"Valjean," the convict heard again, and this time it was not the half-whispered tone of a boy caught in a nightmare, it was neutral, commanding. It must have been the Gypsy. He opened his eyes and noted him there-a solemn figure still cloaked in shadow. The convict's eyes roved over that grave, unassuming face and saw nothing amiss-but Javert always saw to it that he was gone in the mornings. Why was he still there? Did he not have more important matters to attend to? It was there, pulling himself free from the dredges of sleep that Valjean noted the touches of anxiety that the Gypsy sought so desperately to hide-the white about his lips, the mirrored gleam of his eyes. The convict was certain that if he made an unexpected move, Javert would have started like a child, moving only by instinct, driven only by fear.
What had happened to the Gypsy?
Valjean, thus disturbed, sat up and was stayed by the rough hand of the guardsman on his shoulder. There was no malice in that hand, but the pressure from it clearly intended that it not be disobeyed. He glanced up to the Gypsy, and was comforted less by the determined way in which Javert sought not to meet his gaze.
"Javert," he whispered, brow furrowing in concern. At the sound of his name, the Gypsy's hand closed reflexively upon his shoulder. "Javert, are you all right?"
The dark eyes locked onto his, and Valjean's suspicions had been confirmed-something was terribly wrong.
Instinctively, his patient tore away his attention to survey the room, half expecting that it would be full of supernatural horrors, certainly nothing else would inspire such terror in the fearless young man-the man who had dared at the blade of a knife. But there was nothing in the room-the demons were Javert's own.
"Valjean," the Gypsy stated again, and then caught himself wretchedly at last. "24601." That terrified and yet utterly relentless gaze burned into the face of the convict and Valjean felt a sliver of fear wedge its way into his heart.
From what hateful place came his name at the lips of the Gypsy? This man had cared for him-he did not understand. Javert had never lied to him, had admitted it was only to aid him in regaining his strength for punishment but despite this truth, Valjean had begun to trust the Gypsy, like a beaten dog learns again to take food from his master, first with snapping, then with bared teeth, and finally with love. The wariness had faded away as the young man became familiar-gone was the phantom of Toulon when one knows of his habits, and the mystique surrounding him had evaporated almost utterly at the hands of the Gypsy's clumsy care. Despairing of the sawbones for what he considered complete incompetence from experience, Javert had insisted on caring for the convict himself, in his own rough and ready way. Sometimes, Javert would fiercely remind himself of his station, and his protection would become reluctant, his care matter-of-course. He had threatened Valjean, chastised him, bullied him into better health, but there were times, when the convict knew that he thought him asleep, that the hand that healed him became surprisingly gentle. And now, his name-his name was spoken without knowing that he spoke it-the convict was a man again-
The Gypsy that he thought of jolted Valjean into reality. "You will come with me," Javert stated quietly, his voice admirably steady despite the fear in his eyes. Valjean shook his head, puzzled, but obediently pulled himself to a sitting position, breathing a sigh of relief as the hand on his shoulder released him.
"Where will you deliver me, Javert?" he questioned breathlessly, attempting to eradicate his own nervousness with humor, "is it Judgement Day at last?"
The Gypsy did not answer him, did not even seem to hear. He stepped forward, and with two easy, practiced motions, unchained Valjean from his cot and shackled his hands before him. The cold lock of the key terrified Valjean-he was being taken from this place of safety to where-he knew not where. But a part of him, the part of him that had existed before Toulon had sought to cripple his soul, trusted the Gypsy. He trusted him not to spare him-he knew enough of the man not to expect mercy-but to be fair.
Javert pushed him, not unkindly, before him, and they began to walk. Valjean did as he was told, promising himself that if the opportunity presented itself, he might be able to make his escape. But the iron hand of the Gypsy upon his shoulder again limited this hope, dousing it in colder reality. Valjean was much stronger than Javert, of that there was no question, but the guardsman doubtlessly carried a weapon. He might have stood a chance against him even then, but Javert, like the wise hound he was, was steering him into a populated area. Strong as Valjean was, he would have been shot down by countless guards before he managed even ten paces.
Javert had steered him into a trap, a makeshift circle had been formed, the convicts under the care of their guards.
A hideous restlessness electrified the air, but Javert did not hesitate, and nor did he stop. He walked, head held high, posture erect, oblivious most of all to the prisoner that had fallen into his grip. A sharp tug on his shoulder told Valjean to stop-Javert had halted him before another guard-had watched the other guard give way before the insignia of power-but the guardsman had not been quite quick enough to hide the naked dislike in his eyes.
Valjean winced as the Gypsy's nails dug into his shoulder-but it was a gesture that was instinctive, without malice. Protection?
No.
Possession.
When the Gypsy spoke again, his voice was cold and clear-betraying nothing.
"I have need of your lash."
The other guardsman squinted up at Javert, resentment clearly shimmering in his gaze before a fear of authority wiped it cleanly away. "Didn't bring your own?" he replied dismissively. That had gotten the response he had been looking for, the dark eyes had flashed for an instant, the thin lip had curled-
"I thought it not appropriate to panic him" Javert responded icily. "You know what they are capable of-"
"Right enough," the guard edged in, almost cheerfully. That hint of sullen distaste had lightened somewhat-he had gotten the reaction that he had wanted. "What for?"
Javert looked at him as if he was simple. "To punish this convict."
"So he's the one." The look of distaste had fallen into good humour, and so did the look of good humour shift into ugly speculation. "I`m glad to hear that, I am-we had all been worrying about you, Javert-you make a fine nursemaid-"
He looked up again to see the Gypsy's reaction, and the idiotic smile that had formed upon it faded as quickly as if he had been slapped. It took the remainder of his courage to hazard another question. "Do you want me to do it, Captain?" he stated, bowing his head to avoid those fiery eyes. "Hate to get his blood on that uniform-"
"Give me the lash," Javert whispered, enunciating each word and Valjean shuddered at the sound of that terrible, sepulchral tone. The lash was handed over without another word and Javert led the convict to center of the circle.
He commanded him to turn.
"So this is where it ends, Javert," Valjean murmured, so that only his captor could hear. He squared his shoulders and turned his back. "Take your revenge."
The Gypsy was lost from the prisoner's sight with his back thus turned-he knew him only from his actions. Neatly, promptly, his uniform shirt-the shirt that Javert had given him-was torn to his waist and then from each arm, baring his back to the guardsman. Valjean could only imagine that cold gaze and what it had seen-the vulnerable pallor of his flesh marked by whiplash. Perhaps it was the memory of one of those ancient blows that caused Javert to hesitate, that caused him to take the risk that he had chosen.
Valjean could sense him moving closer, smelt the scent of the wool, of ointment, of bandages-and then that voice, low, guttural, sounded in his ear. Those that witnessed the moment thought the word exchanged was an order, an intimidation, a threat. It was none of those, but a plea, a plea that was hated even as if poured unmeaning from his lips, nearly choked away before it had been uttered. Javert had whispered into the convict's ear-what did he say?
If he had been a different man the word might have been:
"Please."
Please understand that what I do, I do not do of hate. I do it because another guard would be crueler-I do this because the Law commands that I do this-and the Law is never wrong. It does not matter what I feel, Valjean-or what I think is wrong or right. The boy who thought like that is dead, Toulon has murdered him-and what I am now-what I am now-
Javert counted, and the lash fell differently than it had in his dreams, he had reached all the way to fifteen before Valjean lost his footing. For an instant, Javert scanned the crowd, saw the averted gaze of the convicts, of the guardsmen, and then knelt to the broken husk at his feet. Gently, carefully, in an echo of Valjean's own action, he supported the convict, sensing with distaste the blood that soaked into him from the convict's wounded back. Without thinking of what he did, he brushed a lock of hair from that silent, unmoving face.
Valjean.
I had no choice-the Law commanded that you be punished-the Law commands it-I command it-
For I am the Law-and the Law in me demands to be justified-I am the Law and the law feels no pain-I am the Law and the Law holds no hate-