[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.]
[Hector sets Isaac down by the fire and brushes his hair from his forehead, smoothing it back in a careful motion. His eyes go soft, looking Isaac over.]
You tried? Isaac... [His voice catches. It was faith in Hector's words that brought him to this? Hector is responsible for these wounds, as surely as if he'd driven the stakes into the flesh himself.]
I won't ask you to go among them again. I will see to everything we need from them. You'll not come to harm again.
[His hands move from forehead to cheek, thumb just grazing the corner of Isaac's lips.]
If I give you water, can you keep it down? You should try to drink something, if you can.
[For all the maneuvering of his body Hector has done since finding him, it's that gentleness, again, that makes Isaac flinch. He's in no position to pretend he's gone cold to it and that he's managed to kill his own gnawing human need, or to fight the idea that Hector, with every feathering touch, is no better than succubi and incubi, conspiring to leech him of his hard-earned power in his own way. So he weathers it out, quiet for a while, his mind drifting back to the castle where he remembers he'd have been his own help, forcing himself back to his feet before he was ready out of sheer desperation not to miss any chance to prove himself and win the dark lord's favour.
No rest for the wicked, indeed.]
You cannot promise me that.
[It's the answer that squeezes past a sudden knot in his throat, and in it are the shades of betrayal, of devastation made fresh and raw again, as if Hector always had the power to reach into his past and stop everything that had folded in his heart and chose instead to stand back, letting him scream into the void. But when Isaac presses on, his tone is toothless and resigned again.] Nor have I need of it. My blade and my devils... are enough. And when the day comes that I fall... to hell with me I will drag my enemies.
[Hector's hand freezes mid-stroke. Memories of smoke and of a pyre burnt to rubble flood his mind.]
No, I can make no promise...none but to try.
[He withdraws his hand. He has been touching Isaac to reassure himself; he knows not what comfort or discomfort Isaac takes from it. Likely none. He's made it clear to Hector he wants none of Hector's affection.
Unstopping his canteen, he pours a capful of water to offer to Isaac.]
You'll drag no one anywhere tonight. Rest now.
[Tomorrow, Isaac can have the breakfast he wanted, and another round of healing. After that? Hector cannot say.]
[Isaac blinks his eyes open and stares dully at the canteen. They have a feverish sheen, his pupils blown. There's no hiding how thirsty he is when he finally puts his lips to it; weak as he is, he drinks like he hasn't in days, spluttering when his throat lurches with bile he can only barely choke back down. The effort takes what's left of his fight right out of him - and within minutes of lying back and letting his eyes slip shut, his trembling body stills and he drifts off to the hungry crackling of the fire, Crimson coiling itself at his side.
He's standing somewhere, out in an empty, treeless field, but not for long.
Something cracks against the back of his skull and he staggers, gasping, as lights burst behind his eyes. He whirls around just as another blow catches him in the side of the head, his knees going soft. He drops to the ground, feeling the tickly crawl of blood oozing out his nostrils. It tastes real - harsh and salty and metallic as more of it slides down the back of his throat.
By the time he feels a hand clamp around his ankle, he's already being dragged over dirt and rocks and into a waiting crowd. Axes and hoes, shovels and pitchforks. They curse and spit on him and roar in triumph, their snarling faces looming over his, swimming in and out of focus. Only their gazes hold steady, black with hate.
There's something wrong with his body. He thrashes against an impossible heaviness in his arms and legs, his mouth dropping open in a ragged scream that gurgles and dies as someone rocks a jug over him and a clear liquid splashes his face. Holy water, is the thought jumping to the forefront of his mind -- but it's stronger than even the Belmont's blessed tools, closer to boiling oil. His skin prickles, then burns raw, hissing as a bright, vicious pain eats into his lips, the flesh of his cheeks, the lining of his throat. He croaks out a cry into the void, rasping for air. More water is dashed onto him. He twists his head away, staring through tears at his arm - bare and unscarred? - as it bubbles up and melts to expose gleaming tendons and muscles, bloody flesh dripping off the twitching bones of his fingers.
heavenly Father -- a voice floats above the ringing in his ears, above the pain-fog and the laughter pressing in around him -- in your name we, the faithful, have congregated and shall see to the burning of this vile servant of Satan, this beast who would shun Your glory and Your light, lest we fall prey to its temptations...
Roaring, he grasps for the threads binding him to his devils. But when he tugs desperately, the line goes slack. Silence, dead air. The magic that should be there, pulsing inside him like an angry, living thing, is gone and --
Isaac lurches awake in the dark, his heart rocking crazily in his chest as he blinks and blinks, seeing and unseeing. Crimson lifts its head. Lying in a rigid silence, it's a while until he remembers where he is, and longer until he realizes he isn't alone. There's nothing left to the fire but charcoal and ash and rocks, a faint whiff of a smoke. Cold and weary, he sluggishly sits himself up against the cave wall, realizing his hands are shaking. He bunches them into fists, angry. Then goes for his dagger when the restlessness in his bones is more than he can stand. He turns it over and over in his fingers, stopping only to press the point into his palm.]
[Isaac does not speak or cry out to alert Hector, his harsh life seemingly having taught him to suffer always in silence.
Hector meant to keep vigil this night. He sits propped against the cave wall near the entrance, his makeshift club within arm's reach. Without cloak and with the fire dying, he's shivering, but in spite of the discomfort and of his own resolve, he's fallen into a doze.
It's movement that stirs him back into wakefulness. A shift in the labored breathing across the cave, and the quiet struggle to prop himself up. Hector looks out beyond the cave, but neither sees nor senses a threat.
He pushes himself up straighter, and calls out in a whisper,]
Isaac, are you well? Keep still. I'll rekindle the fire.
[His own body is stiff and slow to respond. The chill and the uncomfortable position he's forced himself into are taking their toll. But he needs to move. It's not only himself he has to take care of now, and the weaknesses of his flesh do not excuse him of the responsibilities he has assumed.
Groaning, he flexes his fingers and toes, trying to will away the pins and needles as he crawls to the fire.]
[Isaac doesn't look up from the knife, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he twists it a little harder through leather and into the flesh of his hand.]
...I live yet, don't I?
[He grates out, lowly, feeling his face stiffen under Hector's attention, his scrutiny.]
Go back to sleep.
[It's a demand, because it has to be. Because a plea is out of the question. But he doesn't expect Hector to listen, already smouldering with annoyance.
He thought he had outgrown nightmares; he had lost too many nights already to panic gripping him by the throat and shaking him awake, his head stuck someplace where dreams and memories would blur and he wasn't always sure of what was and wasn't, and if he could ever feel safe again. It's funny, he thinks to himself, how pain always lasts longer than pleasure. If someone cuts another deep enough, one scars over. But as he's seen with Hector, there's no lasting mark for the kindness one may have felt, at some point; nothing to show for the briefest moments of something approaching happiness. Wounds could heal in time, with or with magic, but the body and mind are wired to remember them, to hold onto terrifying lessons that came of them for the rest of one's life.]
Not until I start the fire again. We could both do with the warmth.
[Hector gives the dying coals a prod with a stick, and wonders what has Isaac so waspish. He only offered to rekindle their campfire.
Was it the light? Isaac might have stirred to relieve himself, or to relieve himself in the cover of darkness... only he’s never been shy about doing either in front of Hector.
He breaks the stick and feeds it to the smoldering embers, coaxing life back to them.
Isaac is akin to a feral cat, he reminds himself; bold when he has strength and a means of escape, but dangerous when vulnerable. Hector will do more harm than good, trying to press any closer while he’s wounded.]
If you need privacy, I’ll leave you alone... just as soon as I’m sure you won’t freeze.
[He gives the fire a little more kindling, trying to build it up so that he can step outside with the assurance that Isaac will be safe and warm within.]
[Hector feeds and stokes the fire and Isaac's impatience only swells with it, fingers squeezing around the dagger hilt. However long he needs to wait before the flames burn steady is too long, he decides; it's easier to leave Hector behind, seeking privacy on his own terms rather than having him walk away and being left to mill around, awkwardly expecting Hector's return at any moment. The bracing pre-dawn air would soothe his aching head, if not help to clear it - if he can get to it.]
If a herd of mindless human cattle have not ended me yet... [he rasps through his teeth ] ...then a draft surely will not.
[The wobbliness in his legs when he pushes to his feet begs to differ; he's already a little woozy and breathless from the effort, forehead sheening with a sickly sweat. But his determination is unwavering. He doesn't need coddling, he tells himself, turning and staggering for the cave's mouth, putting an arm out to feel his way along the wall. Crimson stirs and stretches its wings, patiently awaiting a command that never comes.]
[The next bundle of sticks snap in Hector’s hand and scatter into the fire.]
The draft might not finish the job, but a stiff wind looks like it could finish the job. Sit your ass down.
[He forces himself up, though his foot is still asleep and his back muscles protest. He nudges the pile of tender and kindling with his boot.]
If you can’t bear my presence, then you tend the fire and I’ll go. Because I warn you, I’m your match in stubbornness and if you go out, I will as well, and we’ll both be cold and miserable and the wolves will find this cave and ravage all our supplies.
[Isaac stumbles to a stop, bristling - but just as his authority no longer has the weight to bend Hector to his whim, Isaac himself defies what sounds less like a suggestion and more like an order. He won't sit, much less after what it took to stand. But he is compelled to turn himself around, reluctantly, leaning up against the wall. Despite the healing still running its course at an accelerated rate, he can feel a sharp pulling in his chest as his breathing sharpens, deepens.
He shows his teeth.]
Since when have we fused at the hip?
[It's a question he's answered before, his mouth twisting from a scowl to a grim, knowing smile, briefly. But the real question is not when but why, when Isaac has done nothing to reward Hector's persistence or the attention Isaac thought he had always wanted. The attention he had killed for.
He tosses a hand helplessly, letting it slap to his side.]
What is it you want from me? [Frustration leaks into his voice.] ...A pat on the back for your noble efforts to tame the savage beast? My flesh, having claimed yours?
[It’s not something that can be hidden, so Hector owns it, quiet and resolute.]
I want you to be well, Isaac. For all you balk against it, we are bound. Any ill will I bore against you before has been put aside.
[He steps to where he’d laid Isaac by the fire and bends to retrieve his discarded cloak. He tosses the bundle of fabric at Isaac’s shaking form.
He is trying to be patient, trying not to let him temper get the better of him and force them both even further back til they lose every halting step forward they’ve taken together.
He can’t force Isaac to stay without doing more harm, but if he leaves, Isaac might stay or return sooner to their shelter. Hector retrieves a hook and line from the bundle of supplies he traded for earlier today.]
Wander if you must, but while you deny yourself shelter, so shall I.
[If they’re both up and pushing themselves early to their graves anyways, Hector is going to go sit by the pond and see if there’s any night-fishing to be had.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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You tried? Isaac... [His voice catches. It was faith in Hector's words that brought him to this? Hector is responsible for these wounds, as surely as if he'd driven the stakes into the flesh himself.]
I won't ask you to go among them again. I will see to everything we need from them. You'll not come to harm again.
[His hands move from forehead to cheek, thumb just grazing the corner of Isaac's lips.]
If I give you water, can you keep it down? You should try to drink something, if you can.
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No rest for the wicked, indeed.]
You cannot promise me that.
[It's the answer that squeezes past a sudden knot in his throat, and in it are the shades of betrayal, of devastation made fresh and raw again, as if Hector always had the power to reach into his past and stop everything that had folded in his heart and chose instead to stand back, letting him scream into the void. But when Isaac presses on, his tone is toothless and resigned again.] Nor have I need of it. My blade and my devils... are enough. And when the day comes that I fall... to hell with me I will drag my enemies.
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No, I can make no promise...none but to try.
[He withdraws his hand. He has been touching Isaac to reassure himself; he knows not what comfort or discomfort Isaac takes from it. Likely none. He's made it clear to Hector he wants none of Hector's affection.
Unstopping his canteen, he pours a capful of water to offer to Isaac.]
You'll drag no one anywhere tonight. Rest now.
[Tomorrow, Isaac can have the breakfast he wanted, and another round of healing. After that? Hector cannot say.]
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He's standing somewhere, out in an empty, treeless field, but not for long.
Something cracks against the back of his skull and he staggers, gasping, as lights burst behind his eyes. He whirls around just as another blow catches him in the side of the head, his knees going soft. He drops to the ground, feeling the tickly crawl of blood oozing out his nostrils. It tastes real - harsh and salty and metallic as more of it slides down the back of his throat.
By the time he feels a hand clamp around his ankle, he's already being dragged over dirt and rocks and into a waiting crowd. Axes and hoes, shovels and pitchforks. They curse and spit on him and roar in triumph, their snarling faces looming over his, swimming in and out of focus. Only their gazes hold steady, black with hate.
There's something wrong with his body. He thrashes against an impossible heaviness in his arms and legs, his mouth dropping open in a ragged scream that gurgles and dies as someone rocks a jug over him and a clear liquid splashes his face. Holy water, is the thought jumping to the forefront of his mind -- but it's stronger than even the Belmont's blessed tools, closer to boiling oil. His skin prickles, then burns raw, hissing as a bright, vicious pain eats into his lips, the flesh of his cheeks, the lining of his throat. He croaks out a cry into the void, rasping for air. More water is dashed onto him. He twists his head away, staring through tears at his arm - bare and unscarred? - as it bubbles up and melts to expose gleaming tendons and muscles, bloody flesh dripping off the twitching bones of his fingers.
heavenly Father -- a voice floats above the ringing in his ears, above the pain-fog and the laughter pressing in around him -- in your name we, the faithful, have congregated and shall see to the burning of this vile servant of Satan, this beast who would shun Your glory and Your light, lest we fall prey to its temptations...
Roaring, he grasps for the threads binding him to his devils. But when he tugs desperately, the line goes slack. Silence, dead air. The magic that should be there, pulsing inside him like an angry, living thing, is gone and --
Isaac lurches awake in the dark, his heart rocking crazily in his chest as he blinks and blinks, seeing and unseeing. Crimson lifts its head. Lying in a rigid silence, it's a while until he remembers where he is, and longer until he realizes he isn't alone. There's nothing left to the fire but charcoal and ash and rocks, a faint whiff of a smoke. Cold and weary, he sluggishly sits himself up against the cave wall, realizing his hands are shaking. He bunches them into fists, angry. Then goes for his dagger when the restlessness in his bones is more than he can stand. He turns it over and over in his fingers, stopping only to press the point into his palm.]
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Hector meant to keep vigil this night. He sits propped against the cave wall near the entrance, his makeshift club within arm's reach. Without cloak and with the fire dying, he's shivering, but in spite of the discomfort and of his own resolve, he's fallen into a doze.
It's movement that stirs him back into wakefulness. A shift in the labored breathing across the cave, and the quiet struggle to prop himself up. Hector looks out beyond the cave, but neither sees nor senses a threat.
He pushes himself up straighter, and calls out in a whisper,]
Isaac, are you well? Keep still. I'll rekindle the fire.
[His own body is stiff and slow to respond. The chill and the uncomfortable position he's forced himself into are taking their toll. But he needs to move. It's not only himself he has to take care of now, and the weaknesses of his flesh do not excuse him of the responsibilities he has assumed.
Groaning, he flexes his fingers and toes, trying to will away the pins and needles as he crawls to the fire.]
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...I live yet, don't I?
[He grates out, lowly, feeling his face stiffen under Hector's attention, his scrutiny.]
Go back to sleep.
[It's a demand, because it has to be. Because a plea is out of the question. But he doesn't expect Hector to listen, already smouldering with annoyance.
He thought he had outgrown nightmares; he had lost too many nights already to panic gripping him by the throat and shaking him awake, his head stuck someplace where dreams and memories would blur and he wasn't always sure of what was and wasn't, and if he could ever feel safe again. It's funny, he thinks to himself, how pain always lasts longer than pleasure. If someone cuts another deep enough, one scars over. But as he's seen with Hector, there's no lasting mark for the kindness one may have felt, at some point; nothing to show for the briefest moments of something approaching happiness. Wounds could heal in time, with or with magic, but the body and mind are wired to remember them, to hold onto terrifying lessons that came of them for the rest of one's life.]
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[Hector gives the dying coals a prod with a stick, and wonders what has Isaac so waspish. He only offered to rekindle their campfire.
Was it the light? Isaac might have stirred to relieve himself, or to relieve himself in the cover of darkness... only he’s never been shy about doing either in front of Hector.
He breaks the stick and feeds it to the smoldering embers, coaxing life back to them.
Isaac is akin to a feral cat, he reminds himself; bold when he has strength and a means of escape, but dangerous when vulnerable. Hector will do more harm than good, trying to press any closer while he’s wounded.]
If you need privacy, I’ll leave you alone... just as soon as I’m sure you won’t freeze.
[He gives the fire a little more kindling, trying to build it up so that he can step outside with the assurance that Isaac will be safe and warm within.]
guess who is being a stubborn shit
If a herd of mindless human cattle have not ended me yet... [he rasps through his teeth ] ...then a draft surely will not.
[The wobbliness in his legs when he pushes to his feet begs to differ; he's already a little woozy and breathless from the effort, forehead sheening with a sickly sweat. But his determination is unwavering. He doesn't need coddling, he tells himself, turning and staggering for the cave's mouth, putting an arm out to feel his way along the wall. Crimson stirs and stretches its wings, patiently awaiting a command that never comes.]
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The draft might not finish the job, but a stiff wind looks like it could finish the job. Sit your ass down.
[He forces himself up, though his foot is still asleep and his back muscles protest. He nudges the pile of tender and kindling with his boot.]
If you can’t bear my presence, then you tend the fire and I’ll go. Because I warn you, I’m your match in stubbornness and if you go out, I will as well, and we’ll both be cold and miserable and the wolves will find this cave and ravage all our supplies.
[Stubborn idiots don’t get apology bacon.]
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He shows his teeth.]
Since when have we fused at the hip?
[It's a question he's answered before, his mouth twisting from a scowl to a grim, knowing smile, briefly. But the real question is not when but why, when Isaac has done nothing to reward Hector's persistence or the attention Isaac thought he had always wanted. The attention he had killed for.
He tosses a hand helplessly, letting it slap to his side.]
What is it you want from me? [Frustration leaks into his voice.] ...A pat on the back for your noble efforts to tame the savage beast? My flesh, having claimed yours?
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[It’s not something that can be hidden, so Hector owns it, quiet and resolute.]
I want you to be well, Isaac. For all you balk against it, we are bound. Any ill will I bore against you before has been put aside.
[He steps to where he’d laid Isaac by the fire and bends to retrieve his discarded cloak. He tosses the bundle of fabric at Isaac’s shaking form.
He is trying to be patient, trying not to let him temper get the better of him and force them both even further back til they lose every halting step forward they’ve taken together.
He can’t force Isaac to stay without doing more harm, but if he leaves, Isaac might stay or return sooner to their shelter. Hector retrieves a hook and line from the bundle of supplies he traded for earlier today.]
Wander if you must, but while you deny yourself shelter, so shall I.
[If they’re both up and pushing themselves early to their graves anyways, Hector is going to go sit by the pond and see if there’s any night-fishing to be had.]
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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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