Chapter 976 - Devout Belief

"You can take! You can give! Let him live! Take him home!"

The heartfelt plea, full of tenderness and devotion, felt like an angel's wings enveloping Marius' fragile shoulders. It shielded Enjolras and the young fighters whose bodies bore the scars of battle, protecting them from the harsh winds and relentless storms of life.

Marc Lacante could no longer hold back. Tears welled up in his eyes as he gazed at Jean Valjean on stage, Renly Hall bathed in light. His heart, it seemed, had connected with the soul of the character. Slowly, he reached out his right hand, inching closer, yet something within him held him back—afraid to shatter the moment, to tarnish such divine sincerity. It was like reaching toward God itself.

At that moment, Jean Valjean's sorrowful eyes gleamed with redemption, forgiveness, and a love both sacrificial and nurturing. His presence stood strong—an unyielding shield in the face of chaos, guarding this last untouched sanctity.

Belief.

A force so powerful, it shook the soul, rendering everyone around him aware of their own frailty. It was more than mere devotion; it was a light that illuminated the darkest corners of life.

Mark felt it—this unwavering belief—as if he could see time itself unfold before his eyes: the ebb and flow of history, the triumphs and tragedies, the desolate wastelands at the end of the world, and, amidst it all, a glimmer of hope.

In a daze, Mark forgot the world outside—the theater, Renly Hall's presence—everything but Jean Valjean. In that moment, he wasn't just watching; he was part of it. The lines between the real world and this one disappeared. He was transported, living within the era of Jean Valjean, fully immersed in his world.

"Oh, God," Mark whispered to himself. The tears flowed freely now, blurring his vision, and the weight in his chest felt unbearable.

Jean Valjean stepped forward slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He locked eyes with Marius, his gaze drenched in both sorrow and tenderness. But it was the smile that broke hearts—sacrificial, filled with the painful sweetness of parting, and resolute in its heroism.

At that moment, Jean Valjean was not just a father; he was the father—a man who would endure anything for the sake of his children, one who would lay down his life to ensure their happiness. He was also a believer, willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good, much like how God sent His son to bear humanity's suffering.

In this brief moment, Jean Valjean's soul transformed completely. The burden of history, the weight of his past, dissolved, leaving only purity, though he remained a stranger to himself.

His gaze never left Marius—his Marius, Cosette's Marius, his Cosette.

The intense emotions that had surged began to subside, leaving a deep, quiet yearning. With a tender sigh, he whispered, "Take him home." The words were like a soft caress, an aching plea, and then, lifting his voice, he called out with even greater intensity, "Take him..."

With his head held high, chest out, and hand raised, he offered himself completely to the divine. His voice rose steadily, the song swelling with each note. His passion, his dreams, and his dedication poured into the melody, growing stronger and more powerful, until it seemed as though time itself would bend under the force of his plea.

Alistair, overcome by emotion, couldn't contain the tears. His eyes shut tightly, but the floodgates had opened. His heart swelled with every note, and the melody took him to places he couldn't articulate. He was no longer just a spectator. He was part of something monumental.

Majestic, continuous, ethereal!

Just when the crescendo seemed to reach its peak, Renly's voice rose again—higher, more intense, filling the theater with an eruption of emotion. It was as though the very air trembled with the force of his singing, breaking free of every constraint.

"Home... home... home..."

The notes held, stretching longer, higher—each second pushing the emotional release to its breaking point. Alistair, completely undone, could do nothing but surrender to the overwhelming power of it all. This was art at its purest, a true transcendence of performance.

Everyone in the theater held their breath, utterly captivated. Renly had done the impossible—taking the song "Bring Him Home" and transforming it, infusing it with his own life force. It wasn't just a performance; it was a living, breathing entity.

Alistair, still reeling, found himself applauding wildly, his tears continuing to fall. He was no longer restrained. He gave himself over to the emotion, letting it flow.

The applause that followed was thunderous, shaking the very foundations of the Almeida Theater. It was a celebration—not just of Renly's remarkable talent, but of the life-altering experience they had all just shared. This was the power of the theater. This was art.

No one was untouched. Mark, too, stood, his body trembling with emotion. He could not find the right words to express his gratitude, but his hands were all that was needed. He applauded as though his life depended on it.

The applause grew louder, more insistent. It was a storm, a torrent, a wave crashing over them all. And through it all, Renly stood—his figure towering, his presence unshakable, embodying the soul of Jean Valjean. The performance had ended, but the energy lingered, resonating in the hearts of everyone present.

The world outside the theater no longer existed. The universe, vast and infinite, was contained within these walls, and the echoes of this performance would live on for eternity.

This was the peak. The closing act was nothing less than a triumph. A performance that redefined everything—a true masterpiece. Renly had brought Jean Valjean to life, in a way no one could have imagined.

And in that moment, everyone, whether they wanted to or not, had become part of Jean Valjean's world.

The West End's brilliance had fully bloomed.