#lightsealed

It’s been a while since he spoke to Rhys, which feels wrong in its own right. But he, just as much as they, needed time to reconsider strategies. Hektor has made a decision, and that’s what sends him hunting down his trainee, stopping them from whatever it is they’re trying to do. “Hoh, sapling. I heard you wanted to try and defeat me to figure out your role. Even went to that guy... you break an old man’s heart.” It’s alright, he’s joking (sort of).

“I’ve decided-- if you wish for a battle, I’ll give it to you. As many tries as you wish; you can even choose the manner and the weapons you and I shall fight with. One catch, though: I won’t kill you, but I won’t go easy on you.” Before, when he’s fought, he’s kept his actions slow enough for Rhys to track him, get a chance to predict what he’s going to do and if they’re quick on the uptake, how to  fight against it. Blows done with the broad end of the blade, a bruise but not avulsion.

“Hey, Rhys, look at this.” What ‘this’ is: a divot in the ground, a cavern half-shielded from view by the tree roots growing over and around it. It’s shallow at the entrance, up perhaps the the bottom of Hektor’s sternum if he were to measure himself against it. But when he leans and ducks his head in, around the roots, the cavern drops open to something wide and shaped (eerily enough) like a hallway.

It’s metal, or at least it looks it, on the inside. Enough rust has gotten to the opening where it passes as natural rather than anthropogenic, but the barely-visible walls deeper inside look just a bit too fresh. Hektor’s already fishing in his bag for a light.  

The question is piped up from the figure wrapped upon themselves, words treading careful around the low fire. Hektor takes some time before he answers. The words are hard to find, even though the thoughts and feelings arise easily to the surface. He looks over at Rhys, their shapes tossed into sharp shadow-bright contrast by the flame before them both. The answer, though, is given after Hektor looks back into the trees. “I wish I could give you an answer that’s inspiring, or that could help take the weight off of your shoulders.”

But he can’t, because all he can do is be honest. Because this soldier deserves better than a motivational lie, better than some empty phrase that can’t deliver on promises.

“The hardest thing I have ever done. As a Servant, I have people I can rely on. Some, like my Master, have no option but to work with me. Some are simply trusted companions. When I was human, I fought with companions who made my burden of being the leader bearable. I sincerely don’t think wars are meant to be fought alone. I don’t think they can be fought alone.”

He stirs at the embers of the campfire before them with a stick, watching the displaced sparks hop over wood coal. “Battles can be fought alone, though. And those are the ones that are terrifying and difficult.” A long time ago and in a city long since dead, there would have been more fires like this. While he wasn’t paying attention his hand had drifted from folded over drawn-up knees to laying palm atop a long-since-closed injury on the side of his neck. Without the favour of Fate, that one would have killed him as he stood, even knowing he would live, it wasn’t something he particularly wished to repeat. That was a fight alone, faith the only help he had. It ended well, as much as a fight can end, his foe and he respected one another and neither died. But it was difficult nonetheless, a force of adrenalin and terror biting at his heels, the ‘if you fail, all you have ever loved and lived for will be cruelly destroyed’ never leaving from the back of his mind.

A constant– defend, defend, you must not back down, you must pick this city up and you must carry it and you must be at the head because if you hide and the others cannot see that you are leading and carrying them they will fall. A bitter drink.

When he died, that too was without help. It would have been preferable to die in a large conflict. There would have been less problems with it– but his death was his own damn fault, and his own damn stupidity and cowardice and pride and bravado. The things that people are stuck with.

Hektor sighs. He’s probably been quiet for too long, lost in thought like he really is getting senile or something. “I think, in a grander scheme, you aren’t alone. The one to wield your weapons may be just you, with no partner to hold a spear or guide your chariot. But there should be someone around to give you courage before a battle, or to help cart you off the field when you are bloodied and to clean the wounds you can’t reach yourself. If you have none– everyone needs friends, Rhys. And friends will find some way to help you as much they can. I would journey with you if I weren’t needed here. All I can do now is try to teach you what I can. I’m no Chiron, but I hope that something I can give you feels like help when you’re on the front lines.” He wants to provide something that can help, but even as a Spirit his magic is negligible. It is only the offensive things, all Hektor has for himself is the ability to defend beyond reason and the ability to kill. This is not a person he can defend but maybe if he’s good enough at showing how to kill and how to keep others safe, Rhys will learn something that lets them defend themselves.

It’s a lonely path. Even here, they’re the only one of their type. The only intruder, world-hopper from their home and Hektor isn’t sure if he counts as a proper ally to fend of that sort of isolation.

unprompted asks

“What’s stopping me from being your dad? I might not be biologically related to you, but I care about you and I’m here for you when you need me. Or when you don’t. If you see me as your dad, I’m honoured. You’re my kid, after all.” Rhys can call him whatever they want. Hektor already sees himself as their dad. Family can be chosen just as much as created and all that, bonds are just as good as blood.

They lean against him with an exhausted flop. The deep sigh is palpable in their attitude, even if they don’t let it out aloud. Hektor chuckles quietly. His spear hasn’t been placed back down. Lance is still at his side, so what’s Rhys doing turning in so early?

“Oh? My dear, I don’t recall telling you that the training was over.” But they’re human, and Hektor knows this. It’s not a sincere admonition. The breeze winds over the grass and flutters the hemline of Hektor’s cloak, and Hektor doesn’t move. Rhys can stay. Limits are limits, and pushing them to utter exhaustion helps nothing. “I suppose I can give you a few minutes to catch your breath. Remember to have some water once you’re done leaning on me.” 

It’s long past the era where any kind of obvious sickness was worth concern of death, but that doesn’t mean that Hektor’s going to let Rhys keep on as they are without tossing them at Roman.

“You have an interesting definition of fine,” Hektor comments. The kid is definitely sick. Their body appears to act pretty human--get hurt like one, moves like one--so it can probably catch cold like one, too. “Come on. Someone’s gotta look at you.”