Work Text:
Javert stood still on the bridge, his unfocused gaze set upon some far off distance point. The rattling of the fiarce he had sent away from the Fauchelevent (or perhaps it is more accurately referred to as the Jean Valjean) household of number was an ever present sound in his ears, growing in dynamic then softening to a low din.
He looked to where the fiarce might have been and was met with the empty streets, the carriage already gone from view. Soon, the sound of it also disappeared, leaving Javert alone on the bridge.
That damnable carriage ride he had just partaken in was a subject to be discussed: Jean Valjean had sat silently on one side and Javert on the other, the Pontmercy boy being their only dividing force. Multiple times it had appeared as if Jean Valjean wished to voice something, but never spoke his thoughts aloud; this drove Javert mad.
Not near as mad as their encounter at the barricade, mind you, or even with their encounter in the sewers, the latter being one of his convincing forces that attending to dark thoughts was, indeed, necessary. His wrists and throat still burned from where rough rope had rubbed his skin raw, but that hardly mattered. He wouldn't perish due to these minor injuries, of course; though if untreated, it may fester and grow infected, but this matter concerned him not: his life would be at an end in the next few minutes, and infected wounds hardly posed any problems for a corpse.
A corpse! Yes, that was what he was now: a living, breathing corpse. Did anyone care for a dead man upon a bridge? Did anyone know of the tempest that filled his head, threatening to drown him internally? Then again, who cared for a dangerous storm that bothered only one man? Javert would be dead before the raging waters could capsize the ship, which had taken the form of his mind.
Though the bearer of this horrible storm that tormented his mind, one has to remember who created the poor weather. It was Jean Valjean who was the God that had cast dark clouds into Javert’s mind. Yes, it was that convict who had guided him - without the aforementioned man knowing he was guiding Javert anywhere - to the pont au change, where he sought to take his life.
Jean Valjean had had the opportunity to take Javert’s life before, but had done nothing of the sort. This was the point in which the dark clouds had began to pour rain.
The knife of the barricade should have slit his throat and all would be done, but against all odds (that, as you should know, also encompassing rational thought) the blade did not slice through the soft skin of his throat, but it had been the bonds of his martingale collar that had been cut loose.
The inspector could still feel the phantom touch of the cold steel, and the calloused hand that had gripped his chin, forcing him to look up at he who was to steal the inspector's life: Jean Valjean.
He (that pronoun now being reassigned to Javert) had tried to say something then, but had found his mouth quite dry. What words he had tried to speak slipped his mind now, but what could they have been? What had Javert tried to tell him? Perhaps he had attempted to spat something cold and harsh; words he had grown accustomed to speaking for years.
It almost amused Javert, that even when faced with indubitably what was to be his imminent demise, it was quite likely he had wanted to try to irk Jean Valjean a breadth more.
Javert, lost in thought on the bridge now, could still recall the feelings of fear when he had first been taken by Jean Valjean from the insurgents’ tavern to, in Jean Valjean's own words, "blow his (Javert's) brains out."
Having been caught as a spy, the insurgents had tied a martingale around his body (as a note from the author to the reader: a martingale is a type of knot often used in prisons that first wrapped around the throat, similar to an upside down noose, then running between the legs and behind the back, binding the hands there) with fetters to his ankles, and - if having all movement restricted in a painful nature wasn't enough - he was laid on a table within the tavern, where more ropes were crossed over his body, working well to pin him. Javert wondered for a moment if this was what a fish felt like.
Within the tavern, Javert had resigned himself to doing nothing but awaiting death when Jean Valjean had come. He had simply stared at the man for a moment and then uttered lowly, "Oh, it is you."
Jean Valjean had exchanged a few words with the insurgents, and what was said mattered not, for as the reader might have guessed (if they were able to keep track of this story line, that is) that we are now at the part where Jean Valjean had requested of their leader, Enjolras, that he be granted the right to kill Javert.
Javert, to his great relief then, had been untied from his spot on the table and aided with sitting up, sure to keep his hands low and still to avoid chafing or tightening in areas.
It was then Jean Valjean had gently slipped his fingers between Javert's breast and the martingale's noose, dragging him slowly as to avoid causing Javert to stumble (courtesy of his ankle fetters.) Despite the slow movements, Javert still could feel the rope chafing, and bit the inside of his cheek to avoid letting on the fact that he was hurting; he could show no weakness in front of Valjean
In the time it took for Valjean to drag him from the tavern, Javert had been filled with a sense of fear. In the present, with the frothing Seine below, he did not fear death. When the insurgents held him their captive, he calmly awaited death. However, then, with his life in Jean Valjean’s hands, he grew fearful.
Though what we are discussing is not the present time, this following scene shall be treated as such for the reader to gain a better understanding of what exactly had occurred:
After Jean Valjean had taken Javert from the barricade, he had lead him into an alleyway nearby, with a small twisted corner leading into the streets once more. It was there that Jean Valjean had first withdrawn the pistol with one hand, now letting go of Javert.
The inspector knew not what to do but press his back to the wall, observing Jean Valjean and the pistol. A pistol, of course! Not a poor way to die: quick and painless. For a moment he was nearly relieved; however, the feeling proved itself to be quite temporary, for Jean Valjean lowered his pistol again (just as he initially drew it up) and instead, took up a knife, moving to Javert.
Javert, if the laws of physics (or whatever science it is, the author confesses she doesn’t know the differences) hadn’t applied and a wall hadn’t been there, would have attempted to draw back even more, wanting to put as much distance between him and the convict as possible. Oh, why weren’t humans able to slip through solid objects?
Jean Valjean remained silent as he moved towards Javert, whose attention was drawn to the weapon in his hand.
"A knife? Do you mean to steal my life slowly and painfully?" The wolf snarled. "Very well, Valjean, my throat is yours. "
Jean Valjean had laughed softly, as if finding something amusing; Javert wasn't sure he wanted to know exactly what it was. He stopped breathing as the knife tip was pressed against his neck.
"Are you scared, Javert?" Jean Valjean asked him, leaning closer to the inspector, so close, in fact, that Javert could feel Jean Valjean's warm breath on his skin. At the inquiry, Javert simply bared his teeth and spat in his face.
Jean Valjean had stiffened suddenly, and Javert instinctively twisted his head away, dropping his chin to his right shoulder: an attempt to protect his neck and half of his face lest Jean Valjean lash out with the knife.
However, instead of the stinging cut he anticipated, Javert received an order.
"Look at me, Javert."
When Javert tensed even more, if that was even possible at this point, Jean Valjean merely sighed, reaching with his empty hand to touch Javert's face.
The attack he had anticipated mere seconds ago was replaced with a much more gentle touch; one Javert wasn't sure if he liked or not. He decided that he was annoyed by it. The gentle touch was nothing more than a distraction, trying to get Javert to relax and trust that he wouldn’t be harmed, allowing Jean Valjean to cut him open the moment the inspector’s guard faltered.
Jean Valjean braced his hand against Javert's chin, turning the inspector's head so he would look at the convict.
"Stay still," Jean Valjean murmured, slipping the knife between Javert's rope collar and his skin. There was a slight pressure at the inspector's neck, and Javert had opened his mouth, uttering a word (that the reader will note as the same word he cannot recall as he stands on the bridge) that he wished he had never been led to say: "Mercy."
Allowing a moment for a paragraph of a side note, while Javert himself may not be able to recall his plea, the reader should know that he had asked for mercy any way. The author of this work of fiction thought it was a nice detail to include, since it humanized someone who hardly ever seemed human. She (being the author of course) initially forgot that Javert had even made the plea until editing her draft, and she grew quite excited at this: yes, this was a grand thing indeed! Thus, the author has chosen to draw attention to Javert's words. Now, let us return to the story so we can see what became of Javert's plea.
Jean Valjean had not paused in his actions and the pressure only increased, Javert now bracing himself for death. However, instead of being slain there, the knife was withdrawn and the pressure decreased significantly. The martingale's collar had been severed, and Javert's life was spared. He stared in mute shock a minute, trying to comprehend the events of this situation that were laid out in erratic pieces before him.
Jean Valjean lowered his hand from Javert's face, fixing him with a concerned look.
"Will you not speak? Perhaps I should finish getting the bindings off," Jean Valjean continued to talk aloud despite Javert’s silence, cutting the rope that bound Javert’s ankles, followed then by gently turning him so he faced the wall, cutting the rope that bound his hands behind his back.
When Javert was free, he turned himself - on his own, mind you - once more back to face Jean Valjean, who still had a look of utmost worry written on his face.
"It is I: Jean Valjean . Do you not recognize me? I am the one you have hunted for all these years, and there you stand mute! By God, here I am, now speak!"
If the reader will recall a moment earlier, Javert had spoken "mercy" which would have destroyed his mute façade, but just as Javert cannot recall ever speaking that word, Jean Valjean cannot recall ever hearing it.
Javert, following Jean Valjean voicing his command, had stared at him for a moment longer, and finally found that he could speak only when he had thought through a proper response. "Well? Are you to tortue me by mocking me with the thought of my own death or will you finish your task?"
"Finish my-- Javert, what is that you speak of? No, my intent was never to harm you; I am setting you free. Now go!"
Not many things astonished Javert, but here the man stood, dumbfounded by the course this conversation had decided to take. He knew it was improper to gawk as he did such, but for queer reasons, Javert could not find the energy to care.
"I don't understand," Javert said, though it was more of a mumble, as Jean Valjean gestured to the turn at the alley's back, where he'd reach his freedom.
"What troubles you so?" Jean Valjean asked, taking a step towards Javert and pushing him lightly by the shoulder.
Javert obeyed the silent command to move, stumbling a few feet away from Jean Valjean, shifting slowly as if he was still in the martingale, unsure what to do.
He paused his walking, straightening back up and looking at Jean Valjean once more. It was either as if realization of the odd scenario had finally been comprehended by him, or he was simply trying to cause a conflict between the pair as he snarled at him again.
"Take care, Valjean! I will hunt you after this is over! You are making a mistake!"
Jean Valjean answered him with a grim smile.
"I do not doubt it. When this is over, and if I make it out alive, you may find me at Rue d'lhomme armé, in number seven," he replied and Javert repeated the address under his breath.
He stood still for a moment, and then scowled. "Bah! You irritate me! Kill me instead!
"No," Jean Valjean said firmly, raising his pistol, "Clear out, Javert. Do not make me ask you again!"
Javert tried to sneer, but could not find it in him to express any distaste towards this saint. Instead, he hesitated a moment, fighting for something to do or to say. In the end, he bowed stiffly, turning his back to Jean Valjean as he worked his way back onto the streets.
It was only after he had turned the corner that the pistol had fired.
That had been the first time Jean Valjean had spared Javert's life. Truthfully, it was the only time. Perhaps the oppourtunity for more life savnig escapades would have arose in the future if Javert hadn’t decided that suicide was his only option by the early morning following the June rebellion’s conclusion.
Now, as we once more return to describing the present time, Javert silently, and slightly triumphantly, noted that Jean Valjean wouldn't be able to save him now. Why take his life, after he had been so content to have been executed by the barricade? It was a question purely of his own moral compass, the needle of it continuously spinning in circles.
If he did not do this, then he would have to clap chains onto Jean Valjean and drag him back to the galleys to play a slave. While the law, the idol which he had worshipped for his entire life, would heap praise upon him, God had different thoughts. Not God as a deity, but rather Javert himself, as God.
When Jean Valjean had let him go, questions of morals and dreaded emotions bubbled to the surface of his heart: feelings that had been buried ever since he was a young boy. He had worshipped the law with his mind, but now Javert’s heart screamed loud, threatening to overtake him. Javert’s heart was this new God that had sprung from an action of mercy played towards him, even after he had spent years doling out nothing but cruelty and punishment to all others.
So, thus, for the sake of Jean Valjean, Javert would take his own life.
Now, at this point in time, Javert deemed it right to take one last look at his surroundings. To one side, the Palais de Justice stood, and momentarily, Javert thought to the letter of resignation he had written only minutes before he had set foot upon the bridge.
Monsieur le Préfet would not be pleased that Javert had decided to resign, but he would be even less pleased to read Javert's ten points - or requests - he had made within the letter. The first one, being that of course, a request that Monsieur read his words. It was then followed by a letter urging the betterment of the galleys, and of the convicts who resided there, signed by Javert at nearly one in the morning on this day, June seventh. No doubt Javert's superior would be furious to read the letter.
It wasn't as if that bothered Javert of course, for his life was at an end. Monsieur le Préfet could only grow angry at a dead body. No, he would not be happy at all, especially when he demands to rail against Javert and is instead referred to a water-logged shell.
However, perhaps Jean Valjean would be pleased, for he could now walk through the streets without fear, for Javert had been the shadow of all his nightmares.
A strange sound came from him, and after a moment, Javert recognized it as a sob: he was crying! The shame which choked him at this time could not be compared to anything else, but he could not stop the tears. He had not cried since he had been in the care of that gypsy woman, who he refused to name his mother. He had forgotten how it felt.
Now he stood, his face tilted towards the heavens as he wept bitterly, confusion and anger and grief dominating his heart and mind. He had declared his heart a God, but no God would ever cower like this and quake as Javert did now.
Finally, having decidedly become resolved, Javert removed his hat that he had been wearing since he escaped the barricade, setting it upon the parapet. He climbed up next to it on, keeping his movements slow lest he lose balance and fall prematurely into the river. He leaned forward slightly, peering into the darkness below.
The Seine would be cold.
The Inspector cared not.
The Wolf stepped.
Javert fell.