Jean Valjean, seeing that Fantine has distracted the officers, quickly went up to his father, amongst the other two chain gangsters. "Oh papa!" he whispered.
The old man's eyes were wet, not with tears, but fear, as white as his snow-decked beard. He glanced at the officers, still yet putting up with Fantine's katana.
"Papa, please," Valjean pleaded. "Say something."
The old man's red eyelids lowered. He did not speak.
"Say something," cried Valjean.
Meanwhile, over there was the clash of swords, drawing with heightening intensity, surrounding the three battlers. Oh, what lightning! What thunder! Peals of death bells ringing out in their leaden tones. What a fight! What a fight! Can you not hear the winds of swords crashing down, like storms of bladed snow diving in the roaring pillars of brine! The silence, like rests, are ribboned with every glorious sound of smokey battles, and the melody itself is as filling.
And a miss by Fantine's part, the officers quickly struck her down, so that once her head was cleared from stars, she was pulled back into reality.
"Well, to be honest," the officers chorused. "The cunt has some power, but we have two, and so our powers are doubled. Be satisfied, lunatic, that we ain't gonna chain you up and drown ye, or like the ways of gladiators, cut your throat out. Ha, ha! Come then, gang, out of the way."
"Hey, wait-" Valjean cut in front of his father, shielding him, but the officers as easily as before, grabbed him away- "You- can't- do- this-"
There he was thrown into the sand like a pocketful of dust.
Fantine was on her back, cursing the aches of her body. "Fiends! Fiends! Disgraceful bastards! Come back for a second match!"
The chain gang was gone.
Fantine got a few serious cuts here and there, and the one in her waist side was particularly painful. She put her hand on it and scrunched her face in pain as she brushed away the sand that stuck to the open flesh, still bleeding fresh, sticky blood.
She took a deep breath, and thought: "Okay. So maybe I lost- so what? The first battle of a chivalrous bounty hunter doesn't count anyways. It's only the battle AFTER the first that counts. Okay. Okay, steady. The first thing to do is to survive."
She then lifted her head up slightly. "You there, hello?" She called to Valjean, who was lying on the sands.
Valjean didn't move.
The sun is quickly dimming, and there is no water nearby. If there are any cities or villages nearby where they could get water, it's Porthos- and the city gates would be closed by sundown.
During night, deserts were very cold. But that's only a secondary problem. The first problem is that after the battle, Fantine was even more thirsty that before. She almost feels like she had run out of saliva, because her mouth is dry as a dried well. She feels nauseated.
"What if I really do die of thirst?" She thought, and suddenly, at the thought of death, the world became strange. The sun was dripping blood, and the looming cactuses became green monsters, the fickle shadows, moving like demons. She opened her mouth but made no sound. Her vision was blurring. The sun was going down- dark clouds were brewing- no, no...
She didn't want to die in the desert like this...
Something wet dropped on her face. At first she thought it was an illusion. An illusion of the dead.
Then more came down, and made the wonderfully familiar popping sound of- oh, yes, rain! Some dropped on her lips, and by this new heavenly bless did she regain consciousness. The first words that came to mind was: "O, beautiful, beautiful rain!"
She opened her mouth, and let the sweet honeydew nourish the roof, cheek and tongues of her throat. By nature easily excited and restless, she sat up as quickly as her strength would allow, and opened her water skin wide; soon the skin was stuffed with watery contents.
She crawled over the Valjean; the boy was unconscious. Gently, she poured some water down his throat. "Wake up, brat," she cried, but only in delight. Right there, Valjean's eyelids bashed, and he woke.
"What is this place?" He murmured.
"Never mind that," Fantine happily replied. "The important thing is that we're both alive. Can you walk?"
"No."
"A good, frank answer- I like that."
Valjean paused momentarily, then suddenly blurted out: "Papa-" interrupted by fits of coughs.
"Calm yourself," said Fantine, patting his shoulder. "You're in no condition to get excited."
"My- ugh...papa...they're going to drown him- cough...won't you save him?"
Fantine frowned. "Um, kid. They're way ahead of us by now. We can't catch up."
"Please-" he coughed some more, but never taking his eyes off Fantine. "I'm sorry, I can't...I can't talk- but, please, save my father...you're- you're the only one who can..."
"Kid, I can barely walk with my own injuries. Just rest for now, okay? Not only is it impossible to catch up, but if we do, we're only heading into our own deathtrap." Honestly, it was all Fantine ever wished for at the moment to catch up with thoses guys and beat up their asses, but her body was too weak, scorched by both the desert and the battle. She wouldn't make it if she tried.
She touched his cheek: "I tried, I really did. I tried to help you."
He coughed, even more severely than before. Fantine gripped his shoulder gently:
"Don't worry. I'll stick you to the end. We'll go to Porthos tomorrow and demand that your father's name be cleared. I swear it on my honour as a chivalrous bounty hunter!"
Valjean stared at her, and the rain drops still glistening on the ends of her hair, as if searching for something. Then he let out a sigh, and fainted.