(no subject)
Title: Lost In Shadows (1/?)
Rating: G
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: This is going to be a short, multi-chaptered thing which came about because Drew Sarich got inside my brain while performing Valjean. Even if this story is from the POV of Javert.
____________________________
It should not have come as a great surprise, he mused, to awaken.
Will shattered in life, and even now, a failure in death.
His head throbbed unbearably and even opening the heavy lids of his eyes felt a labour. Light lanced across his vision. He drew a slow, struggling breath, but that only served to make his lungs and ribs ache, and he forced down a sound of pain.
The man once called Inspector Javert felt himself to be broken.
His spirit had gone that way already, but now, it seemed that the Almighty had decided his body should follow.
The room he rested in was silent. The walls were plain and only one small window high above him allowed light into it. It did not feel as he imagined the pits of damnation would, yet it was no reassurance for him.
Moving with caution on the narrow bed, pain echoing even the slightest motion, he could see there was no one but him in the room of dull stone, the walls painted in pale yellow. If his ears did not deceive him, he could hear the distant sound of murmured conversations.
There was a door, ajar, but that did not provide him with information of where he might be.
His eyes fell closed again, perhaps for no time at all or perhaps for hours. When he opened them once more, a figure was seated by the bedside, a woman of the cloth. In her hand was a piece of linen, with which she was touching his brow.
He tried to speak and she offered him a mild nod of her head.
“You are recovering, Monsieur,” she said in a voice modulated to calm. It did not have the intended effect, but it seemed he was powerless to cry out, to demand to know what had come to pass. “Have you any you would have us summon for you?”
He stared blankly at her, unable to think.
She continued to talk, as if it would lure a response from him. “Your identification papers were not upon you when you were found, Monsieur. We do not know who you...”
“Found?” he demanded hoarsely, sharp and cutting, that single word causing him to gasp in pain. After all, the river had been deep after heavy rains and fast flowing. It should have finished then.
“I am afraid I do not know much, Monsieur,” the Sister replied quietly, lifting a fresh cloth, dampened, to his dry lips, letting him draw weakly on the moisture. “You were found by the banks of the Seine, we were told, but little else is known. You have been here for some days. There were fears you might not return to consciousness.”
She went on to explain, quietly and calmly, the injuries he had somehow sustained. Bones had been broken, a leg and several ribs, all bound and healing, though he had been fortunate that was all. It was believed that those injuries were caused by a fall.
There had also been extensive bruising on his face, as found on one severely beaten. When she said so, she paused, hesitated, as if expecting him to confirm or refute what could only be speculation on her part.
Javert fixed his eyes on a stain on the ceiling.
Found, like a half-drowned dog.
Perhaps they had not been told that his hat was forgotten and his coat had been gone, two things no respectable man would go without. No doubt, there would be less pity in her eyes, if she had known the real reason that he had been found in the river.
He remembered the cause well. How could he not? It was seared into his mind and he doubted he would ever be free of the memory: a life spared by one who had no right to spare it. His eyes burned and he wished he had the strength to curse the man, curse him for the life he had left for Javert to accept, curse him for living, curse him for being Jean Valjean.
He had not been afraid when he had fallen, nor when the waters had closed over him. That had been what he sought. The dark, cold oblivion. Yet now, in the small, quiet room, tended by a meek woman in a pale robe, nameless and without position for the first time, adrift from all he had known, he was afraid.
He tried to lift his hand to his face to allow himself a little pride, some small concealment for his humiliation. It felt like white fire ran the length of his spine and he only stifled a cry by force of will alone.
“Monsieur!”
Had she touched him, he knew he would have found strength to strike her back. Pity was too much, even from one who lived to grant it. He forced his face from hers, his hand held up as much as he could bear to ward her away. Was it not enough that he was shamed? Why did she feel compelled to look upon him in his weakness?
“Leave me.”
Perhaps it was fury driving the words from his aching throat, or perhaps grief. He could not be certain himself. The woman did not seem compelled to obey, but he turned a fierce glare on her, ignoring the moist heat streaking his cheeks. Wordlessly, she rose and slipped from the room, silent as a ghost.
He turned his face against the pillow, the fabric coarse. It scratched, but he could not care about something so meaningless. His body was aflame with pain, as if it was in his blood, but even that seemed inconsequential.
What purpose was there in prolonging his existence? Was it a punishment from on high against his choice? Was it not enough that his mind was torn apart? Surely, no man could be expected to live with such contradiction.
His breath wheezed in his lungs, and he trembled.
Who was he now?
What was he?
Rating: G
Musical: Les Miserables
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo, Boubil & Schoenberg all own these. I just dabble :)
Word count: 1000
Notes: This is going to be a short, multi-chaptered thing which came about because Drew Sarich got inside my brain while performing Valjean. Even if this story is from the POV of Javert.
____________________________
It should not have come as a great surprise, he mused, to awaken.
Will shattered in life, and even now, a failure in death.
His head throbbed unbearably and even opening the heavy lids of his eyes felt a labour. Light lanced across his vision. He drew a slow, struggling breath, but that only served to make his lungs and ribs ache, and he forced down a sound of pain.
The man once called Inspector Javert felt himself to be broken.
His spirit had gone that way already, but now, it seemed that the Almighty had decided his body should follow.
The room he rested in was silent. The walls were plain and only one small window high above him allowed light into it. It did not feel as he imagined the pits of damnation would, yet it was no reassurance for him.
Moving with caution on the narrow bed, pain echoing even the slightest motion, he could see there was no one but him in the room of dull stone, the walls painted in pale yellow. If his ears did not deceive him, he could hear the distant sound of murmured conversations.
There was a door, ajar, but that did not provide him with information of where he might be.
His eyes fell closed again, perhaps for no time at all or perhaps for hours. When he opened them once more, a figure was seated by the bedside, a woman of the cloth. In her hand was a piece of linen, with which she was touching his brow.
He tried to speak and she offered him a mild nod of her head.
“You are recovering, Monsieur,” she said in a voice modulated to calm. It did not have the intended effect, but it seemed he was powerless to cry out, to demand to know what had come to pass. “Have you any you would have us summon for you?”
He stared blankly at her, unable to think.
She continued to talk, as if it would lure a response from him. “Your identification papers were not upon you when you were found, Monsieur. We do not know who you...”
“Found?” he demanded hoarsely, sharp and cutting, that single word causing him to gasp in pain. After all, the river had been deep after heavy rains and fast flowing. It should have finished then.
“I am afraid I do not know much, Monsieur,” the Sister replied quietly, lifting a fresh cloth, dampened, to his dry lips, letting him draw weakly on the moisture. “You were found by the banks of the Seine, we were told, but little else is known. You have been here for some days. There were fears you might not return to consciousness.”
She went on to explain, quietly and calmly, the injuries he had somehow sustained. Bones had been broken, a leg and several ribs, all bound and healing, though he had been fortunate that was all. It was believed that those injuries were caused by a fall.
There had also been extensive bruising on his face, as found on one severely beaten. When she said so, she paused, hesitated, as if expecting him to confirm or refute what could only be speculation on her part.
Javert fixed his eyes on a stain on the ceiling.
Found, like a half-drowned dog.
Perhaps they had not been told that his hat was forgotten and his coat had been gone, two things no respectable man would go without. No doubt, there would be less pity in her eyes, if she had known the real reason that he had been found in the river.
He remembered the cause well. How could he not? It was seared into his mind and he doubted he would ever be free of the memory: a life spared by one who had no right to spare it. His eyes burned and he wished he had the strength to curse the man, curse him for the life he had left for Javert to accept, curse him for living, curse him for being Jean Valjean.
He had not been afraid when he had fallen, nor when the waters had closed over him. That had been what he sought. The dark, cold oblivion. Yet now, in the small, quiet room, tended by a meek woman in a pale robe, nameless and without position for the first time, adrift from all he had known, he was afraid.
He tried to lift his hand to his face to allow himself a little pride, some small concealment for his humiliation. It felt like white fire ran the length of his spine and he only stifled a cry by force of will alone.
“Monsieur!”
Had she touched him, he knew he would have found strength to strike her back. Pity was too much, even from one who lived to grant it. He forced his face from hers, his hand held up as much as he could bear to ward her away. Was it not enough that he was shamed? Why did she feel compelled to look upon him in his weakness?
“Leave me.”
Perhaps it was fury driving the words from his aching throat, or perhaps grief. He could not be certain himself. The woman did not seem compelled to obey, but he turned a fierce glare on her, ignoring the moist heat streaking his cheeks. Wordlessly, she rose and slipped from the room, silent as a ghost.
He turned his face against the pillow, the fabric coarse. It scratched, but he could not care about something so meaningless. His body was aflame with pain, as if it was in his blood, but even that seemed inconsequential.
What purpose was there in prolonging his existence? Was it a punishment from on high against his choice? Was it not enough that his mind was torn apart? Surely, no man could be expected to live with such contradiction.
His breath wheezed in his lungs, and he trembled.
Who was he now?
What was he?