milliways_bar | (no subject)

The door opens to show fields, and a blue sky that goes on forever. Javert stands on the threshold - rough workman's clothes, pitchfork in hand - and contemplates the view in front of him. Then he steps back, and is gone as he closes it behind him.

Maybe twenty minutes later, it opens again. It is dusk on the outside, and Javert has a rag in his hands this time, wiping dirt away. He sighs quietly, and says 'very well' to himself. His trepidation is obvious when he steps inside and closes the door, because he immediately tests to see if he can open it again. Perhaps his relief is just as clear when it seems he is not to be locked in this time.

He asks for a newspaper at the bar. When he learns the date, he asks it to be taken away. There is no expression on his face, and he does not look around to see if there is anyone he knows. He simply picks up his coffee and walks out of the back door, down to the lake to look over the water.

[OOC: Available in the bar, or outside. Open all weekend! <3]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He does feel like a child in this moment. Utterly helpless.

'I was told to connect with other people. To find love. Because God is love, and mercy, and they are things I have never attempted to understand.'

He understands the reasoning behind it. He does not - or at least, did not - want to do it, and now things are even more complicated than they were. But it is not the instruction that infuriates him; more that he was not told how to do it.

And now the only way to do it involves violating a tenet of the Church. Damned either way.

Michael's gaze is fathomless and deep, but her hands remain unutterably gentle.

"God's love is not the same as that of a woman for a man, or a man for a man, when it comes to that."

She doesn't sigh, just leaves her hands on Javert's shoulders, holding firm.

"The love of one friend for another, or a parent for a child, or a neighbor for those in this world that are less fortunate, or less safe -- all these are love, also. I do not believe such loves as these are beyond you, Javert."

She leans forward, then, and presses a kiss of peace to his brow.

"Trust in that, if you can, until you are more fully able to trust yourself."

He keeps his head bowed. The brush of lips threatens to undo him utterly, and he cannot face a being who brings such a message. The wonder of it aches, and brings such shame that he can hardly stand it.

'And if,' he says, in a low tone, 'that is not the kind of love that means anything to me?'

He does not want to think of Valjean, but it happens anyway. Not that he loves him. But there is a secret veneration that borders on the one currently trained on Michael.

'Perhaps I can learn to do it. I will try. But the other kind?'

He does not want to burn in hell for something he cannot control. But if Michael - Michael - says he must deny it to himself, then he must.

"Then you may have the other love, too. None of it is meant to tear you apart, Javert. It is all a blessing from thy Father, to thee and all his children."

Her grip remains gentle.

"Even if the Devil would have thee believe otherwise. And his voice has ever been most loud and easiest to hear."

He is confused.

He wants to believe this so badly it hurts. He is not even intending to act on it, but the fact that it would not be condemned if he did...it is freedom from torment, if nothing else.

'It goes against the Church.'

He mutters it, not wanting the statement to be taken away from him. He is not even supposed to listen to angels above God - but then, the Bible was written by man.

'...I do not want to get this wrong. I am trying not to fall again.'

"After the choice of Peter as the rock, Javert, the Church was made by men. And all men, best-beloved though they are, are fallible. I tell you true, to hate thyself is to hate the hand of God that made thee."

She knows it.

"Neither the Son nor the Father judge thee for this, for it was how thou wast made. Be easy."

And now she does smile, small, unpracticed, and sweet.

"As I said. Fear not, for nothing about thee is damned, and all thy choices lie before thee. Make them anew, and be a kinder man -- to thyself and others both -- for all thy days. I have faith in thee."

It is a long time before he moves. And when he does, he only nods, face down to hide the evidence of emotion.

He trusts she will understand if he does not speak. A crushed man cannot be expected to find words, even one crushed by gratitude. And relief. And a desire to be...better.

"Thou art loved," Michael says, holding his hands between both of her own.

"Do not forget it, and be blessed."

Her wings are jade green and vast, the same color as her eyes, and they beat against the air for a moment before she launches upward and away.

Her work here, for the moment, is done.

And the message has been heard.