OOM: Javert Day Three

[vojvode]

[ Cont'd from here. ]

He returns from the hunt, his hunger sated, but his mind restless.

The man haunts him, with his stern mouth and his searching gaze.  He lets himself imagine all the impossible moments, trying to let them fall away into darkness, to let them die like the flames when all the fuel is spent.  

He paces when he's restless, and he finds himself back in the sanctuary.  Alexandreina frets in her sleep, and he kisses her icy lips.  Mirella is still, and cold, and beautiful.  He remembers how easily he could make her laugh, before the hunger stole her mind.  Tsura reaches for him, her dark eyes opening and her voice a hungry moan.  A wave of desire hits him, and he pushes it away, willing her back down into sleep.

That is what he did to Javert.  He had good intentions, but the man refused all his advances.  And he pushed, and pushed, until all the armor was stripped away, and he made the man wail with ecstasy.

It was easier to live with dispensing pain, he thinks, eyeing the earth-filled coffin.   

In his head, he tries to imagine what the world would look like, if she had never been taken from him.  How many lives would have been spared?  How many souls?

He cannot sleep, not while this last day remains, and so he paces.  Listening for the man to stir above, and sending Abel to tend to him.

He releases all veils from Javert's mind, but the connection in the blood, that will only fade with time.

Comments

[never_shall_yield]

'But it would not be a convenience. It would be the opposite. I do not enjoy mindless conversation that serves no purpose.'

This is true, though not the whole truth. He scratches his shoulder idly, and averts his eyes from the perfect circles of the puncture wounds. They look larger on his wrist than those on the neck.

'I am not part of society. Marrying would be a pretence at something that is not for men like me.'

[vojvode]

Vlad scoffs, and carries the watered wine to him, setting it on the floor beside the bed and turning away, keeping his gaze carefully averted.

'Men like you? If men like you didn't marry, there wouldn't be men like you. You are the very footings upon which society is built.'

[never_shall_yield]

He scowls at it, but picks it up nonetheless. He is weak again, and wine is good for the blood.

'You do not understand. And I do not have to explain, or justify anything to you.'

[vojvode]

'No, you do not. I just find it curious.'

He retreats to the other side of the room, pacing slowly along the stone.

'A man such as you would make a good husband.'

[never_shall_yield]

'No. You are wrong.'

Of that, he is sure.

'Further, you insult me by saying men like me, as if the only purpose of non-titled beings is to marry, and produce offspring. Well, maybe it is true of others. But not me. I have controlled myself, as most others do not. I will not produce children to live outside of society as I do; it would not be just to condemn someone that way. And men like me are the very creatures who should refrain from indulging baser instincts. The last thing society needs is more mouths that cannot be filled.'

Besides, women irritate him.

[vojvode]

The last sentiment is as clear as if it had been spoken aloud, and it is close thing that keeps him from laughing. Instead, his lips thin and he makes a concerted effort to frown.

'Men like you are the salt of the earth. Without you and men like you, this society you speak of, the one you are outside of, looking in, this society -- would crumble to dust. For want of a nail, a kingdom was lost.'

His hand turns the cup back and forth, and there is something distant in his expression.

'It would be a great loss, if you had no sons.'

[never_shall_yield]

'I am not a peasant,' he mutters.

'I am not one of the masses. And what use have I of sons? I have no land that needs working, no business to leave behind for them to run. I was a policeman, I am finished with it, it is the end. I consider it very lucky I have no sons to leave in hunger.'

[vojvode]

Vlad hums quietly, one finger laid across his lips.

'Stolen from your clan. Burdened with no heirs. Married to the law.'

He'd had men in his service of similar inclination, but they had their reasons. And the Janissaries. Radu. Just the memory makes his hand clench on the back of the chair. He exhales, dispelling the shadows of memory, bringing his focus back to the man before him.

He turns the chair, still across the room, so that he can sit and face the fire, but still watch Javert from the corner of his eye. He needs to let the man dress, eat, regain his dignity, but he only has one day left to him. And the sense of urgency is pressing. Time is not something he is used to being at odds with. This whole situation is rife with constraints he is not used to bearing, but he will bear them.

'How did you come to serve?'

[never_shall_yield]

'The police?'

He rubs a hand over his face. The only time he has spoken to someone while still in bed is when he has been in hospital. It is wildly inappropriate. But he cannot get up, in case there is...evidence.

'Why are you asking? Why are you interested? Is this some attempt to right what you have done?'

[vojvode]

Vlad is quiet for a long moment, sitting with the question. It is a valid question.

'A question, for a question.' He nods, solemn.

'I stand by my, actions. That you are wounded by them, by what I have tried to give you...' His voice trails off, closing his eyes and shaking his head. 'No. I will not apologize. Your soul has grown twisted beneath your burden, and any attempt to heal it, gentle or not, will cause you pain.'

[never_shall_yield]

'I never asked for any kind of healing.'

He virtually spits it; the anger rises again, and he cannot look at him.

'I do not know what you think qualifies you to help me. And you are not telling the truth. That you are doing this for your own reasons - and no, I do not exist to be some kind of...concubine, for your perverted desires.'

[vojvode]

Vlad's brow furrows, but he basks in the heat of the man's outburst.

'That, was never my intent.'

A simple truth.

'You misunderstand me. You misunderstand my, desires.'

His jaw clenches as he bites back the urge to project an image into the man's mind, to explain using the bond that he can still feel.

'We do not speak the same language in that regard. I know you despise me for it. I know that.'

He can feel that through the bond as sharp as a scourge across his skin.

[never_shall_yield]

'No.'

He does not think he does. Misunderstand, that is.

'But yes, I despise you for it, and you cannot blame me, surely? You take what is not yours to take, and I am supposed to thank you, and-'

He breaks off. This morning, before their last encounter, he said he would take it as a lesson. That he should control his anger, and then bad things would not happen. But they happened anyway, and now, anger is all he has left to bring to this.

So now he mutters, more to himself than anything, 'maybe I should offer thanks, simply because you have not forced more. But I will not.'

[vojvode]

'I do not require your thanks. I never wanted anything from you but for you to turn your face to me.' As the lover to the beloved. So many before him have done so willingly, eagerly even. He thinks on their fates, and for once, thinks perhaps this is best.

He opens his eyes and stares into the fire.

'You no longer belong to the police. So, I lay claim to you, tzigani. You have no clan, and no people to call your own. Your mother tongue feels like ash in your mouth and that is -- a sin.'

The irony of that sentiment does not escape him.

'You are mine, to do with as I please. At least for today.'

[never_shall_yield]

'You have no right to lay any kind of claim.'

The prisoners of Toulon, beasts that they were, had more right in the ownership they called on guards who were amenable to that sort of depravity. This man is a prince, and a monster, and his claim is entirely worthless.

'And it is not my mother tongue. Nothing about those people made me the man I am - I renounce them, and I renounce you.'

He pushes out of bed, standing tall despite how filthy he is. What use is shame, now?

'I will fight you. Whatever you decide to try, I will fight.'

[vojvode]

Vlad's gaze travels down the length of his body, and back to his face, his expression implacable. His voice remains level, but not cold. Never cold.

He knows what it is to renounce a power greater than himself.

'I have no desire to fight you.'

He pushes himself to his feet, drawing his robe around himself.

'You must be hungry. And in need of a shave.'

He drifts towards the door, carefully placing each foot and shifting his weight. Feeling the interplay of muscle and bone, feeling the cool stone against the soles of his feet.

He departs, without looking back.

[never_shall_yield]

His face twists in fury - of course, the man would walk away now. It is power play, and he is sick of it. With a growl, his hand finds the nearest object to hand - the book he was left - and he hurls it at the door.

It is the action of a child, and he immediately laments the loss of control. But keeping control is not going to help him here. Tepesh has proved he has no respect for it.

[vojvode]

A moment later, Abel appears at the door. His eyes fall to the book, and his expression shifts, as if it was a small child that Javert had wounded, not an inanimate object. He picks it up and smooths the pages, folding the covers together, his touch loving and gentle. It is clearly something he cherishes.

And then he fixes Javert with a glare. His voice is tight, his words terse.

'Sir. I have clothes for you, sir. And the bath is prepared. As is your meal.'

[never_shall_yield]

He bites the inside of his lip, and stands straight.


A few moments later;

'My apologies. It was the closest thing - - I meant no disrespect to you.'

He bows to him, low and respectful. He may only be a servant, but that is no excuse to mistreat him, through temper or malice.

[vojvode]

Abel frowns, and returns the bow. It's an awkward thing, far more formal than he is used to.

'I know.'

He carries the book between two hands and places it back on the side table. In the manner of servants everywhere, he ignores Javert's state of undress.

'Come on. Let's get you cleaned up.'

[never_shall_yield]

'Yes.'

Lord knows he needs it. Still, he hesitates.

'Is he gone?'

[vojvode]

Abel's attention shifts, as if he's listening to something in the distance. His brow knits for a moment and he looks back to Javert.

'I think so. We should have time to set you to rights, at least, before he comes back.'

[never_shall_yield]

'He is in your mind, also?'

He is taken aback by the notion.

'Do you let him...?'

He gestures vaguely to the mark on his own neck, the movement stiff and painfully humiliating.

[vojvode]

'It is how he speaks. When I was much younger, he went years without,' he gestures to his mouth, 'words.'

He finds a robe to drape around Javert, to cover his nakedness.

'And no. No, we are under his protection. And he is under ours.'

The clan guards him with their lives, even though they know his true nature.

[never_shall_yield]

'You are a gypsy.'

He should have guessed. Should have known.

At the same time, he is gratified that he did not. Not recognising one is tantamount to not being one. He draws himself up, and resists the urge to pull the robe tighter around his body.

'I did not let him.'

It is important that it be said. Even to a servant.