vojvode | OOM: Javert Day Three

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OOM: Javert Day Three

[ 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.

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'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.'

'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.'

'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.'

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.

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.

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.'

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.

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.'

'Yes.'

Lord knows he needs it. Still, he hesitates.

'Is he gone?'

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.'

'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.

'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.

'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.

Abel throws him a look that as much as calls him an Idiot.

'There is no shame in not being able to withstand his attentions. He is like the storm. You can only lash down and do your best to endure it.'

He eyes Javert up and down.

'You've held together better than most.'

At least he's not another body he has to dispose of.

'There is every shame.'

He says it quietly, and does not look at the man as he walks to the door, and across into the bathing chamber. He cannot take pride in not being dead, nor in not managing to stop what has happened to him. He came willingly - blindly, but willingly - and so it is impossible not to blame himself.

Impossible to quell the fury though, too. And it is also shameful, because he has always been proud of his control of his violent nature. But this exceeds any situation he has found himself in before, and surely he is allowed to do what he must to defend himself?

He tells himself this as he sinks into the bath. It is better than trying to resist the desire to strike. And he is not sure he cares any longer - he is lost, has been lost for months, and he must hold on to anything he can.

Abel moves around him, quickly and quietly, taking the robe and laying it aside. He rests a hand briefly on Javert's shoulder, and then cuts the bandages away with a small pair of scissors.

He then turns and prepares the razor and a solution of soap. He considers offering to shave the man, but instead just gives them to Javert and holds the mirror instead.

He nods in gratitude - and no, he would not let anyone near his throat just now - and sets to the task. There is something calming in it, marred only by the need to manoeuvre the blade around the ugly puncture marks at the side of his neck. He pauses near them, eyeing them, feeling nausea begin in the pit of his stomach. They are larger than he had thought yesterday, circular and deep, gaping holes in previously unmarred flesh. And they hurt; more, now he is looking at them.

'I wonder that no one has killed him.'

Abel's lips thin, but he holds the mirror steady.

'They have, sir.'

Many, many times. It just doesn't seem to take.

His eyes flick up to the man's face.

'How?'

The servant meets his gaze, and it's clear, he's struggling. But the Master told him to answer any and all questions.

'Blades. Pistol. Musket.'

'And yet, he is not dead.'

He returns his gaze to the mirror. The face staring back is pale, and haggard. Those marks. They are vivid in his white skin; he supposes he should be glad that a cravat will cover them, if he is careful, but it will not remove the knowledge they are there.

'Why is he not dead?'

Abel laughs, shakes his head.

'He is beyond Death. God doesn't want him and the Devil's afraid he'll take over.'

It is an old joke. Older than Abel.

He makes a 'hmph' sound, and sets the razor down.

'He will face one of them eventually.'

No one can evade death forever. That is something he is sure of.

'Leave me, please.'

Abel does so, quickly and quietly.

He returns to the other room, to change the bed linens and make the bed. To bring more wine and water, and lay out the meal of heavy black bread, strong white cheese, cured meat, and a brown beer. He fills a glass with water and sets it on the side of the bed.

And then he sweeps the floor, keeping one ear open should the man require assistance.

As soon as he is alone, he starts to scrub. And scrub, and scrub, long after any residue of the last assault is gone. It was the first time he has ever...well, he does not like to think of it. It is not an act that has ever been shared, and it is not the way he would have wanted it to be, if he ever gave it any thought. But it is too late to change it now, and the burning red of his face when he thinks on it is enough to tell him that it is not something he is willing to repeat with another person again.

He dries off vigourously, and dresses as quickly as he can. He does not trust Tepesh not to appear again, and does not trust himself if he is caught unawares. But no one comes; he exits for food, not because he is hungry, but because he will not allow himself to feel weak here.

'My thanks, Abel.'

He sits, and drinks the water first.

'I may not see you again. I am leaving today, and will not return.'

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