vojvode | OOM: Javert Day Three

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

'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.'

Abel finishes his task, and wipes his hands.

'God go with you, sir.' He mutters a quiet blessing in Roma, under his breath.

'Is there anything else you need, sir?'

He snorts quietly at the sentiment, and the blessing both, but says nothing. Just shakes his head briefly.

'No, thank you.'

He eats then. And waits, because no doubt he will not be left alone for long.

He at least gets the time to eat in silence. A few minutes more, perhaps.

But he cannot stay away. They have so little time left.

When he returns, the robes are gone. He stands in a simple white shirt, and black trousers, black riding boots that are shined to a glass finish. He carries a pair of black leather gloves, and leans against the door frame.

'Disappointed that he didn't tell you how to kill me?'

The lilt of his voice is somewhere between playful and predatory, though his expression is something more complex.

He does not look to the door, and finishes the beer before bothering to speak.

'I would not trust he would tell the truth. Gypsies do not, as a rule.'

There's a momentary flash of anger for the honor of his man servant, no less.

'This one does. Abel is a good man. I would have you not speak ill of him, please. Spit your venom at me, and leave him out of it.'

'Do not tell me what to do.'

He turns in his chair, and meets the man's gaze.

'And saying I spit venom is to imply that there is no reason behind it. It implies a child's tantrum, or the raving of a wronged woman. Do not do that. I have every reason to feel aggrieved, and each of them valid.'

Vlad pushes himself up to standing, and passes Javert, dropping his gloves on the table as he goes. He takes up the seat opposite, leaning back and interlacing his fingers.

'Direct your ire at me, sir. Lest I lose faith entirely in your, better nature.'

The words are exquisitely enunciated in a sharp sneer. As if Javert has never brought a man to his knees in humiliation. As if he didn't enjoy it.

His eyes narrow. A pulse of fury rouses deep in his chest; he keeps it down, but it will not be quelled entirely.

'You have no care for my better nature. You have done all you can to ruin it, under the guise of trying to help. You have tried to destroy it. You have tried to steer me towards renouncing God, to debase myself, to allow myself to join forces with you, a creature of darkness. So, monsieur, you may keep your comments on my nature. You have no care for it.'

'I have done no such thing. I never told you to renounce your God.'

His jaw sets, and Javert's rage sizzles against his skin like a branding iron.

'I offered you my heart, on a silver platter. And you would rather drive a knife through it than admit that for a moment, for one singular, perfect moment, you lost yourself in pleasure. A pleasure so rich, so bone deep, you will spend the rest of your life trying to recapture it.'

'You would rather cloak yourself in righteous rage and misery than for one moment admit that it might be easier to be weak than to be strong.'

'But that is the point.'

He leans forward suddenly, hissing the words.

'It is easy to be weak. Why, it is the easiest thing in the world! But it is not right, and is not good, and I will not give in to you.'

He is on his feet, heart clamouring in the wounds on his neck.

'You may force me to...what you did, but it was force because I will not yield to you any other way. So you may feel proud of yourself, but I have no need to find it again. But you...you will get another victim, and try to ruin them too, and then another, and another, and-'

He is breathing too hard to continue. He does not want to face what this man brought him to, but he also cannot deny the pleasure that was pushed on him. He will not lie about it, but it does not mean he has to admit to it either.

'You do not know...you have no understanding of what it is to-'

Words are failing him, but he cannot just sit, and say nothing. The humiliation of these three days, now nothing is suppressing his mind, will not allow him to just take it. He cannot turn the other cheek, as he did to Valjean all those years ago; he cannot allow an infringement upon his person to be ignored. Even if he asked God for it. He did not ask for this, and...no, he prayed for penance, and he should accept it, but he cannot, he must be weak, he cannot just lie down and take it.

In the absence of other options, of clarity of thought, he bunches his fists at his side, and lands one on the table. It causes the cutlery to rattle, and the glass to fall. He does not notice.

'I wish to leave.'

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject