(no subject)
Title: Lost In Shadows (2/?)
Rating: G
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: This is the quickest I've written anything for months. It's nice to actually have a muse back :)
_______________________________
He was healing and recovering.
In the quiet confines of the convent hospital, he let them treat him and tend him, though why he could not be sure. His intention had been his end, but his time had been prolonged and he was still uncertain as to a new direction.
He had been working for the law since his youth. If he was to admit truly, he still was that same man, though he no longer felt worthy of the title he had earned. An Inspector would uphold the law, those commands upon which a society was based. How could he return to that knowing what he had done?
It seemed better to remain silent and nameless when the Sisters approached.
They had continued to ask him, every day, if there was none they could inform of his whereabouts, but he remained resolutely silent.
As the days went by, he knew Inspector Javert would be recorded as missing, presumed dead. All who had known him would believe death over willing absence. If his possessions had been found, a robbery gone awry would likely be named as the cause. Another lie, but not one of his own making.
By and by, the pain in his body diminished, although it was never quite gone. His ribs healed quickly, but his leg was still a cause for concern. It emerged that the lower bone had been broken in several places, and when they had unbound it to examine it, he had seen thick, black bruising on the skin, a grid-like marking.
It had become clear that while the fall from the bridge had not done him damage, the transit down the fast-flowing Seine, among the vessels that moved along it and the barriers that lined it, had been the cause.
He had not said so, allowing them to re-bind it, his teeth clenched against the pain.
He could not say how many days had gone by. He had tried to count, but sometimes, the pain had been so bad that he had fallen into fevers and spent nights tormented by nightmares. Time had blurred in the first days. All he knew was that it had been if not days, then weeks, maybe even close to a month.
He could have asked the Sisters, but that would mean acknowledging them and speaking with them, and that was the last thing he wanted. If he spoke, then there would be more questions that he was far from ready to answer.
So, he rested and healed in silence.
It was stubborn defiance that gave him strength enough to stop them feeding him like a helpless child. Though he still was weak and weary, he made it clear that he could and would do what he could to tend himself.
Despite pain and the effort it took, he made himself sit upright in the narrow bed, propped against the wall. He took the meagre dishes of food they brought him and fed himself with hands that had not yet ceased to tremble with the slightest labour. He made no complaint, and ignored the concern on their faces.
They warned him against attempting too much. His leg, they explained, was not healing. That he could have told them himself. However, they warned him that jarring it could aggravate the injury even more, the bone still in pieces beneath his skin.
So, he was reduced to sitting in the room, enclosed by four walls, watching the path of the sunlight as it tracked daily down the wall opposite him.
One of the Sisters brought a Bible for him, should he wish to seek comfort.
For several days, it sat on his bedside, untouched. Sometimes, he found himself watching it, wary, wondering if he even dared to open it.
Still, after days enough to count every stone in the wall of his Holy prison several times, his fingers closed around the worn leather cover and he tentatively opened the thin pages. If his fingers trembled, he refused to acknowledge it.
It had been his guidance for years, even before he had learned to read the words himself. It was the first thing he had read. This was where the first laws had been laid down, and it was where he looked to first.
There may have been ten, but time and again, his eyes were drawn to the eighth. The warning against theft.
It brought to mind the one who had been his downfall.
If he had ever thought Valjean guiltless as he claimed, then the words printed there said otherwise. Theft was theft, irregardless of the cause. It was significant enough to be in the Book. It was a crime. Valjean was a criminal.
Javert’s fingertips touched the words.
A criminal who had spared him when any lesser man would have killed him, or at least left him to the ruthless mercy of mercenary students.
The pages closed sharply and he stared at the worn leather cover.
Again, trial by his mind alone.
An eye for an eye.
A crime had to be punished.
That was the law in the ancient days, and it still held true.
He placed the Book aside and clasped his hands together in his lap.
Could the good deeds a man did atone for past sins? Valjean had a multitude in his past, theft only one of them. And yet, he had clearly borne the boy from the barricades. It had not been a selfish act. Neither was his liberation of Javert.
Perhaps Javert’s mind was playing cruel tricks upon him as he thought back on that which troubled him. Perhaps it was his own guilt. Perhaps it was nightmarish reality.
Whatever it was, when the door opened and he raised his head to find that man looking in at him, it seemed so real, compassion and pity in his dark eyes. Javert’s anger surged and without thought, he rose from the bed in rage.
Pain tore through him and he fell into blackness.
Rating: G
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: This is the quickest I've written anything for months. It's nice to actually have a muse back :)
_______________________________
He was healing and recovering.
In the quiet confines of the convent hospital, he let them treat him and tend him, though why he could not be sure. His intention had been his end, but his time had been prolonged and he was still uncertain as to a new direction.
He had been working for the law since his youth. If he was to admit truly, he still was that same man, though he no longer felt worthy of the title he had earned. An Inspector would uphold the law, those commands upon which a society was based. How could he return to that knowing what he had done?
It seemed better to remain silent and nameless when the Sisters approached.
They had continued to ask him, every day, if there was none they could inform of his whereabouts, but he remained resolutely silent.
As the days went by, he knew Inspector Javert would be recorded as missing, presumed dead. All who had known him would believe death over willing absence. If his possessions had been found, a robbery gone awry would likely be named as the cause. Another lie, but not one of his own making.
By and by, the pain in his body diminished, although it was never quite gone. His ribs healed quickly, but his leg was still a cause for concern. It emerged that the lower bone had been broken in several places, and when they had unbound it to examine it, he had seen thick, black bruising on the skin, a grid-like marking.
It had become clear that while the fall from the bridge had not done him damage, the transit down the fast-flowing Seine, among the vessels that moved along it and the barriers that lined it, had been the cause.
He had not said so, allowing them to re-bind it, his teeth clenched against the pain.
He could not say how many days had gone by. He had tried to count, but sometimes, the pain had been so bad that he had fallen into fevers and spent nights tormented by nightmares. Time had blurred in the first days. All he knew was that it had been if not days, then weeks, maybe even close to a month.
He could have asked the Sisters, but that would mean acknowledging them and speaking with them, and that was the last thing he wanted. If he spoke, then there would be more questions that he was far from ready to answer.
So, he rested and healed in silence.
It was stubborn defiance that gave him strength enough to stop them feeding him like a helpless child. Though he still was weak and weary, he made it clear that he could and would do what he could to tend himself.
Despite pain and the effort it took, he made himself sit upright in the narrow bed, propped against the wall. He took the meagre dishes of food they brought him and fed himself with hands that had not yet ceased to tremble with the slightest labour. He made no complaint, and ignored the concern on their faces.
They warned him against attempting too much. His leg, they explained, was not healing. That he could have told them himself. However, they warned him that jarring it could aggravate the injury even more, the bone still in pieces beneath his skin.
So, he was reduced to sitting in the room, enclosed by four walls, watching the path of the sunlight as it tracked daily down the wall opposite him.
One of the Sisters brought a Bible for him, should he wish to seek comfort.
For several days, it sat on his bedside, untouched. Sometimes, he found himself watching it, wary, wondering if he even dared to open it.
Still, after days enough to count every stone in the wall of his Holy prison several times, his fingers closed around the worn leather cover and he tentatively opened the thin pages. If his fingers trembled, he refused to acknowledge it.
It had been his guidance for years, even before he had learned to read the words himself. It was the first thing he had read. This was where the first laws had been laid down, and it was where he looked to first.
There may have been ten, but time and again, his eyes were drawn to the eighth. The warning against theft.
It brought to mind the one who had been his downfall.
If he had ever thought Valjean guiltless as he claimed, then the words printed there said otherwise. Theft was theft, irregardless of the cause. It was significant enough to be in the Book. It was a crime. Valjean was a criminal.
Javert’s fingertips touched the words.
A criminal who had spared him when any lesser man would have killed him, or at least left him to the ruthless mercy of mercenary students.
The pages closed sharply and he stared at the worn leather cover.
Again, trial by his mind alone.
An eye for an eye.
A crime had to be punished.
That was the law in the ancient days, and it still held true.
He placed the Book aside and clasped his hands together in his lap.
Could the good deeds a man did atone for past sins? Valjean had a multitude in his past, theft only one of them. And yet, he had clearly borne the boy from the barricades. It had not been a selfish act. Neither was his liberation of Javert.
Perhaps Javert’s mind was playing cruel tricks upon him as he thought back on that which troubled him. Perhaps it was his own guilt. Perhaps it was nightmarish reality.
Whatever it was, when the door opened and he raised his head to find that man looking in at him, it seemed so real, compassion and pity in his dark eyes. Javert’s anger surged and without thought, he rose from the bed in rage.
Pain tore through him and he fell into blackness.