Title: Put Out the Light, and Then Put Out the Light
Author: yubberducky
Timeline: Curse of Darkness
Spoilers: None, as it's pre-game.
Warnings: Sexuality of the gay persuasion, violence, character death, disturbing imagery, crack.
Genre: AU, drama, angst, etc.
Disclaimer: I don't own Castlevania.
Contest Topic #: Challenge #30, Entry #1
Comments: My first Castlevania fanfic was Valediction (then bearing the original title "Untitled"), which was about Mathias killing Leon after trying to turn Leon to his side. What I took from this fic is the idea that Character A wants to be with Character B so much that Character A's love or desire eventually causes the destruction of Character B. I decided to apply that to Curse of Darkness.

That said, this is a Hector/Isaac fic. It's AU, and it's set before the game. Cookies for anyone who recognizes the reference in the title.

 

---

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her.
~Robert Browning, Porphyria’s Lover

PUT OUT THE LIGHT
and then put out the light
---

Hector's behaviour of late has been odd at best.

As one who spends much of his time watching Hector - who spends most of his waking hours in his company - I can say this with absolute certainty. Hector has ever been a calm man. He does not rile easily, nor does he buckle under pressure. He is one who keeps his wits about him at all times, under all circumstances; he is one whose visage is a mask of complacency even in the midst of one of the Master's rages.

I have always admired these qualities in him, and yet recently, I find there is very little to admire. Beyond a doubt, he is troubled. He eats little, and sleeps little, and his dark eyes are like two holes in his pale face as they dart about in what I can only describe as suspicion. His hands tremble when he writes, when he works, when he runs them through his unwashed hair. He has bitten his nails almost to the quick, and he has taken to pacing, like a man waiting for death to come knocking at the stroke of midnight.

He is displeased with the Master for killing humans, that much I know, and I suspect he is planning to run away. He has said nothing of his designs to me - he does not trust me enough to do that - but I can read him well enough to know what he has in mind.

Despite all this, I cannot tell the Master. Hector has always been the Master's favourite, but if he knew that Hector was planning to escape, to leave us, me, he would tear him apart without a moment's hesitation. No, I cannot tell the Master, but neither can I allow Hector to betray us.

So it falls to me to stop him.


 

* * *

He is pacing the length of his room when I arrive, and he starts when the door creaks open, frozen on the spot with his thumb in his mouth like a solitary tableau of infancy. I close the door behind me, bolting it securely. His eyes dart to the bolt, then to my face, eyebrows arching in confusion. He looks so innocent that I can't help but smirk.

“We need to talk, Hector,” I say.

“Oh?” He doesn't move from his spot, he only shifts in anxiety.

“Yes,” I say tersely, then get straight to the point, because there really is no reason to delay: “You want to run away. I'm here to prevent you from doing that.”

He gapes, takes a step toward me, stops abruptly. “How...?”

“Oh, Hector.” I laugh, and it's cruel, harsh. “We've been together how many years? Don't be so naive. I know you better than that.”

He seems caught between backing away and rushing for the door. “Maybe I did underestimate you. But you must let me go, Isaac.”

“Why?” I ask. I step toward him, careful to keep myself between him and his only means of escape. “I don't want to let you go. I'm selfish, if you recall, and if you were a true friend, you wouldn't leave me here alone with no one else for company.”

“I can't stay here,” he says in a pained whisper.

“If you insist on this, I'll have no choice but to tell the Master,” I threaten.

“No.” He recoils, eyes going wide. “You mustn't.” He grabs my arms, his fingers digging into my flesh through the thin material of my shirt, and shakes me like it will convince me to protect him. “You mustn't tell him, Isaac.”

“He'll find out anyway,” I say. “Even if I don't tell him, he's bound to find out. And when he does, he'll hunt you down and rip you limb from limb and drink your blood from your still-beating heart. Do you want that to happen? I don't.”

He stills, eyes wide and disbelieving, and his grip loosens on me. “Then what should I do?”

I reach up and cup the back of his neck with one hand. His flesh is warm, his thick hair damp with sweat. “Stay,” I say, and kiss him.

His mouth opens easily for my tongue. He tastes sweet like summer wine, and he kisses me back like I knew he would, his hands sliding up to knead the knotted muscles of my back. We somehow make it to the bed, stumbling like drunkards, his body falling heavily on top of mine, pressing me into the coarse linen sheets, though his weight is far from unpleasant. I wrap my legs around his waist and grind against him as his lips trace my neck, my collarbone, my nipples.

I wordlessly spread my legs for him and let him take me. He is slow and steady, as he always is, his face pressed against my throat, his breath hot and shallow, his hand tangling in my hair. We are soundless, because we each know what to expect of the other, and I can feel the orgasm coming long before it hits. It is familiar, because we have done it many times before, but I would rather be with him than anyone else in the world.

That is not to say that I love him. I care for him, the sole person besides Julia who accepted me for what I am, and I respect him for the things he has accomplished. I am content to be with him, and find pleasure in his arms, but what is enough for me is not enough for him.

I am but one reason to stay amongst a thousand reasons to leave. I have delayed him by a day, maybe two, and as he lies panting in my arms, drifting slowly off to sleep, I realize I must come up with a foolproof way to keep him by my side.

Forever, if possible. In pieces, if I must.


 

* * *

I wake before dawn the next day and creep off to town, careful not to wake Hector from his deep slumber. I am not supposed to be here, but there is little the Master can do to stop me now that the sun has risen, and I am huddled in a hood so vast that none recognize me. Nor does the apothecary ask questions when I proffer a bag of coins. He merely hands me a vial the length of my index finger and warns me not to use too much of the substance it contains at once.

The castle is still quiet when I return, but the cooks have laid out a breakfast for me and Hector. I eat mine in silence, then uncork the vial and pour some of its contents into Hector's tea and bring it upstairs for him on a tray. He is dressing when I arrive, and casts a guilty look at me when I enter.

“Are you still planning to leave?” I ask as I set his breakfast down on the table.

“You know I am,” he says quietly.

“Today?” I ask.

“No,” he says. He sits down at the table and buttons up the remaining buttons on his shirt. “It's still too soon...”

“Marvelous, I still have time to convince you not to go,” I say as I sit next to him.

“I thought you might have given up,” he says. He takes a sip of his tea and grimaces, nearly spitting it out. “What in God's name...?”

“I've no idea,” I say, feigning annoyance with the kitchen staff. “I drank mine anyway. You know how they get when they're insulted.”

“Too true.”

He gulps it down, shaking his head and making a face to force down his bile. And I have to bite my lip to hold back a smirk of glee, to stop myself from saying, Thank you, Hector, thank you for being so naive, and so innocent, too, and oh, by the way, that's poison you're drinking. Would you like some more?

Note that my intention is not to kill him. Had I any desire to kill him, I could easily draw my sword and cut his throat right now. No, my intention is to make him sick, and keep him sick, so sick that he can do nothing but lie abed for weeks and forget all about his foolish plan to run away. The poison is but the kind used to kill rats; it will induce a fever and vomiting, but it will not kill him.

We go about our usual routine that day. We work, we train, we play with our devils and engage in some lascivious behaviour while no one is looking, but Hector shows no sign of illness until late that evening.

We are walking in the garden when he grabs my arm and hunches over, a low moan of pain escaping him. And then black bile dribbles from the corner of his mouth, splattering on my boot and the flagstones underfoot.

“Hector?” I ask, injecting as much concern as I possibly can into my voice, and to my credit, I sound terribly convincing. “Are you all right?”

He shakes his head, pressing his glistening brow against my chest, his breath rattling in his lungs as he gasps out, “Take me up to my room... please...”

I comply, helping him up the stairs until his legs give out, at which point I sweep him into my arms and carry him the rest of the way. He vomits for an hour, blood and bile and the remnants of his dinner, and I dutifully hold the bucket for him and mop his forehead and rub his back when there is nothing left in his stomach but he heaves all the same.

He sleeps after a time, a restless, feverish sleep, and I sit back and allow myself to feel frightened for the first time that night. I am the one who has done this to him; I am the one who poisoned him without a second thought, Hector, my only friend.

I feel frightened. But I swell with glee all the same as I sit by his bed with the watchful eyes of a friend.


 

* * *

He begins to recover, sooner than I had expected. Perhaps his desire to leave this place pushes him along on the journey to good health, and before three days have passed, I find myself poisoning the glass of water he requests to assuage his sore throat. He complains of the taste again, but I tell him the cooks had to boil it because of well contamination. He seems to believe it.

And by nightfall, he is sicker than ever, and I am holding the bucket for him as he chokes up his insides. Afterwards, he clings to my hand, unable to sleep, blood foaming at the corner of his mouth, sweat soaking steadily through his shirt. His face is ghastly pale, corpse-like, his flesh waxen with purple rings under his eyes, and for a moment I am frightened again.

I wonder, did I perhaps give him too much?


 

* * *

Five days later, I poison him again when I enter his bedroom to find him walking on shaking legs toward the door, clutching at a chair for support. I give him a larger dose this time, enough to keep him in bed for a week if not forever. I almost have to shove the water down his throat, so fiercely does he complain of the taste, but I remind him of the contaminated well, and he resigns himself to drinking it.

Along with the blood and the bile, he coughs up a few pulpy red masses before lying back on his pillows, weak with exhaustion. He sleeps for a few hours, and I sit there, watching him, as I have done for countless nights. There are shadows under his eyes, and his lips are chapped and bleeding, and his mouth tastes bitter with poison when I kiss him. He opens his eyes slowly, emerging from his fitful slumber, his hand rising to stroke my cheek.

“Judas,” he says in a cracked whisper.

I pull back, startled. “Hector?”

“I understand now. The tea, the water, why they tasted so bad. You poisoned me, didn't you?” he asks in a strained voice. His eyes, two bright jewels shining out from his ashen face, search mine, and I look away, unable to hold that honest gaze. “Why?”

I consider lying, thinking he might be delirious with pain, but decide, in the end, to be truthful. “You were going to leave. I had to stop you.”

“By killing me? You're no better than Lord Dracula.”

“Killing you?” I repeat. “My intention wasn't to kill you, Hector, it was to make you so sick that you couldn't leave.”

“You idiot.” Hector laughs, and it sounds so horrible, the way it rattles in his chest like bones clattering together, that I cringe. “You can't poison a man three times and expect him to live. I'm dying.”

Dying? I think he might be right. And I am amazed to find I am only a little saddened by the realization that I have killed him.

“It was the only way,” I say slowly, as if admitting it to myself for the first time. “I tried to save you, at first, but when I saw you trying to leave tonight, I knew no illness would keep you here. Nothing would keep you here.” I hesitate, not sure how to say what I want to say without making it sound foolish or sentimental. “...Not even me.”

He looks at me through heavy-lidded eyes, his hand taking mine again. I think he should hate me, the way everyone I have known in life hated me, but his fingers are gentle as they touch mine, as they skitter over my wrist, as they trace the lines on my palm. Perhaps he's beyond hate now. “You succeeded. Are you pleased?”

I consider the question for a moment. “Yes. I may not get to keep you, but at least you'll never leave.”

He dies with a laugh in his throat. I think I am pleased with that, too.


 

FIN