OOM: I Pray The Lord My Soul To Keep...

[road_to_calvary]

 

Valjean has been restless all day. And most of the night before, if he is honest. Javert is mad to try and fulfil this task on his own, but he said he would stay away…in truth, because he knew he had no intention of actually doing so. But he cannot just appear right away. The man has to get tired first, or he would simply send him off again. So he wanders aimlessly through the intervening hours until it is dark, and starting to drizzle with rain. He cannot hold off when that happens. He asks Bar for some specific items, and sets off into the night. The smell of smoke is evident almost as soon as he reaches the treeline, and that is heartening. At least the kiln works. They had argued a little over the installation of the funnel, but it must be doing its job.

Across the clearing, he makes out a figure slumped before the furnace. His eyes register a lot of smoke, and sticks falling vaguely from the man’s limp fingers. A second later, he starts to run.

‘Javert!’

Valjean races forward, discarding his armful of goods as gently as he can in his haste. He falls to his knees behind the man – sleeping, or unconscious? –  wraps his arms around his front, and drags him unceremoniously backwards. Javert’s head lolls like a bird with a broken neck, then falls back against his shoulder; his body is loose, his trousers smoking lightly from being too close to the flames. Valjean is unbalanced by the ragged weight of him; he tips back himself, and falls with Javert hard against his chest. The man does not wake. Valjean cannot tell if it is natural sleep or not; fear hammers his heart against his lungs, and makes it difficult to breathe. He checks the pulse in Javert's neck; the man makes a noise, and shifts on his own. Not unconscious, then. Just sleeping.

He should have come sooner. He should have listened to his conscience. He knew it was not sensible for Javert to have tried this, yet he allowed regard for the man’s wishes to supercede common sense. A bubble of anger rises through the fear, and bursts somewhere inside; if he knew this was stupid, why did Javert not? Why must he insist on asking the impossible of himself? It is ridiculous.

Or maybe it is not. Maybe the man simply wishes, still, to die. An accident while building a house of God – would that be enough to pay for past mistakes? Perhaps he thinks so. Perhaps he is still not thinking at all. Valjean lies on the grass, and breathes, and does not release his hold.

He is not being fair. It is not that serious. It is not as though he deliberately set himself alight. But he could have. At this point, he would not put it past him.

He pushes these thoughts away, and rolls the man gently to the side. There is no point holding on to anger. It serves no useful purpose, and will be actively harmful to someone as lost as this. Besides, Valjean does not like himself when angry. He has been trying to rid himself of the emotion for years, and has had some success – he never rages at the world any more, and hardly ever at other people. He is often angry at himself, but that does not hurt anyone else, so he allows it when he cannot help it.

He leans over to check Javert’s breathing, and pat down the smoking legs of his trousers. The man’s eyes open. Valjean does not think he is actually awake; indeed he must not be, because he does not try to pull away. Indeed, he makes a small cough, then pushes back into Valjean’s chest and closes his eyes again. Well. At least he is breathing easy. His rough trousers have singed almost through at the knees, where they were closest to the flames. In the light from the kiln, he can see half Javert’s face is red too – hopefully it is just from the clay, and not actually burnt. There is nothing he can do about it now. It is still raining gently. He will let the man sleep, and if it needs attention later, the doctors here will see to it.

He pulls his arm out from underneath him, and pauses for a moment, simply watching. Even in repose, Javert does not look calm. His forehead is creased, and the soot from the smoke makes every line deeper. He looks exhausted to the point of illness. He is far too thin. His body, still pressed against him, is too light for the muscle evident in the shoulders. He is going to kill himself.

Except he is not. Valjean’s lips tighten to a line and without thinking, he runs a hand across Javert’s short hair. He will not be allowed to harm himself any more. It is time to stop this foolish dancing around the problem, and face it once and for all.

 

*

 

Javert wakes to a feeling a heat, and the sound of rain hitting canvas. When he moves his head, his face hurts. His nose is clogged with smoke and ash. His brain supplies fire, and then, like a bucket of ice water on his head, the memory of treachery. He had opened his eyes, and thought Jean Valjean, and had a brief moment where nothing was bad, where everything was safe  – and then instead of forcing himself away he let it drag him under. And now – what?

He sits up cautiously. Valjean is feeding the kiln. He has built another fire too, and there is a pot on it. Above his head, a makeshift field tent. Behind him, two rolled-up…he is not sure what. And some clothes.

He touches his face. It still hurts. The sky is still dark.

‘Leave it alone.’ It is said only for something to say. ‘It is my job.’

‘No.’

Valjean does not turn. Javert eyes his back. He has heard that tone of voice before, but not for many years. It matters not at all; even just sitting here, he feels himself respond to the authority as a dog responds to its master’s call. He dare not argue, even as he feels sick at the thought of his instant deferral. But defer he does; he sits and waits, and notes the creeping trepidation as it makes its way up through his gut.

Valjean stands eventually, all muscle and grace; for a fleeting moment, he is 24601 pulling himself over the rocks of Toulon harbour, sent to pick up a wayward rope. He is Madeleine, dropping to his hands and slipping under a cart, lifting unimaginable weight by the power of his back alone. St. Christopher, with the world on his shoulders. Javert looks up, nerves turned to fear, as the figure stands above him framed in firelight.

And then it turns away, ladles something into a bowl, and pushes it into his unresisting hands. ‘You will eat that.’

He looks down at it. A second later, a plate filled with chunks of buttered bread is placed on the ground beside him. ‘That too.’

‘Valjean-‘

‘No.’ The tone has not changed. Javert cannot look up. ‘I will hear no refusal. You will eat it, because I will not watch you kill yourself any longer. And we will speak. You will not ignore me tonight.’

Yes, that tone. He remembers it well. His mouth twists into a sneer, and he raises his face so it may be seen. ‘Yes, Monsieur le Maire.’

The sarcasm drips off him, practically a dare. But Valjean does nothing;  only squats down beside him, and looks him in the eye. ‘Call me whatever you will. You will eat that, and we will talk.’

Javert feels himself falter. He breaks eye contact. He looks to the food. ‘It is Lent,’ he mutters. ‘I-‘

‘There is no meat in it. It will still do you good, because anything will at this point. If you do not look more wholesome tomorrow, I will buy a leg of lamb from the bar and make you eat the whole thing.’

He snorts, and picks up a spoon. ‘You would make me break an observance of sacrifice?’

‘Yes.’ Valjean puts his hand in his hair – again, he has done that before; Javert remembers it through a haze of sudden confusion – and moves his head so he is forced to look at him. It is not a hard gesture, but there is no fighting it. ‘Because, as you are yet to learn, there are things more sacred than a holy vow.’

‘You are wrong.’

Javert does not try to pull away. And Valjean shakes his head. ‘I am not. And you will eat now. We will speak afterwards.’

Valjean releases him. He moves back to sit by the fire, but does not stop watching him. There is no escape. Javert starts to eat.