The Best Laid Plans
Another 1-word drabble challenge – word is "poison", from Mark of the Asphodel. Again, you can hit me up at noneedforwings[dot]livejournal[dot]com if you'd like to get in on these things.
It's still surprising for Hector to see the streaks of gray in Matthew's rugged hair, though the dark rings around his eyes, at least, are quite familiar. It was unreasonable, of course, to expect Matthew to stay the same spry, smirking man through all these years, but somehow, Hector had thought it might be so. He's a better man for the job than Astol – he'll understand it perfectly, and perhaps it will feel like a better choice if it's questioned. At least, Hector likes to hope it might.
"And that will do it?" he asks, as he pulls his tea away from his lips and places it at the edge of the table. Quickly, Matthew nods. With the skittish way the spy always has, it's almost as if it's his own life at stake. "You're certain?"
"Undetectably, I might add." There's still that spark in Matthew's eyes, the little twinkle that Hector has always imagined to say yes, I know I'm quite clever, and yes, I know more than I'm letting on. At this point, he thinks, his brother would nod tersely, wave his hand and say, Go. Do it. Hector is not that sort of man, though often times he wishes he was.
"It. . . won't be too bad for him, will it?"
"It was a necessity, you said." Matthew's words were more teasing than he expected – one last jab at his remaining innocence, or perhaps at his growing guilt. Or, perhaps, Hector is only dwelling on what he shouldn't. Though part of him longs for the days when a decision was just a decision, made on the spot without deliberation, part of him is glad he cannot make this one so easily.
"It is. But tell me."
Matthew sighs and leans in. "Slow, gradual, that's how it has to be done. At worst, it'll be like a pestilence – the sort of thing the villages get hit with. A lingering illness. Sad, but not unusual. That is, if it's all done right."
"He's a healthy man."
"He won't be." Matthew's shrug is casual, but his smirk is gone. There's something almost somber in his gaze as he eyes his old employer up. "Are you certain?"
Hector tries not to remember. He thinks, instead, of the good of Ostia, of his dear Lilina and her future, of the prosperity that surely awaits her and – he hopes, despite himself – Roy. "Go. Do it."
He imagines he sounds like his brother might have. Perhaps Matthew sees it too, for the smirk doesn't quite reappear, and his bow is just the slightest bit deeper than what Hector is used to. "I'll send word, then," the spy says as he looks up again. "Expect results within a few months' time. I'd prefer not to rush."
He leaves, thankfully, before Hector can speak again. After a long, silent pause, the marquess of Ostia returns to his tea.