[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.]
[Swallowing, he stares at him in silence, unmoving when the cloak lands in a crumpled heap at his feet. He can smell the blood on it.
Well.
There's no such thing for him. He'd never be well and Hector surely knows it; he wouldn't know what to do with happiness if he had it, or even properly recognize it. And if he somehow did, he'd spend every waking moment braced for disaster, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for something to try ripping what little he had from his grasp, if he didn't manage to do it himself by them. Scoffing, he finally stoops to lift his cloak, draping it over his shoulders as he whirls around, pressing forward. His jagged shadow lurches across the cave wall.
He's a lost cause -- or Hector and Julia wouldn't have left him in a castle to die, a voice whispers -- and whatever else he had done to Hector when he pushed into him, whatever misguided emotions and sense of responsibility the experience instilled in him, it'd only be a matter of time before it all fell away and Hector would give up on him.
again]
You are wasting your time. [He warns, stepping away from light and smoke into the night that spreads around him like a thick, dark blanket. No stars. Sighing, he leans up against dirt and rock and lets his sore, heavy-lidded eyes fall shut, pulling in a breath past a twinge of pain in his ribs. Then another, telling himself he doesn't need the fire nearly as soon or as badly as his body thinks it does.
The flesh is weak.
A wind stirs the old, creaking pines, whispering through long grasses. It's cool over his gleaming temples, his neck. He coughs lightly at a tickle in his lungs and settles back, hunching. A faint dusting of something pollen-like has gathered in his hair and eyelashes and the fur draping him, unfelt.]
[Hector watches, rigid but relieved, as Isaac dons his cloak. That much comfort, at least, he will have against the chill.]
My time is my own, to be spent how I will.
[He grumbles, and makes to brush past Isaac and head for the pond when Isaac begins to cough.
Slight though it it, Hector rushes close, visions of internal bleeding and punctured lungs in his mind. He gets a breath of the spores as he clasps Isaac by the shoulders and leans close to study his face for signs of distress in the darkness.]
What...? Isaac, go back inside....this air is foul this night....
[Even as he speaks, he begins to lose focus on his words.]
[Leaves rustle under Hector's boots: he's come out after him, the stubborn bastard. Isaac clenches his jaw, expecting him to linger, to fill the night with talk. But Hector moves past him, marching on ahead -- and then, with sudden urgency, doubles right back before he can begin to feel grateful.
Isaac starts at his touch, stiffening. What he sees when he lifts his head isn't Hector's face - or much of a face at all. His eyes are rolling back into his skull all the way, his skin bulging and rippling, splitting as bloated maggots push through it like wet paper. Wide-eyed, Isaac rears his head back and wrenches himself out of his grip, wincing as he grasps for his dagger. By the time he has dropped into a fighter's crouch, poised to slash at him, Hector is Hector again, staring back at him.
Isaac feels his stomach pitch. He keeps his blade raised, wary. It jitters in his fist.
It doesn't make sense - of all the doppelgangers and shapeshifters that have ever taken Hector's form, none have ever been able to reproduce the aura of Dracula's magic rolling off their bodies. Their bond remains unbroken, every fibre of his being tingling-alert with the certainty that this really is Hector and that nothing has changed. No dark spirits sliding into his body and taking possession of him.]
[Isaac twists out of Hector’s grip, which is not unexpected, but the reach for his dagger is.
Hector staggers back, seeing the dagger morph into a torch to light a pyre. The stench of smoke and burning flesh choke his lungs.
He has no weapon, but he twists the fishing line around his hands in a makeshift garrote.
Something in Isaac’s countenance shifts, or seems to shift in Hector’s drugged eyes, and the torch becomes a bloodied stake torn from a jagged gash in Isaac’s side. Isaac, so cynical and cruel, who had nonetheless tried to trust in humanity again at Hector’s behest.
Hector twists his hands to untangle the rope, disgusted at the idea of strangling the life out of Isaac. The fish hook tears at his skin, and blood dribbled out, a little dark river in the black of the night.]
[Isaac's muscles tighten, rallying all the desperate strength and readiness they have left when Hector seems like he might lunge at him with that silvery fishing line -- and he almost lets out a strangled laugh despite himself, because this was always going to happen. Every road destined to lead to this, to Hector biding his time until he couldn't bear it anymore, couldn't take another minute watching him go unpunished by everyone but himself while the memory of Rosaly continues to eat at him, its claws in too deep in Hector for him to ever escape.
But then a beat passes and then another, the two of them still taking measure of each other, and Hector's stance hasn't shifted. Isaac watches the inky drip of blood down Hector's hand, his gaze hard and searching his face for an explanation and only finding an expression he can't place.
His lips peel back.]
Do it! [He spits the words at him, feeling too vindicated, too angry, to let himself recognize the disappointment weighing heavy in his heart.] Consummate your precious revenge, if you can!
[In the thick brush comes a sudden thrashing, interrupting him. He throws a wild-eyed glance over his shoulder, staring into darkness. Branches snap and rustle away, and in the chaos he hears an angry, rhythmic grunting and someone screaming, a woman's scream splitting the night. He can't see but he knows what he's hearing, knows it to his bones. And it goes on until he grits his teeth and can't stand it, shooting a look to Hector - Hector, the merciful - who isn't reacting to it, as if he's lost his nerve.
Just as Isaac takes a purposeful step towards the sobbing struggle, determined to put an end to human and monster, half his wish is granted. There's a harsh, wet snap of a sound -- and then nothing at all. A deathly silence that's just as piercing as the wailing that came before it.
A hulking shape slowly emerges from the shadows, dragging a limp body behind it by the leg. It stops halfway towards the trees, turning its head Isaac's way -- and when their eyes meet, lock, Isaac feels a jolt run him through, the hairs on the nape of his neck lifting. The echoes of a sharp, white fear from what could've been years ago or only yesterday throbbing in his chest. His body hasn't forgotten; maybe it never would. But while some things may never change, enough has, when Isaac draws himself up against the chill and the weight of his cloak and remembers that he's still here - that he survived on his own, stronger for it - and that he
(can't move, can't get free, screaming past a sob of futile rage locked in his throat)
would put this beast down for good. He points his dagger at the demon. Even from a distance he can feel its breath, burning hot on the back of his neck, somehow. Sick-smelling, heavy with rot. ]
I killed you once before... [Isaac narrows his eyes] ...and my only regret is not making a place for your head on my mantle. But tonight I shall gladly rectify my mistake!
[It turns its body towards him now, bigger than it ever was, even with its wings pulled in. Still missing the middle toe on its left foot, and the part of one ear Isaac had managed to slice off. Its snout wrinkles in something approximating a smile. With a lazy swing of its arm, it hurls the corpse in Isaac's direction. It ragdolls, hitting the ground with a meaty thud before tumbling to a stop at his feet, limbs splayed brokenly. Fingers still twitching. Her long hair is tangled with leaves and twigs and her dress is ripped up the knee, legs scraped and stained with blood. The face - the half that hasn't been crushed to a jawless pulp - is turned to one side, eyes still begging for help.
A look that reaches into Isaac and grabs him by the guts, twisting them inside-out.
He goes weak at the middle. Staggers back a step, his breath coming in short, shallow heavesr.
Julia's body splits and blurs and joins again in his vision. And right there, while the world spins around him and his eyes burn, he can almost feel some part of his mind fracture, crumbling away from the rest.
The demon waits, smiling.
Blood rocks his skull and Isaac goes blind, never hearing the unhinged scream that claws its way out of him as he rushes the monster and slams his dagger up into its laughing throat, jerking it down through sinew and bone and cartilage to the breastbone. It topples, choking, spurting blood, Isaac landing on top of it. He punches the blade deep into its grinning skull, sobs ripping his throat, raw, animal sobbing, as it squeals out and he stabs it over and over again until its forehead collapses and its jellied eyeballs leak down its face like runny egg.
But all that's on Isaac's knife is dirt, clods of it flying from the soft spot in the ground he's driving it into.]
[Hector and Isaac stare at one another, both tense and poised to spring. Isaac goads him on, but Hector's tongue feels too sluggish and dry to croak out a protest.
Then Isaac turns suddenly, leaping toward some unseen threat, and Hector follows. His eyes cannot reconcile what they see.
Isaac, snarling as he tackles...himself. Twin forms claw at one another in the dirt, tearing at identically tattooed flesh. They sneer and curse at one another, and Hector knows deep within his bones that Isaac will kill himself if Hector doesn't intervene.
He dives into the fray, determined to save the other Forgemaster from himself.]
[He's shaky and nauseous, unmoored. Gasping like he's drowning. From somewhere far away, Hector is hurtling towards him. But he never hears it, going boneless when their bodies crash together - knife flying from his hand - and the world tilts sharply in his vision. He drops to the dirt, a fresh surge of adrenaline slamming into him. Blood thunders in his ears and in the hollows of his skull, his nerves spitting fire. There isn't a part of him that doesn't ache, spent by his own ferocity, his own violent, whiplashing movements, but the instinct to fight back is still there - is all he has left. Dizzied, he shoots an arm out for his dagger and snatches it, crying out as he swings at his side, a broad, sloppy arc. Not knowing what he's slashing at or if it's there at all.]
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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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Well.
There's no such thing for him. He'd never be well and Hector surely knows it; he wouldn't know what to do with happiness if he had it, or even properly recognize it. And if he somehow did, he'd spend every waking moment braced for disaster, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for something to try ripping what little he had from his grasp, if he didn't manage to do it himself by them. Scoffing, he finally stoops to lift his cloak, draping it over his shoulders as he whirls around, pressing forward. His jagged shadow lurches across the cave wall.
He's a lost cause -- or Hector and Julia wouldn't have left him in a castle to die, a voice whispers -- and whatever else he had done to Hector when he pushed into him, whatever misguided emotions and sense of responsibility the experience instilled in him, it'd only be a matter of time before it all fell away and Hector would give up on him.
again]
You are wasting your time. [He warns, stepping away from light and smoke into the night that spreads around him like a thick, dark blanket. No stars. Sighing, he leans up against dirt and rock and lets his sore, heavy-lidded eyes fall shut, pulling in a breath past a twinge of pain in his ribs. Then another, telling himself he doesn't need the fire nearly as soon or as badly as his body thinks it does.
The flesh is weak.
A wind stirs the old, creaking pines, whispering through long grasses. It's cool over his gleaming temples, his neck. He coughs lightly at a tickle in his lungs and settles back, hunching. A faint dusting of something pollen-like has gathered in his hair and eyelashes and the fur draping him, unfelt.]
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My time is my own, to be spent how I will.
[He grumbles, and makes to brush past Isaac and head for the pond when Isaac begins to cough.
Slight though it it, Hector rushes close, visions of internal bleeding and punctured lungs in his mind. He gets a breath of the spores as he clasps Isaac by the shoulders and leans close to study his face for signs of distress in the darkness.]
What...? Isaac, go back inside....this air is foul this night....
[Even as he speaks, he begins to lose focus on his words.]
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Isaac starts at his touch, stiffening. What he sees when he lifts his head isn't Hector's face - or much of a face at all. His eyes are rolling back into his skull all the way, his skin bulging and rippling, splitting as bloated maggots push through it like wet paper. Wide-eyed, Isaac rears his head back and wrenches himself out of his grip, wincing as he grasps for his dagger. By the time he has dropped into a fighter's crouch, poised to slash at him, Hector is Hector again, staring back at him.
Isaac feels his stomach pitch. He keeps his blade raised, wary. It jitters in his fist.
It doesn't make sense - of all the doppelgangers and shapeshifters that have ever taken Hector's form, none have ever been able to reproduce the aura of Dracula's magic rolling off their bodies. Their bond remains unbroken, every fibre of his being tingling-alert with the certainty that this really is Hector and that nothing has changed. No dark spirits sliding into his body and taking possession of him.]
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Hector staggers back, seeing the dagger morph into a torch to light a pyre. The stench of smoke and burning flesh choke his lungs.
He has no weapon, but he twists the fishing line around his hands in a makeshift garrote.
Something in Isaac’s countenance shifts, or seems to shift in Hector’s drugged eyes, and the torch becomes a bloodied stake torn from a jagged gash in Isaac’s side. Isaac, so cynical and cruel, who had nonetheless tried to trust in humanity again at Hector’s behest.
Hector twists his hands to untangle the rope, disgusted at the idea of strangling the life out of Isaac. The fish hook tears at his skin, and blood dribbled out, a little dark river in the black of the night.]
full blown lost it
But then a beat passes and then another, the two of them still taking measure of each other, and Hector's stance hasn't shifted. Isaac watches the inky drip of blood down Hector's hand, his gaze hard and searching his face for an explanation and only finding an expression he can't place.
His lips peel back.]
Do it! [He spits the words at him, feeling too vindicated, too angry, to let himself recognize the disappointment weighing heavy in his heart.] Consummate your precious revenge, if you can!
[In the thick brush comes a sudden thrashing, interrupting him. He throws a wild-eyed glance over his shoulder, staring into darkness. Branches snap and rustle away, and in the chaos he hears an angry, rhythmic grunting and someone screaming, a woman's scream splitting the night. He can't see but he knows what he's hearing, knows it to his bones. And it goes on until he grits his teeth and can't stand it, shooting a look to Hector - Hector, the merciful - who isn't reacting to it, as if he's lost his nerve.
Just as Isaac takes a purposeful step towards the sobbing struggle, determined to put an end to human and monster, half his wish is granted. There's a harsh, wet snap of a sound -- and then nothing at all. A deathly silence that's just as piercing as the wailing that came before it.
A hulking shape slowly emerges from the shadows, dragging a limp body behind it by the leg. It stops halfway towards the trees, turning its head Isaac's way -- and when their eyes meet, lock, Isaac feels a jolt run him through, the hairs on the nape of his neck lifting. The echoes of a sharp, white fear from what could've been years ago or only yesterday throbbing in his chest. His body hasn't forgotten; maybe it never would. But while some things may never change, enough has, when Isaac draws himself up against the chill and the weight of his cloak and remembers that he's still here - that he survived on his own, stronger for it - and that he
(can't move, can't get free, screaming past a sob of futile rage locked in his throat)
would put this beast down for good. He points his dagger at the demon. Even from a distance he can feel its breath, burning hot on the back of his neck, somehow. Sick-smelling, heavy with rot. ]
I killed you once before... [Isaac narrows his eyes] ...and my only regret is not making a place for your head on my mantle. But tonight I shall gladly rectify my mistake!
[It turns its body towards him now, bigger than it ever was, even with its wings pulled in. Still missing the middle toe on its left foot, and the part of one ear Isaac had managed to slice off. Its snout wrinkles in something approximating a smile. With a lazy swing of its arm, it hurls the corpse in Isaac's direction. It ragdolls, hitting the ground with a meaty thud before tumbling to a stop at his feet, limbs splayed brokenly. Fingers still twitching. Her long hair is tangled with leaves and twigs and her dress is ripped up the knee, legs scraped and stained with blood. The face - the half that hasn't been crushed to a jawless pulp - is turned to one side, eyes still begging for help.
A look that reaches into Isaac and grabs him by the guts, twisting them inside-out.
He goes weak at the middle. Staggers back a step, his breath coming in short, shallow heavesr.
Julia's body splits and blurs and joins again in his vision. And right there, while the world spins around him and his eyes burn, he can almost feel some part of his mind fracture, crumbling away from the rest.
The demon waits, smiling.
Blood rocks his skull and Isaac goes blind, never hearing the unhinged scream that claws its way out of him as he rushes the monster and slams his dagger up into its laughing throat, jerking it down through sinew and bone and cartilage to the breastbone. It topples, choking, spurting blood, Isaac landing on top of it. He punches the blade deep into its grinning skull, sobs ripping his throat, raw, animal sobbing, as it squeals out and he stabs it over and over again until its forehead collapses and its jellied eyeballs leak down its face like runny egg.
But all that's on Isaac's knife is dirt, clods of it flying from the soft spot in the ground he's driving it into.]
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Then Isaac turns suddenly, leaping toward some unseen threat, and Hector follows. His eyes cannot reconcile what they see.
Isaac, snarling as he tackles...himself. Twin forms claw at one another in the dirt, tearing at identically tattooed flesh. They sneer and curse at one another, and Hector knows deep within his bones that Isaac will kill himself if Hector doesn't intervene.
He dives into the fray, determined to save the other Forgemaster from himself.]
Isaac, stop this!
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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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