#hector replies

H: Let’s talk about originality. DJ: Comfy and laid back!

DZ: Grunge is where it’s at!

L: If you call that style? More like the homeless look...

Both: You guys are adorable.

“Though our paths crossed, I fear my tale pales in comparison to that of Trevor and his comrades,” he answers, picking his words carefully and rubbing the side of his neck.  Acknowledging his own achievements is difficult, as he believes his mistakes and failures far outweigh them.  Truthfully, he doubts anyone would care about his adventures.  And years of rejection and abuse at the hands of humanity have convinced him that anyone interested in his story would vilify him before the end.  Hate him like countless other people on countless other occasions…

Sighing, he shrugs.  “Anything is possible, I suppose.”

~ ~ ~

“Does not every human wish for such times?  When disease was not rampant?  When war was not waged, or when their familes and livestock did not starve?” he counters, voice hard as tempered steel, gaze forlorn and world-weary.  And as soon as the words leave his throat, he regrets his tone.  He pinches the bridge of his nose.  Wallachia was far from perfect, and even in his years with Rosaly, he’d worried over this or that.  But free of the curse, the world would improve with time as Julia promised; the nearby village now traded with him and welcomed his presence in the forest, what with his ability to keep predators from their livestock and hunting trails.  Their tolerance was a blessing to him.

Some could easily discuss their troubles, finding it something of a cathartic experience, but Hector has never been and never will be one of those people.  Oh, the demons’ whispers still haunt him when sleep eludes him.  Day after day and night after night, Rosaly’s death hangs over him like a ghastly rain cloud.  Guilt for not attempting to draw the curse from Isaac gnaws at him like a wolf gnaws a bone, and-,

He swallows the knot tightening in his throat, clear-headed enough to not stumble down that beaten path today.  Julia and Rosaly were right, he reminds himself.  There were good things in this world.  He might not know many, but he had enough.  He touches the small wooden cross tucked into his shirt, disguising the movement by loosening the laces in his collar.

Hector ponders that a moment; food is a necessity to him, not a pleasure. 

Blueberries were his favorites as a child, and he’d savor every crumb of the tarts and pies his mother baked with them - when she let have any, at least.  But they bring him little delight nowadays.  He picks them occasionally, but they’ve come to remind him not of the abuse he suffered at his mother’s hands, but of the harrowing weeks he endured in Wallachia’s wilderness after running away.  Sheltered as he was, wild honey and berries were the only things he knew were safe to eat.  And by the time he stumbled into Dracula’s domain, he was sick of the latter.

[1] He chews the inside of his cheek as he mulls that over.  Some might insist his finding love was an impressive achievement, but his thoughts are ever bent toward the practical.  It’s hard to find love when you’re dead, for one.  “Surviving, perhaps.  Countless times, humans and demons sought my death, and countless times I drove them back.”

[5] Considering the second question, bittersweet memories crash over him, and Hector stiffens.  He dons his best, most stoic mask and crosses his legs neatly at the knee, lowering his voice so as not to betray the waver in it.  “I have a small cross that once belonged to Rosaly.  I managed to retrieve it before the villagers set fire to her cottage.” 

A wry smile steals onto his face.  “Scare is too strong a word.  Though, I confess he did surprise me.  I had heard many tales of the Belmont clan, but had never met one until then.  Our introduction was not as…peaceful as I would have liked, but given my own reputation, I cannot blame him for attacking me.”

Though he’ll never admit it, Trevor’s appearance had frightened him.  A Devil Forgemaster he was, but one sorely out of practice at the time, while Trevor had defeated Dracula and seemed in top form.  Hector feared not for his life, but for the loss of his revenge.  For proving Isaac right.  That he was too weak, had grown too soft, to stop him.