[He hitches up his pants and smudges away the trickle of blood from his face, hardened to the note of icy finality Hector takes with him. They were done minutes ago, as far as he was concerned; they were done when he pulled out and sat off to the side, raw and vulnerable, and everything that came after is what Hector brought on himself.
The pain in his skull is like an ice pick chipping into it to the rhythm of his heartbeat. A vicious, nagging pain. But it's worth it.
He spits off the side, balefully watching Hector as he turns his back and leaves before he reclaims his cloak and slings it around his shoulders, summoning a glowing magic circle that whisks him away to the edge of the woods closer to the mountain pass. The space to breathe what he needs -- and in the silvery light and cool dew of the early morning, he unleashes his wrath on the first animal to wander into view and is left with more half-raw rabbit than he has the appetite for. But he's in no mood to share, not with Hector or other woodland creatures.]
[A long soak in the icy water of the pond freezes Hector's fury into numbness. He scrubs away every trace of Isaac from himself, inside and out. The fairy heals the torn skin on his hips and the welt forming on his forehead, and he puts an extraordinary amount of energy into healing the stab wounds until not even a scar remains.
The next time Isaac sees his bared chest --if he sees it at all, and Hector isn't planning on stripping for him again-- he will see that he has left no mark on Hector at all.
He finally wades back out of the pool when he looses feeling in his fingers and toes, and he lays out on the rocks to dry as the sun rises.
This is all his own fault. Hector should never have given in to his carnal desires. No more. Hector will take his satisfaction into his own hands, and rely on no on else from now on. It is what he should have done after Rosaly's death. Isaac can find some other warm body, if anyone else can stand to be around him long enough to finish the job.
Hector feels the feeble warmth of the rising sun, but he does not thaw. Future plans...where will he head now. Not back to Julia, except maybe to collect his belongings. That door, he closed the moment he fucked her brother. But having his weapons and supplies would be helpful.
He must find and rejoin Isaac eventually. Hector had let him live, and the lives that Isaac takes from now on will be on Hector's hands as well as his own. Hector has no purpose in life now, except to try to temper Isaac's darker impulses and make sure he does not wreck havoc on the common folk. It is Hector's penance and Isaac's punishment.
When he is dry enough to dress, Hector pulls on his pants and returns to the claim. That Isaac has left is no surprise. Hector gathers up the rest of his possessions and packs them up. The vague awareness he has of Isaac's presence feels like it is not too far off from Hector's chosen path, so he starts off that way.]
[It comes as no surprise, when he senses Hector's approach on the edges of his awareness. But it doesn't make it any less frustrating, reminding him that one of his many regrets is never learning how to suppress his magic and cloak his presence, making himself invisible to men and monsters. His pursuit of raw power had come first, starting early, from when he was still fresh meat among the human arrivals to the castle. For close to a year he'd request the same grimoires from the library, reading and rereading them cover to cover until he had memorized entire passages and basic magical seals, having no more need to glance over the notes he had taken.
Most of the library's keepers wouldn't give him or anyone else the time of day, absorbed in their own studies or with making copies of yellowing, disintegrating tomes when not preserving the dignity of the space and the priceless collection of books and maps and blueprints it housed through brute force. But after a whole year of the barest of exchanges between them, one demon scholar began sharing a few quotations from the latest philosophical text or work of poetry it was reading. Hell, boy, is not the world beyond these doors, but a door locked from the inside, it had told him, once. It all smacked of pretentious bullshit to Isaac, an annoying waste of time for a kid desperate to get his hands on some books on alchemy and devil forging. But it's only now that Isaac thinks he understands what it meant.
His mind is his own worst enemy. And he's rattled by how little it has taken for his defenses to crumble and for him to feel like a stranger in his own body and trapped in his own head, like he had for years, back when all it would take is a simple touch, a careless few words, to jack fury or panic into him.
That anger is all he has now, keeping him alive and alert and willing him to pay at least some attention to the path Hector's taking. It's not quite as much of a beeline towards him as Isaac suspected -- and he can only wonder what Hector's intentions are, hating that it matters in the least to him.
He might not know what to do with himself, but any thought of joining Hector on the road again has soured. Let him board a vessel and plunge to watery grave. If destiny called from the other side of the world, Isaac is sure he'd find a way across without him.]
Edited 2019-09-30 03:21 (UTC)
imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
[Isaac's locations stays static as Hector moves; he supposes Isaac has no need to hike when he can teleport where he wishes. It should be a full day's travel back, supposing he does not have to contend with the hunter attacks, injuries, and other distractions that had increased the time it had taken them to get this far out.
Hector takes it at a run, pushing his body more than he has since his quest for revenge. It's a relief to focus on the burn in his muscles, the cadence of his breathing. Unhindered by a traveling companion, other than his winged fairy, he can determine his own grueling pace.
He doesn't take the path that will cross with Isaac's, for now. He wants to do that when he's rested, properly supplied, and most importantly, completely cool-headed. So to Julia's cottage it is.
It is well into night when he reaches her home, but she rouses at the sound of his knock- a pattern they worked out together, to be cautious of her opening a door in a world of vampires and shapeshifters.
Hector's account of the past few days is brief and vague to the point of dishonestly, but Hector still gives Isaac enough respect to honor that wish of his. He makes no mention of another traveling with him, just that he'd been beset by hunters, wounded, and had needed to lead them away before he could return.]
It is safer for both of us for me to leave. I thank you, Julia, for your kindness and hospitality. Be well when I go.
[She sees in his eyes that he won't be persuaded otherwise, so with a sigh, she insists upon at least seeing him fed and rested before he wanders off into the wild unknown. She reheats some stew for Hector's dinner, and they divide up his devils as he eats. Julia is bequeathed Hector's strongest battle type Rasetz for protection, a Crow to keep watch without drawing too much attention, and a chef Pumpkin, in theory to help with cooking and chores, but really because Hector can think of no other use for it. Julia will accept no more fully-forged devils than that, saying the shards she still has will be more than enough.
When Hector sets out at dawn, he does so with his inventory full weapons, coin pouch, and enough supplies to actually support him on a journey. He also goes with Julia's resigned blessing, which lifts a weight he had not realized had been burdening him so heavily.
Turning back one last time to wave at Julia before she fades from view, Hector then takes a deep breath and reaches out his senses to pinpoint Isaac's direction. It is time for their reunion.]
[The small castle he returns to is not home in any sense.
More of its stonework has crumbled in his absence, though it otherwise has largely remained the same, frayed tapestries and rugs and furnishings slowly rotting away and the few books left on it shelves blackening with mold. But it offers a roof over his head he doesn't care enough to mind sharing with spiders and snakes and the odd, wandering ghost. There's no point putting work into repair and reinforcements on a larger scale when he doesn't imagine staying long. It's just a place to haul in and skin carcasses from the hunt, to eat and rest, and consider his next move as Hector closes in. The world feels smaller and smaller by the hour as he does, and the silence doesn't help. Just magnifies his bleaker inner-narratives in the echo chamber that is his skull, his wariness sharpening as he waits up in a tower for sounds other than the wind whistling through the cracks it finds in wood and stone and glass.
His growing restlessness sees him flexing his magical prowess, daring to break away from existing templates and visual references to create new creatures from his own visualizations instead. It's harder than it has any right to be after the years of practice he's poured into the devil's art; but he knows, as the ancient incantation rolls off his tongue and he gathers his energy into the palms of his hands, drawing one of the lingering spirits from the castle walls to toy with, that his headspace isn't what it should be, what it could be. With Hector more on his mind than he isn't, Isaac ends up giving shape to a screeching, swollen mass of flesh and bone fighting for life. The second struggling, desperate attempt is less abstract in form: a beast-demon that thrashes into being like Abel had in its earliest evolutions, lashing out at him and drawing blood before it bends to his steely will. It's an imperfect being in all regards: small and asymmetrical, patches of its tawny fur missing along its chest and back. While responsive enough to commands, it stares blankly when left on its own, not noticing or recognizing the threat in a spider nearby that rears up on its back legs until it has already been bitten.
Isaac growls, refusing to give either mistake of his a name.
He's always taken failure hard. But he has the sense, even the maturity, to remember that, when it comes to dabbling with magic, setbacks are only temporary and his persistence would be rewarded. There has always been a sense of fairness, that way, when it comes to working with magic. Someday, he's sure he could surpass what was thought possible and impossible. Maybe even coast briney ocean air currents on a devil's back, casting a shadow over vessels slicing through the water below. It's something to look towards, to work towards. A thought he takes to the wooden tub with him where he soaks for a while, scrubbing a film of grime and sweat and blood off his skin, still feeling dirty afterwards. But it's not too long before another thought shoves its way to the forefront of his mind and sticks when he settles into one of the beds.
Sleep never comes, and at dawn he can't stand it anymore, cursing everything under the sun as he throws on the armour and leathers he had only just cleaned and sets out into the woods to meet Hector halfway, sword in hand. His expression darkens, his nerves on edge. That Hector and Julia met last night doesn't need confirming; he knows what he felt. It's the question of whether Hector's word still means anything at all that is begging for an answer, curiosity and suspicion eating him alive.]
You came all this way seeking my sister's company -- why?
[He demands, forgoing a more civil greeting. But at this point, his scathing bluntness should come as no surprise.]
[Traveling with Isaac these past few days has strengthened Hector's sense for him, and he senses Isaac's presence before he shows himself. Hector is armed now, but doesn't have steel bared. The fairy is gone, replaced for now with a wingosaurus, which he has been using to shorten his journey by gliding down the mountain.
Hector is dressed in a fresh pair of clothes, a new sash around his waist, looking as put together and aloof as he ever did in the castle.]
I went to collect my things, and to make sure she is well. Julia is compassionate, and leaving her to worry over my fate did not rest well with me.
[He knows what Isaac really wants to know, but in this regression into the colder version of himself, before Rosaly had melted through his walls of ice, he does not offer the information. If Isaac cares to know, he will have to ask it.]
[He meets that coolness and distance with disdain, teeth and claws out, ready to draw blood while the weaker, wounded parts of himself pull deeper inside him. Shoulders squared and chin tipped up, it's as though what happened in and around and the cave was never more than a sweat-soaked dream and he hadn't left feeling shaken and unbalanced. But the resentment in his eyes says otherwise.
He lifts his seven bladed sword to point at him with it. Gloved hand squeaking as it tightens around the hilt.]
What did you tell her?
[It's not like Hector to hurt her, not even out of spite for him. But he needs to hear it, needs to search his face for any trace of a lie if and when he says it.]
[Hector pauses before responding, just a little longer than needed. The old Hector, the Hector at the castle, never jumped to answer to anyone but Lord Dracula. He pulls that old persona around him like a cloak against the cold.]
Nothing about you. She still thinks you dead.
[The drawn sword and the hostile tone are nothing. That Isaac thinks that Hector would be so petty as to run to tell Isaac's secret? That offends him. It's a confirmation that he is best off keeping his distance.]
Where were you? Off at your castle?
[That was the right direction, and the right level of melodrama....]
[There's no sweeping sense of relief, hearing this; when he finally lowers his blade, his breath is still tight in his lungs and there's a readiness to his stance, as if something might jump out from the trees at any moment. They fucked here, only a few feet away, the air between them thrumming with another memory he's tired of keeping alive, giving so much of his power to. A lot has changed and hasn't changed at all in a week's time.
He's not sure what he expected when they banded together and set off, for Julia's sake - and in a way, he's grateful he's had the chance to see more of Hector, enough to suppose that he's better off breaking the last of this monstrous codependency and living alone but free than keeping the company of a man intent on controlling him, softening his edges, robbing him of his choice to end his life if and when he sees fit. He has survived without Hector before, for years, and he would again.
There's little left to say that he's willing to talk about. It has always been a challenge, the act of willingly exposing some emotion other than rage, let alone letting himself feel it. And now a wall has come back up between them that neither may be able to break through again.]
Yes - [a muscle jumps at the corner of his jaw] ...although I'm afraid there is no vacancy.
[He finds himself eager to return to his work, if sleep won't have him.]
Nonetheless, if you are bound to return there, I am coming. You’ll have to make room.
[It won’t happen without a fight; Isaac is worse than a wild horse, bucking at any sort of rein. Hector expects to be attacked, or for Isaac to teleport away and leave Hector to chase after. Hector’s penance, indeed.
He doesn’t draw a weapon, but his stance is open, ready to dodge or summon up a devil to serve him if he needs it.]
How many times have we parted this week, only to find ourselves forced back together? We may as well accept that our destinies are intertwined.
[A sick little laugh bubbles up in his throat.] ...Is that so?
[He was prepared for pushback and channels his fight into generating a portal for himself, his exit plan, willing to bounce around from one location to another ad nauseum to make a point. All the more incentive to invest more time and ambition into devil forging until he gained the means of pushing even further out, far enough to put Hector out of his mind and attempt to fill that gaping void he'd leave behind with something else.]
I escaped one curse already; I have ill need of another. [He declares, unsmiling. The sigil's steady, pulsing glow accentuates his sloping nose, the unyielding sharpness of his jaw.] Perhaps we shall meet again in ten years' time, assuming you haven't managed to drown yourself in the ocean.
[Isaac and his little teleportation trick. It would be more impressive if Hector hadn't seen him teleport himself away countless times before.
Part of Hector thinks he should just leave, and let Isaac rot away in his castle. Isaac would be upset if he drowned, he imagines; an end to Hector that didn't involve him.
But there's the dead and the living to think of. If Isaac is left to his own devices, more people will die.]
Go on ahead, if you must. I'll be there in a few days.
[There's no smugness in his tone. It's pure matter-of-fact. Hector's not going to wear himself out rushing there, but his arrival is inevitable. Isaac can play cat and mouse all he wants. The truth is, Hector has nothing better to do than follow.]
[Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months; the days grow longer and warmer and then cool off again, and it's not until they're deep into autumn's chill that Isaac grows annoyed of zagging from place to place and builds his life around the West Wing his tower, leaving Hector to make a place for himself anywhere else in the castle. There's no offer made to help; letting him in was never an act of forgiveness or grace or generosity. If Hector couldn't respect him enough to have kept his distance, than he deserves nothing in turn, and, in Isaac's mind, should consider himself lucky to be alive.
With no real means of keeping him out, Isaac settles for slowing his progress with a lock and a magical seal on the door at the top of the stone stairs winding up the tower, so he can at least hear him coming when he's too deep in his experiments - or deep between the legs of the occasional demonic guest lured over by the surges of magic his work is generating - to sense Hector's approach early.
While he's made headway on the forging front, it's still not enough. The pursuit of perfection consumes him like a fresh obsession: he forgets to eat or skips it willingly, time slipping away from him as he throws himself into trial after trial, aggressively challenging his creations through exposure to stress and attack and pain in a bid to will them to evolve sooner, until they're both wholly exhausted.
Tonight he's hit another wall and has the sense to step away from his worktable before smashing it in half, hoping to clear his head. His latest devil - a wingless black dragon barely the length of two hands - takes in the world from its perch up on his pauldron while he leans up against the outer wall and closes his eyes a moment, filling his lungs with his first breath of raw, bracing air in nearly two days.]
[Hector follows after Isaac as he flees, and eventually ends up at the castle. Isaac hasn't violently expelled him, so Hector takes it as tacit invitation and picks a set of rooms to move into. While Isaac forges, Hector renovates his quarters. Isaac cares little about keeping himself fed, so Hector hunts and brings back game, which he cooks. Half of what he makes, he leaves out for Isaac. It goes unclaimed when Isaac is in the middle of a project, but Hector is not about to break into his tower to shove a meal down his throat. The worse breach of privacy he engages in is sending a bird or a fairy to make sure he still breaths if Isaac doesn't surface for a few days.
Hector tans the hides of his game for blankets and uses the down from slaughtered fowl to make a cushion, and soon enough he has a comfortable little bed to sleep in. It's a strange life, but not a bad one.
He worries for Isaac, though he tries not to let it show. His rival's work borders on obsession, far more than Hector's ever did. Some of the forged creatures he creates feel wrong. Hector had benefited from Dracula's tutelage in his youth, but it seems Isaac hadn't been afforded all of the same privileges.
So Hector takes up his hammer once more, and begins to practice again. It's the only true connection he has with Isaac, now that whatever was growing between them chocked and died that morning in the cave. Hector doesn't want to compete with Isaac; he wants to tempt Isaac to work with him. Even when they both served in Dracula's war, they had never actually collaborated. If there is to be a breakthrough, Hector thinks it would come from that.
Isaac hides away in his tower as he forges, but Hector takes to doing his work out in the open. On this particular morning, he is outside, (not unintentionally) beneath the window to Isaac's tower. He is working on a new project, building off of the pumpkin devil idea, but with a base of thorns and corpseweed. Mostly he wants to see if he can give the design some sort of use.
He goes through the motions slowly and precisely, demonstrating the foundations of forging that have always come naturally to him, but that could give another forgemaster trouble if they didn't know them. Isaac hasn't looked out the last few times he's forged out here, but today could be the day.]
​[While awake, he's able to dampen if not filter out his awareness of the sorcery and spellwork of others by concentrating his own. But asleep, he's defenseless. And like a cold draft, Dracula's magic creeps through stone and into the dreamless darkness behind his eyes, prodding him to consciousness, little by little, until he wakes again, hissing as he rubs his raw, heavy eyelids and drags his hands down his face. With the irregularity of his sleep schedule these days - lying down only when he's fed his devils everything he has to give and splitting headaches from long hours of intense, unbroken focus and self-neglect have interfered - it's not the first time Hector's pursuits have served as an alarm clock. He tosses aside his furs and sits up, letting himself stew in groggy bitterness a minute before making for the barred window. He knuckles away blood-grit from under his nose and shakes his head clear, looking out on the scene.
Devil Forging? On HIS lawn?
The sight of Hector below stirs up a mean desire for a bucket of bubbling pitch from the days of defending the castle from raids on the part of the church's so-called army, though more of him just wants to bury himself under his blankets for another hour and disappear from the world. Hector is doing this on purpose - of this, he has no doubt. And it's hard not to consider it a challenge, when Hector hasn't shown this much interest in devil forging since they swore their loyalty to the dark lord.
He closes his eyes, the world feeling like its spinning even while he stands perfectly still.
With the memory comes the hot sting of something approaching jealous. Inescapable.]
What do you want?
[Months of avoidance, and yet it feels like they haven't missed a beat.]
[Hector turns his face up to the window, masking any signs of triumph from his visage. He's pleased, though, to have finally broken through their standoff.]
I want nothing. [That is a lie. He wants to be noticed, to find some way to connect to Isaac, to have some small piece of evidence that his time here hasn't been wasted.
He takes a step back from the partially-conjured mass of plant and crystal so Isaac has line-of-sight on it.]
Should I give it true arms, or leave it with vines and focus on imbuing them with poison?
[Hector doesn't really care about the destructive properties of his creation. For him, the intellectual puzzle is the interesting part, how he can balance his design with the strange laws governing magical physics. But hey, if he makes it strong, it can act as a guard-plant for the castle and keep out potential invaders.]
[He folds his arms, shifting his weight. He isn't sure what he's looking at, when Hector steps away, though it's his answer that has him rolling his eyes more than anything else.]
It's your damned devil. [A beat.] ...Or a pathetic excuse for one.
[He can't remember a time when Hector consulted him on how to proceed on any of his own projects, but he's also wise to Hector's intentions to, as he sees it, weasel his way back into the closest thing to his good graces as he can get. It's like Hector's offering left untouched - none of these efforts equate to an admission of guilt, to an apology. But Isaac also realizes that if he ever heard one, someday, it wouldn't be of much use to either of them because nothing could be changed. The damage is done, and to forgive would mean that he's found some semblance of peace with Hector and with himself, with the hate and anger and fear that still shakes him in the cold, still hours of the night. It's possible Hector doesn't even know where he misstepped, or that he had at all; it's hard to say with the way they can dance around each other for years if they wanted to, smouldering and guarded, not saying what they mean.
Words can have fearsome power. Words can be mirrors. They can take memories and stir fire from the ashes, bringing pain roaring to life. For all his self-loathing, he doesn't want to explain, to talk to Hector about the demons of the past that have gone unconquered and relive his failures, opening himself up to pity or disgust, to any sort of judgment. He does enough to himself, on his own.]
Do not think I cannot see this ruse of yours for what it is. 'tis not my opinion that you want.
[Hector shrugs a shoulder up at Isaac. Just as friendly and chipper as ever, it seems.]
'tis not all I want, but I would be curious as to your thoughts all the same.
[But it is not as if Hector can pry them out unwilling, so he does not press more than that.]
We could test them, your creature against mine. [Hector makes the offer lightly, trying to feel Isaac out. Isaac is fiercely competitive, but if he looks with a cool head, he might see the value in such a match. There is no better way of assessing a forged creature's strengths and weaknesses than to see it in action.
It is also an excuse to be in the same area of the keep at the same time, which is so rare these days. Hector doesn't know how to mend what's been broken between them, but whatever steps there are, they won't happen at a distance.]
...one test. [He says, finally, disappearing from the window.
Trading his robe for a heavy winter cloak, one with a collar he can pull up to cover his nose and mouth, he locks his study and makes his way down on foot. The devil that keeps at his side for now is unlike most of Isaac's works, in that its design prioritizes form over function. It has no horns, no jagged, bony plates, or teeth like a mouthful of broken glass. From the waist up, its shape is even unmistakeably human, sculpted with a poetic attention to detail, from eyelashes and fingernails to the bony knobs of its wrists and the tendons threading its long, lean arms. A tribute to the beauty of a man in his youth. Isaac has given it hair, curls that fall to the shoulder and skin that looks so soft it could bruise, white on white. On its head sits a delicate, equally pale antler crown not unlike a crown of thorns, that glitters with crystal shards.
It doesn't walk; not in the traditional sense. Below the navel, its body tapers sharply into a pillar of blood-red tendrils that flex and slither and help move it along, like prehensile ropes of gut.
Isaac didn't create it with the intent to fight with it so much as to test the level of complexity and detail he's able to incorporate at this stage - a worthwhile effort, even if he had nearly killed himself by way of overexertion. But he's content to let this mock-angel challenge Hector's beast and let Hector believe his focus is simply on his creatures' usefulness in battle and on aimless experimentation while he continues to work towards the ultimate goal of forging his own transport.]
This devil is meant to poison at the touch, although this has yet to be put to the test.
[It turns its head, regarding Hector with gentle indifference. It has Trevor's jaw and Hector's lips, but there's nothing of Isaac in its face or its smooth, scarless torso.]
[Hector's eyes widen as Isaac emerges with his creation. He was expecting a monstrous horror...
...he wonders, with a stab of jealousy, if Isaac fucks it.
Hector turns back to his plant-monster and kneels. He channels his power into it to spark it to life as-is, with thin, thorny tendrils and a large bud that blooms into a razor-sharp corpseweed.
It unfurls and rises, using its roots and vines like spindly spider legs. It looks cartoonish set against the sculpted, morbid beauty of Isaac's creation.]
Mine is venomous as well. They might nullify each others' toxins. I can summon another devil if you want a better test of your devil's touch.
[Hector won't without Isaac's say; he's too likely to take it as an admission of defeat.]
[The day is clear and bright, but the crisp bite to the air wills him to keep his cloak clasped against both the wind and the sun. It's been long enough that he's nearly forgotten what the velvety warmth of it on his skin feels like, and likely would until the forest thawed in spring.
If there's any gentler emotion felt while making his approach and standing closer to Hector than he has in a long time, his eyes hold none of it. His face - sharper around the edges, bruise-like shadows darkening his eyelids - only speaks to what self-imposed isolation has done to him on a physical level. His gaze drifts over Hector as if his presence is little more than an afterthought before he turns his attention toward the plant creature as it rustles and writhes to life, towering over his own.]
No. [Crossing his arms.] Not yet. Should it lack resistance, I will know this now.
[Better any of Hector's devils than offering his own flesh in the name of alchemy, which he had been prepared to do when better rested.
A few of the mock-angel's long tentacles uncoil, reaching for the corpseweed. Slowly, thoughtfully, like how a person might feel their way through the dark to touch someone lying next to them. It probes a leaf and the length of a spiny vine, then the head of the corpseweed itself, curious. Isaac looks to his devil's face for a flicker of shock or pain, but its expression is calm, still, even as one of its tendrils touch a barb and retract, curling back into itself.]
...Immune, it would seem. [He drawls, flatly, after a time.]
[Hector watches, silent, as the two forged devils meet. Isaac's sculpture moves gracefully, gentling, and it's clear that it is not meant to fight. To kill, maybe, if its touch carries poison, but not to partake in the violence Isaac usually breeds into his creatures.
Hector wonders, unsettled, what this creature is made for.
His corpseweed spreads its leaves, forming a serrated barrier between itself and its foe. The plant has more offensive capabilities than just that- needles it can shoot, vines it can thrash, a puff of poisoned pollen, though Hector thinks he will never command the devil to use that, after that fateful night.
He focuses purely on defense in this match, though. He doesn't want to strike out at the innocent devil with the angel's face. He doesn't want to know if it bleeds.]
We are at an impasse, then.
[With a silent command, the corpseweed closes its leaves and begins to dig its roots into the soil. Soon enough, it has reverted to its bud form.]
There's wine and venison stew in the kitchens. You can warm yourself up before you return to your tower. If you want to do another test later on, you can use any of my other devils.
[He won't pretend the convenience of a ready-made meal and the taste of wine isn't desperately tempting after weeks of making do with unseasoned meat and berries, keeping away from more than a sip at the bottle as not to dullen his senses. But this is what Hector wants. He wants him to fold, fostering a codependency for reasons Isaac can guess at, but that he tells himself don't matter to him. Anything Hector has to offer will only hold him back.
How cautiously and carefully Hector is laying his bait, though, he thinks. A far cry from the Hector Isaac saw in that cave, aggressive and daring, grabbing him because he could, and get away with it. It's the only Hector he trusts as real.
He looks away from a breeze fretting one of the castle's ragged banners and stares into his eyes, blood pumping in his head and pushing at his sinuses. His devil turns from the plant-creature and looks on, impassive.]
To me, you could oh so nobly offer the clothes off your back [he seethes, lowly] and your life - and 'twould make no difference at all. You have shown me who you are...
[A corner of his mouth goes up, but it's a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.]
...under all your preaching of kindness and mercy, and these hollow gestures made in some insulting attempt at conciliation. [A step closer, closing the distance.] Make no mistake: you are a beast as much as I, Hector - only you hide behind your masks, and your gentility, and then think it your right, your duty, to still my hand when I seek to strike down those who would have my head. [A snarl wrinkls his nose.] There is nothing on this earth that will absolve you of all the blood you spilled in service to the Dark Lord, and I will not have you drag me into your desperate pursuit of forgiveness.
[Isaac's words are like a physical blow to his stomach. He turns away, fists and teeth clenched.]
You think I don't know that I'm hell-bound? There is no redemption for my soul.
[And no reunion with his love. Hector can never clean the stain of blood off of his hands, but he can stop adding new layers to it. He can stop hurting others. It's a clumsy, doomed effort, but that does not absolve him of the burden of trying, for the sake of the people who aren't irrevocably damned. Isaac wouldn't understand.]
Go eat, Isaac. It's just food. I won't join you.
[He wants to take a page out of Isaac's book, and lock himself up in his rooms so he can lick his wounds in solitude.]
[His eyes burn cold. He stays rooted to the spot, the muscles in his chest tight around his ribs like loops of rope.
Another man could have stepped back and taken that out, fuming in silence, because confrontations and the sheer, full-bodied energy it takes to sustain the anger that he has for this long are exhausting. But he's not here to make life more convenient for Hector, to make things more pleasant for Hector when, most days, he's barely functional at best, relieved when he's so bone-tired from overwork that he doesn't dream at all.]
Fuck your soul. Fuck redemption. [Said with a deathly calm, every word laced with venom.] They matter not a damned thing. We will all burn -- the only difference from one wretch to the next is that some will sooner than others. If you are not in any hurry, then you would best hear me now, for I shall say this but once more: my life is not yours to meddle with as it suits you... and I am not yours to mold into more pleasing a shape. I am not yours.
[His throat moves, jaw sharpening. He doesn't blink.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The pain in his skull is like an ice pick chipping into it to the rhythm of his heartbeat. A vicious, nagging pain. But it's worth it.
He spits off the side, balefully watching Hector as he turns his back and leaves before he reclaims his cloak and slings it around his shoulders, summoning a glowing magic circle that whisks him away to the edge of the woods closer to the mountain pass. The space to breathe what he needs -- and in the silvery light and cool dew of the early morning, he unleashes his wrath on the first animal to wander into view and is left with more half-raw rabbit than he has the appetite for. But he's in no mood to share, not with Hector or other woodland creatures.]
no subject
The next time Isaac sees his bared chest --if he sees it at all, and Hector isn't planning on stripping for him again-- he will see that he has left no mark on Hector at all.
He finally wades back out of the pool when he looses feeling in his fingers and toes, and he lays out on the rocks to dry as the sun rises.
This is all his own fault. Hector should never have given in to his carnal desires. No more. Hector will take his satisfaction into his own hands, and rely on no on else from now on. It is what he should have done after Rosaly's death. Isaac can find some other warm body, if anyone else can stand to be around him long enough to finish the job.
Hector feels the feeble warmth of the rising sun, but he does not thaw. Future plans...where will he head now. Not back to Julia, except maybe to collect his belongings. That door, he closed the moment he fucked her brother. But having his weapons and supplies would be helpful.
He must find and rejoin Isaac eventually. Hector had let him live, and the lives that Isaac takes from now on will be on Hector's hands as well as his own. Hector has no purpose in life now, except to try to temper Isaac's darker impulses and make sure he does not wreck havoc on the common folk. It is Hector's penance and Isaac's punishment.
When he is dry enough to dress, Hector pulls on his pants and returns to the claim. That Isaac has left is no surprise. Hector gathers up the rest of his possessions and packs them up. The vague awareness he has of Isaac's presence feels like it is not too far off from Hector's chosen path, so he starts off that way.]
no subject
Most of the library's keepers wouldn't give him or anyone else the time of day, absorbed in their own studies or with making copies of yellowing, disintegrating tomes when not preserving the dignity of the space and the priceless collection of books and maps and blueprints it housed through brute force. But after a whole year of the barest of exchanges between them, one demon scholar began sharing a few quotations from the latest philosophical text or work of poetry it was reading. Hell, boy, is not the world beyond these doors, but a door locked from the inside, it had told him, once. It all smacked of pretentious bullshit to Isaac, an annoying waste of time for a kid desperate to get his hands on some books on alchemy and devil forging. But it's only now that Isaac thinks he understands what it meant.
His mind is his own worst enemy. And he's rattled by how little it has taken for his defenses to crumble and for him to feel like a stranger in his own body and trapped in his own head, like he had for years, back when all it would take is a simple touch, a careless few words, to jack fury or panic into him.
That anger is all he has now, keeping him alive and alert and willing him to pay at least some attention to the path Hector's taking. It's not quite as much of a beeline towards him as Isaac suspected -- and he can only wonder what Hector's intentions are, hating that it matters in the least to him.
He might not know what to do with himself, but any thought of joining Hector on the road again has soured. Let him board a vessel and plunge to watery grave. If destiny called from the other side of the world, Isaac is sure he'd find a way across without him.]
imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
Hector takes it at a run, pushing his body more than he has since his quest for revenge. It's a relief to focus on the burn in his muscles, the cadence of his breathing. Unhindered by a traveling companion, other than his winged fairy, he can determine his own grueling pace.
He doesn't take the path that will cross with Isaac's, for now. He wants to do that when he's rested, properly supplied, and most importantly, completely cool-headed. So to Julia's cottage it is.
It is well into night when he reaches her home, but she rouses at the sound of his knock- a pattern they worked out together, to be cautious of her opening a door in a world of vampires and shapeshifters.
Hector's account of the past few days is brief and vague to the point of dishonestly, but Hector still gives Isaac enough respect to honor that wish of his. He makes no mention of another traveling with him, just that he'd been beset by hunters, wounded, and had needed to lead them away before he could return.]
It is safer for both of us for me to leave. I thank you, Julia, for your kindness and hospitality. Be well when I go.
[She sees in his eyes that he won't be persuaded otherwise, so with a sigh, she insists upon at least seeing him fed and rested before he wanders off into the wild unknown. She reheats some stew for Hector's dinner, and they divide up his devils as he eats. Julia is bequeathed Hector's strongest battle type Rasetz for protection, a Crow to keep watch without drawing too much attention, and a chef Pumpkin, in theory to help with cooking and chores, but really because Hector can think of no other use for it. Julia will accept no more fully-forged devils than that, saying the shards she still has will be more than enough.
When Hector sets out at dawn, he does so with his
inventory fullweapons, coin pouch, and enough supplies to actually support him on a journey. He also goes with Julia's resigned blessing, which lifts a weight he had not realized had been burdening him so heavily.Turning back one last time to wave at Julia before she fades from view, Hector then takes a deep breath and reaches out his senses to pinpoint Isaac's direction. It is time for their reunion.]
LOL fucking pumpkin
More of its stonework has crumbled in his absence, though it otherwise has largely remained the same, frayed tapestries and rugs and furnishings slowly rotting away and the few books left on it shelves blackening with mold. But it offers a roof over his head he doesn't care enough to mind sharing with spiders and snakes and the odd, wandering ghost. There's no point putting work into repair and reinforcements on a larger scale when he doesn't imagine staying long. It's just a place to haul in and skin carcasses from the hunt, to eat and rest, and consider his next move as Hector closes in. The world feels smaller and smaller by the hour as he does, and the silence doesn't help. Just magnifies his bleaker inner-narratives in the echo chamber that is his skull, his wariness sharpening as he waits up in a tower for sounds other than the wind whistling through the cracks it finds in wood and stone and glass.
His growing restlessness sees him flexing his magical prowess, daring to break away from existing templates and visual references to create new creatures from his own visualizations instead. It's harder than it has any right to be after the years of practice he's poured into the devil's art; but he knows, as the ancient incantation rolls off his tongue and he gathers his energy into the palms of his hands, drawing one of the lingering spirits from the castle walls to toy with, that his headspace isn't what it should be, what it could be. With Hector more on his mind than he isn't, Isaac ends up giving shape to a screeching, swollen mass of flesh and bone fighting for life. The second struggling, desperate attempt is less abstract in form: a beast-demon that thrashes into being like Abel had in its earliest evolutions, lashing out at him and drawing blood before it bends to his steely will. It's an imperfect being in all regards: small and asymmetrical, patches of its tawny fur missing along its chest and back. While responsive enough to commands, it stares blankly when left on its own, not noticing or recognizing the threat in a spider nearby that rears up on its back legs until it has already been bitten.
Isaac growls, refusing to give either mistake of his a name.
He's always taken failure hard. But he has the sense, even the maturity, to remember that, when it comes to dabbling with magic, setbacks are only temporary and his persistence would be rewarded. There has always been a sense of fairness, that way, when it comes to working with magic. Someday, he's sure he could surpass what was thought possible and impossible. Maybe even coast briney ocean air currents on a devil's back, casting a shadow over vessels slicing through the water below. It's something to look towards, to work towards. A thought he takes to the wooden tub with him where he soaks for a while, scrubbing a film of grime and sweat and blood off his skin, still feeling dirty afterwards. But it's not too long before another thought shoves its way to the forefront of his mind and sticks when he settles into one of the beds.
Sleep never comes, and at dawn he can't stand it anymore, cursing everything under the sun as he throws on the armour and leathers he had only just cleaned and sets out into the woods to meet Hector halfway, sword in hand. His expression darkens, his nerves on edge. That Hector and Julia met last night doesn't need confirming; he knows what he felt. It's the question of whether Hector's word still means anything at all that is begging for an answer, curiosity and suspicion eating him alive.]
You came all this way seeking my sister's company -- why?
[He demands, forgoing a more civil greeting. But at this point, his scathing bluntness should come as no surprise.]
no subject
Hector is dressed in a fresh pair of clothes, a new sash around his waist, looking as put together and aloof as he ever did in the castle.]
I went to collect my things, and to make sure she is well. Julia is compassionate, and leaving her to worry over my fate did not rest well with me.
[He knows what Isaac really wants to know, but in this regression into the colder version of himself, before Rosaly had melted through his walls of ice, he does not offer the information. If Isaac cares to know, he will have to ask it.]
no subject
He lifts his seven bladed sword to point at him with it. Gloved hand squeaking as it tightens around the hilt.]
What did you tell her?
[It's not like Hector to hurt her, not even out of spite for him. But he needs to hear it, needs to search his face for any trace of a lie if and when he says it.]
no subject
Nothing about you. She still thinks you dead.
[The drawn sword and the hostile tone are nothing. That Isaac thinks that Hector would be so petty as to run to tell Isaac's secret? That offends him. It's a confirmation that he is best off keeping his distance.]
Where were you? Off at your castle?
[That was the right direction, and the right level of melodrama....]
no subject
He's not sure what he expected when they banded together and set off, for Julia's sake - and in a way, he's grateful he's had the chance to see more of Hector, enough to suppose that he's better off breaking the last of this monstrous codependency and living alone but free than keeping the company of a man intent on controlling him, softening his edges, robbing him of his choice to end his life if and when he sees fit. He has survived without Hector before, for years, and he would again.
There's little left to say that he's willing to talk about. It has always been a challenge, the act of willingly exposing some emotion other than rage, let alone letting himself feel it. And now a wall has come back up between them that neither may be able to break through again.]
Yes - [a muscle jumps at the corner of his jaw] ...although I'm afraid there is no vacancy.
[He finds himself eager to return to his work, if sleep won't have him.]
no subject
[It won’t happen without a fight; Isaac is worse than a wild horse, bucking at any sort of rein. Hector expects to be attacked, or for Isaac to teleport away and leave Hector to chase after. Hector’s penance, indeed.
He doesn’t draw a weapon, but his stance is open, ready to dodge or summon up a devil to serve him if he needs it.]
How many times have we parted this week, only to find ourselves forced back together? We may as well accept that our destinies are intertwined.
no subject
[He was prepared for pushback and channels his fight into generating a portal for himself, his exit plan, willing to bounce around from one location to another ad nauseum to make a point. All the more incentive to invest more time and ambition into devil forging until he gained the means of pushing even further out, far enough to put Hector out of his mind and attempt to fill that gaping void he'd leave behind with something else.]
I escaped one curse already; I have ill need of another. [He declares, unsmiling. The sigil's steady, pulsing glow accentuates his sloping nose, the unyielding sharpness of his jaw.] Perhaps we shall meet again in ten years' time, assuming you haven't managed to drown yourself in the ocean.
no subject
Part of Hector thinks he should just leave, and let Isaac rot away in his castle. Isaac would be upset if he drowned, he imagines; an end to Hector that didn't involve him.
But there's the dead and the living to think of. If Isaac is left to his own devices, more people will die.]
Go on ahead, if you must. I'll be there in a few days.
[There's no smugness in his tone. It's pure matter-of-fact. Hector's not going to wear himself out rushing there, but his arrival is inevitable. Isaac can play cat and mouse all he wants. The truth is, Hector has nothing better to do than follow.]
no subject
the West Winghis tower, leaving Hector to make a place for himself anywhere else in the castle. There's no offer made to help; letting him in was never an act of forgiveness or grace or generosity. If Hector couldn't respect him enough to have kept his distance, than he deserves nothing in turn, and, in Isaac's mind, should consider himself lucky to be alive.With no real means of keeping him out, Isaac settles for slowing his progress with a lock and a magical seal on the door at the top of the stone stairs winding up the tower, so he can at least hear him coming when he's too deep in his experiments - or deep between the legs of the occasional demonic guest lured over by the surges of magic his work is generating - to sense Hector's approach early.
While he's made headway on the forging front, it's still not enough. The pursuit of perfection consumes him like a fresh obsession: he forgets to eat or skips it willingly, time slipping away from him as he throws himself into trial after trial, aggressively challenging his creations through exposure to stress and attack and pain in a bid to will them to evolve sooner, until they're both wholly exhausted.
Tonight he's hit another wall and has the sense to step away from his worktable before smashing it in half, hoping to clear his head. His latest devil - a wingless black dragon barely the length of two hands - takes in the world from its perch up on his pauldron while he leans up against the outer wall and closes his eyes a moment, filling his lungs with his first breath of raw, bracing air in nearly two days.]
no subject
Hector tans the hides of his game for blankets and uses the down from slaughtered fowl to make a cushion, and soon enough he has a comfortable little bed to sleep in. It's a strange life, but not a bad one.
He worries for Isaac, though he tries not to let it show. His rival's work borders on obsession, far more than Hector's ever did. Some of the forged creatures he creates feel wrong. Hector had benefited from Dracula's tutelage in his youth, but it seems Isaac hadn't been afforded all of the same privileges.
So Hector takes up his hammer once more, and begins to practice again. It's the only true connection he has with Isaac, now that whatever was growing between them chocked and died that morning in the cave. Hector doesn't want to compete with Isaac; he wants to tempt Isaac to work with him. Even when they both served in Dracula's war, they had never actually collaborated. If there is to be a breakthrough, Hector thinks it would come from that.
Isaac hides away in his tower as he forges, but Hector takes to doing his work out in the open. On this particular morning, he is outside, (not unintentionally) beneath the window to Isaac's tower. He is working on a new project, building off of the pumpkin devil idea, but with a base of thorns and corpseweed. Mostly he wants to see if he can give the design some sort of use.
He goes through the motions slowly and precisely, demonstrating the foundations of forging that have always come naturally to him, but that could give another forgemaster trouble if they didn't know them. Isaac hasn't looked out the last few times he's forged out here, but today could be the day.]
no subject
Devil Forging? On HIS lawn?The sight of Hector below stirs up a mean desire for a bucket of bubbling pitch from the days of defending the castle from raids on the part of the church's so-called army, though more of him just wants to bury himself under his blankets for another hour and disappear from the world. Hector is doing this on purpose - of this, he has no doubt. And it's hard not to consider it a challenge, when Hector hasn't shown this much interest in devil forging since they swore their loyalty to the dark lord.
He closes his eyes, the world feeling like its spinning even while he stands perfectly still.
With the memory comes the hot sting of something approaching jealous. Inescapable.]
What do you want?
[Months of avoidance, and yet it feels like they haven't missed a beat.]
no subject
I want nothing. [That is a lie. He wants to be noticed, to find some way to connect to Isaac, to have some small piece of evidence that his time here hasn't been wasted.
He takes a step back from the partially-conjured mass of plant and crystal so Isaac has line-of-sight on it.]
Should I give it true arms, or leave it with vines and focus on imbuing them with poison?
[Hector doesn't really care about the destructive properties of his creation. For him, the intellectual puzzle is the interesting part, how he can balance his design with the strange laws governing magical physics. But hey, if he makes it strong, it can act as a guard-plant for the castle and keep out potential invaders.]
no subject
It's your damned devil. [A beat.] ...Or a pathetic excuse for one.
[He can't remember a time when Hector consulted him on how to proceed on any of his own projects, but he's also wise to Hector's intentions to, as he sees it, weasel his way back into the closest thing to his good graces as he can get. It's like Hector's offering left untouched - none of these efforts equate to an admission of guilt, to an apology. But Isaac also realizes that if he ever heard one, someday, it wouldn't be of much use to either of them because nothing could be changed. The damage is done, and to forgive would mean that he's found some semblance of peace with Hector and with himself, with the hate and anger and fear that still shakes him in the cold, still hours of the night. It's possible Hector doesn't even know where he misstepped, or that he had at all; it's hard to say with the way they can dance around each other for years if they wanted to, smouldering and guarded, not saying what they mean.
Words can have fearsome power. Words can be mirrors. They can take memories and stir fire from the ashes, bringing pain roaring to life. For all his self-loathing, he doesn't want to explain, to talk to Hector about the demons of the past that have gone unconquered and relive his failures, opening himself up to pity or disgust, to any sort of judgment. He does enough to himself, on his own.]
Do not think I cannot see this ruse of yours for what it is. 'tis not my opinion that you want.
no subject
'tis not all I want, but I would be curious as to your thoughts all the same.
[But it is not as if Hector can pry them out unwilling, so he does not press more than that.]
We could test them, your creature against mine. [Hector makes the offer lightly, trying to feel Isaac out. Isaac is fiercely competitive, but if he looks with a cool head, he might see the value in such a match. There is no better way of assessing a forged creature's strengths and weaknesses than to see it in action.
It is also an excuse to be in the same area of the keep at the same time, which is so rare these days. Hector doesn't know how to mend what's been broken between them, but whatever steps there are, they won't happen at a distance.]
no subject
...one test. [He says, finally, disappearing from the window.
Trading his robe for a heavy winter cloak, one with a collar he can pull up to cover his nose and mouth, he locks his study and makes his way down on foot. The devil that keeps at his side for now is unlike most of Isaac's works, in that its design prioritizes form over function. It has no horns, no jagged, bony plates, or teeth like a mouthful of broken glass. From the waist up, its shape is even unmistakeably human, sculpted with a poetic attention to detail, from eyelashes and fingernails to the bony knobs of its wrists and the tendons threading its long, lean arms. A tribute to the beauty of a man in his youth. Isaac has given it hair, curls that fall to the shoulder and skin that looks so soft it could bruise, white on white. On its head sits a delicate, equally pale antler crown not unlike a crown of thorns, that glitters with crystal shards.
It doesn't walk; not in the traditional sense. Below the navel, its body tapers sharply into a pillar of blood-red tendrils that flex and slither and help move it along, like prehensile ropes of gut.
Isaac didn't create it with the intent to fight with it so much as to test the level of complexity and detail he's able to incorporate at this stage - a worthwhile effort, even if he had nearly killed himself by way of overexertion. But he's content to let this mock-angel challenge Hector's beast and let Hector believe his focus is simply on his creatures' usefulness in battle and on aimless experimentation while he continues to work towards the ultimate goal of forging his own transport.]
This devil is meant to poison at the touch, although this has yet to be put to the test.
[It turns its head, regarding Hector with gentle indifference. It has Trevor's jaw and Hector's lips, but there's nothing of Isaac in its face or its smooth, scarless torso.]
no subject
...he wonders, with a stab of jealousy, if Isaac fucks it.
Hector turns back to his plant-monster and kneels. He channels his power into it to spark it to life as-is, with thin, thorny tendrils and a large bud that blooms into a razor-sharp corpseweed.
It unfurls and rises, using its roots and vines like spindly spider legs. It looks cartoonish set against the sculpted, morbid beauty of Isaac's creation.]
Mine is venomous as well. They might nullify each others' toxins. I can summon another devil if you want a better test of your devil's touch.
[Hector won't without Isaac's say; he's too likely to take it as an admission of defeat.]
no subject
If there's any gentler emotion felt while making his approach and standing closer to Hector than he has in a long time, his eyes hold none of it. His face - sharper around the edges, bruise-like shadows darkening his eyelids - only speaks to what self-imposed isolation has done to him on a physical level. His gaze drifts over Hector as if his presence is little more than an afterthought before he turns his attention toward the plant creature as it rustles and writhes to life, towering over his own.]
No. [Crossing his arms.] Not yet. Should it lack resistance, I will know this now.
[Better any of Hector's devils than offering his own flesh in the name of alchemy, which he had been prepared to do when better rested.
A few of the mock-angel's long tentacles uncoil, reaching for the corpseweed. Slowly, thoughtfully, like how a person might feel their way through the dark to touch someone lying next to them. It probes a leaf and the length of a spiny vine, then the head of the corpseweed itself, curious. Isaac looks to his devil's face for a flicker of shock or pain, but its expression is calm, still, even as one of its tendrils touch a barb and retract, curling back into itself.]
...Immune, it would seem. [He drawls, flatly, after a time.]
no subject
Hector wonders, unsettled, what this creature is made for.
His corpseweed spreads its leaves, forming a serrated barrier between itself and its foe. The plant has more offensive capabilities than just that- needles it can shoot, vines it can thrash, a puff of poisoned pollen, though Hector thinks he will never command the devil to use that, after that fateful night.
He focuses purely on defense in this match, though. He doesn't want to strike out at the innocent devil with the angel's face. He doesn't want to know if it bleeds.]
We are at an impasse, then.
[With a silent command, the corpseweed closes its leaves and begins to dig its roots into the soil. Soon enough, it has reverted to its bud form.]
There's wine and venison stew in the kitchens. You can warm yourself up before you return to your tower. If you want to do another test later on, you can use any of my other devils.
no subject
How cautiously and carefully Hector is laying his bait, though, he thinks. A far cry from the Hector Isaac saw in that cave, aggressive and daring, grabbing him because he could, and get away with it. It's the only Hector he trusts as real.
He looks away from a breeze fretting one of the castle's ragged banners and stares into his eyes, blood pumping in his head and pushing at his sinuses. His devil turns from the plant-creature and looks on, impassive.]
To me, you could oh so nobly offer the clothes off your back [he seethes, lowly] and your life - and 'twould make no difference at all. You have shown me who you are...
[A corner of his mouth goes up, but it's a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.]
...under all your preaching of kindness and mercy, and these hollow gestures made in some insulting attempt at conciliation. [A step closer, closing the distance.] Make no mistake: you are a beast as much as I, Hector - only you hide behind your masks, and your gentility, and then think it your right, your duty, to still my hand when I seek to strike down those who would have my head. [A snarl wrinkls his nose.] There is nothing on this earth that will absolve you of all the blood you spilled in service to the Dark Lord, and I will not have you drag me into your desperate pursuit of forgiveness.
no subject
You think I don't know that I'm hell-bound? There is no redemption for my soul.
[And no reunion with his love. Hector can never clean the stain of blood off of his hands, but he can stop adding new layers to it. He can stop hurting others. It's a clumsy, doomed effort, but that does not absolve him of the burden of trying, for the sake of the people who aren't irrevocably damned. Isaac wouldn't understand.]
Go eat, Isaac. It's just food. I won't join you.
[He wants to take a page out of Isaac's book, and lock himself up in his rooms so he can lick his wounds in solitude.]
no subject
Another man could have stepped back and taken that out, fuming in silence, because confrontations and the sheer, full-bodied energy it takes to sustain the anger that he has for this long are exhausting. But he's not here to make life more convenient for Hector, to make things more pleasant for Hector when, most days, he's barely functional at best, relieved when he's so bone-tired from overwork that he doesn't dream at all.]
Fuck your soul. Fuck redemption. [Said with a deathly calm, every word laced with venom.] They matter not a damned thing. We will all burn -- the only difference from one wretch to the next is that some will sooner than others. If you are not in any hurry, then you would best hear me now, for I shall say this but once more: my life is not yours to meddle with as it suits you... and I am not yours to mold into more pleasing a shape. I am not yours.
[His throat moves, jaw sharpening. He doesn't blink.]
Lay your hands on me again, and I will kill you.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
HOW DARE HECTOR HAVE NEEDS OF HIS OWN
HE’S NOT SAYING IT SHOULD totally absolutely BE HIM
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
hope this timeskippery is okay -- let me know if you wanted anything changed
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)