I. Don’t. Know. [Frustration and exhaustion sharpen his clipped words.]
We’ll lead them away from here. Until that’s done, nothing that comes after matters.
[Hector isn’t a planner, isn’t a leader. He doesn’t know what to do other than to react to the threat before them. What he wants is to curl up on the cold stone beside Isaac and bury his head in the crook of Isaac’s neck, to let the heat of his skin and the beat of his pulse lull him while his body rests.
He is pretty sure Isaac would put his dagger through Hector’s heart before he’d allow that.]
...I don’t know where I am headed after. We’d be stronger together, not that you’d care, but once we’re clear of the mountain and sure the hunters have been drawn away, you can be rid of me.
[He assumes that is what Isaac wants, now that he’s conquered the bit of Hector he’d wanted.]
[A muted, humourless chuckle.] Well, I had imagined you would best know, familiar as you are with running away.
[Luring enemies to their deaths is the sort of end he'd hope for for these humans; not letting them be, each one of them an untied loose end. He tugs his cloak tighter around his shoulder and hunches against the cold, sparking a small ball of flame from his palm. He turns his hand, idly rolling it between his fingers and over his knuckles as if it's a marble, longing for the heat and comfort of a proper fire, smoke be damned.]
Together, that many more of them could be slain. [And their bodies infused with new life, made to fight or sent off in different directions, leading others astray.] And with every corpse, one less threat to darken Julia's doorstep.
[He snaps a first over the fire, snuffing it out, and looks up to Hector again, his pale eyes gleaming.]
Abel shall keep watch. [It has three more eyes than either of them do, and they're better suited to sensing movement, more so in the dark.] If they are near enough, he will see them... and you shall sense their presence as well.
[Isaac is worse than any thorn bush Hector’s had to pick his way through. He digs in barbs and tears at any flesh that catches. More fool Hector for trying to get close.]
Self defense is one thing, but once they are away from Julia, there’s no need....
[The men chasing them aren’t evil, or if they are, it is independent of their pursuit. They are just men, trying to protect their families and make the world safer.
If it comes down to it, Hector will kill to protect his own, but he won’t seek out the battle. Julia wouldn’t want them dead, just gone.]
Just be ready to move when the sun rises. We may end up with no choice but to fight.
[He takes a seat, more than an arm’s length from Isaac on the cold stone. He’s not that masochistic to come any closer, even if they are the only sources of heat available to the other.
He pulls out his canteen, newly filled from one of the chilly mountain streams, and offers it across the distance between them.]
Drink. You lost blood earlier, and you need to stay hydrated.
[The flintiness of Isaac's gaze says there never was a choice, not from the moment they were othered, driven to desperation to look to a demon-infested castle for refuge and freedom. But he doesn't snap at him; just watches as Hector moves and then settles in front of him and they sit in the cold, lonely damp like creatures who've never seen the light of day, taking measure of each other and waiting for something neither of them seem to be sure of.
Hector's eyes are still, black pools. Isaac sees nothing he can recognize in them - it's too dark. But he keeps looking, unblinking, as he breathes in the musk that sticks to Hector's clothes, what's left of their sweat and their come from a time that seems like it never existed, and feels his cock twitch, his bare skin tingling.
He looks down at the offered canteen, hesitating. This isn't concern, he reasons; it's simply the pragmatic thing to do. Hector wants him fit to travel, not a burden - and in that, at least, they can agree.
Wordlessly, he lifts it to his lips. The first sip he reserves for rinsing out his mouth, having the decency to turn his head when he spits. Then, a proper swallow, long and greedy, and god, it takes like gold, soothing his burning throat. He lets himself have another before passing it back, knuckling his chin dry.]
I am almost impressed you could walk as far as you have without the aid of your precious fairy. [He says, lowly.]
[That honest shock in Hector's voice - the sense that he's unbalanced him, even slightly - prompts a shift in his black mood and he offers a slow, crooked smile, a glint of teeth.]
Perhaps 'twas wrong of me to think you a sweet, tender flower, a trembling virgin on the nuptial bed. ...But I did have you prepared, out of the kindness of my heart. [Letting out a loose, throaty chuckle at his own choice of words.] And your cunt was most willing to receive.
[He hums low in his throat, a sound both contemplative and appreciative, as he lets his eyes slip shut, wanting to hold onto the sense-memory of skin rasping skin and his hot, gritty tightness; the taste of forbidden fruit. The back of his neck prickles and his fingers itch, restless for something to do.]
...Was I your first?
[He asks after a while, slanting him a sideways, half-lidded look. The first to push inside, is what he means.]
[Hector looks everywhere but at Isaac, who scents his discomfort like a shark drawn to blood, damn him. A trembling virgin? He'd been married, for hell's sake!]
Your demon was.
[If Isaac wants to know the first one to breach him there, it's the truth.]
I know it means nothing to you, but...I don't spread my legs for anyone who asks.
['So stop trying to get yourself killed?' 'Let us work together?' 'Shut up and lay beside me so we can stop freezing to death in this damned cave?' He doesn't know how to end the thought, so he stops there and just lays down, turning his back to Isaac. There, conversation over....right? They both need to rest before the sun rises.]
[Bitter triumph swells inside him, a feeling almost too big for his chest. It's something, having beaten out men and monsters for Hector's flesh - the best part, many would say. Even if he wasn't the first to burn his fingertips into his skin, or the first to kiss him and to know his taste. He'd take his victories where they came.]
How fortunate for you, then.
[He says to Hector's back, choosing not to interpret his body language in the way he suspects it's meant to be taken. Hector can escape the strain of sustained eye contact, but the conversation isn't over, only temporarily put on hold while he considers the gentle curve of Hector's spine, the rise and fall of his side. Considers the faith Hector still has in their truce and his own ability to honour it.]
You would not have been able to keep a secret of it, if you did.
[Or it doesn't seem possible anyway, as far as life in the castle was concerned. Demons talked, the walls had ears.
And Isaac had been listening closely, sifting through rumours and lies for what he hoped - and at times, dreaded - was true.]
[Most of the creatures in the castle would have been inclined to eat Hector during or after sex, so he’d wisely kept to himself.
It’s only after Rosaly that he craves the warmth of skin pressed against his, to stave off the loneliness he’d never let himself acknowledge when he’d been at the castle.]
You’re worse than a gossiping old maid. Go to sleep.
[He’d certainly heard the whispers of what Isaac did to his demons at the castle, and he’s pointedly trying to not think of it. The harder he tries to ignore it, the more pervasive the thoughts become. His body remembers the shuddering pleasure of Abel’s tongue, the overpowering sensation of surrendering to Isaac and letting himself be thoroughly used.
His whole body is tense and cold and frustrated, and the relief of sleep refuses to come to him.]
[It will seem, for a while, that he's willing to think about closing his eyes too; Hector is reluctant to engage and the night isn't getting any younger. He tires of watching him and eases himself down over the rocks that jut from the floor like broken teeth. There's no way to settle without them digging into his ribs - and from the line of Hector's back, resembling a drawn, quivering bowstring, it's not hard to tell that the discomfort is mutual.]
...I am, am I?
[He doesn't care if Hector answers him this time, much in the same way he stops caring altogether when he shifts over and tucks himself into Hector, seeking heat and the familiarity of his angles and edges, seeking Hector's softness where he's just beginning to harden. An arm snakes around his waist, dipping to palm Hector through the leather of his pants and squeeze. It's meant to hurt - not fiercely, but enough for the hitch in his lungs he hopes to hear, and for Hector to listen, when his hot, feathering breath finds the shell of his ear.]
...Had anyone had you in that castle, of or against your will, I'd have killed them.
[The effect of his velvety growl may be spoiled somewhat by his shivering into Hector's back.]
[Hector's hip and shoulder are starting to go numb where they rest against the cold stone, and as exhausted as he is, he can't sleep.
Isaac's body heat feels scalding against his back as he closes in. The comfort is offered and immediately shattered by Isaac's hand grasping his member. He does gasp, squirming back into the hard curve of Isaac's body in an instinctive defense. He can't escape the hold.]
...this isn't a good idea...
[It's a weak protest at best. The proximity and the painful fisting of his cock has Hector's heart racing. He's been hollowed out in the wake of Rosaly's death. Isaac's possession is a warped imitation of affection, but to a starving man, even scraps will do.
He wraps his hand over Isaac's, but he doesn't force Isaac to let him go. Would Isaac have actually avenged him, had he been forced against his will? Was it the bond of their twinned powers, or a misplaced sense of ownership?
Does it matter, or is Hector broken enough and sick enough not to care? He presses himself harder into Isaac's chest. Isaac is a heat that is guaranteed to burn him, but the alternative is freezing.]
[Of or against Hector's will - the words turn over and over in his mind and he considers which would've been the worse way of losing Hector. But it's all a moot point, because he already lost him years ago, to that woman, of all creatures. A human who was everything he wasn't.
He feels Hector lock up against him and his hand closing around his, the urgency in it. But can't feel him the way he wants to, the touch of his skin through leather and fabric.]
...You brought this on yourself.
[But even as he says it, he's easing his grip and letting go, little by little, because the answer to the question unasked is both. There's something inside him still, some good that managed to survive this long by staying hidden, always struggling with the cold indifference of the world and his own desperate, selfish desires. He nuzzles the crook of Hector's neck and breathes him in, head swimming with the spice of his skin, with every bad idea he's ever had. But of all the many ways he's destroyed Hector and will keep hurting him, his hands as skilled in creation as they are at ruining everything they touch, the thought of shoving Hector over and pushing him into him, unwanted, must stay a thought, even if he isn't entirely sure why.
He's less sure of why it matters, whether or not Hector will think differently of him for his restraint.]
Should man lie with man as with a woman, they have committed an abomination... [he drawls, eyes closing] ...They must surely be put to death and their blood shall be upon them.
[His hand lingers where he and Hector left it, but it has gone soft, no meanness to it.]
'twas among the first passages I ever learned to read.
[Isaac's touches turn gentler, incongruous with his words. His lips touch fire to the chilled skin of Hector's neck, and he tilts his head to bare more skin to him.]
You're blameless, I'm sure.
[It's a terrible time for this, a terrible place. There are hunters on the mountain, ready to spill their blood. But within the safety of this cave, that danger is removed, remote. Abel keeps watch, and that leaves the two forgemasters free to make poor decisions.
Isaac's words steal the breath from Hector. He too was taught from the cradle that God's wrath would be upon him, the cursed child of the night. For Hector, it was because of the creatures that flocked to him. For Isaac, they must have ascribed a different source of otherness. He aches, recalling the taunts and the beatings he endured, and wondering if it had been the same for his rival.
He shifts in Isaac's arms, turning to face him.]
It doesn't have to be like that. Fire and brimstone, blood and suffering...it's not the first lie the church has told.
[He presses his lips to Isaac's, trying to imbue in his touch the ways this act between men could be tender, loving, if only they'd allow it to be.]
[He lets Hector roll over, surprised he wants to, and more surprised by the quiet hope in his words; words that seem unmeant for him, even if they're only his to hear. I was rather looking forward to the heat, he wants to say; a throwaway answer, any easy one that only skims the surface of who he is and what he believes. But somewhere along the way, it lumps like a stone in his throat, aching with the way Hector is looking at him. Isaac can only look back, lost, searching for the Hector he knows best in those eyes and the shape of his face and wondering where he's gone, and who this man is, pressing a kiss to his mouth, with Hector's lips.
He tenses. His jaw doesn't soften into it, but he doesn't push back either.
It's a slow thing, so gentle it shouldn't be happening at all. A whole other world of touch from teeth and nails, pushing and pulling. But of everything he's ever felt, it's this that hurts most, because it doesn't make sense; because he's done nothing to deserve it. And no one ever told him it could be so sweet.
On a different night, he might've scoffed. Could've laughed in Hector's face, the easiest thing to do. But something in this kindness keeps pulling at him, willing him to stay, to soak up everything Hector can offer, like a dying plant, and he feels sick. There isn't anyone like Hector - there never was and never would be. And god help them both, Hector's either teasing him or, worse, has no idea what he's doing, falling for the idea of making a human connection, or missing love so badly he'll settle for anything, anyone.
Isaac pulls away suddenly, his eyes wide and silvery, darkening as he sits up. His chest heaves. He needs air, needs out. He needs the edge of his knife slicing another scar-to-be into himself to feel right again, or the closest thing to it. But reaching for it means turning and showing his face, and he can't do it, not when it's twisting against his every effort, his breath rattling in his throat. It's his turn to show his back, his effort to end a conversation before it can even happen.]
[Isaac shrinks away from Hector’s tenderness, as Hector should have predicted he would. It’s a known behavior, though Hector doesn’t understand the complexity of the reasoning behind it.]
I could show you how it could be. [He says into Isaac’s ear, an offer likely doomed for failure.
Isaac's retreat hurts, even though Hector should have known better than to make such an advance.
The closeness, the warmth, Hector refuses to surrender. That, at least, they can grant one another. As Isaac had done a moment before, Hector twines his arms around his body and fits them together, front to back. His hand finds a more innocent purchase than Isaac’s had, settling on the hard plane of Isaac’s chest, feeling for the beat of his heart.]
Taking his eyes off Hector, turning his back. Doomed by a split second's carelessness.
He should've left Hector to sleep, should've made his own mind and left before dawn, alone. But life is full of missteps and mistakes, some more dangerous than others. Should've been stronger, fought harder.
Should've known better.
Despite how careful Hector's movements are - and maybe because they are, too, his mind given more time to tailspin over all the terrible possibilities he can think of - he feels himself flinch and go numb, paralyzed in the way he hasn't experienced since he was still a boy. It's the closest he's let anyone approach him from behind in just as long; the ones he let was because he had to, when he still occupied the lowest rungs of the castle hierarchy and he learned there was safety in keeping his head down and swallowing his rage, his pride, than in rising to a challenge he couldn't hope to beat. The only reason he thinks he hasn't driven his elbow back and into Hector, struggling away from him, is because he still can't, trapped by his own body. But it's more complicated than that. His muscles twitch with everything they can't unlearn, his heartbeat racing under Hector's hand. Would that Hector could reach inside him and tear it out, not to keep for himself but to get rid of it for good.]
Don't. [Is all he can get out through his teeth, and his voice sounds thick and shaky and wrong. Almost unrecognizable but for the anger in it. ]
[Hector loosens his embrace a little, but doesn’t release Isaac. He’s too cold and tired and Isaac’s body is the closest he’ll get to a blanket tonight.]
Shhhh. [He soothes, the way he used to do for wild animals whose wounds he wanted to draw near to heal. No more kisses, that’s fine. He won’t press further. It was a long shot anyways.]
We’re just sleeping. You can hold me if you’d rather, but neither of us need to freeze this night.
[He doesn’t have the energy to fight any more than that, and he shifts against Isaac as gently as he can, trying to find the least uncomfortable position to doze. If Isaac breaks away from him, they will both be enduring a miserable few hours until they leave the cave
In the morning, Hector will puzzle over Isaac, can make a plan to slowly acclimate him to kindness... but tonight, both his body and mind have reached their limits.]
[Isaac hisses, still so wired and helpless but to wait for the shock to ease off, wait for the moment the past lets go and he can breathe, really breathe, again.
Through the half-panic whirling through him, he does realize that Hector hasn't really moved, his hand at rest, making no demands of him. Hector never was a conqueror. But what Hector is in this moment, curved into his trembling back, quiet and warm and shushing him, is beyond him. The part of Isaac that isn't caught between bristling and wanting to jump out of his own skin would laugh a sick, sad laugh. If only he could.
Come morning, when the harsh light of day would touch down and lay their choices bare, he's sure Hector will remember Rosaly and his betrayal in fraternizing with the enemy, and in silence they'd work to forget that Hector ever dared to lay a kiss on his lips and make him feel like there was one thing still right with the world, at least for a little while.
They're both mistakes, and history would suggest that two wrongs never make a right.
But for now, for now, they're just sleeping.
And eventually, broken and folding under the strain of being on edge for so long, Isaac fades, fades, his body finally softening into Hector's chest.]
[Hector wakes, one arm asleep and every piece of him protesting a night spent on rocks, to the buzzing of the fairy's wings near his ear. The little creature points mutely at the entrance of the cave, now filling with light. 'Time to be up.'
Isaac's hair tickles against his nose, and Hector takes a moment to inhale, not wanting to begin the process of extracting himself and standing just yet. He shifts his head and his lips brush against Isaac's scalp, a press that is not quite a kiss. His fingers trail across his chest as he withdraws from the embrace, one final soft touch before the harshness that will inevitably follow when Issac awakens.
Hector rolls onto his back, groans softly, then starts to push himself up. His fairy summons up a wisp of magic to ease his aching muscles. He nods in Isaac's direction, a silent order to grant Isaac the same boon.
Being allowed those soft, stolen touches reminds Hector of his time with Rosaly. He won't turn her memory into hate. She was always the kind of person who was almost unreasonably good. She would want forgiveness, redemption for anyone, even one who had harmed her.
Hector has run his fingers across the jagged, broken pieces of Isaac, and he's not sure they are mendable. He's going to cut himself to ribbons if he tries. He's going to try. That, not the curse-driven desire to kill her killer, is what Rosaly would want of him.]
Are you awake? [He whispers. Outside of the cave, he thinks he hears movement, though it's hard to pinpoint. It is time to be up and away from this place.]
[It's not unlike him to sleep in snatches and last night was no different, shivering to half-consciousness, hazily puzzling over the heat prickling his back and deciding it's Abel before dropping off again. But only approaching dawn - something that troubles him, when he's properly awake - does a niggling sense of off-ness reach him deep enough to shake him out of whatever false sense of safety and comfort that Hector, of all people, lulled him into. He knows Abel, and flowing through its body isn't a warm breath or a single drop of blood, but the cold magic of the devil's art.
Isaac's body gives a little jerk when he wakes, staring at the same wall he fell asleep to. It's a lighter shade of gray now, like Abel's scuted hide; outside, day is breaking, but it seems neither of them are in any great hurry. He lies very still under the tingling touch to the back of his head, lies like he used to, breath bitten back and a dagger in his hand, only feigning sleep - to the shifting of fabric and flesh, his skin prickling. Hector doesn't touch him again. Instead, he feels magic wash over him, cool and calming, a leeching of pain from his muscles. The tension knotting them, however, is there to stay.
To Hector, he says nothing. But he climbs to his feet with hollow-eyed determination, not looking his way, and in a single movement answers several questions. It takes a moment for the dizziness to pass from swinging up off the ground, though when his vision steadies and the fog in his head thins, the only thing that feels real, that assures him he isn't sleeping still, is the brisk morning chill and the heaviness in his bladder. When he pisses off to the side, he neither turns away nor makes a show of it, finishing with a shake and tucking himself away before he moves to gather his weapons. He glances to the cave entrance where Hector and his fairy happen to be waiting. He'll meet his gaze sternly, with shoulders squared, fingers squeezing and unsqueezing around the hilt of his sword.
Abel rejoins him.]
Do you sense them near? [He'll duck out, squinting, into the pale, silvery light before waiting too long for an answer, meaning to get a read on their immediate surroundings himself.]
[There's a tension hanging heavy over the cave. Hector nods as Isaac joins him at the cave's entrance. He has his makeshift mace in hand.]
They're getting closer. We should go now if we want to stay ahead of them.
[He still hopes, naively, to lead them away and part without any more bloodshed. If not for Julia's presence on the mountain, he would swear that he would do them no harm; since her safety is on the line, though, he will do whatever is necessary.
Isaac is already moving, never one to slow himself down for anyone else's sake. All Hector can do is follow, keeping low and watching his step to make sure he doesn't make any noise to alert the approaching hunters.]
[They're easily drawn to Abel as it zags overhead, moths to the flame, and this time it's Isaac who strikes first, like an angry god. Shots go wide, axes slicing air - the humans struggle to keep up, disoriented. Less hunters, now, so much as men in the wrong place at the wrong moment.
It's like old times, cutting bloody swathes through the enemy with Hector at his side -- and if there's anything of Hector he feels he can trust, it's his ability to hold his own. Isaac spares only a quick glance his way until the last man has fallen - an amateur sorcerer who can't outrun his dagger - and the world around them is still again. Sunlight is just slanting through a bank of clouds, trees stirring softly. Life goes on without missing a beat, just like it always does. And the cycle of blood for blood goes unbroken.
Huffing, Isaac shoves his heel down over the corpse and bends to jerk his red, dripping knife from its back, giving it a shake before sheathing it at his boot. He finds a cross glinting in the grass on the way back and sneers at its uselessness. Not the first time the Good Lord had failed the faithful - and far from the last, he muses.]
...'twas child's play.
[Sweat gleams at his forehead and the hollow of his throat, but he looks galvanized, hard from the rush of blood and magic and restless for a challenge.]
[The hunters spot Abel, and from that moment on, any choice of quitting this place in peace is lost. Hector has the training of a warrior, and in the midst of battle, he's able to put aside feeling and focus on survival.
When the fight is won, however, and he's left holding a mace bloodied with the pulp from inside of an unfortunate hunter's cracked skull, everything comes rushing back. There is no elation like there was in fighting Isaac. He struggles to keep from vomiting.
The makeshift weapon drops from his hand and he doesn't pick it up. He takes a shaky step toward Isaac. Wild, feral, victorious Isaac, who is taunting the fallen men with no concern for the lives that had been ended.]
They didn't hurt you? [The only way through this is to compartmentalize. Focus on his ally, and leave thoughts of the enemies until he can process them. Hector can make sure Isaac is unharmed. He can do nothing more to or for the men on the ground before them.]
We should keep moving. [The sick scent of blood and death, which he'd been so accustomed to in the past, is striking him anew and turning his stomach. 'Julia is safe. Isaac is safe. We did what we had to to make that so.' If he keeps telling himself that, he can force himself to keep going, and forcibly turn his thoughts away from whether these men had familes.]
[One man's idea of slaughter is another man's entertainment, his justice. Killing can't quiet the past or give him back the life he never had in the first place - and he knows this whenever the thrill dies off, always too soon, and he goes cold again. But raising his weapon means he isn't running or forced to hide like he used to; he isn't the helpless little boy he was once, nearly dying to men just like these hunters. Humans who could look at a pathetic wreck sobbing for mercy, and see only a liar, a creature, a threat to their own. He can't forgive, and he can't forget.
So he kills, and he laughs.
Whether Julia had ever understood that, he doesn't know, and tries not to care. She could do anything she wanted to try and change Wallachia, to heal everything that was wrong with it, he thinks, but she could never change him.
His smirk falters at Hector's unsteady approach, his empty hand. Something stirs inside him, closer to wariness than worry, and he doesn't like it. Hector doesn't seem wounded, but in the same way Hector is wondering about the blood streaking his furred cloak and scant armour plating, he can't be sure. He narrows his eyes, his gaze seeking the fairy before snapping back to Hector's face.]
Then arm yourself. [He says, more a command than anything else.]
[Isaac's barked order has Hector turning away from Isaac in instinctual compliance. Isaac isn't hurt. Those men -he can't even call them hunters anymore- had had no hope of defeating him without the element of surprise and a godly amount of luck. They'd been doomed from the start.
He sees the weapon, and leaves it where it fell. He's broken every resolution he's made in his life, and he may be destined to break this too, but he can't pick up a weapon he knows he'll have to turn against his fellow men again. Demons and creatures, he will fight without question, but this murder, this slaughter...he can't repeat.
The world isn't kind enough to suffer a pacifist to live, and he knows that he'll be forced to kill again one day to defend himself. But right now, today, he can't force himself to take his bloodied mace back up.]
...I don't sense anyone else around. If we go now, we won't have need of it.
[He starts walking out of the corpse-filled copse without waiting for Isaac's answer or his scorn.]
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no subject
We’ll lead them away from here. Until that’s done, nothing that comes after matters.
[Hector isn’t a planner, isn’t a leader. He doesn’t know what to do other than to react to the threat before them. What he wants is to curl up on the cold stone beside Isaac and bury his head in the crook of Isaac’s neck, to let the heat of his skin and the beat of his pulse lull him while his body rests.
He is pretty sure Isaac would put his dagger through Hector’s heart before he’d allow that.]
...I don’t know where I am headed after. We’d be stronger together, not that you’d care, but once we’re clear of the mountain and sure the hunters have been drawn away, you can be rid of me.
[He assumes that is what Isaac wants, now that he’s conquered the bit of Hector he’d wanted.]
no subject
[Luring enemies to their deaths is the sort of end he'd hope for for these humans; not letting them be, each one of them an untied loose end. He tugs his cloak tighter around his shoulder and hunches against the cold, sparking a small ball of flame from his palm. He turns his hand, idly rolling it between his fingers and over his knuckles as if it's a marble, longing for the heat and comfort of a proper fire, smoke be damned.]
Together, that many more of them could be slain. [And their bodies infused with new life, made to fight or sent off in different directions, leading others astray.] And with every corpse, one less threat to darken Julia's doorstep.
[He snaps a first over the fire, snuffing it out, and looks up to Hector again, his pale eyes gleaming.]
Abel shall keep watch. [It has three more eyes than either of them do, and they're better suited to sensing movement, more so in the dark.] If they are near enough, he will see them... and you shall sense their presence as well.
no subject
Self defense is one thing, but once they are away from Julia, there’s no need....
[The men chasing them aren’t evil, or if they are, it is independent of their pursuit. They are just men, trying to protect their families and make the world safer.
If it comes down to it, Hector will kill to protect his own, but he won’t seek out the battle. Julia wouldn’t want them dead, just gone.]
Just be ready to move when the sun rises. We may end up with no choice but to fight.
[He takes a seat, more than an arm’s length from Isaac on the cold stone. He’s not that masochistic to come any closer, even if they are the only sources of heat available to the other.
He pulls out his canteen, newly filled from one of the chilly mountain streams, and offers it across the distance between them.]
Drink. You lost blood earlier, and you need to stay hydrated.
no subject
Hector's eyes are still, black pools. Isaac sees nothing he can recognize in them - it's too dark. But he keeps looking, unblinking, as he breathes in the musk that sticks to Hector's clothes, what's left of their sweat and their come from a time that seems like it never existed, and feels his cock twitch, his bare skin tingling.
He looks down at the offered canteen, hesitating. This isn't concern, he reasons; it's simply the pragmatic thing to do. Hector wants him fit to travel, not a burden - and in that, at least, they can agree.
Wordlessly, he lifts it to his lips. The first sip he reserves for rinsing out his mouth, having the decency to turn his head when he spits. Then, a proper swallow, long and greedy, and god, it takes like gold, soothing his burning throat. He lets himself have another before passing it back, knuckling his chin dry.]
I am almost impressed you could walk as far as you have without the aid of your precious fairy. [He says, lowly.]
no subject
And then Isaac opens his mouth. It takes Hector a second for the meaning of the words to register, and his eyes go wide in shock.]
Wha...?! You vastly overestimate your performance or your size, Isaac.
[It's lucky the darkness and Hector's tan complexion hide any signs of a flush on his face. He takes the canteen back, but doesn't drink.]
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Perhaps 'twas wrong of me to think you a sweet, tender flower, a trembling virgin on the nuptial bed. ...But I did have you prepared, out of the kindness of my heart. [Letting out a loose, throaty chuckle at his own choice of words.] And your cunt was most willing to receive.
[He hums low in his throat, a sound both contemplative and appreciative, as he lets his eyes slip shut, wanting to hold onto the sense-memory of skin rasping skin and his hot, gritty tightness; the taste of forbidden fruit. The back of his neck prickles and his fingers itch, restless for something to do.]
...Was I your first?
[He asks after a while, slanting him a sideways, half-lidded look. The first to push inside, is what he means.]
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Your demon was.
[If Isaac wants to know the first one to breach him there, it's the truth.]
I know it means nothing to you, but...I don't spread my legs for anyone who asks.
['So stop trying to get yourself killed?' 'Let us work together?' 'Shut up and lay beside me so we can stop freezing to death in this damned cave?' He doesn't know how to end the thought, so he stops there and just lays down, turning his back to Isaac. There, conversation over....right? They both need to rest before the sun rises.]
don't worry, hec, you'll feel some heat soon
How fortunate for you, then.
[He says to Hector's back, choosing not to interpret his body language in the way he suspects it's meant to be taken. Hector can escape the strain of sustained eye contact, but the conversation isn't over, only temporarily put on hold while he considers the gentle curve of Hector's spine, the rise and fall of his side. Considers the faith Hector still has in their truce and his own ability to honour it.]
You would not have been able to keep a secret of it, if you did.
[Or it doesn't seem possible anyway, as far as life in the castle was concerned. Demons talked, the walls had ears.
And Isaac had been listening closely, sifting through rumours and lies for what he hoped - and at times, dreaded - was true.]
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It’s only after Rosaly that he craves the warmth of skin pressed against his, to stave off the loneliness he’d never let himself acknowledge when he’d been at the castle.]
You’re worse than a gossiping old maid. Go to sleep.
[He’d certainly heard the whispers of what Isaac did to his demons at the castle, and he’s pointedly trying to not think of it. The harder he tries to ignore it, the more pervasive the thoughts become. His body remembers the shuddering pleasure of Abel’s tongue, the overpowering sensation of surrendering to Isaac and letting himself be thoroughly used.
His whole body is tense and cold and frustrated, and the relief of sleep refuses to come to him.]
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...I am, am I?
[He doesn't care if Hector answers him this time, much in the same way he stops caring altogether when he shifts over and tucks himself into Hector, seeking heat and the familiarity of his angles and edges, seeking Hector's softness where he's just beginning to harden. An arm snakes around his waist, dipping to palm Hector through the leather of his pants and squeeze. It's meant to hurt - not fiercely, but enough for the hitch in his lungs he hopes to hear, and for Hector to listen, when his hot, feathering breath finds the shell of his ear.]
...Had anyone had you in that castle, of or against your will, I'd have killed them.
[The effect of his velvety growl may be spoiled somewhat by his shivering into Hector's back.]
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Isaac's body heat feels scalding against his back as he closes in. The comfort is offered and immediately shattered by Isaac's hand grasping his member. He does gasp, squirming back into the hard curve of Isaac's body in an instinctive defense. He can't escape the hold.]
...this isn't a good idea...
[It's a weak protest at best. The proximity and the painful fisting of his cock has Hector's heart racing. He's been hollowed out in the wake of Rosaly's death. Isaac's possession is a warped imitation of affection, but to a starving man, even scraps will do.
He wraps his hand over Isaac's, but he doesn't force Isaac to let him go. Would Isaac have actually avenged him, had he been forced against his will? Was it the bond of their twinned powers, or a misplaced sense of ownership?
Does it matter, or is Hector broken enough and sick enough not to care? He presses himself harder into Isaac's chest. Isaac is a heat that is guaranteed to burn him, but the alternative is freezing.]
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He feels Hector lock up against him and his hand closing around his, the urgency in it. But can't feel him the way he wants to, the touch of his skin through leather and fabric.]
...You brought this on yourself.
[But even as he says it, he's easing his grip and letting go, little by little, because the answer to the question unasked is both. There's something inside him still, some good that managed to survive this long by staying hidden, always struggling with the cold indifference of the world and his own desperate, selfish desires. He nuzzles the crook of Hector's neck and breathes him in, head swimming with the spice of his skin, with every bad idea he's ever had. But of all the many ways he's destroyed Hector and will keep hurting him, his hands as skilled in creation as they are at ruining everything they touch, the thought of shoving Hector over and pushing him into him, unwanted, must stay a thought, even if he isn't entirely sure why.
He's less sure of why it matters, whether or not Hector will think differently of him for his restraint.]
Should man lie with man as with a woman, they have committed an abomination... [he drawls, eyes closing] ...They must surely be put to death and their blood shall be upon them.
[His hand lingers where he and Hector left it, but it has gone soft, no meanness to it.]
'twas among the first passages I ever learned to read.
Hector's a sap, news at 11
You're blameless, I'm sure.
[It's a terrible time for this, a terrible place. There are hunters on the mountain, ready to spill their blood. But within the safety of this cave, that danger is removed, remote. Abel keeps watch, and that leaves the two forgemasters free to make poor decisions.
Isaac's words steal the breath from Hector. He too was taught from the cradle that God's wrath would be upon him, the cursed child of the night. For Hector, it was because of the creatures that flocked to him. For Isaac, they must have ascribed a different source of otherness. He aches, recalling the taunts and the beatings he endured, and wondering if it had been the same for his rival.
He shifts in Isaac's arms, turning to face him.]
It doesn't have to be like that. Fire and brimstone, blood and suffering...it's not the first lie the church has told.
[He presses his lips to Isaac's, trying to imbue in his touch the ways this act between men could be tender, loving, if only they'd allow it to be.]
:']
He tenses. His jaw doesn't soften into it, but he doesn't push back either.
It's a slow thing, so gentle it shouldn't be happening at all. A whole other world of touch from teeth and nails, pushing and pulling. But of everything he's ever felt, it's this that hurts most, because it doesn't make sense; because he's done nothing to deserve it. And no one ever told him it could be so sweet.
On a different night, he might've scoffed. Could've laughed in Hector's face, the easiest thing to do. But something in this kindness keeps pulling at him, willing him to stay, to soak up everything Hector can offer, like a dying plant, and he feels sick. There isn't anyone like Hector - there never was and never would be. And god help them both, Hector's either teasing him or, worse, has no idea what he's doing, falling for the idea of making a human connection, or missing love so badly he'll settle for anything, anyone.
Isaac pulls away suddenly, his eyes wide and silvery, darkening as he sits up. His chest heaves. He needs air, needs out. He needs the edge of his knife slicing another scar-to-be into himself to feel right again, or the closest thing to it. But reaching for it means turning and showing his face, and he can't do it, not when it's twisting against his every effort, his breath rattling in his throat. It's his turn to show his back, his effort to end a conversation before it can even happen.]
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I could show you how it could be. [He says into Isaac’s ear, an offer likely doomed for failure.
Isaac's retreat hurts, even though Hector should have known better than to make such an advance.
The closeness, the warmth, Hector refuses to surrender. That, at least, they can grant one another. As Isaac had done a moment before, Hector twines his arms around his body and fits them together, front to back. His hand finds a more innocent purchase than Isaac’s had, settling on the hard plane of Isaac’s chest, feeling for the beat of his heart.]
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This is how it starts, a little voice tells him.
Taking his eyes off Hector, turning his back. Doomed by a split second's carelessness.
He should've left Hector to sleep, should've made his own mind and left before dawn, alone. But life is full of missteps and mistakes, some more dangerous than others. Should've been stronger, fought harder.
Should've known better.
Despite how careful Hector's movements are - and maybe because they are, too, his mind given more time to tailspin over all the terrible possibilities he can think of - he feels himself flinch and go numb, paralyzed in the way he hasn't experienced since he was still a boy. It's the closest he's let anyone approach him from behind in just as long; the ones he let was because he had to, when he still occupied the lowest rungs of the castle hierarchy and he learned there was safety in keeping his head down and swallowing his rage, his pride, than in rising to a challenge he couldn't hope to beat. The only reason he thinks he hasn't driven his elbow back and into Hector, struggling away from him, is because he still can't, trapped by his own body. But it's more complicated than that. His muscles twitch with everything they can't unlearn, his heartbeat racing under Hector's hand. Would that Hector could reach inside him and tear it out, not to keep for himself but to get rid of it for good.]
Don't. [Is all he can get out through his teeth, and his voice sounds thick and shaky and wrong. Almost unrecognizable but for the anger in it. ]
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Shhhh. [He soothes, the way he used to do for wild animals whose wounds he wanted to draw near to heal. No more kisses, that’s fine. He won’t press further. It was a long shot anyways.]
We’re just sleeping. You can hold me if you’d rather, but neither of us need to freeze this night.
[He doesn’t have the energy to fight any more than that, and he shifts against Isaac as gently as he can, trying to find the least uncomfortable position to doze. If Isaac breaks away from him, they will both be enduring a miserable few hours until they leave the cave
In the morning, Hector will puzzle over Isaac, can make a plan to slowly acclimate him to kindness... but tonight, both his body and mind have reached their limits.]
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[Isaac hisses, still so wired and helpless but to wait for the shock to ease off, wait for the moment the past lets go and he can breathe, really breathe, again.
Through the half-panic whirling through him, he does realize that Hector hasn't really moved, his hand at rest, making no demands of him. Hector never was a conqueror. But what Hector is in this moment, curved into his trembling back, quiet and warm and shushing him, is beyond him. The part of Isaac that isn't caught between bristling and wanting to jump out of his own skin would laugh a sick, sad laugh. If only he could.
Come morning, when the harsh light of day would touch down and lay their choices bare, he's sure Hector will remember Rosaly and his betrayal in fraternizing with the enemy, and in silence they'd work to forget that Hector ever dared to lay a kiss on his lips and make him feel like there was one thing still right with the world, at least for a little while.
They're both mistakes, and history would suggest that two wrongs never make a right.
But for now, for now, they're just sleeping.
And eventually, broken and folding under the strain of being on edge for so long, Isaac fades, fades, his body finally softening into Hector's chest.]
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Isaac's hair tickles against his nose, and Hector takes a moment to inhale, not wanting to begin the process of extracting himself and standing just yet. He shifts his head and his lips brush against Isaac's scalp, a press that is not quite a kiss. His fingers trail across his chest as he withdraws from the embrace, one final soft touch before the harshness that will inevitably follow when Issac awakens.
Hector rolls onto his back, groans softly, then starts to push himself up. His fairy summons up a wisp of magic to ease his aching muscles. He nods in Isaac's direction, a silent order to grant Isaac the same boon.
Being allowed those soft, stolen touches reminds Hector of his time with Rosaly. He won't turn her memory into hate. She was always the kind of person who was almost unreasonably good. She would want forgiveness, redemption for anyone, even one who had harmed her.
Hector has run his fingers across the jagged, broken pieces of Isaac, and he's not sure they are mendable. He's going to cut himself to ribbons if he tries. He's going to try. That, not the curse-driven desire to kill her killer, is what Rosaly would want of him.]
Are you awake? [He whispers. Outside of the cave, he thinks he hears movement, though it's hard to pinpoint. It is time to be up and away from this place.]
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Isaac's body gives a little jerk when he wakes, staring at the same wall he fell asleep to. It's a lighter shade of gray now, like Abel's scuted hide; outside, day is breaking, but it seems neither of them are in any great hurry. He lies very still under the tingling touch to the back of his head, lies like he used to, breath bitten back and a dagger in his hand, only feigning sleep - to the shifting of fabric and flesh, his skin prickling. Hector doesn't touch him again. Instead, he feels magic wash over him, cool and calming, a leeching of pain from his muscles. The tension knotting them, however, is there to stay.
To Hector, he says nothing. But he climbs to his feet with hollow-eyed determination, not looking his way, and in a single movement answers several questions. It takes a moment for the dizziness to pass from swinging up off the ground, though when his vision steadies and the fog in his head thins, the only thing that feels real, that assures him he isn't sleeping still, is the brisk morning chill and the heaviness in his bladder. When he pisses off to the side, he neither turns away nor makes a show of it, finishing with a shake and tucking himself away before he moves to gather his weapons. He glances to the cave entrance where Hector and his fairy happen to be waiting. He'll meet his gaze sternly, with shoulders squared, fingers squeezing and unsqueezing around the hilt of his sword.
Abel rejoins him.]
Do you sense them near? [He'll duck out, squinting, into the pale, silvery light before waiting too long for an answer, meaning to get a read on their immediate surroundings himself.]
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They're getting closer. We should go now if we want to stay ahead of them.
[He still hopes, naively, to lead them away and part without any more bloodshed. If not for Julia's presence on the mountain, he would swear that he would do them no harm; since her safety is on the line, though, he will do whatever is necessary.
Isaac is already moving, never one to slow himself down for anyone else's sake. All Hector can do is follow, keeping low and watching his step to make sure he doesn't make any noise to alert the approaching hunters.]
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It's like old times, cutting bloody swathes through the enemy with Hector at his side -- and if there's anything of Hector he feels he can trust, it's his ability to hold his own. Isaac spares only a quick glance his way until the last man has fallen - an amateur sorcerer who can't outrun his dagger - and the world around them is still again. Sunlight is just slanting through a bank of clouds, trees stirring softly. Life goes on without missing a beat, just like it always does. And the cycle of blood for blood goes unbroken.
Huffing, Isaac shoves his heel down over the corpse and bends to jerk his red, dripping knife from its back, giving it a shake before sheathing it at his boot. He finds a cross glinting in the grass on the way back and sneers at its uselessness. Not the first time the Good Lord had failed the faithful - and far from the last, he muses.]
...'twas child's play.
[Sweat gleams at his forehead and the hollow of his throat, but he looks galvanized, hard from the rush of blood and magic and restless for a challenge.]
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When the fight is won, however, and he's left holding a mace bloodied with the pulp from inside of an unfortunate hunter's cracked skull, everything comes rushing back. There is no elation like there was in fighting Isaac. He struggles to keep from vomiting.
The makeshift weapon drops from his hand and he doesn't pick it up. He takes a shaky step toward Isaac. Wild, feral, victorious Isaac, who is taunting the fallen men with no concern for the lives that had been ended.]
They didn't hurt you? [The only way through this is to compartmentalize. Focus on his ally, and leave thoughts of the enemies until he can process them. Hector can make sure Isaac is unharmed. He can do nothing more to or for the men on the ground before them.]
We should keep moving. [The sick scent of blood and death, which he'd been so accustomed to in the past, is striking him anew and turning his stomach. 'Julia is safe. Isaac is safe. We did what we had to to make that so.' If he keeps telling himself that, he can force himself to keep going, and forcibly turn his thoughts away from whether these men had familes.]
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So he kills, and he laughs.
Whether Julia had ever understood that, he doesn't know, and tries not to care. She could do anything she wanted to try and change Wallachia, to heal everything that was wrong with it, he thinks, but she could never change him.
His smirk falters at Hector's unsteady approach, his empty hand. Something stirs inside him, closer to wariness than worry, and he doesn't like it. Hector doesn't seem wounded, but in the same way Hector is wondering about the blood streaking his furred cloak and scant armour plating, he can't be sure. He narrows his eyes, his gaze seeking the fairy before snapping back to Hector's face.]
Then arm yourself. [He says, more a command than anything else.]
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He sees the weapon, and leaves it where it fell. He's broken every resolution he's made in his life, and he may be destined to break this too, but he can't pick up a weapon he knows he'll have to turn against his fellow men again. Demons and creatures, he will fight without question, but this murder, this slaughter...he can't repeat.
The world isn't kind enough to suffer a pacifist to live, and he knows that he'll be forced to kill again one day to defend himself. But right now, today, he can't force himself to take his bloodied mace back up.]
...I don't sense anyone else around. If we go now, we won't have need of it.
[He starts walking out of the corpse-filled copse without waiting for Isaac's answer or his scorn.]
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learn how to teleport, hector, GOSH
Only with chairs so it doesn't break the game, sheesh
FINE
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The morning sun has vanquished the horrible night
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hector and isaac then start a food-reviewing youtube channel
Bone Appetit, They'll review food that's to die for.
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asshole is an asshole, more news at 11
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crimson's deadly absorb is and will always be a lousy skill /huff
np, hec is here with tiramisu for two
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guess who is being a stubborn shit
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full blown lost it
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if this doesn't work for any reason, I'm happy to change it, just lemme know
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And what gets high... must come down. Something like that.
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imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
LOL fucking pumpkin
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no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
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