being that he had sought Hector out at the base of the mountain for a fight he hadn't expected -- or hoped -- to see his way out of.]
Indeed -- [it's his turn to snort, answering with biting sarcasm] ...should fish and furs not satisfy, then perhaps you can utilize your titillating powers of seduction to win the favour of the barterer.
[Hector grunts as Isaac's icy foot prods him, and he cracks open his eyes to scowl at him.]
You've got a pretty face too. You have to know that. If you didn't act like a fox come into the hen house when you walked among them, they wouldn't flee from your presence.
[He's defensive, having been kicked and teased. His plan is a fine one, and it could work if Isaac let them give it a shot. He rubs the spot at his side where Isaac's toes had touched, trying to warm it with friction.]
I won your favour. Who's to say I couldn't do it?
[Isaac had been satisfied by him, had he not? He can shove his sarcasm. Hector's not going to fuck someone else, but he bristles at the implication that he couldn't.]
Please. [The word twists his face into a snarl the equivalent of fuck you.] And I suppose when I was but a child I was still the fox in the henhouse?
[Only monsters and apprentices of Satan were said to have red hair; he had sawed off clumps of it with a knife, once, when he was young, distraught when it grew in the same, fiercely and stubbornly red, as unchangeable as his eyes. But of the few things in life he's made peace with over time, his appearance is one of them, having become both his weapon and his armour with every drop of ink scratched into him and cold metal bead pushed through his skin.]
You give yourself far too much credit. My desire of you flesh came of no wily persuasion of your own. You simply happened to exist in my presence at a time when I hungered for more than demon cunt. Or do you mean to tell me you've studied under succubi and incubi [he sweeps his hands through the air, fingers fanned out] and cast some manner of spell on me without my knowing?
[What Isaac learned of sex, or at least, of pleasure, of lubricants, and clever turns of his wrist and angles of penetration, was from those creatures mocking his clumsy roughness and his ignorance, when he first lay with them. Devil only knows how many cambions he helped spawn in his time.]
[Hector is trying, really he is, but he just does not have within him the wells of patience Rosaly had possessed. He's cold and tired and hungry, and every step in this dance with Isaac seems to lead him into a pit trap.
He wants to believe that if he pressed his body into Isaac's and asked Isaac to fill him, to warm them both up, that Isaac would oblige him. The truth, Isaac's indifference about what hole he fucks, the lack of a connection he feels between them, is a resounding slap to the face.
What is Hector even trying to do? He doesn't know at this point.
He pushes himself up off of the rocks and stands.]
Fine. If you want to stay here and fuck your demons and never walk among humans again, do it. Stay here. I'll go into town by myself and get what we need.
[He pulls his damp tunic on and takes his boots in hand so he can start walking away. Anger is outweighing practicality, so he'll go without them until he's out of Isaac's sight.]
[Isaac looks on, watching Hector put more and more distance between them.
Only this time he makes no attempt to follow, despite the urge to break his jaw over the accusation of devil-fucking. His inner demons sneer in triumph, promising him their parting can only be for the best. That anything is preferable to following Hector like a hungry stray and apologizing by way of caving and telling him what he wants to hear, affirming just how consumed he was by him and his desire, how Hector was once at the centre of his world and everything in it. Better to drive him away now than risk knowing the sting of his betrayal later, the voices whisper; no one could hurt him if he were alone.
He tugs on his leather pants with some struggle and takes up his walking stick, watching and waiting and plunging at the stillness of the pond until he manages to gouge a fish. He then fillets it with a few deft, economical cuts of his knife, lightly searing it in his hands and tearing chunks out of it half-raw.
He misses the easiness of casual sex. No attachments, no trust, or entangling emotions, the entire experience boiling down to the simple fulfillment of a need. Just another hit of adrenaline before the next came around.
Of course, a man who knew love for three good years would surely never understand it, he thinks. Just as a man who could waltz into town without most humans batting an eyelash before he opened his mouth would understand what it's like to live on the other side. So he decides he won't wait for Hector's return, wandering off in no particular hurry with a theory to test and more energy and anger to burn off than he knows what to do with. To the first people he comes across, he'll throw off his hood and announce his peaceful intentions -- and whatever comes of it, all he knows is he wouldn't walk away from the exchange empty-handed.]
[The first hour of Hector's hike sees his anger simmer into a boil. He makes great time, powered by nothing but pure ire.
His fairy, flying after him with wings flitting too quickly to see, finally points out a rabbit hiding beneath a line of bushes. Hector stops, and though he has no tools with which to hunt, between himself, his fairy, and his dark necromatic powers, he manages to catch the damned thing.
That little moment of victory breaks his foul mood, and he takes a moment to forage. A few berries and sprouts have him feeling human again, though certainly not sated.]
I'm a damned fool to let him bate me. I have to be better than that. [He tells the fairy, who nods in a mimicry of a human response, but without an understanding of what it means.
He uses some vines to tie the rabbit's legs together and swings it into his back. It's something to barter, much as he'd like to stop and eat it himself.
It takes a good part of the day to reach the little town he was aiming for, and a couple of hours trading, doing odd jobs, and going through the delicate song and dance of healing peasants with his concealed fairy, and convincing them both that it was not witchcraft, but it it was a service to be paid for. Knowledge from his years with Rosaly, who made real medicines, gives some verisimilitude to the sham poultices he throws together out of grasses and mud he gathered along the way here.
It's near dark when he finally trudges back to the campsite where he'd left Isaac that morning. He comes bearing peace offerings- a slab of slanina and a little loaf of coarse bread, in addition to the more practical rations of hard tack and dried fish.]
Isaac?
[He calls out quietly, when he reaches the clearing and doesn't see the other forgemaster right away.]
[A few tillers are still working the fields in the light of the dying day when Isaac comes up the path, bare-handed and devil-less, approaching their small town with a dead hare tied by its ears to a line and slung over one shoulder. Leaning on their shovels and hoes, several stop to watch, vigorously crossing themselves.
He can feel them whispering. Feel them staring, nudging chins in his direction.
And as though word of his arrival has already reached the town proper, he is stopped short of entering by men with wary looks and crossbows of familiar make turned on him, loaded with stakes. A few kids crane their necks and gawk at him before their mothers yank them away.
He's just a traveler on a mission to trade for a block of cheese, but no one believes it. Or those who dare to entertain the possibility decide the meat is surely tainted in some way. What is up for debate is what he's supposed to be, standing unburnt in the setting sun. A werewolf or a witch or a demon. The same possibilities pass between their lips, every suggestion a tired joke that still pulls a chuckle out of him because it's funny, being a monster to so many people he's never met and whose lives he's never personally touched, an apprentice to the devil long before he laid eyes on the books and scrolls on devil forging; but to the monsters, the things lurking in every corner of the castle, he was still too human. Human flesh was human flesh. Though brutal training and mastery of the devil's art had toughened him, nothing he was willing to do or have done to him could rid him of that human weakness. He never wanted to live forever, anyway; living a mortal life, day by day, was hard enough.
The tension in the air breaks, suddenly, like a thin crust of ice over a lake snapping underfoot, when he holds out his catch for the town's hunters' consideration. One fires at point-blank range - and from the shifting stances and the questioning looks some throw the shooter, the interrogation wasn't meant to end like this, not before knowing where Isaac came from and if there were others like him, lying in wait. But there's no taking it back. So they just watch as Isaac staggers a half-step back with a stake in his ribs, listening for the death-screech or for the hellflames that spawned him to split the ground and rush up to reclaim him. He refuses to die. He croaks and gasps harshly but stays upright, the stricken blankness to his face melting away as a snarl peels his lips back. Another stake punches into him, a third and fourth and a fifth flying for the trees as he dissolves into thin air, leaving the hare carcass and glittering, mote-like traces of magic behind. Wide-eyed, the men swing around in search of him. By the time one points Isaac out on the steepled roof of their chapel, standing tall, sword in hand, like a god on judgment day, there's a black dragon with him, its fanning, leathery wings blocking the sun. It turns its gaping mouth towards them, the back of its throat glowing brighter, brighter, with the flames curling up into its throat. Crossbows twang and snap, stakes disintegrating in the burning blast Crimson sends their way. Townspeople scream, pushing and trampling each other as the devil dives at them, breathing swathes of fire across the street. Market stalls take flame, crackling, collapsing. A child drops a wooden doll, wailing after it as she's carried off in her father's arms.
He knew this would happen.
He knew it.
So he lets himself stay and basks, hollow-eyed, in the glow of his destruction - the only consolation there is for the bad choice that led to this. And when his vision swims and breath thickens with blood, he trusts the fire to do its work and escapes, not wanting to give the humans the satisfaction of seeing him die a miserable death. His magic whisks him and Crimson off to the furthest place his clouding focus and flagging strength of will can muster - a cave not too far from the clearing. It's dark and cool and still. Peaceful, almost. Wrapped up in his cloak over the wet, craggy floor, he sends Crimson off in search of life to drain and to feed him with on its return -- a little healing to take the edge off. As many trips as it'd need to make until he'd feel well enough to sit up - and eventually, he thinks, well enough to teleport to the abandoned castle that roofed him not long ago.
Back to a simpler time, when Hector hadn't reached out and Isaac hadn't sought him yet either, and the most promising thing to life had seemed to be the prospect of ending it.]
[There is no answer to Hector's call, and no warm glow of a fire or any other signs of life in the clearing. Well, if Isaac decided to abscond, Hector wouldn't expect him to leave any traces.
He could let him go peacefully into the night, accept their parting of ways as the inevitable conclusion of two diametrically opposed men. He could...
...but he won't. There's too much left unsaid between them. Hector wants to share the meal he worked for, the one that Isaac had said he wanted. Even if Isaac leaves after, Hector doesn't want to move into whatever life brings him with the regret of missing that moment.
The bond has been a piece of him since they both came to Dracula's castle. For the first time, Hector reaches out to it and pulls.
The manipulation of the bond points him in the right direction, and he follows. He expects he will have to chase Isaac down, over miles and days to give him his damned slanina, but the unseen trail ends not far away, in a cave mostly concealed with overgrowth.]
Did you change your mind about leaving?
[He interjects as he stoops to duck inside the cave. Why else would he still be so nearby after nearly a full day?
Then he sees the shape in the darkness.]
Fuck, what happened to you?
[He is by Isaac's side in an instant, running his hands over the shivering body to help assess what his eyes can't see in the darkness. The smell of blood and smoke drifts heavy in the air.
It hasn't been practical to fuel his fairy's magic through enemy blood since the curse ended, so Hector channels his own power into the creature so that it can cast more than the minor acts of healing it has done recently.]
Be still, let me help you... [He murmurs, just to say something.]
[There's a sudden movement, a sound - rocks shifting and loosening, skittering over other rocks. Whatever it is, human or animal or something in between, it isn't Crimson, he knows that much. His demons have quieted down, dimly whispering to him, warning him that someone's finally come to finish what they started. Maybe with a knife, or another sharpened stake, or even hammer in hand to drive in what Isaac hasn't wrenched out yet. But Hector's voice is one he could place anywhere and he doesn't know what he feels, lying there, other than cold and soaked in shock-sweat, starved for air he can't pull enough of into his lungs. He laughs, still, when he senses Hector's closeness, his skin prickling with his magic: a soft, hoarse cackling.]
It was never tainted. [He rasps.] But I could have done it so very easily... and I'd have stayed to watch them choke... on their own blood.
[Another bout of laughter quickly devolves into coughing foamy-bright lung blood of his own, the stuff clotting his lips. He stays unmoving after the fit has passed, his side heaving.
He's often thought of life not as something he clings to but as something that clings to him, wanted or unwanted, refusing to let go for anything. And now it's releasing him into the grip of something stronger -- and as he feels his eyes grow heavy and close on him, he remembers that he isn't scared of what may be waiting for him on the other side. This - whatever will emerge from the darkness to meet him - has been a long time coming, and something tells him that when he gets there, he's in for one last laugh when the mystery of God's plans and His workings are laid bare.]
[Hector keeps pouring energy into the fairy, who in turn funnels it into Isaac to knit the wounds back together. He begins to strip away the soaking cloak so he can wrap his own around Isaac's clammy body.]
Your sister will go nowhere but where she wills. I am to travel with you, not her. I brought us slanina to share, and you're not going to die before you've eaten it.
[Hector's cloak has been warmed by his body, but that seems far too little to combat the chill in the cave. He rubs Isaac's hands between his own, trying to chafe some warmth back into them.]
I need to light a fire. The ones who did this, are they still nearby?
crimson's deadly absorb is and will always be a lousy skill /huff
[Slanina for him, brought all this way? The only thing funnier to him in this moment is the thought of Hector burying the fatty cut of meat with him for neither of them to have, so fitting that he can't help the chuckle rattling his throat.
He's either gone numb or that fairy of Hector's is bathing him in waves of healing energy; it's hard to tell which, and cracking open his eyes to find out is too much of an effort. He lets Hector keep his hand in his, feeling like it isn't a part of his body at all, but someone else's.]
No. ...And I suspect that many among them... have burned to ashes.
[And, at last, there's the leathery snap he's been listening for as Crimson swoops into the darkness, seeking him. It touches down lightly and folds its wings, eyes glowing like burning lumps of coal set in its skull as it picks its way over the cave floor and moves to him, offering a warbling sort of greeting as it nuzzles the hand Isaac blindly holds out to it. Its slitted nostrils flare and he feels the gentle heat of its breath through the palm of his glove. It hasn't much energy to pass along - larger prey must be few and far between tonight - but it's something, adding to the cool, tingling sensation already sweeping through him.]
[Hector’s not convinced Isaac isn’t delirious, but he’s going to have to risk a fire whether there’s danger afoot or not.
With the dragon on Isaac’s opposite side, watching over him, Hector releases his hand and backs out of the cave to scrounge up some tinder and fuel for a fire.
It’s short work to get a small flame going, and he drapes Isaac’s ripped, bloodied cloak on the ground beside it to dry out.
He studies Isaac’s probe form in the flickering light. In spite of two devil’s healing, he still looks awful. They must have been some truly gruesome wounds. He’s hoping Isaac is stable enough to move.
He goes out again to collect some foliage to cushion the stone floor beside the fire.
He returns to Isaac’s side.]
Shhh, stay still. Let’s get you where it’s warm.
[He reaches one hand under Isaac’s knees and the other beneath his shoulder blades to leverage him up and into his arms.]
[He's breathing just a little easier on Hector's return, his hungry gasps less urgent and often; with the healing underway, the blood trapped around his lungs is slowly reabsorbing and the crushing pressure it placed on his organs, strangling his voice to a near-whisper, is easing off. But there's nothing a devil can do for the exhaustion that leaves him boneless in Hector's arms in a way he ordinarily never would be, and he'd be more frustrated if his steel trap of a mind weren't just as blunt and useless, dizziness rocking him every which way even when he's laid still. He fights powerful waves of nauseas while trembling by the fire, feeling his skittery pulse down to his fingertips, but not much else. Pain is only a memory on the edges of his awareness.]
I told you... it would never work. [There's no bite to his voice, no fire. He pulls his arms around himself, barely.] But you will always sooner believe in the innocence... of humans than you will in me.
[It's no surprise, and it stings more than it has any right to, for what he's done. 'Leave me', he'll repeat, before long.]
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Isaac's eyes goes wide and blank and stricken, blood slamming his eardrums --
-- and in his hiving thoughts he sees himself reaching out to snap Hector's neck in a single, decisive jerk of his hands. No more torment; no more doubts. And with his death, a return to what has always been: misery, but at least, he knows what to expect and where he stands, a cold comfort found in that predictability.
There's a sense of purpose in the set of his jaw, when he rips his knife from its sheath at his boot and holds the point inches from Hector's throat. Only his hand won't follow through. It shakes and shakes for a minute, Isaac's lips hard and white as he fights it and fights against it, a vein throbbing hard in his temple.]
Look me in the eye -- [he seethes, spit frothing through his teeth] -- and tell me this is no ruse! Tell me this show of camaraderie is not your revenge!
[His face tightens as desperation gains momentum with nowhere to go, and for a moment, he's dangerously close to tears.]
You have ruined me once and you will not live to do it again - I swear it. Should you lie to me now, I will run you through your heart where you sit.
no subject
I've never been one for farce, and my quest for revenge has come and passed. My companionship, I offer freely. You can accept it or no.
[He leans forward a little, putting his neck dangerously close to the blade.]
Do not speak of her again. That is what I ask of you. If you do but that...then I will stay by your side.
[Hector isn't sure what it is that Isaac wants from him; he runs hot and cold like a feral cat, hissing one minute and demanding attention the next. Hector's willing to learn, though, if it can bring some peace to those wild, pained eyes.]
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Why he's even searching Hector's face at all for something that goes against his conditioning, against all the coldness and ruthlessness that kept him alive, he doesn't know. No good has ever come of letting his heart want what it wants, or placing his faith in anything other than himself and his devils - and he can't promise Hector he wouldn't speak Rosaly's name again, just like he's sure Hector couldn't promise him that he'd never run away, run towards a brighter future, a prettier face. Better to strangle any hope left in his heart while it's was still so young, too frail to thrash as violently.
At least, if he expected nothing, he'd never know disappointment.
Isaac blinks, shoulders dropping. His ears are still ringing when he growls and finally wrenches the knife away, staring hazily at it in his hand. His demons clamor for blood - and if they can't have Hector's, they'll settle for his, when he'd be alone with them.]
no subject
He reaches out slowly to touch Isaac's shoulder, a confirmation of their nearness. It's a brief touch; he is trying not to overstep while navigating these uncharted waters.]
I do not lie. Tomorrow, where you go, I'll follow. For now, we both need rest.
The morning sun has vanquished the horrible night
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He decides to join Isaac for a quick swim in the pond. He strips and wades in, shuddering at the bracing chill of the water.
When he gets waist-deep, he ducks under and pops back up, shaking the water out of his hair like a dog. Gooseflesh prickles his arms.]
Gods, that’s cold. Summer can’t come soon enough.
[Hector is generally comfortable in the water, having learned to swim in his youth, but there will be no lingering to paddle around today. A quick in and out to wash, unless the two of them want to catch their deaths.
After everything they’ve been through, that would be an anticlimactic way to go.]
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Burning pits, lakes of fire... [he plunges his arms in after a one, scoffing when it slips from his grasp.] ...Hell hardly seems so wretched a place.
[Glancing up at him through his lashes:] 'Warmer climes', indeed.
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The breeze makes it colder having his dripping body out of the water than in, so he lets himself sink lower, to his shoulders. It helps him think, being more hidden from Isaac's predatory gaze.]
It's a bit early in the day for Hell. I was thinking Greece, or the islands off of the Ottoman Empire to start.
[He runs his hands over his limbs beneath the water, scrubbing away any dust and grime still stubbornly clinging. Hopefully the movement will keep the fish away. He's not quick enough to catch one by hand, so until he goes back to the shore for some tool or another, they're safe from capture by him. A quick wash, and they can be back to store to dry off and warm up. Isaac's been in longer than Hector has; he's not sure how the man's not a block of ice yet.]
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Hell of a different sort, perhaps. [He wrinkles his nose.] Although were my travels to take me in that particular direction, I suppose I would stop to taste of those cheeses unique to the Greeks.
[There are few things he misses of the castle, but one is the easy access to foods and flavours he had never been exposed to otherwise, a privilege enjoyed after climbing the ranks and becoming someone of import. In some ways, he's a man of simple needs, and a fine cheese always paired well with wine and casual violence.]
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Gods, I would go to Hell itself for a good Greek cheese right now. You can’t tease me with Greek cuisine if we’re not going. It’s been far too long.
[He spent a few years in that area and living off of the simple Romanian peasants fare after that has been a trial.
And great, now he is cold and starving. He uses his shirt as a towel and dries himself quickly. It’s never graceful to shimmy into his leather pants while he’s still damp, but he does it.
He sprawls beside Isaac, barefoot and bare chested.]
Is there anything else you want to sample?
[A food tour is as good of a starting point as any for their travels.]
hector and isaac then start a food-reviewing youtube channel
I shall know when I see it. [He dries his nose with a swipe of his knuckles, sniffing.] Though what I fancy at this very moment is a cut of slanina alongside fresh-baked bread, olives, and a crisp, sweet onion.
[It's the simple things, all the classic finger foods that could constitute an entire meal on its own, that he craves most. But they'd have to make do with what they could get living off the land - at least until the opportunity to put stealth and swift reflexes to good use presented itself. It's too late in life to feel any shame for stealing when he's already broken more than his fair share of commandments.]
...Would that we should soon happen upon a traveling merchant in need of being relieved of his goods.
Bone Appetit, They'll review food that's to die for.
Well, our options are fish or what flora we can forage. We'll pick up supplies when we reach a town.
[He snorts at Isaac's aspirations of highway robbery.]
We will buy or trade for what we need. There's no need to steal and draw more attention. Do you have any coin on you? If not, we will stop and hunt for something to barter with before we reach civilization.
[Hector hadn't been expecting to flee when he'd left Julia's house the day before, so he didn't bring his coin purse with him. He's hoping Isaac is more prepared than he, but if not, they will make do in a way that doesn't involve thievery and/or murder.]
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You vastly overestimate how very willing most humans are to have me stand in their presence, let alone do business with me, regardless of what I carry in my coin purse. You and your pretty face, on the other hand...
[The thought is left hanging bitterly. Unfinished, but needing no elaboration.
To no surprise, maybe, he hasn't tried making contact with others for the purpose of trading more than once or twice after being terrorized as a child, finding it much easier to take what he wants. It's part of the reason why he doesn't often have money on him; the other half being that he had sought Hector out at the base of the mountain for a fight he hadn't expected -- or hoped -- to see his way out of.]
Indeed -- [it's his turn to snort, answering with biting sarcasm] ...should fish and furs not satisfy, then perhaps you can utilize your titillating powers of seduction to win the favour of the barterer.
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You've got a pretty face too. You have to know that. If you didn't act like a fox come into the hen house when you walked among them, they wouldn't flee from your presence.
[He's defensive, having been kicked and teased. His plan is a fine one, and it could work if Isaac let them give it a shot. He rubs the spot at his side where Isaac's toes had touched, trying to warm it with friction.]
I won your favour. Who's to say I couldn't do it?
[Isaac had been satisfied by him, had he not? He can shove his sarcasm. Hector's not going to fuck someone else, but he bristles at the implication that he couldn't.]
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Please. [The word twists his face into a snarl the equivalent of fuck you.] And I suppose when I was but a child I was still the fox in the henhouse?
[Only monsters and apprentices of Satan were said to have red hair; he had sawed off clumps of it with a knife, once, when he was young, distraught when it grew in the same, fiercely and stubbornly red, as unchangeable as his eyes. But of the few things in life he's made peace with over time, his appearance is one of them, having become both his weapon and his armour with every drop of ink scratched into him and cold metal bead pushed through his skin.]
You give yourself far too much credit. My desire of you flesh came of no wily persuasion of your own. You simply happened to exist in my presence at a time when I hungered for more than demon cunt. Or do you mean to tell me you've studied under succubi and incubi [he sweeps his hands through the air, fingers fanned out] and cast some manner of spell on me without my knowing?
[What Isaac learned of sex, or at least, of pleasure, of lubricants, and clever turns of his wrist and angles of penetration, was from those creatures mocking his clumsy roughness and his ignorance, when he first lay with them. Devil only knows how many cambions he helped spawn in his time.]
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He wants to believe that if he pressed his body into Isaac's and asked Isaac to fill him, to warm them both up, that Isaac would oblige him. The truth, Isaac's indifference about what hole he fucks, the lack of a connection he feels between them, is a resounding slap to the face.
What is Hector even trying to do? He doesn't know at this point.
He pushes himself up off of the rocks and stands.]
Fine. If you want to stay here and fuck your demons and never walk among humans again, do it. Stay here. I'll go into town by myself and get what we need.
[He pulls his damp tunic on and takes his boots in hand so he can start walking away. Anger is outweighing practicality, so he'll go without them until he's out of Isaac's sight.]
asshole is an asshole, more news at 11
Only this time he makes no attempt to follow, despite the urge to break his jaw over the accusation of devil-fucking. His inner demons sneer in triumph, promising him their parting can only be for the best. That anything is preferable to following Hector like a hungry stray and apologizing by way of caving and telling him what he wants to hear, affirming just how consumed he was by him and his desire, how Hector was once at the centre of his world and everything in it. Better to drive him away now than risk knowing the sting of his betrayal later, the voices whisper; no one could hurt him if he were alone.
He tugs on his leather pants with some struggle and takes up his walking stick, watching and waiting and plunging at the stillness of the pond until he manages to gouge a fish. He then fillets it with a few deft, economical cuts of his knife, lightly searing it in his hands and tearing chunks out of it half-raw.
He misses the easiness of casual sex. No attachments, no trust, or entangling emotions, the entire experience boiling down to the simple fulfillment of a need. Just another hit of adrenaline before the next came around.
Of course, a man who knew love for three good years would surely never understand it, he thinks. Just as a man who could waltz into town without most humans batting an eyelash before he opened his mouth would understand what it's like to live on the other side. So he decides he won't wait for Hector's return, wandering off in no particular hurry with a theory to test and more energy and anger to burn off than he knows what to do with. To the first people he comes across, he'll throw off his hood and announce his peaceful intentions -- and whatever comes of it, all he knows is he wouldn't walk away from the exchange empty-handed.]
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His fairy, flying after him with wings flitting too quickly to see, finally points out a rabbit hiding beneath a line of bushes. Hector stops, and though he has no tools with which to hunt, between himself, his fairy, and his dark necromatic powers, he manages to catch the damned thing.
That little moment of victory breaks his foul mood, and he takes a moment to forage. A few berries and sprouts have him feeling human again, though certainly not sated.]
I'm a damned fool to let him bate me. I have to be better than that. [He tells the fairy, who nods in a mimicry of a human response, but without an understanding of what it means.
He uses some vines to tie the rabbit's legs together and swings it into his back. It's something to barter, much as he'd like to stop and eat it himself.
It takes a good part of the day to reach the little town he was aiming for, and a couple of hours trading, doing odd jobs, and going through the delicate song and dance of healing peasants with his concealed fairy, and convincing them both that it was not witchcraft, but it it was a service to be paid for. Knowledge from his years with Rosaly, who made real medicines, gives some verisimilitude to the sham poultices he throws together out of grasses and mud he gathered along the way here.
It's near dark when he finally trudges back to the campsite where he'd left Isaac that morning. He comes bearing peace offerings- a slab of slanina and a little loaf of coarse bread, in addition to the more practical rations of hard tack and dried fish.]
Isaac?
[He calls out quietly, when he reaches the clearing and doesn't see the other forgemaster right away.]
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He can feel them whispering. Feel them staring, nudging chins in his direction.
And as though word of his arrival has already reached the town proper, he is stopped short of entering by men with wary looks and crossbows of familiar make turned on him, loaded with stakes. A few kids crane their necks and gawk at him before their mothers yank them away.
He's just a traveler on a mission to trade for a block of cheese, but no one believes it. Or those who dare to entertain the possibility decide the meat is surely tainted in some way. What is up for debate is what he's supposed to be, standing unburnt in the setting sun. A werewolf or a witch or a demon. The same possibilities pass between their lips, every suggestion a tired joke that still pulls a chuckle out of him because it's funny, being a monster to so many people he's never met and whose lives he's never personally touched, an apprentice to the devil long before he laid eyes on the books and scrolls on devil forging; but to the monsters, the things lurking in every corner of the castle, he was still too human. Human flesh was human flesh. Though brutal training and mastery of the devil's art had toughened him, nothing he was willing to do or have done to him could rid him of that human weakness. He never wanted to live forever, anyway; living a mortal life, day by day, was hard enough.
The tension in the air breaks, suddenly, like a thin crust of ice over a lake snapping underfoot, when he holds out his catch for the town's hunters' consideration. One fires at point-blank range - and from the shifting stances and the questioning looks some throw the shooter, the interrogation wasn't meant to end like this, not before knowing where Isaac came from and if there were others like him, lying in wait. But there's no taking it back. So they just watch as Isaac staggers a half-step back with a stake in his ribs, listening for the death-screech or for the hellflames that spawned him to split the ground and rush up to reclaim him. He refuses to die. He croaks and gasps harshly but stays upright, the stricken blankness to his face melting away as a snarl peels his lips back. Another stake punches into him, a third and fourth and a fifth flying for the trees as he dissolves into thin air, leaving the hare carcass and glittering, mote-like traces of magic behind. Wide-eyed, the men swing around in search of him. By the time one points Isaac out on the steepled roof of their chapel, standing tall, sword in hand, like a god on judgment day, there's a black dragon with him, its fanning, leathery wings blocking the sun. It turns its gaping mouth towards them, the back of its throat glowing brighter, brighter, with the flames curling up into its throat. Crossbows twang and snap, stakes disintegrating in the burning blast Crimson sends their way. Townspeople scream, pushing and trampling each other as the devil dives at them, breathing swathes of fire across the street. Market stalls take flame, crackling, collapsing. A child drops a wooden doll, wailing after it as she's carried off in her father's arms.
He knew this would happen.
He knew it.
So he lets himself stay and basks, hollow-eyed, in the glow of his destruction - the only consolation there is for the bad choice that led to this. And when his vision swims and breath thickens with blood, he trusts the fire to do its work and escapes, not wanting to give the humans the satisfaction of seeing him die a miserable death. His magic whisks him and Crimson off to the furthest place his clouding focus and flagging strength of will can muster - a cave not too far from the clearing. It's dark and cool and still. Peaceful, almost. Wrapped up in his cloak over the wet, craggy floor, he sends Crimson off in search of life to drain and to feed him with on its return -- a little healing to take the edge off. As many trips as it'd need to make until he'd feel well enough to sit up - and eventually, he thinks, well enough to teleport to the abandoned castle that roofed him not long ago.
Back to a simpler time, when Hector hadn't reached out and Isaac hadn't sought him yet either, and the most promising thing to life had seemed to be the prospect of ending it.]
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He could let him go peacefully into the night, accept their parting of ways as the inevitable conclusion of two diametrically opposed men. He could...
...but he won't. There's too much left unsaid between them. Hector wants to share the meal he worked for, the one that Isaac had said he wanted. Even if Isaac leaves after, Hector doesn't want to move into whatever life brings him with the regret of missing that moment.
The bond has been a piece of him since they both came to Dracula's castle. For the first time, Hector reaches out to it and pulls.
The manipulation of the bond points him in the right direction, and he follows. He expects he will have to chase Isaac down, over miles and days to give him his damned slanina, but the unseen trail ends not far away, in a cave mostly concealed with overgrowth.]
Did you change your mind about leaving?
[He interjects as he stoops to duck inside the cave. Why else would he still be so nearby after nearly a full day?
Then he sees the shape in the darkness.]
Fuck, what happened to you?
[He is by Isaac's side in an instant, running his hands over the shivering body to help assess what his eyes can't see in the darkness. The smell of blood and smoke drifts heavy in the air.
It hasn't been practical to fuel his fairy's magic through enemy blood since the curse ended, so Hector channels his own power into the creature so that it can cast more than the minor acts of healing it has done recently.]
Be still, let me help you... [He murmurs, just to say something.]
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It was never tainted. [He rasps.] But I could have done it so very easily... and I'd have stayed to watch them choke... on their own blood.
[Another bout of laughter quickly devolves into coughing foamy-bright lung blood of his own, the stuff clotting his lips. He stays unmoving after the fit has passed, his side heaving.
He's often thought of life not as something he clings to but as something that clings to him, wanted or unwanted, refusing to let go for anything. And now it's releasing him into the grip of something stronger -- and as he feels his eyes grow heavy and close on him, he remembers that he isn't scared of what may be waiting for him on the other side. This - whatever will emerge from the darkness to meet him - has been a long time coming, and something tells him that when he gets there, he's in for one last laugh when the mystery of God's plans and His workings are laid bare.]
...Go now. Take Julia with you.
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[Hector keeps pouring energy into the fairy, who in turn funnels it into Isaac to knit the wounds back together. He begins to strip away the soaking cloak so he can wrap his own around Isaac's clammy body.]
Your sister will go nowhere but where she wills. I am to travel with you, not her. I brought us slanina to share, and you're not going to die before you've eaten it.
[Hector's cloak has been warmed by his body, but that seems far too little to combat the chill in the cave. He rubs Isaac's hands between his own, trying to chafe some warmth back into them.]
I need to light a fire. The ones who did this, are they still nearby?
crimson's deadly absorb is and will always be a lousy skill /huff
He's either gone numb or that fairy of Hector's is bathing him in waves of healing energy; it's hard to tell which, and cracking open his eyes to find out is too much of an effort. He lets Hector keep his hand in his, feeling like it isn't a part of his body at all, but someone else's.]
No. ...And I suspect that many among them... have burned to ashes.
[And, at last, there's the leathery snap he's been listening for as Crimson swoops into the darkness, seeking him. It touches down lightly and folds its wings, eyes glowing like burning lumps of coal set in its skull as it picks its way over the cave floor and moves to him, offering a warbling sort of greeting as it nuzzles the hand Isaac blindly holds out to it. Its slitted nostrils flare and he feels the gentle heat of its breath through the palm of his glove. It hasn't much energy to pass along - larger prey must be few and far between tonight - but it's something, adding to the cool, tingling sensation already sweeping through him.]
np, hec is here with tiramisu for two
With the dragon on Isaac’s opposite side, watching over him, Hector releases his hand and backs out of the cave to scrounge up some tinder and fuel for a fire.
It’s short work to get a small flame going, and he drapes Isaac’s ripped, bloodied cloak on the ground beside it to dry out.
He studies Isaac’s probe form in the flickering light. In spite of two devil’s healing, he still looks awful. They must have been some truly gruesome wounds. He’s hoping Isaac is stable enough to move.
He goes out again to collect some foliage to cushion the stone floor beside the fire.
He returns to Isaac’s side.]
Shhh, stay still. Let’s get you where it’s warm.
[He reaches one hand under Isaac’s knees and the other beneath his shoulder blades to leverage him up and into his arms.]
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I told you... it would never work. [There's no bite to his voice, no fire. He pulls his arms around himself, barely.] But you will always sooner believe in the innocence... of humans than you will in me.
[It's no surprise, and it stings more than it has any right to, for what he's done. 'Leave me', he'll repeat, before long.]
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guess who is being a stubborn shit
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full blown lost it
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if this doesn't work for any reason, I'm happy to change it, just lemme know
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And what gets high... must come down. Something like that.
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imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
LOL fucking pumpkin
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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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