marcato | (no subject)

There is a square in East Bavan populated with three benches, two trees, and a small pond. There is only one lantern. I will grant you one day. You will come to the bench beneath the lantern at ten o'clock tomorrow evening. I will bring the drinks. Let us have a nice chat like decent men. I can be a well-mannered brute when I wish it. A good evening to you, Monsieur King-of-the-Gods.

What makes you think you have the power to make me do anything?

Edited 2020-04-23 21:10 (UTC)

I think nothing of the sort. I issue you a request. Had I the raw power to bend you to my will you would not know the difference, and this conversation need not occur. Further, were I intent to ruin your fun and send the angry masses clapping at your door, I would have made the announcement of your involvement in your elaborate game myself. I expect that you will come, and respect that I am a man of my word. Do not disappoint me.

Edited 2020-04-23 22:11 (UTC)

[There's a long pause. ]

I am also a man of my word.

You'll come alone. Otherwise, I'll cull the unwanted guests. Have I made myself clear?

I would not dream of doing otherwise, Monsieur God-King. Good day to you.

[The following night, Javert is indeed lounging completely alone on the bench he described. He dragged a small folding table to the bench, and atop it is a bottle of what appears to be a burgundy wine, a take-out carafe of coffee and a thermos, as well as two empty glasses. He leaves his cane propped against the seat, and his eyes are fixed distantly on the stars above.]

[Aunamee arrives exactly on time -- not a minute earlier or later. At a time like this, he's still maddeningly consistent. ]

Good evening, Monsieur.

[He's in his skeletal form. Someone with a keen eye -- someone like Javert -- might notice that his movements are too smooth to be managed by joints or muscles. His helm obscures his skull. ]

What a clever idea, bringing a little table out here.

[He means it. It feels like something he would do.

He gestures to the bench. Something in his voice sounds tired. ]

May I?

[Javert hears his approach, sees his fluid, balletic movements. Of course he hides behind his helm now, nothing but bleached-white bone and hollowed eye sockets. He lowers his chin and jerks his head sharply at the empty bench beside him.]

Sit.

[There is something glinting and dangerous in his curt tone. His tongue is thickened. Heavy and rough, somehow, and it is with an oddly detached sensation that he engages with Aunamee. Like in Fairwell, he feels distant. Othered. This time there is no meddling apparition to distort his perception of reality, but he feels no less apart from himself.

He finds he does not mind it. It is freeing, even, to open one's palms and release a part of the soul to the void.]

Does the gentleman prefer wine or coffee to sate him? [he asks coolly, knowing full well he intends to begin with the wine. He uncorks it with a flick of his claw and pours two glasses without awaiting the response.] Keep your weapons sheathed and behave. None of that tonight. I mean to talk, not start a street brawl like the peasant-men of Auvergne.

Edited 2020-04-27 19:56 (UTC)

[He sits down, but not before quickly scanning the seat for any signs of dirt. Outdoor seating has an unfortunate habit of gathering grit and grime. His Mana abilities ensure that none of it will stick to his clothes, but old habits die hard. Besides, he still can't stomach the idea of sitting in something unpleasant.]

Do you think I'd fight like a peasant?

[Aunamee can hear the anger in Javert's voice, and he likes it. Most people are conditioned to hate the sound of muted fury, but Aunamee has always loved it. It makes his ears ring in a pleasant way. ]

It's a hypothetical question, of course. You know how I fight.

[He takes the wine glass closest to him. He doesn't plan to drink it. ]

Tell me what you want.

That is me. I fight like a peasant, [Javert says smoothly. It is nearly smooth enough to coat the feral growl in his voice in a cloak of velvet, but not quite. It may occur to Aunamee that it is a different accent emerging through his impeccable French tongue. He grins.] I accuse you of nothing of the sort, with your form.

[Aunamee does not need to drink, but Javert will. He fully intends to. It is a calculated effect to demonstrate that he may be capable of threat and violence, but he is making it his choice not to do it. Which, perhaps, conveys an even greater threat than the spittle and crowing of a seething mob. This is a man with self-mastery, even after setting all of his vulnerabilities on display for Aunamee to behold.]

You think I have demands. You mistake me, [he says at last, like the sharp drop of a rock striking concrete. The wine glass swirls beneath his nose.] Our personal debts are settled. Indeed, quite settled, and you have more than paid the price for addling my brains to mush.

[He sips, eyes cast skyward and darting along a single unfamiliar constellation. Swish and swallow.]

Did the Fog give you this game?

Edited 2020-04-29 03:01 (UTC)

[He doesn't have the lips to frown, but he still feels it, phantom muscles tugging themselves into place. On one hand, Aunamee has always appreciated the notion of being even, and a swift death feels like an adequate payment for wiping Javert's memories.

On the other hand, Javert stabbed him. ]

She helped me. Yes.

[But was that such a bad thing? Javert stabbing him? He can't keep his gaze away from the other man's hands. Their potential for violence is just as appealing as the rumbling anger in his voice.]

Fairwell was my home. She opened the gate to my memories, and let other people step inside.

Edited 2020-04-29 22:53 (UTC)

Did Madame Fog hope to get anything out of it? No, of course not. She is only giving you what you wish for the sake of it, [Javert's chin tilts toward the sky, his eyes narrowing to slits in Aunamee's direction. He is murmuring through his teeth, and he sounds more and more like the debased sort of beast he feels himself to be at his core.]

Are you satisfied with yourself, my good man? Come now, you cannot hide yourself from me. You are a theatrical creature, I see how it is, to set your stage and assemble your blind and dumb players just so, on your crude playing-board, with all the tools at the ready. Does it disappoint you to bow out early, to miss the final act? Do tell!

[A theatrical creature. It's entirely accurate. Aunamee has always preferred to think of himself as a composer, a figure who rises above the crowd and wrings music from their bodies. When he was a young child, he refused to kill, but it didn't keep him from guiding ants into enemy colonies. He's always loved to watch creatures harm other creatures. He's always loved to direct.

Was he disappointed? Yes. Javert killed him too early. ]

No.

[A lie. He sets his jaw, his gaze darting over the other man. The tension in his voice gives away his deceit. ]

I wanted you to fight, Monsieur. And you fought.

[The more he speaks, the more the tension vanishes. He starts to believe himself. ]

Quite proficiently, I might add. I have no doubt that you've slayed men in your former life. Few can find the heart on the first try.

Edited 2020-05-04 20:12 (UTC)

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.

(no subject)

<PasUnPolicier> Dated April 20th

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