[Javert is not greedy. He does not feel that aching hunger when he veers dangerously close to losing his wits. For all the things he has neglected during the mourning period (and not for lack of want, but for lack of someone to tend to him), he did remember to feed, taking no pleasure in it, simply picking whomever happened to wander too near to him when he felt the urge. And he did it with all the passion and artistry of a lump of coal. He takes a modest draw from the victim, a small lapping of his tongue, and lets the bulk of it go to his progeny.
He does not return Lecter's stare until their man is good and dead. When the blood stills and the heart stops, Javert drops the wrist and daubs at his mouth and mussed beard with a pocket-kerchief. Some of the intensity of his eyes returns to him the longer he looks, and he raises his heavy head and squares his shoulders with as much smugness as he can muster. His mouth settles into an inelegant, tired line, somewhere between a grimace and a smirk.]
Y'Doethe is dead.
[No preamble. No pomp and circumstance. Just a tart, dry fact.]
no subject
He does not return Lecter's stare until their man is good and dead. When the blood stills and the heart stops, Javert drops the wrist and daubs at his mouth and mussed beard with a pocket-kerchief. Some of the intensity of his eyes returns to him the longer he looks, and he raises his heavy head and squares his shoulders with as much smugness as he can muster. His mouth settles into an inelegant, tired line, somewhere between a grimace and a smirk.]
Y'Doethe is dead.
[No preamble. No pomp and circumstance. Just a tart, dry fact.]
She made a decadent bonfire.