Javert never made it to Hell. He never made it to Heaven, either. That was unsurprising.
Instead he lay prostrate in the sand, his whole body throbbing and marred with blacks and blues and horrific marks. This? Indubitably shocking. He spluttered and vomited mouthfuls of sand and brackish water. Oxygen was like acid to reinvigorated lungs. Opening his eyes to the sun blinded him, so his head and eyes lolled uselessly and shamefully shut. He found he could hardly lift his leaden head up on his shoulders.
Javert's body was broken. His reeling mind fared little better.
"I've washed up!" A universe of pain in his whispered, gasping cry. Javert did not recognize his own voice. His throat was ravaged. He still tasted raw Seine waters on the tongue.
But how and where had he washed up? If he were in a more lucid state, he might have dimly noticed that it was not a riverbed that he had come to, but the sea. And this land looked markedly different than anywhere he had been in France.
Yet Javert did not get much further than taking those first few precious breaths. Soon enough, he heard the decisive click of a cocked gun, and he raised his eyes to find a barrel leveled straight to his temple.
[two]
The stares did not bother him. Javert was accustomed to living outside the pale of society, as grim, severe, and unsociable as he was. Unrelenting and strict police officers did not enjoy the luxury of pleasant company or open-armed acceptance. The stares were nothing.
The leaflets were a different story.
“What to Expect When You’re Expecting (To Turn Into A Monster).Dancing with Werewolves in the Moonlight: A How-To Guide from a Vegan Wolf Friend.Alternatives to Daily Consumption of Human Flesh,” Javert intoned dully and rapidly. He grimaced deeply, his eyes tracing over each of the words with growing irritation.
“What garbage is this? Some occultist manifestos? Utter nonsense.”
Javert | Les Misérables (Novel) | OTA
Javert never made it to Hell. He never made it to Heaven, either. That was unsurprising.
Instead he lay prostrate in the sand, his whole body throbbing and marred with blacks and blues and horrific marks. This? Indubitably shocking. He spluttered and vomited mouthfuls of sand and brackish water. Oxygen was like acid to reinvigorated lungs. Opening his eyes to the sun blinded him, so his head and eyes lolled uselessly and shamefully shut. He found he could hardly lift his leaden head up on his shoulders.
Javert's body was broken. His reeling mind fared little better.
"I've washed up!" A universe of pain in his whispered, gasping cry. Javert did not recognize his own voice. His throat was ravaged. He still tasted raw Seine waters on the tongue.
But how and where had he washed up? If he were in a more lucid state, he might have dimly noticed that it was not a riverbed that he had come to, but the sea. And this land looked markedly different than anywhere he had been in France.
Yet Javert did not get much further than taking those first few precious breaths. Soon enough, he heard the decisive click of a cocked gun, and he raised his eyes to find a barrel leveled straight to his temple.
[two]
The stares did not bother him. Javert was accustomed to living outside the pale of society, as grim, severe, and unsociable as he was. Unrelenting and strict police officers did not enjoy the luxury of pleasant company or open-armed acceptance. The stares were nothing.
The leaflets were a different story.
“What to Expect When You’re Expecting (To Turn Into A Monster). Dancing with Werewolves in the Moonlight: A How-To Guide from a Vegan Wolf Friend. Alternatives to Daily Consumption of Human Flesh,” Javert intoned dully and rapidly. He grimaced deeply, his eyes tracing over each of the words with growing irritation.
“What garbage is this? Some occultist manifestos? Utter nonsense.”