Based on a really cool version of the barricade scene that I saw at a local high school. It was GREAT! Basically Javert reflects on a little boy who used to bounce around his office. Sweet little thing about Javert mounting the barricades to pray over it's leader. Angsty.
AN: I cried writing this piece. Just a tiny little one shot. Oh and if you have the Symphonic Recording turn to # 36 play it and read this. If you don't have the CD go to you tube search Les Miserables Complete Symphonic Recording and then type (37 of 44). To get the full effect of the piece you need to have this background music.
He was so tiny when I found him. I thought I could raise him to be an officer of the law but it didn't work out that way. I tried every day but I couldn't do it. I realized I could never break that boy's spirits for he was as wild as any wind that blew in Paris. He was so free, my little rebel. He was mine and I myself took him away.
You see his parents never wanted him and left him at the stoop of my house out of Christian charity I took in the babe. As an inspector it was nearly impossible to raise him, but I did. Something about him was too perfect for me to let alone. I didn't realize I'd killed the boy who'd grown to be my son. I extinguished the fire in his deep blue eyes. I killed the ideals that he held so close to himself.
"Mon petit it's time to come home," I whisper. No response comes forth from his lips. I reach out and take his cold hand. "Enjolras, petit it's time to come home," I smile, "We cannot sleep outside." I sign the cross. I pray for my little one. I press his hand to my cheek. "Enjolras, petit I'm so sorry. I . . . we need to get home to my office. I'll fee all the convicts. I'll let them all go! Just wake up. I'll find a way to make sure those parents of yours never hurt you. I love you."
Then I recalled that after he'd become older than about 10 I'd lost touch with him. We'd found his birth parents and they never let him come back to me. They would not let me see my rebel child. I missed that boy. It wasn't until now that I realized who he was. My son, my little one, was dead. Worst of all it was by my own hand. I lifted him into my lap now stroking his golden blonde locks. "Mon petit it's time to come home. I wouldn't want you to be out alone tonight. It's a dangerous night to be walking the streets blindly. There is too much danger in the streets tonight." I begin to shudder as I cry. I'm sobing now. His face, I touch it. I'm not worthy to do so. I hold his hand. I squeeze it. I take his body down. Now I know how Mary felt when she held the Savior son of God. I hold him on his own side now. I feel dawn's rays on my face. I feel them. He's sending them to me.
"My dear, my . . ." my voice falters. His angelic face breaks my mettle, my stone, my wooden heart. My wooden heart. It cannot break but it can burn. His flame, his passion burnt my heart. "Oh Dear God," I cradle the boy in my arms. "Enjolras wake up, petit it's only a game." I try so hard to smile. I place my head upon his chest and soothe his brow he's burning with ice cold intensity. It radiates my feeling. I am so cold. "It's only a game. Like a pup, like a dog all grown up you play dead. For you are not dead. You who bore so much life you cannot die. Dear little Alexandre, my little Alexandre. It's time to come home for you know that you'll catch a chill sleeping like this in this weather." I sob; I beat the ground. I keep the rebel color around my neck. I hold it there. I NEED it there. I wipe my tears with it. I press the disguise to my mouth to muffle the sobs that come forth as I fold his flag and lay it upon his chest. With that I say, "Goodnight. My little Alexandre, my little rebel, my son."