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]

He made no attempt to sleep, but it happened anyway. He did not move from where he was put, and wakes up in the same place. His mind feels clear, and because of that, he makes no attempt to rise.

His skin itches. He knows why, but cannot bear to think about it. And his wrist hurts - it is not as bad, but still something he cannot face.

There is nothing about this he can face. His mind is painfully blank. All there is left is shame.

[vojvode]

Abel comes and goes, quickly and quietly, about his business. He stokes the fire in the grate, sets the table with a fresh meal, and lays out a set of clothes for the guest. A variation on the theme of yesterday.

He pauses just a few feet from Javert's bed, and coughs politely. He leaves something on the side table.

He leaves without speaking a word.

[never_shall_yield]

His eyes are open through out, but he does not stir.

Until the man opens the door to leave.


'Abel.'

[vojvode]

There is a moment when he thinks to flee, pretending he did not hear the man speak. But he can't. He won't.

'Sir?'

[never_shall_yield]

He still has not moved, but his voice carries easily enough.

'Did he leave the swords?'

[vojvode]

Abel looks around the room, and sees one laid across the hearth.

The gladius, in two pieces.

'Just the one, sir.'

[never_shall_yield]

'Not his, I presume.'

He cannot trouble himself to lift his head to check.

'Where is he?'

[vojvode]

'I don't...'

Abel pauses mid-sentence, coughs and nods.

'He's in the sanctuary, sir. And he had me leave you this. Sir.'

[never_shall_yield]

His eyes move to the thing on the table, then back to the wall they had been staring at previously.

'I do not want anything from him,' he says, flatly.

'Take it away, please. And leave me alone.'

[vojvode]

'Sir.'

He moves to leave, and hesitates.

'Would you accept it from me, sir?'

[never_shall_yield]

'...I beg your pardon?'

[vojvode]

'Sorry, sir. He was just --'

He coughs, shuffles in place. He's not used to talking to anyone who isn't the Master.

'He was talking about you. To me. And well.' Another pause, and the words come out in a rush. 'When he's not here, I read sir. And St. Theresa, she helps. So it's not really from him. It's from me.'

[never_shall_yield]

He listens. And then chuckles dryly into his pillow. Hopefully, the hysteria within does not show in it.

'Helps you? And what does a man such as you - a willing servant to something like him - need help with?'

[vojvode]

Abel huffs, his jaw setting. But he will not be riled. He takes a few steps towards the man, and takes up the book. There is a thumbing of pages, and he finds what he was looking for. He clears his throat, and recites in a quiet, level voice.

'Do Thou, O Lord, take into account all that we suffer in this way through our ignorance. We err in thinking that we need only know that we must keep our thoughts fixed on Thee. We do not understand that we should consult those better instructed than ourselves, nor are we aware that there is anything for us to learn.

'We pass through terrible trials, on account of not understanding our own nature and take what is not merely harmless, but good, for a grave fault. This causes the sufferings felt by many people, particularly by the unlearned, who practise prayer. They complain of interior trials, become melancholy, lose their health, and even give up prayer altogether for want of recognizing that we have within ourselves as it were, an interior world.'

He continues, barely taking a breath between phrases.

'We cannot stop the revolution of the heavens as they rush with velocity upon their course, neither can we control our imagination. When this wanders we at once imagine that all the powers of the soul follow it; we think everything is lost, and that the time spent in God's presence is wasted.

Meanwhile, the soul is perhaps entirely united to Him in the innermost mansions, while the imagination is in the precincts of the castle, struggling with a thousand wild and venomous creatures and gaining merit by its warfare. Therefore we need not let ourselves be disturbed, nor give up prayer, as the devil is striving to persuade us. As a rule, all our anxieties and troubles come from misunderstanding our own nature.'*

He closes the book, and drops it back on the table.

'Take it or leave it. Sir'

*The Interior Castle, by St. Teresa of Avila, 1577

[never_shall_yield]

He listens - what choice does he have? - and by the end his eyes have closed.

It seems there is a text to support any way of thinking; so many people claiming to know the best way to God, or what He expects, or how to manage living. Which one to trust? It is not like the law, with only one set of rules. This is why death is easier. And it is the third day. He should fade - could do so at any moment - and then things will be halfway righted. He will not be a prisoner of this man anymore. That is a beginning.

'Leave me.'

[vojvode]

Abel departs, and Javert has successfully defended him himself from another attempt at aide.

In the distance, a low rumbling builds. Thunder. God's own laughter.

There is a tingling at the back of his mind. Something warm, like the smell of fresh baked bread. It is the mental equivalent of a cat brushing up against his leg. A brief, limited contact.

[never_shall_yield]

And an instant, unthinking, screaming response.

GET OUT.

He moves finally, to clutch his head, and curl up into himself as best he can. He cannot take another assault. And more than anything, he wants his mind to be his own again.

There is a broken sword not six feet away. He had thought to defend himself against Tepesh, but it occurs to him now, there is another use for it. He does not want to damn himself again, if such a thing can be done, but better that than become what this man wants him to become.

[vojvode]

'If you kill yourself, in my house, I will turn you before your heart stops beating. Be still. You shall have your wish. Your mind is your own, and I will not touch you again.'

The voice is dry, exhausted. Beaten. He hasn't entered the room, speaking from the doorway.

'I can not help but hear your surface thoughts. I do not know how to silence that.'

[never_shall_yield]

He freezes at the first sound of the voice. And then his mouth twists into a hard line, and he rolls - first to his back, and then to sitting.

'Even you would not have time.'

It was a notion, but he will not risk it.

'And if you come near me again, I will slit your throat.'

[vojvode]

'It would be,' what was the word he had used? 'Fruitless.'

[never_shall_yield]

'Oh? There is nothing that will kill you?'

He sneers, but cannot deny there is a desperation he is not proud of. He has always refused to act violently, because he had the law as a righteous shield. But here, now, there is little he would like more than to take up that broken sword, and use it on this creature.

[vojvode]

He does not fear Javert. He is but a mortal man, weak and slow.  His brides would make quick work of him.

But this rage... He does not turn away from it, as much as he might want to.

'When the time comes, I will tell you such secrets.'

As if the man hadn't already struck a blow to his heart.

'Have you ever killed a man?'

[never_shall_yield]

He raises his chin defiantly.

'I have never struck a man with more force than necessary.'

And he will not be made to feel weak for not being a murderer.

[vojvode]

'That is no answer.'

[never_shall_yield]

'You would try and belittle me for not killing people?'

He snorts, beyond fear of this creature now, and unable to care how stupid that is.