'One more step and you die.'
Valjean stops, and turns. The dead weight of Marius is heavier with each passing moment, and he cannot rid himself of the fear – that his legs will give out, or his back. That the boy will stop breathing, and he will have to stagger home with a corpse, to face Cosette's pain.
If, of course, he should be able to walk anywhere. The situation is desperate enough that he does not think in terms of being allowed. He looks Javert in the eye, and what he finds makes him straighten with resolve.
Javert's hand is wavering. His face is slack, no matter how he tries to make it rigid. There is pain in his eyes Valjean hasn't seen for many years, not since the night they took leave of each other in Montreuil sur Mare. On a different day, he might allow himself to hurt in return.
'Javert, please. He is dying. You are not a cruel man.'
The gun shakes. Perhaps something has been ailing him before this point, or maybe it is anger that Valjean presumes to know him.
Regardless, the weapon lowers.
'Take him, then.' And then, quieter. 'Damn you.'
Valjean turns his head back to look up the street. He has a nose full of sewer, but he can still make out the gunpowder in the air, can still draw the deaths of those boys into his body. He prays for Marius to breathe them in also, and stay strong. 'Thank you.'
A muscle twitches at the corner of Javert's eye. The gun is so loose in his hand, Valjean thinks it might fall. But the man does not move, and finally, he finds energy to move his feet. 'You know where I live.'
He does not wait for an answer. He wants to look back, but resists. The pain in his shoulder is becoming acute, where before it was just an ache. The buttons of Marius' waistcoat dig into him, worry and irritate until he is sure he will be scarred anew. He feels Javert watching, as he always has. There was a time that would strike the fear of the Devil into him, but not tonight. His last night of freedom, and God will see him safe until the boy is home. He believes it in his heart. They have not come this far, he and God, to forsake each other now.
The streets are empty, Paris having taken to its bed while revolution fails to set the streets alight. He walks unmolested, and tries to hurry. It is not far to his apartment; Marius will have to rest there, and his family sent for while a doctor works. It is a straightforward problem, life or death, reliant only on his speed in fetching help. Scared for the boy as he is, his thoughts linger on the man he has left behind.
He should never have let himself get close to Javert during their time in Montreuil sur Mare. It was foolish, and indulgent. But it is impossible to regret. In the nine years since, his bed has been empty, and the only eyes that follow him belong to his daughter. She is everything, but Javert was – is – a part of himself he has never managed to cut free. He is the only soul alive who knows his real name. The only being under God's sky who has known him as a slave, as a leader, as a man. Javert is a thread wrapped around his spine, a sinuous line of rough wool sawed into the bone that keeps him upright. He has spent a lifetime running from him, and to him. In a few short hours, they will come together once more. It is hard to believe it will be for the final time.
Marius coughs. The noise of it shocks Valjean to a halt. It turns to a retch, and despite his efforts to keep him from the worst of the sewer, some must have found its way inside. The boy vomits weakly, and he has no choice but to stop, and let him down. He is struggling, gasping, and blood drips freely from his head.
'Be still. Be still. It will be well.' His hand rests on Marius's back as he tries to rid himself of the slime. The relief is overwhelming. He lives yet. He fights on, and Cosette will not have to suffer his death. 'I will get you home, Marius. She waits.'
He looks back to see how far he has come. Not so far as he would like. The parapet edging the river can be seen, lit by the glow of gaslights at the end of the street. Marius says a word, but appears to fade once more; Valjean takes advantage of his momentary consciousness to lift him again. If he becomes dead weight, the effort might be too much even for his strength.
One more glance behind. He realises that he is expecting Javert to be there, watching. It is this thought that gives him pause; that there is no sensation of eyes on him. It should be more comforting than it is.
'Not long now, Marius.'
No answer, for he is unconscious. Valjean grits his teeth, and pulls his gaze from behind. He must keep looking forward.
Except, in the shadow on the parapet, something moves. He frowns, and though time will not stop, he cannot move. The thought comes to him that there is no need for Javert to watch now. He knows where he lives. He knows he will not run any longer. And Javert was never the type of man who would indulge a desire to look at him for pleasure. A cold hand fingers its way through Valjean's gut, up towards his chest. The movement did not come from the ground next to the wall. It came from on the wall.
'Javert…'
He whispers it under his breath, and tries to will his feet back the way they have come. Marius slips on his shoulder, falling towards the front, pulling him up the street and towards home. He has to stagger a step to regain his centre of balance, and in that instant, the shadows move again. Javert is walking the edge, looking to the sky. He is sure-footed, as always, but Valjean still tries to force the cry building in his chest out of his mouth. There is not enough air in his lungs to manage a single noise. He prays instead, lips mouthing empty sounds, and still he cannot move. His back is frozen, pulled tight; the pain of the weight he carries melts to nothing. Step down, he whispers. Look behind.
Javert turns. The wrong way. Valjean watches, and it is like the man's strings are cut. His shoulders slump, his head dips. The fear in Valjean's chest tightens to a point, and his legs move at last, only allowing a step, two, three…but it is not enough, and too much. He trips on a stone, and in that instant, Javert falls.
'NO!'
Marius is slipping. Valjean sinks, boneless, to his knees. A jolt of pain as they hit the cobbles. It flashes up his body, and the boy rolls off his shoulder. He cannot move to stop him, cannot lift his arms. The hurt rolls out along his nerves, turns his stomach, burns the back of his eyes. His fingers twitch, alive with pain, and still he cannot move. His heart beats the time slipping away, taking Cosette's happiness with it. But his back will not straighten; he folds, hands over his face now, and feels himself drowning in the aftermath of agony.
###
Months later, he stands at that point on the river. If he put his hand down, it could rest on a phantom hat. Paris has cooled in the autumn, in temperature and fervour, and people walk past as if that night never happened. They comment on the prettiness of the view – Notre-Dame on one side, the Palais de Justice on the other. Below, the river is its usual uncaring tempest. He cannot look at it. He looks to the sky instead.
This is what freedom feels like. A cut cord, a broken rope swinging in the wind. Marius recovers, and Valjean thinks, through his tears, that it should be anchor enough. Cosette's happiness, the promise made to her mother that she would want for nothing. But he does not feel free. He is the invisible man, forgotten by all. No one watches. There is no one left to run from, or towards.
He once told Javert he killed a woman with words. He suspects he may have killed Javert with mercy. And now he thinks, there is no one left to kill him. He is free, and it is the greatest burden of all.