Chapter Text
They stood on a raised-wooden platform above a small village square. It would be unfair to say that it had been hastily erected, treaty negotiations had been quarreled over for months and the platform stood at their heart.
But then, no one thought the treaty would be signed in the end.
The planks were flush, though they moaned when walked upon. Some whispered it was an omen. Early spring flowers dotted draping white and gold ribbons, baby’s breath for innocence, bittersweet for truth, cattails and yellow poppy for wealth and peace. Specimens that grew wild and abundant in the farmers’ fields.
All-in-all it was a pedestrian effort, though they watched with wide eyes as nobles and peasants alike met in the middle of the platform, in a small village whose only notable quality was being in the middle of the border of two bickering countries. In fact, the “dividing line” was the village’s square. Just a moment ago, the treaty had been signed, hands shaken, but that is not why they had gathered.
A young man stepped forward before the crowds, turning as he spoke to face them all in turn. Chestnut hair, freshly washed and glistening, thin, elegant hands waving excitedly, “Lords and Ladies, gentle monsieurs and mademoiselles, I do not need to tell you we have just witnessed a historic event! The treaty is signed and we hope that it benefits us in trade and wealth.” Here he paused amidst the cheers that followed. “That it allows us to travel more easily and end the fighting so that we do not worry for our loved ones.” Again, he waited for the cheers. “And many other promises for both our countries, but that it not why we are here today.” This time he shouted over the cheers, seeing movement begin in the crowd.”
“We are here today because hearts know no borders between countries and there are weddings to be had!”
The cheers swelled to a deafening roar from the gathered throats as he waved a priest that had been waiting to the side forward.
And that is why they had gathered. The treaty was, at is basest, a series of marriage alliances, noble and peasant who had volunteered to seal the alliance with their lives.
Peasants in their threadbare best of cotton and wool standing next to nobles in newly tailored cottons and silk and their guards, freshly slaughtered pigs spinning on their spits in the background, and equal with moonstruck smiles as their intended brides and grooms joined them. Many had met in the course of their trade and travels over the years. Others stood alone, having volunteered out of hope that there would be another who volunteered and accepted them for reasons other than love. Some were widows or widowers, hoping for a parent for their child. Others old and lonely, looking for a companion. Some just young and stupid, hoping for an adventure.
But there was one man, standing on the far edge, who remained alone as one by one the others paired off and went to stand before the priest. He watched them go with a curl to his lip, especially the young man with chestnut hair and his cherubic, blonde bride. He had not trimmed his bristling whiskers and wore black, the solid color only broken if you caught a slice of his shirt beneath his greatcoat or the perfectly tied cravat around his neck.
He had “volunteered” as it were because he had been ordered to. Le Préfect Chambouillet did not believe in this attempt at a treaty and did not trust it.
“They are all animals,” he swore, pacing before the fire in his office, “heathens and thieves, and we more the fools for falling into this obvious scheme. Go, Javert, volunteer, watch, listen and report back to me on what they are truly up too.”
With great reluctance, Javert had bowed his head in obedience and salute, before leaving to gather his things for the journey.
Now he stood, ignored on the platform, and despite the sick feeling in his stomach from being unable to complete his directive if he did not marry and gain a cover to access more of Exial’s secrets among its people, relief began to trickle through his veins.
Until the young man looked up from his bride and noticed him, still standing alone.
He quickly strode over, calling, “Inspector Javert, I didn’t know you had volunteered. Has no one yet volunteered in kind?” He clapped him on the shoulder.
“No, Monsieur Gillenormand,” Javert answered flatly, “though I’m surprised your grandfather approves of your own participation in this.” He almost added farce to his sentence, but clicked his teeth shut on the word. Blunt, he may be, but he could sense political suicide after all these years in the police force.
The man waved his words away with a shudder, “Marius. My name is Marius. How many times have I said, Grandfather is the only one left in the family that wants to be Mr. or Mme. Gillenormand. It’s too much bother.”
Abruptly turning back to the matter at hand, with all the impulsivity of youth, Marius turned back to the crowd and called, “Lords and Ladies, gentle monsieurs and mademoiselles, we still have a man waiting, will no one claim him?” There was a round of gentle laughter while Javert’s face burned in humiliation and he tore his shoulder from Marius’s grip, but no one stepped forward.
Marius’s face started to fall in disappoint when a hush fell for a commanding voice quietly sliced through the noise, “I will claim him.”
Marius’s eyebrows shot into his hairline and his bride whipped around from her conversation with several other girls, a look of shock on her face, as onto the platform stepped a older gentleman with a small, amused smile gracing his face. As red as Javert’s face had been, now it grew pale. He knew that face, the scarred, calloused hands and mountain solid shoulders.
Jean-le-Cric snarled when they tossed him back into his cell, back flayed and still bleeding sluggishly as drying salt water crystalized around the damage. The whippings did not deter his escape attempts, but they would at least slow him for awhile and let the guards’ own wounds heal after having to capture and wrestle him back to the prison. Taking a long, shallow breath, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, tilting his head at the guards still watching from the bars of his cell. Suddenly a guttural laugh escaped, the sound like the breaking and scraping of rocks in the quarry he spent his days. “One day,” he took another breath and forced himself to his feet, dropping his voice into a growl and gray eyes glowed in the torchlight. The guards unconsciously took a step back.
“One day,” he repeated. “I will be free.” Someone scoffed. Jean-le-Cric bared his teeth. “You will be too slow. Too stupid and cruel. And I will be free. And then, then, I will have mine.” He lunged at the bars, biting back a gasp as the agony of his back tore through him.
The guards flinched back, except for one.
Javert had stood impassively and stared into the hate-filled eyes. He simply said, “You will never be free until you learn to obey the law,” spun on his heel and walked calmly away.
Mere weeks later, when his back had healed, Le Cric had bent the bars of his cell in the dead of night and scaled down the prison walls, a feat that had been considered impossible with its smooth rock face and the sheer cliff below. They were sure he had died in the attempt, even with the note he had left behind on a scrap of cloth, promising, “I will have mine.”