One Way to Go On- A Les Miserables Story

A Heart of Stone

*this takes place when Eponine is unconscious*

Javert let his head fall back against the table, resigning himself to his fate. He was going to die. He was not to survive the night. Did he fear death? No. Did he regret it? Only that it was to be at the hands of a dying revolution.

 He was proud the barricade was falling, he was iron in his resolve. Was he disappointed when they shot the insurgent prisoner, thus sealing his fate? No. Was he disappointed he would never bring Valjean to justice?

More than he'd like to admit to himself.

He steeled his mind, trying not to think, focusing merely on the cannon fire, the alternation between cannonballs and grapeshot, the destruction of the insurgency. The revolutionaries would kill him before the barricade was taken, he knew that. There was no comfort in their imminent downfall, not for his own life, but he took comfort in the death of their revolution. He hated revolution.

He opened his eyes and tried to lift his head as best he could while tied to a table. Enjolras, leader of the insurgents, stormed in, holding his gun by the barrel.

"The barricade will be taken within the hour. Who's to blow this man's brains out?" He gestured to Javert, who refused to be shaken. It worked well. He was resigned to his fate. He came to this barricade to die, at one hand or another.

"I will," said a stranger, stepping forward out of the shadows. Javert turned his head, and let out a soft, singular laugh, the laugh of a condemned man.

"Of course," he whispered, recognizing Jean Valjean. It was only fitting that he take his revenge, it was only fitting that he have vengeance. Javert now looked upon his own execution, not with distaste, but with contempt. He was to die, not at the hands of a dying revolution, but at the hands of a former convict, his former superior, and his former obsession. How fitting.

The revolutionaries cut his bond to the table and, keeping his hands and ankles tied, forced him forward. Valjean caught his shoulder, steadying him, but rather than thanking him, Javert glared, the toned and polished hatred of one about to die showing clearly not only in his eyes, but in his stance, steady and unwavering as a soldier's.

Valjean thought nothing of it and guided him to the back alley, unspeaking. Javert couldn't help but mock him in his final moments.

"You'll have your revenge, I trust?"

Valjean looked up from loading his gun.

"Killing me, your secret safe? No one will know what you did, will they?" Javert persisted, barely tilting his head forward with as much sarcasm he could muster in his bonds.

"Give me your hands," he replied mechanically, drawing a dagger. Javert obeyed, lifting his wrists, which were tied together with several loops of rope. 

"Ah yes, that's much more your forte. Knifes sound much more 'you' than guns, don't they?"

Valjean didn't reply, and instead sliced through the ropes. Javert stared at his swollen wrists for a moment, before looking up with the shock of a man who had just been spared something he'd expected. He tried for a smile, but barely came up with the start of one when it faltered and broke.

"For your skill as a marksman, you sure have bad aim with a knife. You see, you've cut my bonds, not my veins, and a more desperate man would've run already," he said, losing his sarcasm in his surprise.

Valjean instead took a small piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled something on the paper.

"There's my address. I trust if I make it out of the barricade alive- which I'm doubtful- you'll be waiting there for me, gendarmes, handcuffs, and all?"