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.]
[If the previous accusations deflated Hector, this new one fills him back up with cold anger. Hector turns back to Isaac, an incredulous look on his face.]
I haven't touched you, Isaac. It's just food. You need it to live. What is it about my presence that has you so afraid?
[Because that's what it is, isn't it? This refusal to accept any help, these protestations of a relationship that isn't there. Isaac is threatened, and is baring his teeth in response.
They are both just animals in the end. Isaac, the feral cat, hissing at anyone who gets too close, and Hector, the domesticated dog who keeps coming back no matter how many times he takes those claws to the face.
He snorts and shakes his head.]
Fine, eat or starve. You're right- you belong to none but yourself. If you choose to waste away into your grave, I can do nothing but watch it happen. You've made that very clear.
[He's hit with a hot surge of outrage and incredulity of his own, fury punching through his veins.]
You tread on thin ice!
[He hisses into his face, hating how Hector tears him down, painting him as someone who has never fed or fended for himself, a life spent entirely at the mercy of others' generosity. Hating how viciously every word cuts to the bone, even if, with every gash Hector opens, comes the bitter relief of knowing he hadn't surrendered his body in a moment's recklessness, and to someone this determined to make him feel lowly and weak, an ugly helplessness all over again.]
Much good it is being lord when you will not bend to me.
[Hector is beyond his control - but he knows this better now than he ever has, forced to acknowledge his presence in spaces he never meant to share, and to remember how suddenly the feeling of his touch on his skin had changed, putting him on edge.
A coward, Hector had called him then. Neither of them thinking it possible, maybe, for Isaac - a wolf in human skin - to keep from following through and fucking Hector into the ground, because that's what he's supposed to have done. Throw his head back and laugh, drunk on the power of having dragged Hector down to his level, making a miserable, needy wreck of him.]
If you meant to do me a kindness, then you would have left this place a very long time ago. But your lingering here is and has always been in your best interest, hasn't it?
[Isaac doesn't want him here, doesn't think he needs him here, but Hector saw him nearly die thrice. Hector is here as a two-fold shield, to protect the world from Isaac, and to protect Isaac from the world.]
And as I recall it, you didn't want me bent. Would you have that of me now, a thrall to your whims?
I would not have to ask. 'twas you who all but threw yourself onto my cock, like a bitch in heat, when I had wanted nothing more to do with you. [He chuckles. It scrapes in his throat, humourless.] You got what you deserved.
[Color rises in Hector's cheeks, for all his resolve to be cool and distant.]
That was a particularly dissatisfying lapse of judgement, and one that does not bear repeating.
[Hector takes matters into his own hands now since then, although he's pretty sure at least one succubus has come sniffing around the borders of Isaac's keep, drawn by the tension he can't quite relieve on his own.
He looks at Isaac, with his gaunt face and dark-ringed eyes, working himself to death, and thinks they are both getting what they deserve.]
[He looks away, a cold, remote feeling coming over him again while he stands there, his nails piercing the palms of his gloves. It's unfair, being mired with regret while Hector lets that same night wash off him like nothing happened, with a matter-of-factness to his tone that is almost properly convincing. Hector may be hurting, but he isn't bleeding openly. Still has some dignity for a man who had downright begged for cock.
His fists squeeze tighter.]
I could have snapped your neck.
[No trace of remorse or uncertainty colours his voice. Could've - even should've, something whispers to him - left a body in the cave for the rats to find, like those of the few demons he has shoved out the tower window they came through in the last half year, their laughter still ringing in his ears. But he hadn't, Isaac thinks, having laid back and let things happen, and for longer than they should've. Lost and dizzied with lust, running hot and cold. He can feel a twinge of phantom pain in his forehead, though the wound closed long ago. Nothing left of it but a memory; the only thing a devil's healing couldn't smooth away.]
No, you couldn’t have. At least admit that much- neither of us is going to kill the other.
[They are doomed to dance around one another, never bringing it to an end. Hector has accepted it, and the fact that Isaac hasn’t is infuriating.
He narrows his eyes at Isaac.]
What was it that made you stop that morning? I couldn’t have hurt you, in that position.
[He’s replayed it in his mind, cast through various lenses of regret, anger, and confusion, and it has never made sense to him. Isaac smacking his head when he tried to press on, yes, but what cause was there for that initial retreat?]
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[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.
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[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.
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.
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'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.]
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...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.]
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...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.]
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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.]
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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.
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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I haven't touched you, Isaac. It's just food. You need it to live. What is it about my presence that has you so afraid?
[Because that's what it is, isn't it? This refusal to accept any help, these protestations of a relationship that isn't there. Isaac is threatened, and is baring his teeth in response.
They are both just animals in the end. Isaac, the feral cat, hissing at anyone who gets too close, and Hector, the domesticated dog who keeps coming back no matter how many times he takes those claws to the face.
He snorts and shakes his head.]
Fine, eat or starve. You're right- you belong to none but yourself. If you choose to waste away into your grave, I can do nothing but watch it happen. You've made that very clear.
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You tread on thin ice!
[He hisses into his face, hating how Hector tears him down, painting him as someone who has never fed or fended for himself, a life spent entirely at the mercy of others' generosity. Hating how viciously every word cuts to the bone, even if, with every gash Hector opens, comes the bitter relief of knowing he hadn't surrendered his body in a moment's recklessness, and to someone this determined to make him feel lowly and weak, an ugly helplessness all over again.]
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[He wants to shake Isaac, to get it through his thick skull, but he’s promised not to touch him. Hector keeps himself restrained.]
You could take it to deny me of it later, if you won’t accept it any other way. You are the lord of this castle. Take it as your right.
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Much good it is being lord when you will not bend to me.
[Hector is beyond his control - but he knows this better now than he ever has, forced to acknowledge his presence in spaces he never meant to share, and to remember how suddenly the feeling of his touch on his skin had changed, putting him on edge.
A coward, Hector had called him then. Neither of them thinking it possible, maybe, for Isaac - a wolf in human skin - to keep from following through and fucking Hector into the ground, because that's what he's supposed to have done. Throw his head back and laugh, drunk on the power of having dragged Hector down to his level, making a miserable, needy wreck of him.]
If you meant to do me a kindness, then you would have left this place a very long time ago. But your lingering here is and has always been in your best interest, hasn't it?
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[Isaac doesn't want him here, doesn't think he needs him here, but Hector saw him nearly die thrice. Hector is here as a two-fold shield, to protect the world from Isaac, and to protect Isaac from the world.]
And as I recall it, you didn't want me bent. Would you have that of me now, a thrall to your whims?
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I would not have to ask. 'twas you who all but threw yourself onto my cock, like a bitch in heat, when I had wanted nothing more to do with you. [He chuckles. It scrapes in his throat, humourless.] You got what you deserved.
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That was a particularly dissatisfying lapse of judgement, and one that does not bear repeating.
[Hector takes matters into his own hands now since then, although he's pretty sure at least one succubus has come sniffing around the borders of Isaac's keep, drawn by the tension he can't quite relieve on his own.
He looks at Isaac, with his gaunt face and dark-ringed eyes, working himself to death, and thinks they are both getting what they deserve.]
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His fists squeeze tighter.]
I could have snapped your neck.
[No trace of remorse or uncertainty colours his voice. Could've - even should've, something whispers to him - left a body in the cave for the rats to find, like those of the few demons he has shoved out the tower window they came through in the last half year, their laughter still ringing in his ears. But he hadn't, Isaac thinks, having laid back and let things happen, and for longer than they should've. Lost and dizzied with lust, running hot and cold. He can feel a twinge of phantom pain in his forehead, though the wound closed long ago. Nothing left of it but a memory; the only thing a devil's healing couldn't smooth away.]
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[They are doomed to dance around one another, never bringing it to an end. Hector has accepted it, and the fact that Isaac hasn’t is infuriating.
He narrows his eyes at Isaac.]
What was it that made you stop that morning? I couldn’t have hurt you, in that position.
[He’s replayed it in his mind, cast through various lenses of regret, anger, and confusion, and it has never made sense to him. Isaac smacking his head when he tried to press on, yes, but what cause was there for that initial retreat?]
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no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
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HOW DARE HECTOR HAVE NEEDS OF HIS OWN
HE’S NOT SAYING IT SHOULD totally absolutely BE HIM
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hope this timeskippery is okay -- let me know if you wanted anything changed
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