The young man, with advice grudgingly taken from Valjean, had planned well. The line of convicts moved swiftly and quietly, using the natural cover of darkness and their intimate knowledge of the passageways to their advantage.
With such concerns out of mind, Valjean was finally granted a chance to lift his head. The stars looked down upon the convicts with serene indifference, shining out from the void, as if they could not aid them if they would. Occasionally, one of the party would falter in the cold, and Valjean and his fellows would run their hands briskly over the unfortunate's arms and legs to stimulate circulation until the man could move on. Valjean himself was near to collapse from exhaustion. There was something in him that had been lacking, however, in the hours before at the quarries, something that straightened the his shoulders and powered his step. Perhaps it was that freedom was so near, they were almost to the gates. Perhaps it was that he could not let the younger men see him falter, knowing that they looked to him, afraid. Perhaps it was the remnants of his pride, one could never be sure.
He pressed on.
It was the youngest man of the group that halted them, holding up one hand for silence. They were in the closest passageway to the outside gates and the party stopped, fearfully, gratefully. It had been such a quiet night, they thought, without knowing that they thought this, unexpectedly so. They were a pack of feral curs, cringing at every noise, at every shadow, in every movement seeing that dread form materializing from the stones. The men closed in tightly together and faced forward to every direction, their hearts hammering, their eyes dark with terror. After a moment, they heard the sound that the youngest man had guessed, the steady tread of polished boots as they turned unhurriedly towards the overhang under which they crouched.
Chaos won out over impeccable planning, the men began to scatter, their beleaguered minds ill-equipped to consider anything through a mist of blind panic. Desperately, Valjean attempted to keep them together, here his hand grasping at a tattered shirt, there at a coat-tail, but the men would not be constrained. Only the youngest man, shivering and out of his head with terror, remained, holding his hand out to Valjean, pleading with him with his eyes. The footsteps had drawn, slowly, inexorably closer, they would have little time. Then there would be the lash, pain, retribution, years upon years, the light, the hammer, the quarries-but not yet-still-the gates.
Freedom.
He reached out to the young man-and heavy tread of their pursuer had stopped then, all together.
Javert had found them.
Valjean could sense him behind him, solid, unwavering, silent-a mountain that could not crumble, a man that would not be swayed. The ordeal settling upon the remaining convicts as an intolerable weight. There was nothing then that could be done-nowhere to run to that he would not follow-no where to hide that he would not find. Perhaps it was better this way, Valjean considered, exhausted, to give up the fight, to turn back to the schedule, to the life that he had known. And yet...
Five more years, he thought wearily, with a kind of inward sob. Five more years when he had had so many.
The heavy hand of the guardsman settled upon his shoulder, and something ruptured inside him, fiery hot, the rage of a creature that knows that it is beaten.
If there was nothing left for him than to be taken-
He tore from the grasp of the phantom and began to run. There was nothing for it now-in front of him were the gates. There was a way out, and Valjean had lost his humanity for an instant-he was a caged animal that had suddenly been freed. If the master of the zoo opens the doors to the cages, his charges will run out-but in his haste he had forgotten the boy, and that slowed him, ripping his gaze unwillingly from the gates to turn it back onto the horrors.
The youngest of their attempt was locked in a struggle with the Gypsy and was hopelessly outmatched. They were nearly indistinguishable in the shadows, only the faint light of the stars showed them for what they were, as they squared off, circling, standing ground, trading blows. A vicious strike was done to the head of the phantom, and he turned enraged, seizing the smaller man with a silent roar. The convict twisted in his hands, but succeeded only in tighten the death-grip held on him as Javert forced him to the ground, one hand reaching for his cudgel.
His hand was closing upon it when Valjean launched himself upon him.
The Gypsy came electrically alive beneath him, fighting fiercely to regain his feet. Valjean would not let him. He pinned him with his body, and turned his head to the other convict, his eyes blazing with a sudden, authoritative light.
"Go," he said in a low voice, and the young man trembled, uncertain. He had drawn his little knife. Valjean struggled with the last of his waning strength to keep the Gypsy subdued, but such strength as it was was fading-Javert had begun to gain the upper hand, a moment more and he would be free. Desperate, Valjean turned to the young man again. "Do not wait for me," he ordered sharply, "You must g-"
A glancing blow caught Valjean upon the side of his head, and he staggered, losing his grip upon Javert. Had Valjean been at his full strength, he would have easily stood the victor, but the combination of chill and exhaustion had tempered his blows. He was weakening and the cudgel had been freed, that cudgel that was like the sword of Saint Michel, and he looked into the eyes of Javert as a brave man looks into the eyes of a lion that is about to devour him and saw only the shining of personal triumph, the dark eyes fixed and gleaming. He watched the cudgel sweep down slowly, the cudgel that was meant to only strike once, once so he might be carried away, once so that he might have been saved- and he closed his eyes.
There was nothing.
Valjean's eyes snapped open, expecting any moment that final, crushing blow that would send him spiraling into the darkness. It never came. Javert was still stretched above him, the cudgel held above his head, but the blow had never descended. The blade of the knife was buried hilt-deep into his side.
The cudgel fell harmlessly from loosened fingers. Valjean lifted his head, breaking that unbearable gaze, to find the younger convict who was starting and fretting, as if he could not believe what was that he had done.
"Go," Valjean whispered, turning back to Javert. The Gypsy was close to losing consciousness, his body no longer under his command, but those eyes continued to gaze into Valjean's, solemn and strange, as the blood pattered down unregarded by either man.
And then something in the dark eyes dimmed, and Valjean watched him fall away.
