[Jean Valjean is as easy to catch as a ripple moving across the water's surface, slipping away as soon as one reaches out to touch it. Because too much solitude invites rumor and suspicion, he curates a public life to make himself just visible enough to others while keeping to the people's peripherals. He picks up odd jobs to carve out a living; takes long, winding walks about the city with no daughter at his elbow; and gives alms to the poor with little regard for the fact that, with his impressive life's earnings lost, he ranks among them, but always taking different routes on different days of the week.
He little expects the hand placed upon his shoulder. His muscles tense. His eyes when he turns are sharp, the eyes of a man ready to preserve himself. When he sees who has stopped him, however - the realization of it striking like a cast stone - he blanches. His expression goes slack and his voice hollow.]
Percival? But how--? How can this be?
[Here is the man whose soul had fled his body while gathered in Jean Valjean's own arms. The man for whom he had so fervently prayed, and for whom the innocent Clair had so earnestly wept.]
no subject
He little expects the hand placed upon his shoulder. His muscles tense. His eyes when he turns are sharp, the eyes of a man ready to preserve himself. When he sees who has stopped him, however - the realization of it striking like a cast stone - he blanches. His expression goes slack and his voice hollow.]
Percival? But how--? How can this be?
[Here is the man whose soul had fled his body while gathered in Jean Valjean's own arms. The man for whom he had so fervently prayed, and for whom the innocent Clair had so earnestly wept.]