Chapter Text
Curiosity is what brings him underground. Scaling down the almost fully rebuilt staircase, minding where he places his foot every step of the way, Hector’s hand slides along the fractured bannister. His eyes wander between each blood red flag hanging off the walls, proudly displaying the Belmont crest in gold. He’s not sure how to feel about the sight of them yet. He’s not even sure how he feels about working beside a wearer of that family emblem.
A month ago, they were on opposite sides of this conflict between humans and vampires. Yet Hector can’t help but ask himself: suppose there could be a sort of kinship between him and Trevor? The church wants them dead, the common people hate them for their ties to occult magic, and they both spent their adolescent years quietly alone.
Still, there are glaring differences including where they started in the war. The most formative moment in their early lives might have been forged in fire and death, but it was forced upon Trevor. Hector created it with his own hands, willingly.
It’s a fleeting thought, one that is soon forgotten. Pushed to the back of his mind to make space for more important, more concrete matters.
Hector arrives at the bottom, his only light being the scattered wall bound torches and the sunlight from above. As he walks towards the doorway leading into the archives, he notices how much red coats the walls along with the way his boots stick to the floor every time he lifts them. Blood. Old enough to start drying but not by much. Hector thinks about that group of special night creatures sent to nip Dracula’s most threatening opposition in the bud. He should have let them loose on a certain member of the lord’s court instead.
He’s made several poor decisions both in the past and present; perhaps that’s why he brought himself here. Not all the way down to the Belmont Hold per say but back to the castle itself, now under new occupancy. To try and rectify those poor decisions. Maybe if he can help end this war for good, it will bring him something close to redemption. A sense of good after enduring the worst and the uncertain for so long.
Upon entering the massive room filled with multiple levels of shelves and suspended walkways, Hector is struck by an odd feeling. These books, artifacts, relics – they seem so familiar. Like the ones found in Dracula’s library, his study rooms, and even the forgemaster’s own workspace. Not everything, but enough to be this noticeable. For a clan so hellbent on destroying such a supposed evil, the similarities are difficult to ignore.
Hector’s train of thought, along with his leisurely pace amongst the bookshelves and cabinets, is interrupted by a sight just down one of the aisles. How unexpected, even amusing. Despite being surrounded by so many oddities that seem more likely to pique his interests, a rack of weapons is what captures his full attention, drawing him closer. They’re displayed so plainly, so out in the open, begging to taste fresh blood.
At the very least, Hector is now presented with a variety of options, which he didn’t have before. His hammer? Too small and light. It can give life easily enough, though taking a life requires more effort. His creations? A possibility. They were quick to answer when he called upon them to rip apart that silver clad vampire who guarded his shithole excuse for a room. But Hector knows he can’t always rely on his creatures – he cannot cower in their shadows forever. Now he stands before flanged maces, throwing daggers, small axes, and common broadswords, trying to make a decision.
He reaches for a longsword with a thick grip and cross guard. Using both hands, Hector lifts it off its hanger, grunting at its weight. The muscles in his arms and fingers strain as he raises the blade. How many lives did it take? How many were human? Inhuman? His grip on the hilt tightens, taking the first few swings at nothing. Again, and again, changing his footing and intensity with every strike.
Swords were largely absent from Hector’s life. His family, being farmers, had no use for them – they didn’t have much use for anything or anyone apart from their animals, crops, and tools. However, there were the occasional convoys of soldiers that passed by his isolated home in Rhodes. He watched from his window as they made camp until it was time to move on. They never asked him for shelter.
“They say a necromancer lives up on that hill. Best stay away.”
No one ever bothered Hector and he never bothered them, which was better for both parties. But he remembers catching glimpses of the soldiers sparring with one another in the nearby fields. With his own longsword, Hector mimics their movements as best he can.
Suddenly, he turns around at the slightest noise. “Who’s there?” No answer, but it doesn’t put Hector’s nerves at ease. He listens to his intuition, still feeling the presence of someone else close by. Stepping forward with an angered expression, he keeps his weapon at the ready. “Come out. Show yourself now.”
“You’re not holding it right.” A faint yet recognizable voice replies. Hector lowers the sword ever so slightly and frowns. What an odd thing to hear out of nowhere.
“What?”
Several seconds pass before Trevor’s head cautiously peeks out from behind one of the bookcases. He joins Hector, staying clear of the sword’s tip. “The way your hands are positioned. You’ll never land a decent blow if they’re so close together like that.”
The forgemaster watches and listens in utter confusion. So casual, so informal; the Belmont speaks to him as though they’ve known each other for months instead of days. “Were you spying on me?”
Trevor raises his hands in defence. “No, I wasn’t. Honest. I just came down here to look for something when I noticed you swinging around that thing. Your form’s pretty good, I’ll tell you that much… can’t say the same about your choice in weapons.”
Hector’s attitude changes from suspicious to irritable. He seems to be doing that a lot following his return to the castle, constantly switching between those two emotions. Not that he can help it. “Say what you mean, Belmont.”
“I mean that sword’s not right for you.” Trevor’s eyes briefly scan the rack before he settles on a different longsword with silver and golden accents along the cross guard. “This one looks more suited for you.”
The two men trade swords while Hector is still unable to shake his apprehensive nature, even as he gets a feel for his new weapon. First in one hand then in both. “You know so much about a sword just by looking at it.”
“Learned it from my family. They taught me as much as they could given the… limited time they had. Everything else I mostly had to teach myself. Watching other masters certainly helped.” Again, so casual and informal, it catches Hector off guard. Was it ever this easy for Trevor to talk so naturally about his past? “How did you learn?”
“By watching others as well. Obvious, isn’t it?” There’s a hint of bitterness in Hector’s voice.
“A little.” Trevor is nothing if not honest. “But I already said your form was good. And the way you fight is so raw, I could see how angry you were all the way back there.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Far from it, actually. You just need some pointers and guidance, that’s all. Sparring with someone else would help.”
Exactly what Hector expected to hear. Trevor doesn’t need to say it outright for him to realize what the Belmont is really offering him. “You’re being nice.”
“Well, Sypha once told me I needed to be nicer.” Trevor adds a chuckle to the end of that statement. Was it meant to be a joke? Hector can’t tell, nor is he amused.
“And it doesn’t bother you that we were on opposing sides of this war before.”
“If it did, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. But we all share the same enemy and you explained yourself when you showed up at the front door.”
“I already said I don’t want any pity.”
Trevor crosses his arms, stung by the feeling that they’re getting nowhere together. “Look, if you don’t want my help, that’s fine. It’s your choice. I at least want to give you that.”
Hector stares at him then down at his sword. He needs to be better this time, they all do. He’ll perfect his skills as a fighter, but perhaps he’ll also find that possible kinship between him and the Belmont. The one that still keeps nagging at him like a tick that grows stronger every time he pays it any attention.
“Where would be the best place for us to practice?”
Trevor’s eyes aren’t particularly ablaze with happiness, though they are filled with accomplishment. “That went easier than I expected. Bring that sword, I know a decent spot.”
Hector wants to enjoy the outside. Bask in the sun’s rays, breathe in the fresh air, and listen to all the sounds of the surrounding woods. Everything he took pleasure in whenever he spent just a few moments of respite away from the dark castle. Then too much happened. The forgemaster wishes he could still enjoy the outside the way he used to. He wishes for a lot of things.
Everyone is occupied with something; if it’s not one task, it’s another. Sypha and Julia are a flawless match, devising spells that can be used for battle and defence, having a bit too much fun in the process. The truce struck between Isaac and Alucard has quickly strengthened as they work tirelessly to bring the castle back to life. “Un-break it” as Trevor so eloquently puts it. Hector follows him down the road, patient enough to not ask questions yet impatient enough to start feeling twitchy. Memories of the last time he walked along this dirt path aren’t helping.
He thought he would be taken to a patch of grass somewhere close between the ruins and castle, not deep in the forest away from safety. It starts happening again, the switch from mere annoyance to skepticism and distrust. Trevor eventually leads him off the road towards a tall tree with spindly branches and a trunk that seems like it’s twisting in on itself. Bearing right down its center is a large crack big enough to house more than a few animals. Hector never noticed it before. That night when he ran, he was more focused on what was ahead of him. Not off to his sides and not behind him, where he left all the hurt, lies, mistakes, and manipulation.
“I think I spent more time climbing this tree than I did actually living in my own home.” Trevor runs his hand over the tough bark in an almost sentimental manner. “My mother and I used to have our training matches at its base.”
“It looks dead,” Hector comments. Trevor can’t feel offended because it’s true.
“Probably been dead for a while. Ready?” He unsheathes his own sword, thinner than Hector’s and with ruby embellishments on its grip. They take their positions and prepare themselves, their eyes fixated on each other. “Remember, I won’t be ruthless, but I also won’t let you win too easily.”
“Good. I would have been disappointed in you otherwise.” It’s not a joke, but Trevor laughs regardless.
They begin slowly, carefully. Taking enough time to better understand each other’s level of skill. Never glancing away for a second. Trevor wants to see how much Hector knows on his own. The forgemaster wants to see if all those stories boasting about the Belmont family are true, especially for its last surviving member. After all, this is the man who had a hand in destroying Dracula.
Trevor is the first to attack with more force, aiming his sword towards the upper body and head. Hector blocks each of his blows with speed and effectiveness. The sound of steel singing against steel can be heard throughout the woods. Trevor takes a step back and adjusts his stance, as does Hector. He almost compliments his opponent on how fast he is, but there’s no room for talk, not now.
Amidst all the clashing and scraping, the constant moving of bodies and every heavy breath, the two swords suddenly lock in place. Trevor pushes but Hector holds his ground, matching the hunter’s display of strength. Both waiting for the other to make their next move. It doesn’t take long for Hector to become aggravated with this standstill. With the right combination of quick thinking and impulsiveness, he forces Trevor’s sword to the side, using his elbow to land a blow in the center of his face while there’s still a window of opportunity.
“Fuck!” The Belmont stumbles back, holding his nose and hisses in pain. Any sense of personal victory is gone once Hector realizes what he’s done.
“Shit… shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to do that, I wasn’t thinking-“ His apology is interrupted by an unexpected sound – laughter coming from Trevor. Genuine, not done in a mocking fashion.
“Christ, that actually fucking hurt.” He removes his hand; no blood and nothing seems to be broken but Hector still stands in place, holding the weapon uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? It was a good hit.” He says through a smile.
“It was fighting dirty, though.”
“So?” Trevor tosses his sword in the grass before collapsing onto his bottom with his back against the tree. “Sometimes it’s necessary in order to win. Besides, the concept of fair fighting is a myth. Everyone fights dirty. I’ve done it enough times to stop keeping track. Come on. Time for a break.”
Another awkward pause. The brief surge of adrenaline he felt while sparring fades as Hector’s heartbeat returns to a normal pace (or normal enough). He sits down, back towards Trevor, and brings his knees close to his chest. They pass the time in silence, catching their breath, while every so often Hector glances over his shoulder at the hunter. He seems content, almost too much given the larger situation they’re playing a part in.
This moment would be the perfect chance to ask Trevor something that’s been on Hector’s mind for quite a while. Something he cannot or has difficulty understanding. Still, he hesitates and second guesses himself. He never used to do that so often as he does now. It never used to be so bad.
“How can you defend them?” Hector finally asks.
“Who?”
“… humans. The people of Wallachia, I suppose. After what they did to you and your family. Don’t you hate them?”
Trevor gives his answer some thought. His chest rises and falls as he lets out a huff. “I did. Maybe I still do. In a way, I guess I never really forgave people for those years filled with lies, rumours, and… well, torment.”
“Then why do you still protect them? Why did you decide to stand up and fight back against Dracula?” Hector still feels a sharp sting of discomfort after saying that name out loud – like a small knife or a hot needle to his chest.
“Because I actually found people who were worth protecting. Then I found even more while Sypha and I were traveling. Not just from vampires, but from the church and the same bastards who shat on me my whole life. I don’t have to completely forgive all of humanity. Neither do you, in case you’re worried about that.”
The forgemaster crosses his arms on top of his knees. Same lonely life, same… conflicted feelings towards humankind. Different yet similar, him and the Belmont son.
“So, should we do this tomorrow?”
“Sorry?”
“Another sparring match. Your form is a bit stiff and I always need the practice. It’s up to you, though.”
“Will you be offended if I decline?”
Trevor laughs again. “Actually, I’ll be more offended if you say yes. I’m not the greatest teacher, but I’ll try my damnedest.”
If a sense of unification and god knows perhaps even comradery will help them win, then Hector might as well accept. But after some thought, he realizes it doesn’t have to be begrudgingly. He always believed that being alone was better. Alone, no one could hurt you. No one could use or tear you down. Alone, no one – not even one’s own self – would ever get hurt. Trevor must have understood that way of thinking at some point. Now here he is, offering companionship.
“Tomorrow…” Hector begins. “Alright. That… that would be alright.”