Mature language warning!

XXVI: Fire

Dinner was interrupted by Gérard stumbling down the stairs. His shirt was un-tucked, hair a mess, and yellowed eyes wild.

"What's wrong?" Aimée asked, her brow furrowing as she watched her father collapse in a chair.

"Hmm? What?" Gérard asked, looking at his daughter as if he was deaf. "Oh, nothing. Nothing."

Thomas brought out dinner, roasted beef with potatoes, carrots, and gravy. Gérard ate quickly, shoveling in the food as if he had been starved for days. Aimée, a little less intense, ate silently. Mopping up the gravy on his plate with a thick slice of bread, Gérard looked up, his face shiny from the drippings of his food.

"Aimée, when you're done, I'd like for you to go up to your room and pack," he said, still chewing his food and finally remembering to wipe his face with the napkin.

Aimée's fork clattered when it slipped from her hand and fell to the table. "What?"

Gérard nodded. "I don't know when we'll have to leave, but I at least want some of our belongings ready." His fingers were drumming against the wood of the table, a quick, quiet cadence.

This calmed her a little. It didn't necessarily mean they were leaving tonight or tomorrow. "Alright," she said. Her appetite had died away and she picked at her food a few moments before asking to be excused. Gérard permitted her with a grunt and a wave of his hand and she slid calmly from the table, stepping past her father and towards the stairs.

"Only pack what you need, Aimée," he called back to her.

His words unnerved her. She felt the cold pinpricks of nagging start to creep into the back of her head. Something wasn't right, her father's dishevelment, his wide, twitching eyes…something wasn't right at all.

She stuffed three dresses into a trunk, along with some underclothes, stockings, and a pair of shoes. Hurrying to her shelf, she grabbed a few books, kohl and lipstick, perfumes and powder. Hair pins, shawls, her broach, some jewelry. Finding her cedar chest full of letters, Aimée tried to put it into the trunk as well, but found it wouldn't fit. That's ok, she had two arms. Putting her belongings into the corner, she went back downstairs, ready to question her father again.

"Papa, what's going-"

"I'm going to the factory," he said, interrupting her. "Have to grab a few things.

"I'll come with you."

"No!" her father barked, pointing at her. "Stay here."

Aimée actually recoiled, frightened of her father's harsh bark. He watched her, the eyes of a savage in his face, wide and wild. He smoothed back his hair and quickly ducked out the door.
This isn't right. This isn't right. Think, Aimée, think. Paper…I need paper. And a pen. Her mind was reeling, not knowing what was happening but gathering that it wasn't about to be good. Hitching up the skirt of her dress, Aimée ran up the stairs.

"Thomas! Thomas?"

The butler was nowhere to be found. He wasn't supposed to leave for another two hours. He had just served them dinner, where was he? Aimée's heart started to thump against her chest and she burst her way into her father's study. Papers were everywhere, on the floor, on the desk, everywhere. As she neared the desk, the sharp biting scent of oil stung her nose and made her eyes water. Looking closer, Aimée saw that the surfaces of the papers were glistening and shining, as were the walls and the wood of the desk. Lamp oil had soaked everything.

"My god…"

Then she saw it, an orange glow in the coming night. A pinprick of light in the study window. Fire. The factory was burning. She could see the greedy licking flames start to rise from the office window on the second floor. Shock and horror filled her and Aimée brought a hand up to her face. On the street below, she could see the shadow of her father leave the factory come to the house.

Aimée knew what he was going to do, and she had no time to run. No time to stop it.

Finding the closest pen she could, Aimée sprinted down the stairs. She opened up the cedar chest and grabbed the first envelope she saw. Flipping it over, she began to frantically write, her heart aching with every stroke of the pen.

Javert,

There's going to be a fire. Gérard is going to start a fire. I'm fine. I'll find you. I need to find you. I love you.

Aimée

Just as she stuffed the envelope back in the cedar box, the door slammed open. Her father found her at the stairs.

"What are you doing! What have you done?" Aimée screamed, stepping towards him and throwing up her hands.

"We have to leave."

"We don't have to burn down the factory!"

"Don't you dare tell me what I have to do!" Gérard screamed, standing over her like the massive man he was, his face red and smelling of kerosene. "I know what I'm doing. That rat Madeleine robbed us blind, so now I'm repaying the debt!"

"Fire? Why burn it! You'll be arrested! Javert will find out what you-"

"Javert? That piss guard from Toulon! What's he going to do? He's not here to come and sweep you off your feet, Aimée. He's not here to carry you to safety. We're leaving!"

He hadn't known Javert was here, not even when he arrested him. She clawed at her father when he spat out Javert's name, tearing at his shirt and trying to strike his face. Gérard took her shoulder and flung her away. She slammed into the bannister and collapsed to the floor. He stormed past her and went to the office.

The chest…the letter.

She heard the clop of horse hooves and the creak of carriage wheels out in front of her door. Gérard had called for a carriage. A man she didn't recognize leapt off the coach and hurried inside. He was filthy, tall, lean, and dark-skinned. His eyebrows were dark as well, looking like two caterpillars on his face, not matching the gray-chestnut of the grungy wig he wore on his head. He gave her a look and bent over to pick up her trunk.

" Hello, belle, time to go!" he laughed and even though she was far away from him, she could smell alcohol on his breath.

"Who are you!?" she screamed, clutching the cedar box to her chest.

"Monsieur Thénardier," he said, "Mate of your father's."

Aimée hurried past him into the dark evening and she froze by the carriage. Across the street, the top level of the factory was ablaze. She smelled smoke behind her and turned in horror as Gérard dashed down the stairs, smoke curling and following at his heels.

"Go, go go go!" he yelled, motioning to Thénardier to hurry out the door.

Desperately looking around, Aimée searched for a place to put the box.

He has to find it. He has to find it.

There! Next to the large stone that lined her walkway. She nestled it there, hoping, praying, that Javert would see it in time. See it and look for her. He'd find her. He would.

The hand that grabbed her left bruises. "Get in the damn carriage! We have to get out of here!" Gérard bellowed. He tossed her inside, ignoring her scream and whimper, and the carriage lurched drastically as Thénardier slapped the reins on the horses' backs.

By the time they were out of sight, the Lamenté's home was engulfed in the greedy hunger of flames.

Javert heard the fire before he saw it. His window had been open and he was lying on his bed in his undershirt and slacks, the velvet box open on his chest and the ring glinting at him in the semidarkness. He heard the soft crackling of burning wood and smelled the tang of wood smoke in the air. Brow furrowed, Javert got up and neared the window. The orange and yellow glow of swollen, hungry flames momentarily stunned him. It looked as if the sun had landed in the middle of Montreuil. He squinted out the window, trying to pinpoint the location of the building.

His stomach dropped to his feet when he realized where it was. The factory.

Pocketing the ring, Javert wasted no time bolting out the door, ignoring the military jacket that hung in his wardrobe. The steps disappeared under him with thumping footsteps and the lower floor of the inn was deserted. On the street, the flames could be heard above him in a crackling and popping din. People hurried all around him, drawn to the fire like moths to candlelight.

Javert shoved and shouldered his way to the front. He could feel the roar of heat against his face and beads of sweat started to bud on his brow. The yellowness reflected from his pale green eyes and they widened as men desperately called for buckets of water. It was no use, there was no way that the fire could be tamed, it had grown into a swollen, ravaging animal.

Javert could feel the sweat on his neck and forehead when a woman shrieked behind him. He whirled and he blanched when he saw the flames just down the road. Two fires. A window shattered up above, yellow fire licking out, reaching with burning hands.

"No…" he breathed when he realized the site of the other fire. "NO!"

His bellow was unheard over the screams of women, shouts of men, and the crackling of fire. Pushing and shoving his way to the other burning house, shouldering past men and women alike, ignoring the less fortunate maidens who had fainted from the heat and shock.

"Aimée!" he roared, sprinting to the house. "Aimée! AIMÉE!"

The house was fully engulfed. The door was left open and the yellow flames swelled up the stairs and into the kitchen. He ran as fast as he could to the doorway, the library. The books, all her books, tore apart and eaten by flame. "Aimée!" he screamed. There was no sign of her. The smoke stung his eyes. He looked around frantically, keeping an arm up to his face, trying to breathe through the fabric of his shirt. Javert needed to find her.

Where is she. Where is she. WHERE IS SHE?

"Inspector, get out of there!" officers had arrived. They were yelling to him, but he could barely hear them over the roar of flames. His face was dripping sweat from the heat and he felt a bite at his left hand. A strong force took him by the shoulders and heaved him back out the door. Tripping backwards on the threshold, Javert stumbled out in to the front walk. Two officers tried to help him up.

"Get off of me!" he raged, turning and flinging the lesser officers off him. "Aimée!" he screamed again. Javert tried to return to the house, but he took a step forward and the fire plumed out the door. He watched, wild eyed as the house groaned. Men of the city were trying to pour buckets over the flames, but they, just like the factory, were too late. His eyes were wide and he felt his knees buckle. The harsh cobblestones met with a jolt of pain and he felt his eyes narrow.

"Gérard, where's Gérard Lamenté? Where is he? WHERE IS THAT BASTARD?"

A tall blonde officer by the name of Breault looked at his commanding officer. "Who, sir?"

"Gérard Lamenté! Where is he?"

"I don't know, sir."

Javert felt rage as strong as the flames rise in his chest. He stood and stormed to the guard, closing his fists around the young man's jacket. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had no words, he could only snarl. Javert hardly noticed that the flesh of his left hand was burned, bit at by the flames inside.

"Sir, we found something!" another officer called. Javert quickly released Breault and stormed over to the other man. He was holding a small cedar box. Javert's heart quickened and he took it, his anxiety and adrenaline masking the pain in his hand. Throwing open the lid, he found a note scratched on the back of one of his letters. The ink was smudged, blotted and messy, barely legible, but he read the words in the glow of Aimée's burning house.

He felt the fury turn to tears in his eyes and he blinked them away, slamming the lid down and tucking it under his arm. "I want Gérard Lamenté found. I WANT HIM FOUND!" he roared to his men, drowning out the humming crackle of flames and the grunts of water-carriers. "Find him. If you have to go to neighboring cities, do it. If you have to hunt him down and fucking kill the bastard, I want it done!"

Even without the crispness of his jacket, Javert reeked with authority. His officers feared

him, but it was the kind of fear that instilled the drive to work.

"Do you all understand me!?"

"Yes, sir!" they bellowed back as one. A many-voiced army of justice. The officers dispersed, some headed to the docks, the others to the stables. Javert turned back behind him and looked at the burning house again. His hand began to throb, but he ignored it, choosing instead to let the pain feed in to his rage.

"I'll find you," he murmured through his teeth, his blistering hand clenching, sending a stabbing pain up his arm.

Javert's glare could turn a man to stone as he shoved his way past the spectators and headed back to the inn. The stairs creaked under the force of his footsteps. Inside his room, he tore open his wardrobe and grabbed the jacket. Quickly, he did the buttons and the collar around his neck. Reaching back into the wardrobe, he grabbed the wood and metal pistol, a large, heavy thing with a rounded handle and long barrel. Looping it in his belt, he also attached his baton and his saber around his hip. His hand began to burn, low and heated, growing into a searing pain.

Grunting, he poured cool water from the pitcher into the wash basin and thrust his hand underneath the surface, immersing it in liquid chill. He exhaled loudly through his nose at the immediate relief. Stepping to his bed, he removed the linen and tore out a long strip. Javert quickly wrapped it around his hand, ignoring the need for a real doctor or Sister to look at it.

Only when he sat for a moment on his bed to finish wrapping did he feel the small lump in his pocket. Javert froze, his body as still as stone. Then, slowly, carefully, he withdrew the small, velvet box. He opened it, and flames stared back at him through the dark sapphire of his proposal. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his eyes closed, and his hand burned. He leaned forward, clutching the ring in his uninjured hand and pressing his fists to his temples.

The scream that left him was ragged. Angry…furious…pained…dejected. He didn't care if other rooms in the inn could hear him. Didn't care if people knew. He got up, went to the wash table, and flung it to the ground, the porcelain shattering and water spilling along the floorboards.

"It's not fair!" he shouted, hoping that the deafness of God could be shattered by his voice. Tears started to well up in Javert's eyes and he blinked them away because they stung. They were stronger than that…more persistent. They gathered together, beat back his control, spilled down his cheeks and dripped off his jaw. He brought his fist to his face and tried to bite back his pain and anger. He opened the ring again and looked at it, running his finger over the beautiful stones and smooth silver band.

I'm going to find him. So help me God, if that bastard hurt Aimée I'll have him hanged! Tied to a post and lashed before the noose! Javert's head was a spinning inferno of fire, sadness, and anger. So much, it made his temples throb along with his injury.

Enough of this, Javert ordered himself, wiping his eyes and walking through the water, his boot crunching over some pieces of shattered porcelain. He took out his hat, put it on his head with a face of stone, and left the room.

Outside was pandemonium. Women were dumping buckets of water down the walls of their homes in case the fire spread. Men were running the streets trying to bring water to the two fires. Wheelbarrows of mud and sand were being carted, shovels resting on top so people could try and smother the flames.

They were nothing to him, noise and blurs as he made his way to the stables. The other horses were spooked by the smell of smoke and the chaos of Montreuil, but Ombre was calm. Stern and ready in the back corner. Heaving the saddle and pad over the dark horse's broad back, Javert thought about Aimée. Thought about her watching her house burn. Her life burn. Ombre snorted and stomped his foot angrily when Javert tugged a strap too tightly. The bit slid easily into the horse's mouth and Javert led the horse out of the stables. A group of four men waited for him. Tall, sandy-haired Breault, his stout friend, and two other officers Javert couldn't bother to remember.

Throwing himself into the saddle, he barked out orders. "We ride south, to the next city, then make our way from there." He kicked Ombre into a full gallop, letting out a curt shout as he did so. Hooves pounded the cobblestones and the crackling of flames were quickly drowned out.

"We're staying here," Gérard said when the carriage rolled to a stop.

"I'm not getting out,' Aimée said, her face streaked with tears. She had cried for most of the ride. How could things have been so perfect only a few hours before hand, in the stable? Now, her life was chaos, burnt up by her father's desperate plan to rob the factory. He had in his briefcase two thousand francs that had been left behind in the office. Not enough for the burning of two buildings and dragging her life away with him.

"You will damn well get out!" Gérard seethed, leaning forward and bringing up a hand. Aimée found herself cowering back onto the seat and he gave her a disgusting smile.

He pushed open the carriage door and they found themselves standing in front of a disgusting inn. People inside were shouting bawdily at each other, their flagons sloshing over and the floor smelling like soot and piss and beer.

"Welcome to my establishment!" Thénardier said happily, oblivious that he had just aided Aimée's father with arson. "Come in, have a drink, forget this ever happened!"

Aimée disliked the man who had arrived out of nowhere, appearing to be one of Gérard's closest companions. But, nevertheless, with heavy and saddened steps, she followed the two men into the clashing chaos of the inn. A woman with wild hair and a mouth lined in red-pocked sores that she had tried, unsuccessfully, to cover with red lipstick, waltzed over, her hair wild with feathers and adornments that made her look like a broom.

"Honey, welcome back, and this must be your new friends! So glad we could make a deal work out," she said to Gérard, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder and winking. Aimée felt her nose wrinkle.

She felt a tugging on her skirt. "Hello!" a little voice chimed.

Aimée looked down to see a small girl, her hair curled and brown like chocolate shavings underneath a little blue bonnet. She smiled with wide brown eyes.

Even in her strife, Aimée couldn't help but smile at her. "Hello."

"What's your name?"

"Aimée."

"Mine's Éponine," the little girl said. "Want to see my doll?"

Aimée sniffed as Gérard left her side, interested in a bottle that was being passed around. Little Éponine took Aimée by the hand and brought her to some back rooms. Hers was a little room, about the size of Aimée's back in Toulon. A little bed with a little pillow. Éponine hurried over to a chest in the corner and opened the lid. "I have lots of dolls," she said, her small voice muffled as she bent over inside the chest.

Éponine was confused when she came back to her new friend. Aimée was sitting on the floor her back pressed against the wall and her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with heavy tears.

"Miss, what's wrong?" the little girl asked, oblivious in her youth.

"Hmm? Oh," Aimée said, sniffing and wiping her eyes, "Nothing little one."

Éponine was a smart little girl. "If you want to cry, you can cry. I won't mind. Would you braid my hair?"

Aimée gave the little girl a watery smile and Éponine gave a squeal of happiness and settled herself in front of Aimée's knees. Aimée removed the little blue bonnet and set to work, braiding Éponine's smooth brown hair.

"This way, you can cry without me seeing you," the little girl said, not turning back.

"Yes…"

The tears fell from Aimée's face like a river in silence, unseen by Éponine and the world around her.