vojvode | The bar, rooftop

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javert,
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The bar, rooftop

He'd spent the last few hours ghosting through the woods, trying to find a way back to his home, but it was proving a fruitless search.

And so, he finds himself outside the bar, looking up at the door Javert disappeared through just yesterday. He doesn't want to go in. He doesn't want to face Rae again, not now. Maybe not ever. And he doesn't want to face the man, either. Not like this. He's whole again, but the wolf still clings to him. He feels like a barbarian, or a wildling. He doesn't feel like a Prince right now. He feels like a beast of the wood.

So he retreats to the rooftops, finding the highest place he can with a bit of cover from the wind. He settles in with his back against the wall, his white shirt unpinned, and his cuffs hanging lose. His trousers are tucked into the tops of his riding boots, and he doesn't want to think about how his boots look. (Or who is going to polish them, now that Abel is gone.) He sits with one knee drawn up, and his arm resting on it. The other is clutched across his body.

He keeps his mind closed, shutting out the dim roar of the minds below. He doesn't want to think anymore right now. He just wants a moment of stillness.

(Be still. Stay with me.)

This place will surely be the end of him.

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The bar was, eventually, a little much. He has spoken to many people since his return, but most of the conversations are slipping away. He needs some peace, and to try and find some of what he has lost.

When he felt troubled at home, he would walk. It does not feel safe to do so here. But he has found one place that is as close to sanctuary as he can get, so he makes for it now.

The ladders do not trouble his injured hand, though he is aching by the time he reaches the roof. And the stars are out. After hours of subjecting himself to the exploding universe inside, it is a relief to see them where they should be. He spends a moment just looking up.

And then, as he ever does, begins to walk the edge, swinging a foot out over the drop and bringing it back to safety. He will not fall.

He will not allow himself to fall.

He hears the man long before he sees him, and the realization that he's climbing up to the parapets to walk draws a quiet, bitter laugh to his lips. This place has a cruel sensibility to it, one that makes him think his nemesis might have a hand in its machinations. It's not enough to drive him from his refuge. In fact, he doesn't move at all.

Before Javert can get too close, he calls out, his voice whole now. His rich baritone feels like it should belong to someone else. The words come out languid and bored, all pride and vanity struck through with a vein of sorrow.

'Stop. No, that's not right,' he mutters, chuckling under his breath. 'Halt. Who goes there?'

He halts at once.

It is not at the command. It is because it is him, the very last person he wants to see. There is an urge to back away, but he does not give in to it. He even looks for him in the shadows, gets a glimpse of his face before turning away.

'I thought you would go home.'

Hoped, rather.

'I have tried.'

He can feel the man's gaze, the brief moment when he turns his face towards him before he looks away. He can't decide if it hurts, or if the sting of Rae's keen insight still burns on his skin.

'There is no door for me, not out here.'

'Ah.'

He folds his arms over his chest, falling back to the habit of a lifetime. Though now it is less to convey authority, and more unconscious defence of his person.

'I am sorry to hear it.'

'I did not intend to intrude. I just wanted, some place high. With cover from the wind.'

He sees the gesture and wants to tell the man, Bare your heart!, but he keeps his tongue.

'You did not intend to intrude.'

He repeats it blankly, staring at nothing.

Because it is a strange statement, coming from him, a man who did nothing but intrude.

Edited 2013-09-11 10:14 (UTC)

He hears the thought, and reaches up to scratch his cheek, hiding the little smile it brings.

'How could I know you would be here?'

Other than it is close to the refuge of men, and still allows him clear line on his precious night sky.

'I give you my word.'

He has kept his word with Javert, at least.

'Oh, keep your word.'

Emotion, suddenly, hot and fierce, causing him to spit this at him. He does not turn fully, but looks to the side, so his profile may be seen if Tepesh is looking.

'I am not interested in what you would swear to. No more of this! I owe you nothing, and you do not owe me promises of any sort. Cease.'

More anger. Why did he expect anything different? Why does he look to fickle mortals, those he feeds on, and expect more?

'I'm sorry.' It is an empty platitude, for all that he means it. He would undo the damage he has caused, but he would not give back the memory of that kiss upon his wrist. Not for all the gold in Istanbul.

'Your angel came to see me.'

'My angel?'

He is derailed. The anger fades as quickly as it came, and he turns his back once more.

The apology, he will not heed. Some things are not so simple.

He wants him closer, and he knows that's not happening. He wants to rise and stand shoulder to shoulder, that they may see the same view, but no. Such a simple thing is denied him, and he has no one to blame but himself. He's so desperate for just the sound of the man's voice, he will even speak of God's emissary.

'He followed me up into the mountains.' A minor lie, as he has no need to hunt.

'You are under his protection now.'

He denies himself even the simple touch of his thoughts, and it aches to keep himself in check. But she watches, and he must remain apart.

Edited 2013-09-11 10:43 (UTC)

'...I did not ask for it.'

But there is...no, it is...he cannot form a thought on it. There is only relief.

'I am not forsaken.'

He wheels around, stands with his heels resting on nothing but air. A breath of wind, and he could fall.

'I told you. I told you God would not close His eyes, no matter the thing I did. And still you would believe Him unmerciful?'

Edited 2013-09-11 10:46 (UTC)

The movement, not his words, makes him flinch. Suddenly every line in his body is tense, ready to move with the celerity his powers grant him.

He barely hears the triumphant crow, and when his meaning strikes, it carries little impact.

'From where I sit, yes. Why did he choose to save you, you who do not know, cannot know love, and not her?'

Edited 2013-09-11 13:58 (UTC)

'She deserves it more, because she loved you? More than I, who have given a life of service?'

It is a quiet reflection, asking himself more than Tepesh. Now he knows his life was not as just as he had thought, things are different.

'I do not know. Men cannot know such things. Ask the angel, perhaps.'

'Why not both of you? She loved, and was loved in return. Not just by me. By her subjects.'

He goes still again. 'I have asked him.'

He catches himself before he points out that is not his name. But only just.

'And what did he say?'

A beat, then he adds,

'I would say this says a lot about your claim of the importance of love, but the angel said much the same as you.'

He still does not know what to make of it.

Vlad snorts, almost a laugh.

'Did he now?'

He steps to the side a little, better to see the man's face when the shadow shifts.

'And, what of it? You do not like angels even when they agree with you?'

'It does not excuse your actions.'

Vlad lifts his eyes to meet Javert's. The iron wire around his chest tightens, marginally. There are remnants of the bond and he dare not even grasp at them.

'What good does being right do me, hmm? She is lost to me. You, are lost to me.'

He speaks of the two as if they were of equal importance to him. For what is love, if it is not given wholly, and freely.

'I had my reasons, and I do not expect you, a mere mortal, to understand them.' He places himself outside their world. He is the chess master. They are but pieces, to be moved, sacrificed, in the long game.

That he holds Javert in such high esteem, and then disregards him utterly in the next breath, is a contradiction he is comfortable with. A necessary evil.

'I was never yours to be lost. I belong to nothing, and no one.'

A touch of the anger back again, because he is not a possession to be owned, no matter the intentions behind it. He gave himself willingly to the police; he will not give himself to another person.

'If you want something from a person, you should state it. Not saying anything and expecting them to simply do as you please - it is ridiculous.'

A step closer, enough to see that the injuries he inflicted are gone. There is no emotion to the observation. He did not expect them to last.

The visible injuries are healed. But if Javert can read the measure of a man just by looking at him, it's clear, he is not unmarred by their encounter.

'You are a singular individual, Javert. I have never met someone as, prepossessed as you are. You hold yourself apart from -- everything. And yet, you are not impervious.' He holds himself steady as the man approaches him.

'There are many ways to ask the question and receive an answer.'

(Our ways are not your ways.)

He felt something, he's sure of it. It was there, right beneath his skin, right behind his eyes. It wasn't his imagination, he felt something.

'But as you say, you were never mine to be lost.'

He was, for a span of heartbeats, entirely his. That part he will never forget.

Edited 2013-09-11 16:53 (UTC)

A span of heartbeats taken by force. Not given willingly.

But he knows well he is not impervious. He has been called emotionless in his life; it is not true. He laughs when he is amused, and takes joy in the hunt; he appreciates the warmth of a stove on a cold day, and the pride of appreciation from a superior over a job well done. He gets angry, and puzzled, and annoyed, and it hurts when he is betrayed. Just as it does now, with the numbness having subsided; just as it did when Madeleine was unmasked as Valjean.

But these emotions are not what this creature is talking about. They do not seem to matter. Because there is no love, he is seen as lacking. He does not know what to do about that, and cannot fathom why it is so important to everyone else.

'You asked the wrong way.'

He looks him over. He looks as close to defeated as he has ever seen him. But he has no doubt he will rise again.

'But I do not believe there is any way you could have asked, that would have made me say yes.'

He will never be like him. Ever.

He nods, in acquiescence to the first sentiment. He's not sure he agrees with the second. The question itself is still misunderstood, for one.

'It is my hope for you,' mon cher, he thinks the words to himself but does not let them pass his lips or his thoughts, 'that one day, you will understand.'

'And if you are to receive a second chance, one not offered to another, equally, if not moreso, deserving, if you are to receive such a chance, I beg you, do not squander it on hatred and rage.'

A span of heartbeats, but not a lifetime. Not his very soul. Simply a span of heartbeats, that mean the world to him just now, however violently or subversively he acquired them. They are a precious memory, and he will not relinquish them, not for guilt or penance, not even for forgiveness.

Edited 2013-09-11 17:25 (UTC)

'I do not hate. And I do not rage, unless there is just cause.'

He is controlled, always.

...until two days ago, in any case. He has never before lost himself to rage the way he did in that room. And he is not sorry for it - horrified at his own weakness, and sick to the point of wishing death over what happened to Abel because of it, yes. But not sorry he hit him.

'I do not know what I am supposed to be understanding. Your motives? The outcome you hoped for? It matters not. I will never return to your home.'

Edited 2013-09-11 17:29 (UTC)

'I would try to put the answers in your mind, but we -- you, have expressed a desire for me not to speak to you that way.'

He does not regret that rage either, save for Abel's life. It was as close to raising a passion in the man as he could come. Every blow, every wound, is just as cherished as that span of heartbeats. It is why he clung to the wounds for so long.

He lifts his gaze to Javert's.

'And am I to believe that you do not hate me?'

'You disgust me.'

He states it plain, with no attempt to soften it.

'And hate is an emotion I would not waste on you. You would not care. You would only laugh.'

Hate implies attachment. He chased a man for almost twenty years without hating him, even when he caused his death. Hate gets in the way of impartial judgement. He has never bothered himself with it.

Vlad's face closes down. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, brushing his hands off on his trousers.

'And I pity you. To live without love is a fate I would not wish on the Sultan himself.'

'Pity me then. I do not care.'

He is remorseless. Let the man hurt, if that is what that expression means.

'You have humiliated me. You have forced me to reprehensible acts. Yes, you disgust me.'

Vlad's eyes flash scarlet, the color of blood.

'I gave you a gift. Men and women before you have begged for me to take them in my embrace. Men and women here would beg for the chance you were given.'

He draws himself up, and the air itself around him crackles with energy. His voice is level, and cold.

'And some small, stunted part of you reveled in it. For as much as I disgust you, what must you think, when you look in your precious shaving mirror, and see the face of the man who enjoyed my touch, hmm?'

His face flushes red in the dark; from anger or shame, even he does not know. He draws himself up too, because he will not retreat in the face of it.

'I think I was forced to enjoyment. Forced.'

It was not real. So he does not have to think anything. It is easier this way.

Dracula takes a step towards him, and another.

'And yet, you spent yourself, in my arms. And you were beautiful in that moment. You tasted Heaven on your lips, felt it screaming in your blood.'

He weaves no magics around the words, for he would see what remains of the bond between them, from Javert's side of the equation. He simply speaks quiet and low, his voice rich, his words carefully enunciated.

'There will come a time, on the edge of sleep, when you imagine my lips against your ear, my breath on your skin. And you will grow heavy with want. I bent your proud neck, gypsy, it's true. But there was within, a moment of sweet, surrender. And you cannot deny that.'

'I can.'

It comes out a whisper.

'I can, and I will.'

And as far as he is concerned, it is the truth. He does not have another experience to compare it to; for all he knows, all enjoyment is pulled forth from another, though without the mind control.

'And do not call me a gypsy. I am not.'

The corner of Vlad's mouth quirks up, and he shakes his head. He's just a step away, and he can hear the man's heart beating like a drum.

'Then I will remember for you.'

He already has, indulged himself in visions of quiet exploration, of what it might be to steal a kiss, and be rewarded with a shy smile. He dreams of being awakened with a touch at his throat, a mouth rough with whiskers, and the blunt edge of teeth waking his skin up. He dreams of this, and more. Has every since he first watched the man sleeping in his bed.

'It means nothing to you, less than nothing, but I loved you in that moment.' He still does, and its driving him mad, making him spend energy he does not have, keeping his hunger in check.

'And as much as it shames me, I will not deny it.'

'It is shameful to feel so, then?'

He does not step back, but draws up a little further, adding height to keep distance.

'I assumed as much - and yet, you say this feeling is important. You are inconsistent.'

And he is remembering how it felt. He does not want to. He suspects it is the man's doing, but his mind does not feel invaded.

'It shames me that something so precious as this belongs to a man so undeserving.'

It is not his doing, but there is no way to prove that, so it must go unremarked. He wants to step closer, to just feel the brush of his hand, but he will not. He cannot. He must not.

'It shames me, to confess it to you, knowing you will see it as weakness, when nothing could be further from the truth.'

Save that it is a weakness. It burns in him even now. His desires, unquenched, have destroyed nations.

'But that I love you? No, that is not shameful. Not even before God.'

Edited 2013-09-11 19:41 (UTC)

His face twists in renewed disgust. He would step back, away from him, but realises at the last second that there is nothing behind him. And he will not fall to rid himself of this creature. He will not fall at all. He settles for leaning back as far as he can, and still be stable.

'It is. And it is not true. It is not possible for it to be true.'

He cannot stand this idea, nor the bare proclamation of it.

'If I do not deserve it, take it back. I never asked for it. I did not ask for any of this. You have invaded me since the day we met, and harrassed me, and made me debase myself...this is not normal behaviour, even I know as much. So take it back. Give your precious gift to someone who desires it.'

He closes his eyes and feels the waves of anger as a perversion of a caress.

'I can not.'

Because once it is given, it is no longer his to command. And a part of him wants to believe that it could not be given without some small invitation on the other's part.

He didn't imagine that, the brief and fleeting moment of comfort Javert took in the dream. He didn't imagine the silent pleas for something to take away the pain he was in.

He steps back, and drops into a low, courtly bow, and holds it, his eyes cast down, his back straight.

'I am at your mercy, sir.'

He is given pause.

'I...'

Why is he doing this? What purpose does it serve?

'This is what love is, then? To be at the mercy of another?'

He shakes his head, suddenly tired beyond measure.

'You mock me once again.'

He's hit upon a truth, and it makes the cruelest of all Pandora's baubles flicker dimly behind his breastbone.

'No. No, I do not.'

He holds the bow, his eyes closed, the wire in his chest stretched near to breaking.

'I have nothing to give to ease your despair. Nothing to offer you to soothe you. Nothing in this world that you want. But there is, within me, a desire to give to you, all that you require. To do anything just to see you smile, however brief.'

He steps sideways, along the ledge, away from him. This is awful. This disquiets him in a way he cannot describe; there are no rules, no guidelines, and no way to know what to do.

'Get up. Do not...what are you doing? What do you want?'

He is hissing again, scared, unsettled.

'I am not interested in your desires. They are not natural, and I will not be party to them. If you wish to give me something I require, then go away.'

And just as quickly, the tiny flame is snuffed.

He draws himself up, brushing his long hair back over his shoulders, and lifts his chin. It feels as if his bones are still separated, as if he's been disassembled by a child, limbs thrown haphazardly into a corner. They do not belong to him, and yet he must propel himself through space with them.

The urge to turn to mist, or a cloud of bats, is strong, but he resists. He is a monster, but he is also a man, and he will walk off the field of battle, not be carried off on his shield. And he will not indulge the hunger here, not in his sight.

'As you wish.'

His coat is just a few steps away, and he retrieves it, shaking it out and slipping it around his shoulders, keeping his eyes down cast. He goes through the motions slowly, because these are the last few moments allowed to him, and they look, strangely enough, awkward on him. Like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, or where to look.

'I'm going into the bar, proper, now. If you wish to avoid me, that is where I will be, until a door opens to allow me to leave.'

'I am not a child who will avoid-'

He breaks off, and looks down. He avoided Madeleine, as much as he could. For a time, at least. It would not be true to say he has not indulged this behaviour in the past.

It is almost as disquieting to see Tepesh at odds with himself. He does not know what to say.

'Very well. It is a large enough place. We need not see each other again.'

The words make his eyes fall closed, and he swallows, his mouth dry. He nods tersely, and clenches his jaw. Why is he so thirsty all of a sudden? This is stupid.

There is nothing left to say. No gambit left to play.

Right now he wishes nothing more than to get drunk, to be without senses for a span of time. (A span of heartbeats.) He doesn't want to leave it like this. It's frustrating beyond measure, and hopeless.

He lays down his king.

He keeps the form of a man as he scales down the ladders, tracing back the way he came, keeping the sound of his heartbeat in his ears for as long as he can.

Beneath his skin, the hunger seethes.

He does try not to watch him go. But nevertheless, he finds himself following his progress across the grass to the back door.

It is, he tells himself, only good sense. One should know where the enemy is, and it is not often a man has the gift of having a foe in plain sight.

He does not know what to make of this conversation. He does know what to do about any of this. And is beginning to think that there simply is no answer. He is back, they will leave each other alone, it is done.

He would just prefer to believe that with a little more strength than he feels at the moment.

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The bar, rooftop

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