Chapter Text
The trial passes in a blur. Javert’s lost track of how many times he’s sworn to his innocence. No one listens.
The irony of the situation is not lost on Javert. How many times has he heard the convicts cry out their innocence, denying their guilt? More times than he can count. Every one of them has proclaimed themselves to be innocent at one point or another and every last one of them was found guilty when they were tried.
After the sentencing, he’s escorted to a small room and ordered to change into the prison uniform. Disgrace keeps his back straight as he changes, discarding the remnants of his former self.
His existence is relegated to that a number.
Irony, Javert thinks, is a cruel mistress.
* * *
Javert steps inside the cell. The collar of the prison uniform chafes at his neck. The other prisoner in his cell glares at him, but keeps to his own cot. Javert ignores him, surveying the cell as the door is locked behind him. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. He’s a man, not a number. He belongs on the other side of the prison walls, in another uniform not this one.
* * *
The first night is the longest. Javert can’t sleep. He’d worked so hard to avoid lying here in this exact place. All of his life he’s striven in the opposite direction and here he is, through no fault of his own.
He expects trouble from the other convicts and it’s true they don’t make it easy. Every one of them despises him for his time as a guard.
It's the prisoners he's wary of. Every guard knows the danger if he were to be found on the wrong side of the prison walls. It's the convicts that he watches, waiting for the attack.
He should have watched the guards.
* * *
The first week passes slowly because Javert knows exactly what to expect. He knows the prison routine as well as the back of his own hand What Javert hadn’t expected was the monotony. The frustration of being forced to stand in a line until the guard (Gustave, that little shit) decides you can all finally go to your cells. The degradation of needing to piss and being forced to keep working until the guard at last lets you relieve yourself.
His back aches from the grueling labor. His hands are cold and the knuckles chapped from working constantly in the briny water. The uniform is too thin; how can he have never noticed that before? Every breeze cuts straight through the cloth.
The music of the chains haunts his ears. Every step is burdened with them and now he understands the slow reluctance of the convicts to draw attention to themselves when they walk the roads from prison and field and back again.
Then there is the shame of facing the people who eye the string of convicts as though they’re no more than beasts. Javert watches them, and recognizes the disgust in their eyes. It is how he looked upon them once.
* * *
They’re supposed to work in the fields today. Javert keeps his gaze focused on the front of the line. At least the labor will distract him from his situation.
Five feet from the gate Brun claps a hand on his shoulder. “You, 42405,” (He takes great delight in calling Javert by that) “Come with me.”
Javert doesn’t argue with him. They’ve done their duty side by side for the last four years ever since Brun came to work at the prison. He’s a dour, squatty man, but now his expression is unnaturally expectant. The back of Javert’s neck prickles warily as Brun escorts him back inside the prison, down the hallway towards the cells.
“Is there something wrong?” Javert asks. Perhaps the judge has reconsidered his appeal. Perhaps.
Brun shoves him forward through the door. “Shut your mouth.”
“What’s going on?” Javert demands. There are four other guards waiting in the cell and he knows all of their names.
Another guard, Galois, relatively new, he’s only been at Toulon for one year, steps forward. “We will gag you if necessary.
“Necessary for what?” Javert turns towards him and the first baton slams into his back, the weight of the blow surprising him.
"What's the meaning of this?" He turns to face his assailant and the next blow falls squarely across his face. Javert's head reels back. He stumbles, trying to maintain his balance, wiping the blood from his face. Another blow hits his arm and he cries out in surprise, more than pain.
It's the treachery of it that wounds him. He was among their ranks only a few weeks ago, and now they treat him worse than the convicts in their care.
Two of them strike at him together and he hits out blindly as another baton catches him across the back. Javert falls heavily.
He waits for more violence now that he's down, but instead his arms are seized and he's pulled upright to his feet.
"Why're you doing this?"
None of them will answer him.
Blood drips from Javert’s nose and mouth as they chain him, arms yanked tight above his head.
If he had truly committed the crime they had said he’d done, he could understand their desire for punishment, but this pointless brutality bewilders him. He’s never been well liked, but this aggression? This violence? Where does it come from? He’d purely intended to do his job, and he’d done it. Why was this happening?
Perhaps they believe him to be guilty and are angered that one of them would commit such a crime.
“I swear to you, I never stole from the prefect,”
A baton beats a sharp rhythm across his shoulders. “Be quiet.”
Tension pulls at his shoulders and Javerte strains, unable to believe he's restrained here in this position. This whole situation is untenable.
“If you only,”
The gag tied tightly around his mouth is foul and damp. He chokes as another blow hits his hip. He's done nothing but his duty. Why would they hate him? What he has done to anger them?
"Whoreson." Gustave spits on Javert’s back. "I should make you suck my cock."
“Later, man. Later. There is plenty of time.”
Javert twists furiously in his chains until Brun circles and stops in front of him. There he rams his truncheon between Javert’s legs, striking him cruelly across the groin.
Javert’s cry is lost in the gag. The pain distracts him and he almost doesn’t hear Roche’s belt as the man pulls it loose.
The rough leather of the belt bites into his skin and Javert’s teeth clench hard into the gag. It’s sweaty in his mouth. They tied it too tight, letting it dig into the sides of his mouth.
Each lash sends fresh fire shooting across his back. His head drops lower between his shoulders
He hasn't been beaten since he was a child. The ignominy of it irks Javert almost more than the pain itself. What is this supposed to do to him? Shame him? Clearly they know little of Javert's reputation, less of his past. He can bear this, but can they bear the weight of their deeds? He thinks not.
The blows cease at last. He waits for them to release him and send him on his way now that they’ve had their sport.
As the minutes grow longer and they make no move to do so, Javert grows slowly anxious. Why keep him here further? He can hear the men laughing as they pass a bottle back and forth amongst them. If this were occurring on his watch, he would be furious.
One of them, Menard, he thinks, kicks at his legs. “I wager we could go another round, make him shout good and proper.”
“No,” It’s Brun who says this, and Javert strains to hear his reasoning. “I have something else in mind.”
Javert’s curiosity fades when the man puts his hand between his legs. Brun squeezes him cruelly and Javert moans as agony returns anew to tender flesh.
He’s still in shock when Brun slips around behind him, tugging at his trousers and underclothes till they pool around his ankles.
The guards survey him as he hangs here, laughing rudely at his state of undress.
Brun lays a meaty hand on Javert’s backside. “I do hope you learned some tricks from your slut of a mother.”
Javert’s hands twist in the chains.
Groping hands pull at him, spreading him open and he struggles, thrashing until Roche sets his truncheon against Javert’s balls. The guard smiles at him, and then strikes him hard.
Javert screams then as Brun enters him.