(no subject)
Title: Lost In Shadows (3/?)
Rating: G
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: Finally getting somewhere :)
________________________
His mind had not been playing him for a fool.
Pain had rendered him helpless and he could remember feeling as if he was burning alive and all the while, he was sure he saw that face. His leg had proven weak and when he rose in anger, it had done far more harm than good.
When the fever faded and he could see clearly once more, he was not alone in his small cell any longer.
Sitting on a low stool by the bed was the man. Prisoner 24601. Jean Valjean. His head was bowed, grey hair lit by a candle on the chest beside the bed. He was reading. He had taken up the Holy book, and he was reading it.
Javert sought the strength to curse him, curse his presence, curse his name, but his lips were dry and the only sound he could make was a harsh croak. He felt the sting of his lower lip cracking. His blood was hot, with the taste of metal.
Valjean lifted his head at the sound, wary, then closed the book he was holding. The relief on his face was like a knife in Javert’s throat, unwanted and vicious.
Worse still, he moistened a cloth and brought it to Javert’s lips.
Ignoring the pain he knew would follow, Javert jerked his head away. Darkness spotted behind his eyes, but he glared at the wall in front of him, forcing himself to remain conscious and aware. He would not succumb.
He heard Valjean move. The stool scraped on the stone floor and the flickering shadow stretched over him, crawling up the walls. A hand was suddenly on his arm, gripping him, confirming to him that this was not simply a nightmare. He refused to turn, to acknowledge him, to accept his presence.
“You must drink.”
Javert’s teeth ground together until his jaw felt it would split, but he made no sound. His head was aching and his leg throbbed unbearably, but as long as the man was there, he would not let it be known that he was in pain.
“Javert.”
Every syllable was a burst of agonised fury. “Get out of here.”
The hand remained on his arm for a moment, then it was withdrawn. Javert watched the shadow on the wall waver, then diminish, until he was left alone once more. Only then, did he allow the racking sound of pain to escape him, his head swimming.
It was only a short time before one of the Sisters entered the room.
It was clear she had been sent by the one he had dismissed, but at least it was not him again.
She was a younger woman than usual, not yet adept at holding her tongue. He let her moisten his lips, and speak of the concern there had been. He had fallen and his leg had been damaged again, she informed him, and the gentleman attending the patient several rooms away had aided them when he had fallen from his bed.
There had been fears of an infection when a fever had taken hold, but it seemed to be healing, though she warned him that the fever could return if he did not rest as he had been asked.
Even Monsieur from the other patient’s room had been concerned for his well-being and insisted on watching over him, she said. He seemed a kind old gentleman, to sit and watch over a stranger for so many hours.
He could not help but laugh bitterly, grimacing in pain as he did so.
The young sister seemed confused, but he could not care. His anger was fading into weariness and he closed his eyes, willing the pain behind his eyes to fade. It did little to aid, but by and by, he slept again.
When he woke, the morning had broken, a pale light filtering through the small window. He was both surprised and relieved to find the stool vacant of either his unwanted visitor or the talkative little Sister.
All that remained was the Book on the edge of the small, rickety table, where the man has left it.
There was something emerging from between the pages that caught his eye.
With effort, Javert managed to reach over and lift the book across the narrow space between table and bed. Such a small act should not make him pant for breath, but his body had chosen to rebel again.
When his breathing eased, he carefully opened the book, a narrow strip of cloth marking a chapter, tucked into the margin.
By the pale morning light, he read the verse.
His hand trembled when he closed the Holy Book, knowing who had placed that marker and why they had done so. A lesson, even now, and an explanation to him. The man knew he would not have listened, so he had done what he could.
Javert knew he should be angrier at his presumption and his nerve, but he was so drained. Even the thought of anger wearied him. Perhaps, if they had been face to face, it would have been easier to be furious. Now, though, he could not.
Laying down the book, he stared blindly across the room at the closed door.
It did beg the question of what had led Valjean to him. The Sister believed he had fallen from the bed before the man arrived, but the man had come into the room. Had he known Javert was there? Or had it been a simple error, entering the wrong room?
No. It could not be such a coincidence, not after so many years.
Turning carefully onto his back, Javert surveyed the ceiling above him. He would not ask the Sisters, who clearly thought well of the thief. He could not ask the other patients, not as long as he could not move.
That only left one possibility.
If Valjean…
No. When Valjean returned, as he doubtless would, he would find himself with questions to answer.
Rating: G
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: Finally getting somewhere :)
________________________
His mind had not been playing him for a fool.
Pain had rendered him helpless and he could remember feeling as if he was burning alive and all the while, he was sure he saw that face. His leg had proven weak and when he rose in anger, it had done far more harm than good.
When the fever faded and he could see clearly once more, he was not alone in his small cell any longer.
Sitting on a low stool by the bed was the man. Prisoner 24601. Jean Valjean. His head was bowed, grey hair lit by a candle on the chest beside the bed. He was reading. He had taken up the Holy book, and he was reading it.
Javert sought the strength to curse him, curse his presence, curse his name, but his lips were dry and the only sound he could make was a harsh croak. He felt the sting of his lower lip cracking. His blood was hot, with the taste of metal.
Valjean lifted his head at the sound, wary, then closed the book he was holding. The relief on his face was like a knife in Javert’s throat, unwanted and vicious.
Worse still, he moistened a cloth and brought it to Javert’s lips.
Ignoring the pain he knew would follow, Javert jerked his head away. Darkness spotted behind his eyes, but he glared at the wall in front of him, forcing himself to remain conscious and aware. He would not succumb.
He heard Valjean move. The stool scraped on the stone floor and the flickering shadow stretched over him, crawling up the walls. A hand was suddenly on his arm, gripping him, confirming to him that this was not simply a nightmare. He refused to turn, to acknowledge him, to accept his presence.
“You must drink.”
Javert’s teeth ground together until his jaw felt it would split, but he made no sound. His head was aching and his leg throbbed unbearably, but as long as the man was there, he would not let it be known that he was in pain.
“Javert.”
Every syllable was a burst of agonised fury. “Get out of here.”
The hand remained on his arm for a moment, then it was withdrawn. Javert watched the shadow on the wall waver, then diminish, until he was left alone once more. Only then, did he allow the racking sound of pain to escape him, his head swimming.
It was only a short time before one of the Sisters entered the room.
It was clear she had been sent by the one he had dismissed, but at least it was not him again.
She was a younger woman than usual, not yet adept at holding her tongue. He let her moisten his lips, and speak of the concern there had been. He had fallen and his leg had been damaged again, she informed him, and the gentleman attending the patient several rooms away had aided them when he had fallen from his bed.
There had been fears of an infection when a fever had taken hold, but it seemed to be healing, though she warned him that the fever could return if he did not rest as he had been asked.
Even Monsieur from the other patient’s room had been concerned for his well-being and insisted on watching over him, she said. He seemed a kind old gentleman, to sit and watch over a stranger for so many hours.
He could not help but laugh bitterly, grimacing in pain as he did so.
The young sister seemed confused, but he could not care. His anger was fading into weariness and he closed his eyes, willing the pain behind his eyes to fade. It did little to aid, but by and by, he slept again.
When he woke, the morning had broken, a pale light filtering through the small window. He was both surprised and relieved to find the stool vacant of either his unwanted visitor or the talkative little Sister.
All that remained was the Book on the edge of the small, rickety table, where the man has left it.
There was something emerging from between the pages that caught his eye.
With effort, Javert managed to reach over and lift the book across the narrow space between table and bed. Such a small act should not make him pant for breath, but his body had chosen to rebel again.
When his breathing eased, he carefully opened the book, a narrow strip of cloth marking a chapter, tucked into the margin.
By the pale morning light, he read the verse.
His hand trembled when he closed the Holy Book, knowing who had placed that marker and why they had done so. A lesson, even now, and an explanation to him. The man knew he would not have listened, so he had done what he could.
Javert knew he should be angrier at his presumption and his nerve, but he was so drained. Even the thought of anger wearied him. Perhaps, if they had been face to face, it would have been easier to be furious. Now, though, he could not.
Laying down the book, he stared blindly across the room at the closed door.
It did beg the question of what had led Valjean to him. The Sister believed he had fallen from the bed before the man arrived, but the man had come into the room. Had he known Javert was there? Or had it been a simple error, entering the wrong room?
No. It could not be such a coincidence, not after so many years.
Turning carefully onto his back, Javert surveyed the ceiling above him. He would not ask the Sisters, who clearly thought well of the thief. He could not ask the other patients, not as long as he could not move.
That only left one possibility.
If Valjean…
No. When Valjean returned, as he doubtless would, he would find himself with questions to answer.