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[marcato]

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[inseine]

[Javert arrives at Café Guro about ten minutes early to prepare.

It has been some time since Aunamee saw Javert in the flesh, but at a swift glance, he looks shockingly unchanged. He still wears an immaculate if well-loved overcoat. He still dons a hat. He still carries a lead-headed cane, now balanced against the back of his chair. Yet his flesh has lost the warm, rich colour of life and has taken on the dull grey of a corpse. His claws are hidden beneath a pair of black gloves. His ears bear small points. And his fangs, not fully cast in shadow by the brim of his (new) hat, glint in the dim lights of the café.

He orders himself a café au sang (blood coffee -- that's the charm of this Café Guro, they serve treats for monsters that are ~totally~ ethically harvested from the prisons) and sits, an upright and stern statue, in a windowed corner of the room. And he waits, his eyes raking across the face of each patron who walks through the door.]

[marcato]

[Aunamee arrives on time. Exactly.

Over the years, he's perfected the art of punctuality, arriving at destinations within seconds of the agreed upon time. Oftentimes, this involves planning the route beforehand, obsessively measuring his walking speed, and visiting the location ahead of time. Like most of his neuroses, he barely even notices when he does it. He needs to get somewhere at a specific time, and so he plans it. Simple.

As always, he's cloaked entirely in white, save for the dusty grey cape that marks him as a priest of the Fog God. His skull is obscured with a helm made from shattered glass.

He orders a black coffee ("no blood?" asks the barista with a hint of disappointment) purely for appearances. Sometimes he likes to pretend he's still human.]

Monsieur Javert.

[There's a smile in his voice as he approaches the table, setting down his coffee with white-gloved hands and sliding into his chair.]

It's good to see that you're alive and well.

[And then with a quiet, dark laugh:]

For a certain definition of "alive."

[inseine]

[Javert follows the pristine white figure through the café. There is no doubt in his mind who he is, the shattered glass helm making him stand out against the crowd. He hardly bats an eyelash when Aunamee greets him, the corner of his mouth turning up in a grim, hollow smirk.

He removes his hat and hangs it on the back of his chair, head held high. Aunamee has no eyes for him to probe, but he will not allow that to give him a pause, and he fixes his gaze square in the center of that helm. He intends to show this creature that he has nothing to fear and nothing to hide. He has had a full day to collect himself since his trying network conversation, after all.]

Well, now! I received exactly what I wished, Monsieur le Roi-des-Dieux. [His dead, soulless eyes glint crimson, head tipped in a half-bow.] I should hope you above all see the comedy in that.

[marcato]

[Aunamee likes the way Javert speaks. It's so old-fashioned. So noble. When he was a child, Aunamee would imitate the way people spoke in old books, as though voicing their words would imbue him with their dignity.]

Oh no. There's no comedy in it.

[But he sounds amused. He's watching Javert's eyes, the way they bore into him, and it makes him feel like the most important person in the room.]

The Fog God knows what you deserve.

[The rest of the sentence is unspoken. You deserve death.]

Did Dr. Pierce warn you about me?

[inseine]

[Javert does not keep his lips from parting, flashing quite a bit of tooth in a broader, eerier smirk. No one knows better than he does to what extent he deserves to suffer. He pinches the handle of his coffee cup, an awkward action for someone with such large and ungraceful hands.]

You understand each other! [He punctuates that with a toast of his coffee cup.] Yes, of course he did, but here I came regardless. I am not a man to break my promises.

['Man.' He knows he is a creature, but old habits die hard. He sips.]

Were you concerned? That I would double-cross you, my good man?

[marcato]

[I am not a man to break my promises. Aunamee has said similar things in the past, but in his case, it's only half true. Most of things he says are half true.]

A little.

[He shrugs his shoulders, noncommittal.]

I wouldn't be the first man you've harmed in this place.

[inseine]

[Javert accepts the blow unflinchingly, as expressive as stone. The insults have no effect on him, who tells himself the very same and worse every hour of every day. He sets his cup back down with a clink.]

He is unlikely to be the last so long as I am here.

[Men are right to fear and revile him. His eyes flicker crimson.]

And your end of the bargain? Don't think I forgot, now that we laid bare the sort of beast I am.

[marcato]

[He pauses deliberately, his fingers brushing against the coffee cup before releasing it. ]

My name is Aunamee. [Javert already knows his name, but he'd feel unbalanced if he didn't start with it, like beginning a sentence without a capital letter.] I'm a priest for the Fog God. In service to Her, I've killed many people. More than I'd care to admit.

[Another pause, just as deliberate as the first. His back remains straight. His gaze is steady.]

But I am not a villain, Monsieur. I simply value doing what's right. No matter what.

[inseine]

[Javert bends his whiskered cheek into an upturned palm. It's nearly a coquettish stance... if it were anyone else but the forbidding Inspector Javert, with his gimlet glance and grimacing lip.]

Well? Don't stop there. Explain what is right. You have my ear.

[marcato]

[He wasn't expecting that response, and it reflects in the way his body stiffens ever so slightly, his back growing taller, his fingers straightening into ten rigid lines.

But only for a moment. His body quickly settles into its old position, and when he speaks, his voice sounds as calm as ever.]

Cleanliness. Order. The health and stability of this peninsula. All reasonable, important things. Do you agree?

[inseine]

Of course I do. Any person sound-of-mind would, this is nothing soul-shattering. Maintaining order is the backbone of a functioning society.

[Javert's eyes flick about to mentally weigh Aunamee's changing body language, though his impassive look does not change.]

Tell me what murder accomplishes that prisons and just punishment do not. You speak of action in the service of order. Does this Fog God demand just punishment? Or is it wanton destruction to strike fear in the hearts of our prey?

[marcato]

"Wanton destruction."

[It's an echo, low and rumbling like a train moving through a tunnel. His fingers curl around the handle of his coffee.]

No. Nothing sloppy like that.

[He says the word "sloppy" like it's something vulgar. The syllables are bitter in his mouth.]

She subsists on the blood in the same way we do, Monsieur. It's an unpleasant reality, but it is reality. It's my duty to keep Her healthy so that She can guard the peninsula against the people who wish to harm it.

[inseine]

Keep Her healthy! So She is mortal, in a fashion. And are Her enemies mankind? We would be out of luck if we are expected to whittle down the population to nothing.

[At the talk of blood, Javert grimaces sourly and brings his cup to his lips again. He hasn't forgotten his end of the bargain, that he will be expected to speak after Aunamee feels like he is finished, but damned if he won't take advantage of asking questions while he can.]

Why did you choose the Fog God to bow to?

[marcato]

[He can answer this question in so many ways, and all of them are the truth.

She saved his life.

She told him that he was chosen. Special.

She loves him.

He chooses the answer that he believes will appeal to Javert the most. ]

Her enemy is not humanity, although there's no doubt She's not fond of them. [Talk about an understatement. ] There are people on this peninsula who wish to steal Her power for their own foul uses. And some of them have succeeded.

[He pauses deliberately, letting the words hang in the air. ]

If She falls, Ryslig will be plunged into chaos. That is why I serve Her.

[inseine]

So this is the short of it: you offer Madame Fog God blood sacrifices. In return, she keeps the order and the peace. That is the nature of your agreement with her?

[Supposedly, though truth be told, Javert has seen no evidence of 'order' or 'peace' in his short stay in Ryslig thus far. Hm. Is this really a fair trade for what Aunamee wants to hear from him? This hardly seems to be a secret affair. His expression is inscrutable.]

Is this what you have come to tell me in exchange for my disgrace?

[marcato]

Exactly.

[He leans forward. If he had eyes right now, they'd be bright and focused, a wild animal keen on its prey. As it stands, Javert might be able to make out the empty eye sockets behind his helm. Dark. Endless. ]

What else would you like to know?

[inseine]

[Javert considers Aunamee with that invasive, hard, assessing gaze of his.]

What else, about a man who professes to murder for the sake of a God, for order? There is very little that I cannot gather through other means.

[From observation, for instance. From listening to what he says and how he acts around others. He strokes his whiskers as a thought occurs to him. His lips droop in a lopsided frown.]

No, you have not come simply for idle chatter. You say you are a priest. Are you in the business of conversions, roping in more sheep for your flock?

[marcato]

That's not why I'm here.

[It's a firm answer, but not a 'no.' He recognizes something in Javert, something that he shares as well: a compulsive need for order. That need pushed him directly into the Fog God's arms, and he expects this man will follow suit.

Eventually.]

You intrigue me, and so I wish to know more about you. It's as simple as that.

[He pulls back, finally, straightening his back.]

Tell me the story about the over-generous citizen, Monsieur. You promised.

[inseine]

Over-generous, indeed.

[Javert is silent while his face attempts to figure where on earth to settle. His thin lips twist up, down, then settle into a stubborn thin line. Blank, bland, unreadable.

If Aunamee is expecting a lengthy story, he may be disappointed. Javert keeps it short and blunt, which doubtless leaves him open to plenty of probing questions.]

He spared my life. When he had plenty to gain with my death and everything to lose in allowing me to walk. At no benefit to himself.

[marcato]

Did you deserve death?

[His tone is nonchalant. Unremarkable. For Aunamee, deserving death is a simple, objective fact, like having brown hair. ]

[inseine]

I had a right to die then.

[Two impassive monsters discussing death as casually as if they were chatting about how water is wet. He smiles, a dry, dull thing.]

My execution was a natural consequence. Violent insurgents are not in the habit of letting their captured police-spies stroll back home.

[marcato]

So you took matters into your own hands.

[It's twisted, but it makes sense to him. Aunamee's mind is ruled by rigid rituals, the compulsive desire to fix mistakes and balance the unbalanced. ]

That's why you threw yourself into the river.

CW: Suicide references from here on out

[inseine]

[It isn't quite that simple. What drives a man to suicide rarely is that simple. There were more wrongs committed than letting him go free, and not only was he, Javert, complicit in them, but he was one of those wrongs. He owed his life to a convict, and he gave it up to him in the only way he knew how.

Javert's face is dispassionate, indeterminate.]

That was part of it. Not the whole of it.

[marcato]

[He cocks his head to the side, letting his curiosity shine through his words. It's not the right tone of voice for someone discussing suicide.]

What was the rest of it?

[inseine]

[Javert hums, losing himself in his vivid memories. His eyes look without seeing, his cup twisting back and forth in his grasp. What is the rest of it? The short of it is thusly:

The world does not work the way he understood it to. And when Javert was shown his mistaken understanding, he could not bear the weight of it on his conscience.

The corner of his mouth makes a slow creep down into the crags of his face.]

That story was not part of our bargain, monsieur.