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OOM: Javert Day Three

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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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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.'

He rises with him, his volume matching Javert's, his tone derisive.

'No. Not until we've settled this. Again you are wrong, Javert. I know what it is to be weak. I am well aware that it is the easier path. You would rather beat yourself bloody against the iron cage of your will than relent, for one moment, and accept even the simplest act of kindness.'

Much less accepting the whole of what he'd offered in that moment, that one perfect moment when he'd loved Javert as much as he'd ever loved anything. The ache in his chest is still there, a band of iron thorns around his heart.

'And you are no victim here. You came here of your own free will.'

Edited 2013-09-07 22:39 (UTC)

'It is not kindness.'

His hands come up, grasp his hair, as if trying to pull the thoughts from his mind and leave him clean.

'What was the alternative? To stay in that tavern, damned and dying all over again? You did not tell me you would...do what you did. I would not have-'

But would he? After that night, the lash upon his back, the sickness, the...everything - he would have done anything to get away, would be not?

He strides forward, his will broken now, and grasps the man's shirt at the chest.

'Take me back.'

Vlad stands, his body rocking back, his breath quickening. It is the first time the man has reached for him, of his own free will. The heat of his hands burns his cold skin.

'You gave me this day.'

He does not want to let him go. Not yet. It is petty and childish, but he will have his day.

'I do not care.'

He drags him closer, and is aware, so aware that this time, he is violating himself. That he has a personal code of non-violence, that all he has ever needed is the righteous shield of the law, that he never lays hands on a man in anger. It is not just.

But he does not care. Everything is upside down, and inside out, and the void is pulling at him once more.

'Take me back.'

'No.'

He leans into the grip, feeling the flame of the man's breath on his lips, on his cheeks. He keeps his hands at his side, despite his instincts screaming for him to reciprocate.

'Mine. To do with as I will.'

The hunger shrieks in defiance, but he will not indulge it. It has cost him so much already, it probably would not alter the outcome, but something in him will not allow it.

'I am not yours.'

He is not anybodies. He no longer even belongs to himself.

He shoves the man away. Not too far. Arm's length, just within the range of his swinging fist.

Vlad lets himself be shoved, and lifts his chin, a look of fierce defiance burning in his eyes.

His hands lift of their own volition to boxer's defence, but too slow, and too low. He feels the blow connect, and his head snaps to the side. The monster roars, but he will not give in to it. He looks back to Javert, the split on his lip oozing dark black blood.

'Mine,' he growls, his voice rough.

Edited 2013-09-07 23:14 (UTC)

He swings again, thoughtless, mindless, feeble blood thundering in his ears.

'Never.'

Never.

This time the blow connects under his cheekbone, sending a wave of pain rattling through his eye socket and into his skull. His head rocks back on his neck, and he falls back a step. And it's delicious.

Fire marks the spot where Javert's fist touched his skin. He revels in it. His words are punctuated by ragged breaths, and he drags his gaze back to the man before him.

'I have drunk, from the font of your heart. You, will be a part of me, long after your bones, have turned to dust.'

Edited 2013-09-07 23:28 (UTC)

'Stop-'

He thought the creature would hit back. That is what animals do, is it not? They fight. They brawl, and scream. There is desperation in his chest now, making his arms tight, hindering the power in his muscles. But still, he cannot stop. The blood from the man's lip - it could be his blood, stolen from him as it was; it is his to take back. Yes, yes, he can do this, and it is just.

He aims this time. The nose, the teeth; he has two fists, and knows how to use them.

'-talking.'

The hit connects and drives him back another step, all the way to the cold stone of the wall. Blood sprays through the air, though whether from Javert's knuckles hitting the rigid edge of his teeth or from the meat of his nose, it's impossible to tell.

The second hit comes quick on the heels of the first, and it takes him by surprise. He wants to scream at him, Yes, take back what is yours! Pull it from me by force!

But he keeps those thoughts to himself, hissing at the sharp sensation travelling through long neglected pathways into his spine. Sensation, reminding him of what it's like to be human. To be alive.

'I will, have, this day.' The words are gritted out through clenched teeth.

He is acting on instinct now; blood hits his face, and he thinks nothing of it. He simply grabs him again, and pulls him onto the knee driving up into his stomach.

'Let me go.'

His mind begs for it, but his voice is strong enough. He just wants all this to be over. Is it too much to ask? He will punch his way to Hell, if he has to. Never mind what it costs.

The air goes out of him, and he curls into the blow, smelling the man's sweat and his fear, his blood and his rage. Vlad's hands grab onto the sleeves of the man's coat, just to keep his balance.

His voice is barely more than a whisper. 'Stay with me.'

His vision is blurring and he keeps the monster deep in the vault of his mind, letting the blood flow, letting the wounds stand. He could heal them as quickly as they were made, but he will not.

It would cost blood, and he does not want to spend the last few precious drops that keep him bound to this glorious bull of a man. Worse, he knows he will relent, in the end.

The iron wire around his heart clenches tighter, and it drowns out the beating.

He wrenches his arms away. One fist closes on his throat as he bends, the other is fuelled by months of living in his own sick mind; it crashes into the man's jaw, and he does not care that he cannot catch a breath. His chest is tight, he is gasping; he cannot think, and he just wants to be free.

'I will never.'

He follows him down to the ground, a knee digging into his chest.

'I will never.'

He is hitting him, and hitting him, and there is pain but that is well. He wanted pain. He asked for pain, and he brought it on himself, and he will not turn from it now.

Explosions of white and red crash through his vision with each hit. The hand at his throat cuts off his air, crushing cartilage, sealing his airway, but it hardly matters. The knee in his chest crushes his silent heart, ribs cracking, the sternum separating with a sickening crunch. His head lolls and returns with every punch, the flesh of his lips torn and bleeding, the meat of his cheek turning to bloody pulp, marring his marble white skin.

In his head, he feels each blow, catalogs each injury, the images tangling with the memories of last night, of tasting his skin and the sweet heaven of his blood. If Javert can't take what he needs from his heart and his mind, let him take it from his body. He will give whatever is required of him.

He can only mouth the words now, one hand clinging to the man's sleeve.

Stay.

Be.

Still.

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never_shall_yield - 2013-09-08 00:35 (UTC) - Expand

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vojvode - 2013-09-08 00:44 (UTC) - Expand

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