Dream ✍ 001
"Do you think I deserve a recompense? Well, I request one. That I may blow that man's brains out."
Javert was pinioned in three places. A thick rope collar was bound about his throat, and cord kept his wrists tied tight and his legs close. His march to the secluded Rue de Mondetour alleyway, where the insurgents stockpiled the dead, was slow and arduous; his balance was poor, and he could move little more than a few inches with each step. Yet on his face was the indefinable, smug smile of a confident man who had just been shown the secret to life itself.
The hooded visage of his captor bade him to stop and turned to face him. Javert obeyed, his gaze cast askance to the growing tower of bodies. The livid face and dirtied, streaming hair of a young girl, shot through the breast, caught his attention. Idly he noticed how familiar she looked. It might have been a girl he once arrested. It was never a good sign for a police agent to recognize a man or a woman. More often than not, it meant one was of the villainous variety.
Perhaps they would meet again shortly.
Javert turned to the stout, strong form of his opponent, his stare glancing only briefly to the thick barrel of the pistol thrust in his face. He was profoundly calm, almost serene and haughty in his wait. It occurred to him that the large man had spoken, but Javert cared not what he said.
"Take your revenge," Javert prompted, his head held high. He gave the impression of a man waiting for this moment all night. It was not so far from the truth. At every opportunity that the insurgents came in to the café where he was held prisoner, he would wonder at them why they had not taken the chance to kill him.
Well. At least that wait was over.
But rather than blow his head off right then and there, the other man tucked his pistol under his arm and withdrew a small object. There was a flash of silver, a sharp glint through the dimness. It was a knife.
"Ah! You are right, Valjean," said Javert with a grim note of approval. "That knife suits you better."
Knives were barbaric. Uncivilized. Personal. Criminal. Perfect for the ex-convict before him, who doubtless wished to savor the moment life left the Inspector's eyes. Javert anticipated the flash of the blade.
But it did not come. Instead, the ex-convict grasped Javert by the martingale and yanked him close, their noses nearly touching as the criminal's wild eyes stared eagerly into Javert's cold, impassive gaze. It was most uncomfortable, to be pulled around such, thought Javert. It placed a hideous strain on his breathing.
"Be quiet! You talk too much!" snarled Valjean terribly, the old man strung-out and weary from his many years of flight. His thick grip constricted, pulling the noose tight. "--Even as my prisoner."
And as the flick of the knife descended upon Javert's throat, crimson splashing the convict's face, the Inspector's lips pulled back in a fearsome, soundless, proud laugh. Valjean perceived the Inspector's broad grin, his face gaunt and body loose in the collapse of death.
It is only just. Duty was served well.
Javert was pinioned in three places. A thick rope collar was bound about his throat, and cord kept his wrists tied tight and his legs close. His march to the secluded Rue de Mondetour alleyway, where the insurgents stockpiled the dead, was slow and arduous; his balance was poor, and he could move little more than a few inches with each step. Yet on his face was the indefinable, smug smile of a confident man who had just been shown the secret to life itself.
The hooded visage of his captor bade him to stop and turned to face him. Javert obeyed, his gaze cast askance to the growing tower of bodies. The livid face and dirtied, streaming hair of a young girl, shot through the breast, caught his attention. Idly he noticed how familiar she looked. It might have been a girl he once arrested. It was never a good sign for a police agent to recognize a man or a woman. More often than not, it meant one was of the villainous variety.
Perhaps they would meet again shortly.
Javert turned to the stout, strong form of his opponent, his stare glancing only briefly to the thick barrel of the pistol thrust in his face. He was profoundly calm, almost serene and haughty in his wait. It occurred to him that the large man had spoken, but Javert cared not what he said.
"Take your revenge," Javert prompted, his head held high. He gave the impression of a man waiting for this moment all night. It was not so far from the truth. At every opportunity that the insurgents came in to the café where he was held prisoner, he would wonder at them why they had not taken the chance to kill him.
Well. At least that wait was over.
But rather than blow his head off right then and there, the other man tucked his pistol under his arm and withdrew a small object. There was a flash of silver, a sharp glint through the dimness. It was a knife.
"Ah! You are right, Valjean," said Javert with a grim note of approval. "That knife suits you better."
Knives were barbaric. Uncivilized. Personal. Criminal. Perfect for the ex-convict before him, who doubtless wished to savor the moment life left the Inspector's eyes. Javert anticipated the flash of the blade.
But it did not come. Instead, the ex-convict grasped Javert by the martingale and yanked him close, their noses nearly touching as the criminal's wild eyes stared eagerly into Javert's cold, impassive gaze. It was most uncomfortable, to be pulled around such, thought Javert. It placed a hideous strain on his breathing.
"Be quiet! You talk too much!" snarled Valjean terribly, the old man strung-out and weary from his many years of flight. His thick grip constricted, pulling the noose tight. "--Even as my prisoner."
And as the flick of the knife descended upon Javert's throat, crimson splashing the convict's face, the Inspector's lips pulled back in a fearsome, soundless, proud laugh. Valjean perceived the Inspector's broad grin, his face gaunt and body loose in the collapse of death.
It is only just. Duty was served well.