Isaac + Mathias | 7. …to shut them up.
The two Devil Forgemasters could not be any more opposite.
It was not merely their appearances, one being blessed with angelic looks and carrying himself with grace and pride, and the other hiding his face behind his devilish hair and an ugly sneer. No, Mathias had come to not just enjoy, but look forward to Hector taking a break from his duties to keep him company in the vast, treacherous castle that he refused to call his home. The man may be steeped in sin and blasphemy, but no one would be able to tell from his knightly demeanor, the delicate courtesy with which he'd bring Mathias' hand to his lips. Holding Hector's arm made Mathias feel safer than holding a sword - and a sword could not make his insides flutter so pleasantly.
And then there was Isaac.
"How does Hector deal with you?" Mathias sighed, massaging his temples. Isaac despised having to spend more than one second with him, and rest assured, the sentiment was heartily reciprocated: the sooner he left, the sooner he could deal with his headache.
"I don't know. Perhaps, my Lord," the man spat the title like an insult at Mathias' feet, "you are the problem."
"I haven't done anything to you, yet you treat me like I'm not worth of polishing your boots." He had reached his limit. He never expected to befriend the General - he was much more enthusiastic about being a bloodthirsty heathen than Hector, he thrived in being repugnant - but Mathias did nothing to deserve Isaac's relentless scorn and mockery, and it wasn't unfeasable to demand some respect.
Isaac refused to show him any. He jabbed his chest with one of his long fingernails, filed to nearly resemble a claw, leering too close into Mathias' face for his comfort. "I have no sympathies for sniveling, cowardly Christians who sniffle all over their Bibles and paw at their crosses when they see me. And I am supposed to call you my Lord?" Mathias was no happier about the indignity forced upon him by the monster who carried his face, but he had no intention of wasting his breath. "You better find a way to your precious home soon, and get out of our sight."
The response Mathias was about to push died out at that last slip of the tongue.
"Our?"
"Don't you believe that just because Hector is nice to you, you are welcome here," Isaac rolled his eyes in theatrical fashion. "We were ordered to serve you, and Hector is always attempting to impress our Lord..."
But Mathias was no longer listening to his ramblings. Isaac had unwittingly handed him a weapon; and perhaps it was not the wisest strategy, but Mathias ached with the need to put the man in his place.
"Yes, you are quite right. Hector enjoys my company, and I his. He is a wonderful bodyguard and companion."
"He's a whore, that's what--"
"And," Mathias interrupted with a finger held up: he would not fall into Isaac's trap, he could see through him with ease. "Count Dracula is quite careful around me. He is housing me in the most furbished wing of the castle and assigned me his best Generals to protect me. Naturally, it is to prevent anything from happening to me, as it would have repercussions on himself, but the point stands."
Isaac had no answer to that. God was truly merciful. Mathias smiled amiably at the Forgemaster's deepening scowl that all but confirmed his theory.
"Could it be, Isaac, that you feel sidelined by the two men you love?"
"I am not!" Isaac exploded without missing a beat; Mathias was quick to hide his mouth behind his palm. "I am still a Devil Forgemaster and a General and I am far more important to Lord Dracula than you could ever be!"
"Would the Count protect your life at all costs? Are you that valuable to him? He hardly glances at you." No, it did not take long for Mathias to witness where the Count's favor fell, and it was in form of a clawed hand on Hector's shoulder, no matter how visibly he and Isaac both tensed. "And from what I have seen of you two, I doubt Hector would shed a tear if you had to depart. That poor man was mesmerized that I talked to him with basic decency. I'd struggle to see you two as friends."
"Presumptuous excuse of a Lord, you don't know the first thing about us!"
"I don't need to. You wear your heart on your sleeve. And what a sorry sight it is." He was no taller and more imposing than Isaac was, but he took a step forward to meet Isaac, emboldened, eager: "You hiss and puff your hair to appear bigger, when you know, you know deep in your heart, that you are a small man, insecure, lonely, clinging, scared to lose what little he has, and no wonder they have grown tired of--"
Mathias couldn't finish his tirade before Isaac pulled him to his mouth.
Calling what he was doing a kiss would be an insult to the very concept of love. Isaac kissed the same way he talked: by biting hard enough to split skin and draw blood, pressing his nails into Mathias' scalp, taking, hurting, trapping him in an iron-tight grip; decency thrown out the window, he banged his fists on every part of the Forgemaster he could reach, but he did not flinch.
A sharp bite on the tongue drew a yell out of him, and only then Isaac retreated, showing his teeth stained with blood.
"Aww, what's that, no more smart words?" he cooed. Mathias pinched the tip of his tongue in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. "I am not a sweet liar like Hector. I will treat you like you are begging for."
There was a lurid threat in Isaac's voice, that froze Mathias over.
The man kept talking, making a show of looking him up and down like an attractive woman - and Mathias swallowed his own blood in fear, because he could no longer tell what was a menace and what was genuine. "If you want me to take care of you so badly, then I suppose I have no choice but to oblige, my Lord. But you'd do well to remember." Quick like a snake, Isaac grabbed a fistful of Mathias' hair and yanked, pulling his head back along with a grunt of pain. "Before being a Lord, before being a human, before being a Christian... you are a piece of meat. And you have barged into the den of beasts."
And with no need for other words, Isaac turned on his heels and walked out of Mathias' room, leaving him with a sore mouth, the hairs on his arms standing up, and a keener understanding of a man animated more by passion than by common sense.
