The weight of the chains around her wrists and ankles crushed her in more than her body. Her soul felt pinned tightly in the dank darkness, imprisoned again to her suffering. She snorted in derision, looking at her iron-bound hands once more. How could she have let herself wind up back here. In the same damned cell, just days later.
Her familiar demon of hopelessness crept in towards her heart and with it, the sting of tears welling in her eyes. No, she demanded herself to stop the crying, pushing away her dread with a deep breath. There must be another way. Perhaps Javert…
Foolish child, the cold voice in the dark recesses of her mind chastised her. You are on your own. Just you and the Lord now.
Cécelie paused, shushing that internal demon. She let her thoughts wander, edged with anxiety as they searched for any remaining chance at hope. The shouts and cries from the cells around her broke her concentration, so she buried her head in her arms, curling herself against the bars of her cell.
She rested in this strange sort of serenity.
Until a large warm hand rested on her shoulder. At the contact, she jolted up, swerving away from the hand in a mix of fear and disgust.
"Cécelie," that now-familiar low rumble drew her focus to his face.
"Inspector,' she replied, her voice distant and unfeeling. Even though it had only been perhaps an hour she had spent in this cell, she had already begun to remember his face differently. He crouched beside her form, pushing his body against her prison bars. He seemed larger than she remembered. His eyes seemed more radiant, more real, and his jaw seemed softer than her memory served her. "Come to check on your prisoner again, have you?" her voice sounded barely above a defeated whisper.
"Cécelie," he said again, reaching his hand through the bars just enough to grab her shoulder and turn her towards him. "I only have a moment to spare," his words flooded quickly over her, "I am going to do what I can to find Sister Clémence to offer a witness statement on your behalf. It would be the proof needed to exonerate your charges and prove that Tanville is a liar."
Cécelie did not move from his grip. "You would do that, Inspector, although you know that I am as good as condemned to the guillotine?"
"Comtesse, if you are innocent, you are one less noble I will see sent to their death at the end of that blade," he hissed, and she felt her fingers tighten around the curve of her shoulder.
She drew her shoulder from his grip, his hand falling away from her. "And if I am not innocent, am I still worth saving? I am still something you could want above others?" she spat.
His silence was telling enough.
"I thought not,' she concluded with a sour smile, turning herself away from him, dragging her chains around her.
"You are innocent in the eyes of the law as long as I can find your witness, Cécelie, that is what I am doing for you," he stated clearly. His fingers twitched with the ache to touch her again, but he did not allow himself to so. Not until he had set her innocence in stone for the world to see.
She didn't budge, her own stillness in sound and body irritated him. He didn't have time to wait for her to open up again for him. He withdrew from the bars, standing up once more. Just as he turned to leave, he heard her voice ring out with a clarity.
"Javert?" she asked, his name sweet on her lips.
He stopped mid-stride to turn back towards her cell. "Cécelie?" he replied.
"If I may, I would like my rosary from Sister Clémence, just to pray to pass the time," her voice cracked.
Something moved inside of him, if not pity, then something akin to it. Though it was against procedure to give items to the prisoners, he couldn't bring himself to deny her request to pray. Especially if he did fail, she would be destined for La Force prison and the shining blade it contained. His fingers pulled the delicate beads from his pocket, and they chinked together as he bent down to meet her outstretched palm. Her face was barely turned towards him again; he could just make out the deepest blue of her left eye. She nodded her gratitude as he pushed the beads gently into her cold palm. He lingered on her hand for a moment, if only to warm it with his own.
His touch drew her to face him. Cécelie allowed herself one last, long look at him. At his dark, perfect hair that she knew was long and soft in her hands. At his brilliant eyes, stern, exacting in intensity and fathomless green in color. At his firm mouth, so sweet and masculine to her taste. At his broad shoulders and arms, capable of caressing and of crushing. At his body, so heavy, warm and enticing to her memories.
"Thank you," she whispered. She squeezed his hand gently before releasing it once last time.
Javert paused. "It's nothing," he replied, matching the gentility in her voice. Then, without another glance back, he straightened and hurried off towards the stables. And then to the Rue de Bac.