Sequel
Part One
They stared at each other a moment, he and the boy now turned revolutionary leader, eyes locked in communication, a silent measuring of each other which excluded everyone else. Awoken now to Enjolras' deceit and true purpose, Valjean also stood taller, stronger, not merely a kind old gentleman with a daughter - though still that as well - but with the tempered steel wrought in years as a convict, as a fugitive, as a man building himself up again and again from nothing strengthening his spine and cooling his gaze. They found themselves equal in their assessments, both strong and ultimately calculating, but each with a limit. Enjolras was coming into his purpose; Valjean's was ending.
The seconds stretched and the bespectacled boy fidgeted, Javert watched indifferently, the activities outside continued, leaking noise to worm, muffled, around them. Eventually whatever it was passed, and Enjolras nodded, unclenching his fist - his only outward tell of emotion - to clap his hand on Valjean's shoulder.
"Blow his brains out," he told the older man with uncharacteristic brutality of words, patting his shoulder once more before climbing the stairs from the cellar. He did not spare a look back; had Valjean been inclined to consider, he would have suspected that the boy could not. He would have understood because, like the boy, he had a job to do. If fate decreed it, they would have time to grieve later.
As it was, he did not move but to nod acceptance of his orders; not to watch the boy go, not to bear witness as Combeferre shrouded Cosette gently, carefully, nor to acknowledge this boy as he too touched Jean's shoulder in gentle, haunted sympathy and filed out, not even to wipe his still-falling tears.
It was not until the students were gone, and a long pause spent in silence later, when Javert cleared his throat and said, coldly, "Well?" that Valjean returned to animation.
He turned to regard the other man, and drew a knife he'd acquired at some point prior. Met with a sneer about the aptness of his choice, he moved smoothly, silently around to the back of the pole, and cut his old nightmare's bonds. When Javert opened his mouth to protest, Valjean interrupted, voice no longer quite so steady as it had been, hanging on a crumbling cliffside above an endless sea of grief. "My life has already ended today," he explained. His voice grew surer, stronger, if not steadier, as he continued, "I will not use you for my revenge."
If the Inspecteur argued further, it fell on deaf ears as Valjean took a firm grip on his arm and pulled him to the cellar entrance. The ex-convict had ears only for what was out there, and perhaps the other man recognized the determination for what it was, a man who could not be swayed by any protest. It hardly mattered either way to Jean.As the noise grew outside to what Jean considered a suitable level, he pulled Javert with him, nudging, pushing relentlessly until they were up, out, and to a point he deemed acceptable for his prisoner's escape.
"Go." It was one word accompanied only by the dropping of his grip on Javert's arm, gruff and none too loud, but it held as much force as a shout and his strongest shove. "Go."
A minute later and the Inspecteur was gone. Firing his shot into the air, Valjean turned back and took his place at the barricade, unacknowledged by but only an arm's length away from the young man his daughter had loved. There, he settled in to fight, and to send his body to the grave his heart already inhabited.
Jean Valjean, however, did not die on the barricade, nor did he retreat with the others selected as uniforms were offered. Instead, he offered his up as well, then rolled up the sleeves of his new, exchanged workman's clothes as one more man with a family was forced to get out. And when it came time or Enjolras to call the retreat into the café, he still stood relatively unharmed.
Combeferre and the other second, Courfeyrac, did not make it inside, but Valjean made certain that their leader did. He stayed near the boy as the soldier's came and came, and the revolutionaries' numbered dwindled to nearly nothing. When there were only a very few left, when he faced the prospect of seeing the boy who had made Cosette flourish as no other did executed as mercilessly as all those others, when that became the only logical conclusion, Valjean saw red.
Roaring he charged, no longer seeing the individual men in uniforms, merely the danger to the only person he had left, to his remaining connection to Cosette. He tore the gun from a startled soldier's grasp before the man could even begin to lower it, turned the bayonet against its owner, and lost all conscious thought.
The next thing he knew, the soldiers' bodies were on the ground with those of the revolutionaries they had slain, and the room was cleared of enemies. Outside the fighting continued, slowing now as other pockets of resistance were methodically cleared, but here stood only he, Enjolras, and between them a man who Valjean had previously considered dead as he'd slumped over a table.
Enjolras was wounded, a hand clasped over the deep gash in his side, face stoic as he tried to shrug off this new man's concern. Jean realized that he was holding something heavy, looked down, and dropped the body of the soldier who had dared get past him and get a shot at the young, charismatic leader, and who had been rewarded for his effort with a snapped neck.
Valjean stared at the body, at his blood-soaked hands and shirt sleeves, at the spatter and grime down his front, until he heard a gasp and some fumbling. Looking up he found Enjolras fainted and his friend desperately trying to support him. This man, who practically oozed the scent of alcohol, gritted out a "help me," and Jean sprung to his side.
He met resistance when he tried to take the blond away completely, and looking at this drunkard's face he recognized a little of what he saw there. "I will carry him," he told the boy - he was certainly still a boy, even if he seemed older than most of the other students had been - and shifted to do so, gently but firmly prying the grasping hands from Enjolras' body and scooping him up, "We have to hurry."
Because in that moment, or perhaps in the ones before, somewhere, he had decided to save this boy. His daughter might have been dead, yes, and perhaps it was the product of student stupidity, of this student's stupidity, but she had loved him. Had circumstances been different, perhaps he would have someday called Enjolras 'son.'
In the face of that, and in the face of this strange, worn, man's fear and devotion, Jean had no choice.
"We will use the sewers," he informed the fellow he would learn to call R, and began to move.
They stared at each other a moment, he and the boy now turned revolutionary leader, eyes locked in communication, a silent measuring of each other which excluded everyone else. Awoken now to Enjolras' deceit and true purpose, Valjean also stood taller, stronger, not merely a kind old gentleman with a daughter - though still that as well - but with the tempered steel wrought in years as a convict, as a fugitive, as a man building himself up again and again from nothing strengthening his spine and cooling his gaze. They found themselves equal in their assessments, both strong and ultimately calculating, but each with a limit. Enjolras was coming into his purpose; Valjean's was ending.
The seconds stretched and the bespectacled boy fidgeted, Javert watched indifferently, the activities outside continued, leaking noise to worm, muffled, around them. Eventually whatever it was passed, and Enjolras nodded, unclenching his fist - his only outward tell of emotion - to clap his hand on Valjean's shoulder.
"Blow his brains out," he told the older man with uncharacteristic brutality of words, patting his shoulder once more before climbing the stairs from the cellar. He did not spare a look back; had Valjean been inclined to consider, he would have suspected that the boy could not. He would have understood because, like the boy, he had a job to do. If fate decreed it, they would have time to grieve later.
As it was, he did not move but to nod acceptance of his orders; not to watch the boy go, not to bear witness as Combeferre shrouded Cosette gently, carefully, nor to acknowledge this boy as he too touched Jean's shoulder in gentle, haunted sympathy and filed out, not even to wipe his still-falling tears.
It was not until the students were gone, and a long pause spent in silence later, when Javert cleared his throat and said, coldly, "Well?" that Valjean returned to animation.
He turned to regard the other man, and drew a knife he'd acquired at some point prior. Met with a sneer about the aptness of his choice, he moved smoothly, silently around to the back of the pole, and cut his old nightmare's bonds. When Javert opened his mouth to protest, Valjean interrupted, voice no longer quite so steady as it had been, hanging on a crumbling cliffside above an endless sea of grief. "My life has already ended today," he explained. His voice grew surer, stronger, if not steadier, as he continued, "I will not use you for my revenge."
If the Inspecteur argued further, it fell on deaf ears as Valjean took a firm grip on his arm and pulled him to the cellar entrance. The ex-convict had ears only for what was out there, and perhaps the other man recognized the determination for what it was, a man who could not be swayed by any protest. It hardly mattered either way to Jean.As the noise grew outside to what Jean considered a suitable level, he pulled Javert with him, nudging, pushing relentlessly until they were up, out, and to a point he deemed acceptable for his prisoner's escape.
"Go." It was one word accompanied only by the dropping of his grip on Javert's arm, gruff and none too loud, but it held as much force as a shout and his strongest shove. "Go."
A minute later and the Inspecteur was gone. Firing his shot into the air, Valjean turned back and took his place at the barricade, unacknowledged by but only an arm's length away from the young man his daughter had loved. There, he settled in to fight, and to send his body to the grave his heart already inhabited.
Jean Valjean, however, did not die on the barricade, nor did he retreat with the others selected as uniforms were offered. Instead, he offered his up as well, then rolled up the sleeves of his new, exchanged workman's clothes as one more man with a family was forced to get out. And when it came time or Enjolras to call the retreat into the café, he still stood relatively unharmed.
Combeferre and the other second, Courfeyrac, did not make it inside, but Valjean made certain that their leader did. He stayed near the boy as the soldier's came and came, and the revolutionaries' numbered dwindled to nearly nothing. When there were only a very few left, when he faced the prospect of seeing the boy who had made Cosette flourish as no other did executed as mercilessly as all those others, when that became the only logical conclusion, Valjean saw red.
Roaring he charged, no longer seeing the individual men in uniforms, merely the danger to the only person he had left, to his remaining connection to Cosette. He tore the gun from a startled soldier's grasp before the man could even begin to lower it, turned the bayonet against its owner, and lost all conscious thought.
The next thing he knew, the soldiers' bodies were on the ground with those of the revolutionaries they had slain, and the room was cleared of enemies. Outside the fighting continued, slowing now as other pockets of resistance were methodically cleared, but here stood only he, Enjolras, and between them a man who Valjean had previously considered dead as he'd slumped over a table.
Enjolras was wounded, a hand clasped over the deep gash in his side, face stoic as he tried to shrug off this new man's concern. Jean realized that he was holding something heavy, looked down, and dropped the body of the soldier who had dared get past him and get a shot at the young, charismatic leader, and who had been rewarded for his effort with a snapped neck.
Valjean stared at the body, at his blood-soaked hands and shirt sleeves, at the spatter and grime down his front, until he heard a gasp and some fumbling. Looking up he found Enjolras fainted and his friend desperately trying to support him. This man, who practically oozed the scent of alcohol, gritted out a "help me," and Jean sprung to his side.
He met resistance when he tried to take the blond away completely, and looking at this drunkard's face he recognized a little of what he saw there. "I will carry him," he told the boy - he was certainly still a boy, even if he seemed older than most of the other students had been - and shifted to do so, gently but firmly prying the grasping hands from Enjolras' body and scooping him up, "We have to hurry."
Because in that moment, or perhaps in the ones before, somewhere, he had decided to save this boy. His daughter might have been dead, yes, and perhaps it was the product of student stupidity, of this student's stupidity, but she had loved him. Had circumstances been different, perhaps he would have someday called Enjolras 'son.'
In the face of that, and in the face of this strange, worn, man's fear and devotion, Jean had no choice.
"We will use the sewers," he informed the fellow he would learn to call R, and began to move.