marcato | (no subject)

(no subject)

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, SATURNSCHILD. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 001.00.653.90 * SATURNSCHILD has joined 001.00.653.90 <saturnschild> Hello. <saturnschild>** I'm listening.

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I have, [says Javert, denying nothing. He has been to war, wielded a bayonet, managed explosives as a grenadier. He was once a police officer. He has always had blood on his hands, even when he strove to minimize the brute violence involved in his operations. Slaying men is sometimes a necessary evil, and he has been trained in those arts.

Aunamee should see him with a sabre sometime. He is surprisingly skilled in classical technique.]

And I did fight, but not on even terms. You know why!

[He also knows full well that Aunamee is lying, the tension hardly disguising the disappointment tremor in his pitch. Javert turns to meet Aunamee full in the face, the curve of his lips broadening and parting into a downright vindictive smile. He never claimed to be free of spite.]

I wonder what it is you would do with your head stripped bare of Ryslig, [he ruminates darkly over the swirling rim of his glass. It sounds like a threat.] If I could pluck that part of your mind out with my bare claws, rid you of the protections of Madame Fog! Would you have enjoyed that stage just as well, without knowing? Or is it the knowing, sitting high above us pitiless, brainless lumps squealing into the void, that pulses straight to your loins?

[He sips, smacks his lips.]

Hm. Quite good, Monsieur. It is a decent vintage you're missing.

[He likes this. There's a certainty intimacy to threats that Aunamee can't help but confuse with intimacy of another kind. As the other man speaks, he removes a white glove, exposing the skeletal hand underneath.

Javert has convinced him. He'll try the wine. ]

Didn't you say that we're even?

[He lowers a single finger into the glass. Slowly but surely, the wine turns to vinegar, bubbles rising to the surface. ]

It sounds like you're discussing my punishment.

Punishment! I do not speak of punishment. On whose authority would I punish you? With whose power, under what charges? With what physical evidence? At which facility? [observes Javert levelly, a certain peculiar weight to the way he obliquely refers to a prison for monsters. His nose twitches like a dog's when the wine transforms into vinegar. There goes that vintage. Liches do have an incredibly queer way of consuming their food.]

Of course, there is no harm in supposing, now. Men have a right to the thoughts and imaginations. Ah, what fun to picture it plainly!

[His gaze fixates on Javert as he removes his finger from the wine. Nothing remains on his finger -- no stain, no stench. It isn't even wet. ]

I'm sorry.

[The words don't feel right coming from him. They're as toneless as his laugh.

His attention returns to the wine. ]

I didn't want to touch your memories, Monsieur. This was not the first time I enacted this trial, and people would have rioted if they remembered it was a dream.

You would have fared better with your head intact.

[Javert stares at Aunamee. What he says strikes a chord, and there's just a shadow of unsettled in his guarded face.]

Perhaps, [he says blankly.] But who are you to suppose I would not have done the very same, minus the delusions? You give me too much credit.

[Aunamee treads on uneven ground, here. Change, a concept Javert cannot bear to admit has occurred within the earthquake in his soul -- for isn't man's essence at its heart unchanging? He straightens his rigid posture and squares his shoulders, the wine returning to his lips for another sip.]

But do not be so confident, you will have a riot on your hands, very soon, and I won't take part in it. I am a perfectly sensible fellow. I see when no good can come of overreaction. However.

[Here he bends closer, teeth glinting in the dim light.]

Don't do this again, Monsieur. Don't cross the barrier and leave marks in the sand. Don't addle my brains without my express instruction. Your play ends and my game begins at that point.

[In that moment, Aunamee wants nothing more than to crack open Javert's thoughts like an egg. He wants to play this game. He wants to stand close to the fire and see how long it takes him to burn.

But he resists. For now. ]

I give you the credit that you deserve.

[He practically whispers it. If he had eyes, they'd be bright and animated. A rarity for him. ]

Your words are understood, Monsieur. I won't forget them.

I trust you won't.

[Coolly confident. Javert is counting on Aunamee to remember this moment, on the day which he does cross that line.

In the meanwhile, the good Inspector has plenty of plans to set into motion, dominoes to knock over, playing-pieces to arrange. He can be patient. He has the time. He polishes off his glass and resumes his vigil on the stars.]

Keep the wine, Monsieur King-of-the-Gods. You may go when it pleases you.

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