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Chapter Text

The heavenly fire which lifted Valjean from the earth hurled him backwards in a conflagration of white so blinding that he could see it through his eyelids. His shoulders collided with the wall, the impact fracturing an archaeological relic which had stood untouched for two thousand years. Falling to the flagstone, the demon struggled to rise, pushing himself up on hands and knees. His plate armor smoked, but it had shielded him from the worst of the celestial blast. 

Getting to his feet, Valjean flared his wings out behind him in warning and redoubled his grip on his sword. His shoulders throbbed, but pain was something to which he was accustomed. It had comprised his every waking moment for the past three millennia. 

Around him, Tel Megiddo was burning, centuries of accumulated fortresses and temples shaken from their burial in the desert by the catastrophic quaking of the land. His legs trembled, for in spite of his strength Valjean was no match for an angel. Yet his face was lined with resignation; today, his eternity of suffering would come to an end, one which had been written in stone at the genesis of the world. As comforts went, it was not exactly inspirational.

Before him, the Authority of the Second Tier stepped forward, resplendent in golden armor that blazed like the sun. It removed its helmet, shaking free its gleaming hair, and the impression of dazzling stars only grew stronger with the halo of purest light shining in glory around its head. Then the light dimmed, and Valjean perceived at last the face of the one whom God had fated to kill him.

The sword slipped in Valjean’s grasp.

The last time he had seen Javert, the angel had been holding him above the abyss, a million-mile Fall into the Lake of Burning Fire. 

Raising his visor, Valjean knew at once that there could be no doubt. Javert was beautiful only in the most terrible of ways, the Almighty’s perfect machine of divine vengeance and retribution, and in his present cold fury the angel exuded a willpower which made one want to cower and obey. As the Authority advanced, Valjean slowly removed his helmet. Yes, he thought, even in his most calamitous of rages, the kind which reduced mortal and immortal alike to quavering, Javert had always been beautiful to him.

Javert raised his blade, pointing it at the center of Valjean’s chest. “Take up your weapon or perish, foul adversary,” he said in a voice like the rumble before an avalanche. 

Valjean took a step back, longsword clattering to the pavement. “Do you not know me?” he asked. Such a thing did not seem possible, but then, what cause would Javert have to remember him?

The angel’s lip curled, but his eyes narrowed in consideration as he studied the demon standing before him. “Valjean,” he said after a moment. “You have changed. At last, your true nature shows itself.”

Valjean grimaced at the reminder that what grace he once possessed was brought to ruin, his form twisted and scarred with the torments of the Pit, but his voice was level as he replied, “What I am is what you and Hell have conspired to make me. I did not choose to be this.”

Javert’s sneer would have reduced an earthly being to a pillar of salt. “Of course you chose it. From the moment you sinned against your Creator, you chose this.”

“It was never a sin,” said Valjean quietly. “You would know that, were you not so blinded by duty.”

“Silence.” The ringing of the Authority’s voice brooked no argument. “You have diverted me from my purpose for long enough.”

Stepping forward, Javert approached until the naked tip of his star-metal sword lay against the hollow of Valjean’s throat. The very touch of the blade seared his skin, but Valjean did not flinch, even as Javert prepared to run him through. 

Under his breath, the angel began to intone the banishment, “Exorcizamus te, omni satanica potestas...” and Valjean’s eyes fluttered closed against the pressure building in his temples. He wondered briefly what it would be like to cease to exist altogether, his immortal being rent apart by Javert’s words and weapon. 

The blare of trumpets reached them in a brass crescendo. Raising his head, Javert looked about with sudden vexation. 

“They are calling me,” he muttered. “The battalion is needed to fight the Dragon.” Granting Valjean a last contemptuous glance, Javert lowered his sword and said, “We will meet again.”

It was as much a threat as a promise.

Javert spread his wings, burnished bronze feathers glimmering in the desert sun, and leapt from the ground. Valjean’s dusty white hair blew out of his face as two beats of the angel’s wings buffeted him like a gale, and then Javert was ascending into the sky to rejoin the ethereal ranks. Valjean stared after him until long after Javert had vanished from sight.

Elsewhere, the sounds of Armageddon continued to rage, the distant roars of the Dragon as it clawed apart the sandy plains reaching him even there at the peak of the tell. Valjean alone stood still, a single figure frozen amid the ruins. 

There had been times, he reflected, when he believed he would never see Javert again. Then there were others when he had dreamed of finally happening across the Authority in the course of his empyrean commission, that he might tear the angel apart limb from limb. Such thoughts inevitably left him feeling ashamed and half-convinced that Javert had done right to cast him out of Heaven after all. Mostly, Valjean avoided thinking of Javert wherever he could. 

Now, the angel was all he could think about. 

Pensively, Valjean stared out across the sun-baked valley, the moon a bloody disk on the horizon even in the middle of the afternoon. His chest ached, and not with the half-finished exorcism the Authority left lingering in the air. Valjean was mourning something that had never been, something that now at the end of times could not ever be. This was why he kept Javert far from his thoughts; his wasted hopes tasted of ash in his mouth. 

Slowly, the demon began to walk like one entranced. He followed the ancient cobblestones from the temple where he stood, joining the road as it switchbacked its way down the artificial mountain. As he entered back into the fray, demons and angels alike did battle around him, but Valjean passed by them unseen. His head was lowered, and his mind was preoccupied. 

For the first time in centuries, the past stretched before him like a deeply flowing river. Valjean followed it to its headwaters, images flickering around him like schools of fish. 

Dizzied, the Fallen angel shut his eyes and leaned upon a pillar for support. It was almost overwhelming, the weight of the years upon his chest. And now as everything else was coming to a close, his head was filling up with memories he had thought long forgotten. 

The ground shook once more with distant earthquakes, chips of stone showering down from the beams above, but Valjean did not move. Instead, the arcade disappeared around him as Valjean cast his mind back, back to the very Beginning of things.

Chapter Text

In the Beginning, God created the heavens and earth. 

It was a time when the sun was still new, its clockwork revolutions marking days and hours, when Heaven was distinguished from the surrounding banks of cloud solely by its capital and only city, which tongues not yet in existence would one day call New Jerusalem. This city was defined by a magnificent crystal palace perched upon the edge of sheer white cliffs, beyond which was nothing but empty air. Its shimmering architecture was composed of minarets and cathedral towers, of domes and sacred arches. Twelve gates penetrated the outermost walls, each one inlaid with precious stones, and its streets were paved with gold.

Such was the dwelling place of the Lord; from His high tower, He could look down upon all of creation, and from His throne, that shining seat surrounded by light which casts no shadow, He could rule over His subjects. For it should not be assumed that either Heaven or earth were empty; upon the earth were all manner of creatures that flew or swam or crawled on land, and in Heaven, there were the angels. Though the city of God was in those days surrounded only by the formless white plains of a Paradise with yet no populace, the city itself was alive with song and chanting and the ceaseless rustle of feathers.

Of the angels, a few words deserve to be said. There were three tiers, each with three subsequent ranks, for a total of nine. The Seraphim stood closest to God, their faces and bodies concealed always beneath their six wings. Then there were the Cherubim with their four beastial heads, and the Thrones, wheels of fire that were both awesome and dreadful to behold. 

In the second tier, the Dominions with their scepters of light kept the lesser angels in check, while the Virtues were beings with miraculous properties. The Authorities, warrior angels of order who kept the stars and planets aligned, were likewise tasked with the routing of wandering malevolent spirits, whom they cast down to places unnamed.

Finally, there were the Principalities, who were said to be guides; the Archangels, who were said to be messengers; and the Guardians, who seemed to have no clear purpose insofar as the angel Valjean could tell.

That was not to say that Valjean disliked being a Guardian; far from it. Heaven was a marvelous place in the most literal sense of the word. Every day, there was some newfound work of the Almighty to praise and celebrate, and he could think of nothing he loved better than to stand with his brethren and sing in the choir. It was simply that—well. A certain part of him supposed that the reason he could think of nothing he loved better was due more to a failure of imagination on his part than it was to any lack of alternatives. Though God had created entire galaxies, Valjean could not shake the feeling that something was missing still. 

This was not a feeling he shared with anyone. After all, what could be missing from Paradise? Instead, Valjean kept the feeling closely under wraps and tried to devote himself to doing as he was told. At this, Valjean did not particularly excel, no matter how well 地蔵菩薩 conducted the tenors. The others were too polite to speak of it, but Valjean was nevertheless conscious of their tacit disapproval. Angels possessed a talent for disapproval.

Then came the day of the Rebellion, and everything changed.

He would remember later how the cloister shook with the first of the earth-shattering blows, the evergreen palm trees outside bowing in the sudden hot wind. Apprehension crept into Valjean’s heart, coiled like a serpent in his breast, and he ran, his sandaled feet slapping on the stone. The cloister seemed unbearably long, no matter that he had spent the morning wearing infinite circuits around its track, reciting his prayers as he was taught. 

That was when the screaming started. Valjean clapped his hands over his ears, the palace still quaking around him, as anguished sounds never before heard in Heaven rent the air apart. It filled him with the desperate urge to do something, anything to make it stop, but what was there to do except fall back into an alcove trembling, wrapping the white feathers of his wings around him like a shield, and pray that whatever storm was raging outside would pass over him?

Time passed; a moment or an age, it was all the same. Yet the terrible cries from outside did not cease. If anything, they grew stronger, closer, and with them the sounds of clashing metal. At last, Valjean could stand it no longer. Setting aside the fear which still very much gripped his spirit, his wings parted and he peered out. The cloister remained deserted, though it rang with the echoes of battle.

Tiptoeing from his hiding place, Valjean hastened down the hall until he arrived at the other end and the annex that was there. Cool and quiet, with a dusty font in the corner and vacant wooden pews, the annex made for a strange contrast to the noises even now audible through the thick stone walls. Valjean touched the handle of the door, steadying his breath, and found that beneath his distress was a kernel of courage which until now he had never needed to call upon. Biting his lip, the angel pushed open the door and stepped outside.

That ell of the palace sat at the edge of a wide plaza, which ended in a parapet above the sky cliffs. Beyond was the void, and a thousand miles below, the earth. Yet that day the quiet commons were overrun as angels dueled with sword and spear, the white stones running gold with immortal blood. Valjean covered his mouth, a whimper threatening to escape his lips. There was no reason or purpose to the violence that he could see; it was as though a madness had descended upon all the denizens of Heaven. 

Across the grounds near the balustrade wall, an angel did battle with a Principality. She was a Guardian like him, and Valjean ceased to hesitate as he rushed to Fantine’s aid. Yet before he had crossed even half the plaza’s length, her foe smote one in a long line of marble columns until the stone cracked and crumbled, collapsing it upon the angel with a shout. Triumphant, the Principality charged back into the fray, leaving the Guardian crushed beneath a pile of rubble. 

Valjean ran to her and began to shift the stone aside, horrified.

“Ah,” Fantine gasped into the ground. “End it quickly, then.”

Feeling a pang of sympathy, for the poor creature was surely out of her head, Valjean gripped the largest marble block, straining with all his might to lift it with his shoulder. Little by little, the stone shifted until the Guardian could crawl her way out from underneath, her blonde tresses tangled and stained with sweat.

Valjean dropped the stone with a thud, wiping his brow. Behind him, he heard the angel say, “I do not understand.”

Turning, Valjean offered her his hand as she continued, “I did not see you with the others. Whose side are you on?”

With a frown, Valjean paused and asked, “Side?” 

“Ours or theirs?”

Valjean opened his mouth, but before he could ask her to clarify further he was knocked to the ground by the battering winds of an angel dropping into their midst. Sunlight glinted off coppery feathers, and Valjean blinked up at the Authority towering over them. His surprise turned quickly to shock as the higher angel reached down, his face impassive, to seize Fantine by the front of her robes and haul her upright. 

“Please,” Fantine begged. “I beseech your mercy.”

The Authority regarded her coldly. “The Eternal Father himself could do no more for you.”

With that, he dragged her to the parapet, holding her by the hair to overlook the yawning emptiness of space below. Fantine wept silently, tears streaming down her face, and the premonition which came over Valjean in that moment filled him with great alarm. 

“Wait -” he began, but the Authority did not even flinch as he let go, giving the woman a shove between her quivering wings to send Fantine tumbling forward into empty space. 

There was a cry; Valjean turned his face away, unable to watch. Surely she could not catch herself, plunging so gracelessly through the air. She would be torn apart by the currents, or worse—Valjean had not yet felt sorrow. Now he felt it, keenly.

Sensing eyes on his face, Valjean raised his head to find the Authority studying him through a gaze lidded with suspicion. Valjean swallowed. 

“Why did you do that?” he asked hoarsely.

The Authority glanced briefly at the parapet. “She was unrighteous.”

“I beg your pardon?” His tone came out sharper than Valjean intended, and the other angel gave him a hard look.

“The Rebellion must be quelled in its entirety,” the Authority replied. “If half of Heaven has to Fall, then so be it.”

“Rebellion?”

The angel started toward where he was crouched on the pavement and Valjean recoiled, his head spinning with visions of finding himself suddenly on the wrong side of the baluster, but the Authority only extended his hand stiffly. 

Uncertain, Valjean accepted it, and the angel pulled him to his feet. For a fleeting moment, they stood with palms clasped, and the Guardian found himself examining the sharp lines of the other’s face; the severe nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that could not settle on a color but which were as piercing as any blade. 

“Here,” said the Authority. “Look.” The cloak he wore over his armor was the same deep blue as the fabric backing the stars and it swished around his feet as he took Valjean by the elbow, guiding him to the edge of the plaza.

Cautiously, Valjean peered over the rail, looking upon the earth just as he had countless times before. Nothing seemed amiss. Then he noticed that beneath the planet, separated by the great vault of sky, there was a far-off glowing ember. At that distance, it might have been a second sun, if not for how even to lay eyes on it filled him with a sense of unease.

“What is it?” Valjean asked, more disturbed by that malevolent dot than he could say.

“It is Hell,” said the Authority flatly. “The latest addition to creation, and now the dwelling place of the Seraph Lucifer and his followers.”

“Lucifer Light-Bearer? Why, what has happened?” Valjean’s fingers tightened on the wall, an unfamiliar heat prickling behind his eyes. Everything was all wrong. 

Speaking in a clipped, brisk manner, the Authority explained, “He and the others have turned their back on the Almighty. They think themselves wiser, better suited to rule His Kingdom perhaps—I do not trouble myself to understand their false reasoning.” He looked to Valjean, holding his gaze. “We would all do well to guard against such hubris.”

So saying, the Authority turned abruptly, taking his leave. 

Across the plains of Heaven, silence was falling. In a city which resounded at all hours with song, the silence was somehow even more terrible even than the fighting. Valjean shut his eyes, wondering at his own inadequacies, his own presumptions. He knew himself to be no wiser than the Most High; and yet, he had seen no sign of such vanity on Fantine’s face before she Fell. If she deserved her fate, if all who now inhabited that distant plane of fire had warranted their punishment, then perhaps he ought to be sharing in their misery.

He glanced back in the direction the angel had travelled, but the Authority was gone.

It would not be until later that Valjean learned his name.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Heaven was restored.

There was need for spilled blood to be mopped, paving stones to be replaced, walls and columns to be erected where the disastrous conflict had torn them down. And yet, at least to Valjean’s troubled mind, no amount of repair could undo the city’s loss. Everywhere, there were signs of disappearances; a prayer book without an owner, a favorite bench deserted. By the haggard faces he passed in the street, Valjean guessed he was not the only one who felt it.

And yet, in due time, a certain balance was struck, and even if things were not as they once were, they were at least bearable. Thus it came to pass that one afternoon, the Guardians were called to assemble before the sky cliffs for an announcement. The summons filled Valjean with a certain discomfort; he had avoided the plaza ever since the Rebellion and what he had witnessed there. Nevertheless, he gathered with the others, a whispering choir of hundreds, to observe a strange structure erected before the parapet.

It was a crystal pane as wide as three angels and nine times as long. Its bowled surface was mounted upon a pedestal, angled down towards the earth. Beside it stood a Virtue by the name of Jassi, a tall woman with black hair and plumes of white fire growing where wings might be. 

“Welcome,” she said when the company was met. “And thank you all for the succor you have granted to those still recovering from recent events.”

Her smile flickered for a moment, then reasserted itself.

“It is my honor to present to you a gift from the Eternal Father—behold this scrying mirror well, for it means your destiny.”

Valjean turned again to the pane cut from the same iridescent stone as the palace. It looked like nothing to him, until the Virtue waved her hand and suddenly upon the face of the mirror there appeared an image. Several in the crowd gasped; Valjean’s heart filled with wonder. 

“The Father has pronounced that this shall be the final act of creation—it is called Man, and his wife is called Woman. They shall go forth and multiply, and it is your task, Guardians, to watch over them and their descendants until the End of Days.”

Valjean gazed upon the image reflected in the scrying glass. The Man and Woman were not so unlike angels; yet there was something ephemeral about them as they stood in the Garden. Their figures were softer, wingless and furless and clawless. No fire shone around their heads, and their naked bodies appeared frail and easily broken. Valjean looked on, and in his heart he felt the first tentative shoots of something taking root. This was what he had been missing, he realized, without ever even knowing it.

Jassi continued her speech, but Valjean ceased to listen. There was something in the way the two human creatures looked at one another that he did not entirely understand; it was warm, reminiscent of the sun’s radiance, and it was unknown to him. What could be learned from watching them, he pondered, and this world that the Father had made?

From then on, Valjean’s days and nights were spent before the mirror. Eden was astonishing, greener than Heaven and wilder, and Adam and Eve were at home in it. Yet then came the tree and the apple and the snake, and Valjean felt a by-now familiar twist of despair rise in him. For was it not enough that there should have been one Fall already? Were the demons who once had been angels turned so petty and hateful that they would tear down the earth if they could not tear down Heaven? And so the Garden burned, and alone in his bower Valjean wept. Where was the use in being a Guardian if he could do naught but watch the ruin of the world unfold?

But in spite of the despair, in spite of the descent into the wasteland and the dangerous beasts and the desert dryness, mankind persisted. As promised, they spread and multiplied, and soon there were humans enough that every Guardian had one to watch closely. Valjean took to his task with a solemn vow: that he would protect his charges in the best way he possibly could. It was the least he could offer, when already so much bad had happened that he could not undo.

The scene upon the scrying mirror split into smaller and smaller fractals, allowing each angel to gaze upon their mortal ward. They were fascinating, baffling creatures to observe. Valjean puzzled over their use of tools, their invention, their seemingly limitless capacity for love and hate in equal measure. And, their capacity to fall in love, for that was a notion he had never given any thought. The rest of the Guardians did not seem to think on it; Valjean thought on it much. 

Once, the people presumed to build a tower higher than the Heavens itself. Instead, the Almighty broke their language into a thousand separate strains, and suddenly Valjean began to hear words among them that sounded like his own name. The other Guardians also found it to be so, that María resonated best with the prayers of some, while نور knew more closely the hearts of others. Though there were those which intertwined, each tongue was unique, and all were beautiful upon the ear. Still, it seemed to trouble the humans, who were often quarrelsome even when they could understand one another. Language created divisions, and division bred conflict. 

Valjean found that of all his charges, he liked children the best. They were simple, wide-eyed creatures, more akin to the innocence of their forebears in the Garden long ago. Watching through the mirror lens, Valjean helped them up whenever they should fall, mending the scrape of a knee or averting a broken arm with a thought. It was pleasing too to see them grow up; pleasing enough at least, until hunger or sorrow or greed turned them from their paths. Then he tried vainly to set them back to rights, but humans possessed a will of their own and did not always choose wisely.

The hardest part was the dying. To beings which passed the centuries unchanged, it was jarring how quickly the humans faded, like flowers that perish in a single season. And hard as it was to lose the ones full grown, their bodies bent with age and their years spent, it was harder still to lose the younger ones—workingmen, new mothers, and sometimes little ones or even infants. That was how it started, at first.

“I only wish there were something I could do,” Valjean overheard one day in the halls. “She is so sickly, and only a babe at that.”

The speaker was a Guardian named Jeanne, and Valjean paused to see her seated on an alcove bench, staring down at her interlaced fingers. Beside her was the Virtue, Jassi, patting the angel gently on the shoulder.

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Jassi said. “There is nothing you can do. If it is the child’s time then the Father will embrace her. There is no need to dwell on it.”

Valjean kept his head carefully lowered as he passed by, though his mind was racing. Perhaps it was not entirely true that there was nothing Jeanne could do. Perhaps that was not true of any of them.

No sooner was he out of sight than Valjean hurried back to the plaza and the mirror. Glancing around surreptitiously, Valjean sidled as casually as he could over to the view of Jeanne’s charge, a swaddled baby with a bad cough and a raging fever. It took more than a minor miracle of healing to will the illness away, not strictly his purview, but surely that could hardly matter in saving a child’s life. As he watched, the baby’s fever broke, and Valjean slipped away with a slight smile on his face.

After that, it became much easier to bend the rules. For certainly, he had the best interests of his charges at heart, and he listened to their worries and prayers with a thoughtful pucker to his lips. Debtors found their accounts settled, cattle grew fat in time for market, drought and pestilence kept their distance. As a result, Valjean’s charges were uncannily happy and healthy. He had never had cause to think of this as bad until one morning, when his work was rudely interrupted.

It was early yet that day, the sun not having yet crested above the diamond droplets of misty cloud. Valjean stood before the mirror; he rarely left its side anymore. There were others, but at this hour most of his kin were off greeting the dawn with music. The quiet was much needed, for Valjean was focused very intently on what he was doing. His ward, a little girl of no more than eight, was placed in the care of people who had progressed from unscrupulous to downright nasty; the night before had been the final straw, and the girl still had the welt on her arm to show for it. Valjean could not conscience such behavior to continue. 

The air around him rippled with arcane power; it tugged at the Guardian’s curls and the pin feathers of his wings as he considered how, exactly, he could remedy the situation.

“What do you think you are doing?”

The words broke through his concentration like a river through a levee. Valjean started, pivoting around to see the Authority, Javert, staring at him. The angel’s face was a grim mask, and the few other Guardians about took one look at him and fled for cover. Valjean released the crackle of power hanging in the air, but stood his ground.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he said evenly. “What are you doing at the Guardians’ station?”

Ever since the Rebellion, Valjean seemed to run across Javert with greater and greater frequency. At first it had seemed like a strange coincidence; now he was not so sure. There was something curiously magnetic about the angel, as the North Star draws a lodestone. 

Javert scowled and stalked forward. “I had come to suspect that an angel was overextending their jurisdiction in the human realm, and here I find proof of it!”

Valjean blinked. “Overextending my jurisdiction? I am not sure I follow.”

Waving his hand as though that alone should be explanation enough, Javert said, “You are... meddling in their everyday affairs. It is not for you to decide that child’s fate.”

“But she is my responsibility—I care for her,” Valjean protested.

“It is not your duty to care!” Javert’s wings arched in agreement, momentarily throwing them both into shadow. “You are confusing responsibility with sentiment. Sentiment is an entirely human notion—your charges influence your judgement!”

Valjean’s eyes narrowed. “What then would you have me do?”

Folding his wings neatly behind him, Javert sniffed dismissively. “Hold them to the righteous path. As for the rest, their circumstances are for the mortals to resolve on their own. They are sinners, all of them—the Almighty cursed them to live in the dust with good reason.”

Valjean bit back a dozen retorts; he had seen already how Javert could be ruthlessly stubborn. Instead he asked quietly, “What is your true purpose here, Javert? You are not one of the Dominions—your work is smiting wicked spirits, not disciplining other angels.”

The look Javert gave him then was calculating. “Angels too may Fall,” he said slowly. “And when that happens, I will be there to put them in their place.”

With a final warning glance, he added, “Watch yourself.”

That was all he said before the Authority turned and strode away, leaving Valjean stricken in his wake.

Chapter Text

Not all their time together ended in argument.

There were occasions when Javert was nowhere to be found, absent from his usual posts. And on those occasions, should the material world be tending well enough to itself, Valjean would creep away from the scrying glass, climbing up, up, up an endlessly spiralling tower stair until he reached the Eighth Sphere of Heaven. There he would disembark, well beyond even the highest wisps of cloud, to see above him the vast expanse of the universe spread out like a tapestry. He would see this, and he would see Javert watching it, alone.

These clandestine meetings followed a strictly conducted script, one which Valjean knew better than to interrupt. Valjean would arrive, Javert would politely yet in the fewest words possible rebuff any attempts at conversation, and then Javert would work. The Authority studied the stars with the same intensity by which he oversaw the earth, his slightest word or gesture carefully fine-tuning the rotation of the heavenly bodies and keeping all precisely to their courses. Yet his eyes as they reflected starlight were not so harsh, and the lines around his mouth softened from their stern rigidity. The transformation was almost unnerving, but Valjean soon came to appreciate those quiet moments of companionship.

Valjean would have been happy to let that arrangement go unchanged. It suited him well to watch Javert watching the sky, quietly noting the angel’s every minute change in expression, the way his fingers sometimes twitched to adjust a passing comet. Valjean could not say why it pleased him, only that it did. Yet one day stood out in his memory, for it differed from all the rest.

When he arrived at the eighth landing, the Guardian found Javert standing as he always did, his back to the stair and his chin tipped up to frown at the firmament. Valjean stepped lightly across the marbled floor, feeling himself bathed in moonlight. A grin tugged at his lips; his current charge, a little boy of ten, had spent the morning conspiring to wheedle another pain au chocolat out of his mother, and the child’s antics left him in a good humor.

So it was that Valjean was already smiling when he came to a stop at Javert’s elbow, where he asked, “And what troubles the turning of the Heavens today?”

The Authority did not startle; he seemed to have a preternatural sense for when Valjean was near, even when deep in concentration. But rather than chide him with a word to hush, Javert hummed and narrowed his gaze at the stars.

“Nothing,” he said. “Everything is exactly as it should be.”

“Then why do you still look so suspicious?” Valjean laughed.

“Because,” Javert explained slowly, “there is always something not as it should be.”

Valjean raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you have fixed all that was needing to be fixed.”

The Authority’s hum took on a skeptical tone. “Perhaps,” he said, though he sounded unconvinced. 

It occurred to Valjean then that if Javert had indeed straightened out every orbit and nebula there was no reason for their conversation to continue. Javert would sweep back down the stairs, returning to his other duties, and that would be that. For reasons he was unable to articulate even to himself, Valjean wanted very much for that not to happen. 

Before he could think to do otherwise, he asked, “Would you tell me about them?” At Javert’s questioning glance, Valjean added, “The stars.”

“You want me to tell you about the stars?” Javert repeated incredulously.

Valjean only looked at him with hope, and the Authority sighed.

“Very well,” he agreed, his tone suggesting he could not much see the point. “That cluster there is Gemini.” He pointed out the glittering constellation, which to Valjean looked no different than any other part of the sky. “The heathens say it is Castor and Pollux, immortalized by Zeus—what rubbish.” He wrinkled his nose, a rather unangelic gesture, and Valjean resisted the urge to chuckle.

“But then, what is that?” he asked instead, pointing at a fainter grouping of stars beside it. 

“Cancer, the crab fought by Hercules.”

“And that?”

And so it went, Valjean asking questions and Javert answering them with a rare thread of patience. At times, Valjean almost caught the barest trace of a smile on his thin lips as he described some distant galaxy, or as Valjean struggled to grasp the notion of black holes. Their wings brushed, Javert leaning closer to point out a dark patch of asteroids, and for just a moment Valjean thought himself somehow taken ill. What other way to explain the thudding of his heart, the suddenness with which all the stars blurred until it seemed that the entirety of the universe turned on its axis around the two of them? 

Javert seemed oblivious to Valjean’s change in mood, for which he was grateful. He did not think he could explain himself even in the privacy of his own thoughts. It was just that it was strange to see the Authority so at ease, and it brought him a certain small joy to know that even the harsh and uncompromising angel was capable of a measure of softness. Valjean said none of this out loud, of course; he could only imagine the face Javert would make if he heard Valjean thought him soft.

After, there would come other days, other times when some mechanism of the universe broke down and required Javert to mend it like a pinched spring or gear in the workings. But Valjean did not forget that one most singular of occasions; the day that the planets held to their courses of their own accord, and the quiet sound of Javert’s voice speaking to him of the stars.

It would return to him later, both a torment and a comfort, when the darkness crept in.

Chapter Text

“You are hiding.” The words were a statement, not a question. 

Slowly, Valjean raised his head from where he cradled it in his hands. The courtyard bloomed with the fragrance of citrus, mosses and vines crawling up the walls while a fountain played gently in the background. It was a tiny fragment of Eden, secreted away in Heaven until the end times. Valjean saw none of it, his eyes brimming with glassy tears he could not seem to shed.

“It serves no purpose,” the irate voice continued. “And it is taking you away from the mortals whom you claim to love so well. This petulance is beneath you.”

That, at least, provoked a reaction. 

“Petulance?” Valjean croaked. “You and your companions destroyed entire cities—the dead must number in the thousands—and you call this petulance?”

Impatient footsteps closed the gap between them. “Sodom and Gomorrah condemned themselves. They were given chance after chance to repent. They refused.”

“But the little ones, Javert,” Valjean choked out. “And the grandmothers and grandfathers. Surely they were not all wicked.”

“God decreed that the cities should burn,” Javert retorted. He circled the bench until Valjean had no choice but to look him in the face, or stare at his boots. “Are you questioning His word?”

Silently, Valjean shook his head. He could not now stop the tears from falling; they spilled down his cheeks and dripped to the flagstones below, where they sprouted tiny seedlings in the cracks. 

“Come now,” said Javert, a trifle awkwardly. “Surely this is not necessary.”

Wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, Valjean inquired, “Are their lives not wretched enough without our adding to their misery?”

“You did not hear their thoughts,” Javert replied. “If you had, you might be less generous.”

Valjean rose and blinked the water away, gazing blankly at a fig tree. “What could justify this?” he whispered.

The Authority sniffed in derision. “They certainly had strange notions of how to greet the soldiers of their Creator. Violent, greedy, obscene—that is what they were. Lot all but threw them from his doorstep to prevent their tearing us apart. More inhospitable creatures I cannot imagine.”

“I am glad you are unhurt,” Valjean admitted. “But even so...” He trailed off, unable to shake the image seemingly seared to the back of his eyelids, of dozens of Guardian angels gathered around the scrying mirror, silently weeping as they watched their charges burn in the fire and brimstone.

“I fail to see what difference it makes to you,” said Javert peevishly. “Your human ward is halfway across the continent, and perfectly content thanks to your machinations. They were in no danger today.”

Valjean’s fingers tightened in the linen of his robes. “That is hardly the -” he began, only to cut himself off to take a steadying breath. More quietly, he continued, “They are living beings, Javert, crafted in the Father’s own image—why would He want to destroy them?”

The Authority crossed his arms, chin stubbornly raised. “They were disobedient to His will.”

“But -” Valjean shuddered, the weight of his question cutting uncomfortably close to blasphemy. “- what is the use in granting them a choice if they are punished for choosing?”

Through his teeth, Javert said, “They chose badly.”

“But they can choose differently!” 

The words were torn from him in exasperation, the strength of his outburst leaving Valjean dazed. He turned away and felt the steely weight of Javert’s eyes on his back. 

“Is that not the point?” the Guardian asked forlornly, less to Javert than to himself. “That no matter what mistakes they make, they can still choose better the next time?”

“Men will always trespass against the Almighty,” said Javert. “And all but a few of them will be damned. You should accept that.”

Valjean pressed his hand to his chest, looking at the garden in all its splendor. It was at times like these that he wondered what force drew him to the angel, when they were so diametrically opposed to one another. It was easy to be amicable while staring up at the stars, but in matters of consequence Javert was as separate from Valjean as the sun from the moon; Valjean felt with the whole of his being, whereas all Javert ever felt was scorn.

Just outside the corners of his thoughts lurked the images he could not shake, of how Gomorrah turned to ash beneath pillars of white fire summoned by three Authorities from on high. The echoes of screams and the bodies in the dust meant nothing before that merciless onslaught; and even now Javert saw nothing wrong in his actions. 

As though following the trend of his thoughts, Javert said coolly, “The others of your kind are prepared to accept the effects of divine judgement. Why are you different?”

Valjean felt the word ‘different’ for what it was, a barbed accusation cloaked in propriety. He pivoted, a retort already on his tongue, but the sight of the Authority standing there brought him up short. 

Javert stood drawn up to his full height, lips pressed together almost primly as he met Valjean’s gaze. His bronze wings were folded at his back, not a feather out of place, every line from the curve of his nose to the hilt of his sword immaculate. Javert was perfect; Valjean was not. Never had he been so conscious of his own failings as in that moment. Was it truly so difficult to not think twice about doing as he was told?

But with that thought came the guilt; was he to turn a blind eye to suffering if God willed it? Could he? And beneath it all, there was the sickening knowledge that in spite of what had occurred he was pulled to Javert still, as an asteroid that is tugged inexorably towards the earth only to combust in the atmosphere. Surely the Authority ought to repel him, yet Valjean continued to look on helplessly, filled with a longing so powerful it seemed to pierce his very heart. 

Angels did not feel such things, but humans—

Valjean opened his mouth, then stopped. He had spent enough time observing humankind to guess what this emotion was that dissolved all others, even guilt. The realization did nothing to lessen its grip; in fact, the feeling seemed only to dig its claws in tighter, crushing and squeezing the air from his chest.

Javert was frowning at him now. Doubtless, some measure of his terrible epiphany had shown on his face. 

“Spit it out,” the Authority said gruffly.

I have come to love you, thought Valjean.

“Apologies,” he said aloud. With a weak smile, he added, “I just realized... Ah. I have been away from the mirror for too long. I should go see to my charge.”

It was not a lie. Yet neither was it precisely true, and this time the guilt refused to be shaken. The feeling ate into his veins, into his bones, more corrosive than acid. 

He was taken with the way Javert was always unflinching, even in the face of terrible tasks; with the devotion he showed to his work; with the slight, crooked smile the angel only wore when he thought no-one could see him. 

Perhaps if Valjean could change, Javert could learn to as well. It was a tiny, fragile hope, but he clung to it nevertheless. 

In the end, it would be that hope that doomed him.

Chapter Text

There was always a gentle hush on the path beneath the pier. 

Valjean leaned against the railing, staring out into the deepening cobalt nothingness of sky. Above him, a silver bridge spanned between the library and the records hall, but below there was a long, narrow footpath of white stone that followed the irregular contours of the cloud they called home. Its route was dotted with little parks overlooking the sky cliffs such as where the Guardian now stood in contemplation. Few angels ever used it, but Valjean found its solitude comforting, its stillness restful. 

At present, the quiet was soothing the ache which had festered in his heart the many long months—or was it years?—since the judgement of the cities on the plain and the realization it had led him to. Every day, Valjean hoped that his devotion might lessen, and every day the result was disappointing; he was powerless to stay away. Yet for the week past, Javert had been absent entirely. Valjean feared that he somehow knew, and was avoiding him.

Sighing, the Guardian glanced down towards the curvature of the earth, distant and lonely blue planet that it was. Such was his impression of isolation in that small park that Valjean gave a violent start when a voice spoke up unexpectedly from behind him.

“So here you are.”

Valjean spun around, his wings pressing to his back in surprise. 

As though summoned by the very thought of him, there stood Javert in the bridge’s shadow, the metallic gleam of his armor dulled by the shade. The angel wore an expression of carefully composed neutrality, which was somehow more unsettling than his scowl. 

“Am I breaking some rule to be here?” Valjean inquired, jesting, but only in part. 

Javert frowned, apparently aware he was being teased. 

“No,” he replied, stepping closer. “I returned at dawn from a journey to Egypt.”

Feeling foolish, Valjean said, “Oh.” He ought to have realized the Authority was gone on some heavenly mission; Javert did not think of him enough to avoid Valjean deliberately. He did not ask which pharaoh had been cursed this time.

That was when Valjean realized that Javert was still speaking. 

“- did not see you when I arrived.”

Taken aback, the Guardian said nothing.

“Usually I cannot be rid of you.”

Valjean’s heart sank.

“Ah.”

Then the Authority seemed almost to hesitate. “I would be remiss if I gave another angel cause for offense without good reason.”

Valjean opened his mouth, then closed it. It occurred to him as he stared in silence that Javert was, perhaps, making a fumbling attempt at apology, that Javert believed he was the one being avoided.

“You have not offended me,” Valjean said eventually, as something in his chest twisted. 

“Good.” Javert crossed briskly to stand beside the railing, looking down on the planet below. “Heaven must present a single, united front in the stand against Hell’s wickedness.”

“I suppose,” replied Valjean, who in truth was following little of the conversation. Javert had come looking for him. No matter the cool disinterest the angel feigned, he had noticed Valjean’s absence. Valjean did not know whether to be elated or uneasy.

The frown did not leave Javert’s face. “It is well that you are focused on your meditations,” he said as he leaned upon the baluster rail. “Sloth is an insidious temptress.” 

“Yes,” Valjean agreed faintly. The words were clearly meant to probe, but how could he explain what he was doing, pining alone in an empty park?

After a moment, the Authority asked, “And how fares your charge? They lead an upstanding life?”

“He is a wheelwright,” Valjean told him. “And an honest man.”

“That is well.”

“He has been accused falsely of theft.”

Javert turned to look at him then, a little too discerningly. “I trust you know better than to interfere.”

“Of course,” Valjean answered demurely.

The angel did not appear convinced. “The course of justice will prevail,” he said, continuing to look at Valjean askance. “That is why men have magistrates and emperors among them—to render the judgements handed down by God.”

Valjean’s tone was mild as he replied, “Many of those are as corrupt as they come.”

“Pah.” Javert folded his arms. “You stand before your mirror and merely watch them. I walk among their peoples, carrying warnings to saints and kings. I can speak to their integrity.”

“Mankind is not so black and white of morals as are angels and demons,” said Valjean. “If you want to know the measure of a king, you need only look as far as how he treats his servants.”

The Authority scoffed. “Servants who spend their nights in taverns and brothels, I do not doubt. It is clear you are entirely incompatible with the higher matters of divine Law.”

Pursing his lips, Valjean retorted, “You walk among them but you do not see them.” 

Then, exasperated—with Javert, with himself—Valjean shook his head. “Forgive me, I do not mean to bicker. Truly, I am glad to see you.”

And so he was; the bittersweet kind of gladness, the kind which might have reveled were their shoulders to knock together but which instead had to content itself with the expanse of empty air.

“Foolishness,” Javert muttered. “I have never heard such drivel from an angel.”

Valjean shifted, undeterred. “But,” he began, “surely it does no harm if we are on good terms. We may be unalike -” Javert snorted at that understatement. “- yet I have missed our conversations.”

“When they are civil,” Javert commented dryly. “It is only because you do not speak to the others of your kind that you must seek my company.”

“You are the one who sought me out today,” Valjean countered. Javert’s fingers twitched upon the rail. “Why should you or I not desire the company of a friend?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Valjean knew it was the wrong thing to say. The Authority grimaced, turning around and pacing across the paving stones. 

“I would accuse you of mockery but I know better,” Javert growled. “You fly in the face of order, of rank, of— It is unacceptable.”

Holding back the hurt from his voice, Valjean said, “I did not realize that you were so opposed.”

“I know my place,” snapped Javert. “Do you know yours?”

Valjean drew a shuddering breath. “You are saying it is not at your side.”

“You are a Guardian angel, I am an Authority! We are different—separate! That is how it should be.” Javert passed a weary hand over his face. “There are ten thousand angels in Heaven. Why do you not go and pester one of them?”

“Is it not obvious?” Valjean asked quietly. 

He stepped forward, reaching out to cup Javert’s shoulder. Under his fingers, the angel froze, but Valjean leaned closer yet until he could feel the ghost of Javert’s short breaths upon his face.

“What -” Javert began, but before he could finish Valjean stretched the final inch on his toes, his lips touching just lightly to the thunderstruck line of Javert’s mouth. 

It was a butterfly brush of skin, so chaste that it was scarcely a kiss at all. But Javert, who had not moved in all that time, now tore himself away. 

“That was -” he stammered, his eyes wide and a patch of color splotching across the hard lines of his face. “Valjean -” 

His hand tightened on the collar of Valjean’s robe.

“I do not expect you to feel the same,” said Valjean softly. 

“ Feel —it is not a question of -” The Authority stopped, collecting himself. Never had Valjean seen him in such a state. “You cannot profess to ‘feel’ any of this.”

“And why not?” Valjean challenged. “Why shouldn’t I? It does not mean you need agree.”

“Because you are an angel,” said Javert, who was gripping his shoulder so tightly it was becoming uncomfortable. “This... desire is a fickle, fallible thing that belongs to lesser beings. You must master it.”

“Perhaps I do not wish to,” Valjean said stubbornly. “Perhaps I wish to feel this way.”

“You are deluded,” Javert hissed through his teeth. “What madness has struck you?”

“I will go,” Valjean said. A chill had come over him, as of the vanishing of the sun behind a cloud. “And trouble you no further with this.”

It was strange, how his chest felt suddenly as though a great weight were pressing upon it. The words he spoke in a blur, barely aware of them until they were said.

“No,” said Javert, his brow furrowed. “No. I have known there was something... deficient about you from the Beginning, but you were not like the others, you hid it better. Yet now I see—yes, I see very clearly.”

Every word felt as if the angel’s fist were tightening around his heart rather than his robes, but Valjean kept his head high as he said simply, “What is it you see?”

Javert’s lips split apart in a curl of disgust. “Mawkish, unrepentant—that is what you are. And worse, for you possess no discipline, allowing your impulses to run unchecked. There is a better title befitting such a creature than ‘angel’.”

“Javert -”

Heedless, the Authority dragged Valjean forward. The grip on his collar was suffocating, but that was nothing to the bitter taste of rejection on his tongue. He stumbled, and Valjean caught himself on the baluster. Javert’s hands pinned him there, the stone digging into the small of his back. 

“You would drag me down with you,” Javert said lowly. “Have me descend into blind passion like a demon that knows nothing but cavorting and debauchery. But I am incorruptible.”

The angel’s face was inches from his own, but there was not a trace of affection nor even friendship in his eyes, no sign at all that Javert thought of Valjean as anything other than a presence to be tolerated. And now, it seemed, to be tolerated no longer. 

All at once, Valjean became very aware of the yawning void at his back, of the tendrils of air current stirring his feathers, just as he also conceived of Javert hoisting him onto the ledge. Understanding fell upon him all at once, as the eagle’s talons snatch the dove.

The tiny, tender thing in Valjean’s heart trembled, but his voice was quiet and calm as he spoke.

“Oh, Javert. Not like this.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed. “God damns all sinners,” he said, and let go.

Valjean tumbled backwards, but the Fall was less terrible than he imagined. Or perhaps it was that it only seemed that way, when his mind was fixated on the sight of Javert watching over the edge, his expression cold, as Valjean tumbled into the abyss.

Chapter Text

For an angel to Fall was as much an act of the spirit as of the flesh. 

Valjean plunged through the air, head over heel, as the wind tore out his feathers and his eyelashes crusted with crystals of ice. Above him, Heaven receded, while below a body of fiery brimstone grew larger and larger until it filled his vision; and still Valjean was falling. 

The descent lasted long enough that there was time to think. It would have been better had it been otherwise. As it was, Valjean thought far too long on Javert’s betrayal, how it felt like a forgone conclusion which he had merely spurred toward completion by his actions. It was plain to see now that Javert had only been biding his time, waiting for an excuse. And what an excuse! The plummet through the atmosphere froze his bitter tears to his cheeks. 

Then the air began to warm with tendrils of steam as the Lake of Burning Fire rose up to meet him. Valjean mouthed a single, silent prayer in the moment before he collided. A mortal being would have been smashed flat upon the surface of the magma, obliterated in an instant, but Valjean was not so fortunate. He sank into the flaming sulfur like a stone, as it at once burned his robes to cinders and seared every inch of skin. His wings dragged after him, heavy and cumbersome; Valjean writhed as the liquid fire scorched the delicate bones. Feathers white as newly fallen snow incinerated, turning black and charred as he sank into the bottomless pool of molten rock.

The effect was agony. It was the angel’s first real tryst with pain, and it devoured him whole. Valjean dared not scream, for fear of what the fire would do to his insides. Instead the sound wedged like a lump in his throat, demanding to be let out. His fingers clawed for the surface, and it was only thanks to sheer luck that he struggled in the right direction.

With what presence of mind he had left, Valjean struck out for shore. It exhausted his strength, for the magma was thick and viscous, and it clung to his limbs as though determined to drag him down, but in the end he heaved himself, gasping, onto the cracked and dusty earth. There he sprawled uselessly, chest heaving under a red sky. If Heaven was above, he could not see it. 

The notion occurred that Valjean should hide before any demon came along to torment him further, but the thought went unpursued. It did not much matter, he supposed, if he lived or died there. Sheltering his naked torso within the scant comfort of his wings, Valjean enveloped himself in scorched feathers, shielding his eyes from the sifting ash as he drew his knees in close. 

Every breath rattled in his chest. With a morbid fascination, Valjean studied his fingers; the skin there, as with the rest of him, was as brittle and scarred as the soil, burned almost beyond recognition by hellfire. In some places the scabs had cracked open, and he watched in numb disbelief as the blood seeping from the wounds, the golden ichor of angels, tarnished and boiled until the ooze was black. His halo of light, which he had worn as his second skin for millennia, dimmed and then went out. 

Only then did Valjean think of his charges, his human wards left to flounder alone without a Guardian to guide them. At that he wept, for they did not deserve to suffer for his folly. And Javert -

But that thought cut too deeply and he did not allow it to finish. Instead he remained hunched on the edge of the burning lake, until a hollowness grew out of his sorrow. Valjean shut his eyes, feeling himself beginning to fade. Perhaps God in His mercy would let him pass quietly from that world.

Yet though Valjean waited patiently, he did not perish. An indeterminate length of time passed, until he heard the approach of footsteps crunching in the wasteland. It had the sound of two creatures moving just slightly out of sync. Valjean’s arms tightened around his shoulders, but otherwise he did not move. 

Presently, he heard a voice, guttural and low, croak out, “What shall we do with it?”

The reply came from the second creature, and was accompanied by a buzzing and clicking of the sort which painted the image of a great, insectoid mouth. It was fitting, Valjean supposed, for a devil.

“We shall take it before the Prince, of course.”

Together, the creatures hauled Valjean to his feet. The Fallen angel did not struggle as they dragged him along, though soon they were forced to sling his arms over their shoulders lest his legs give way entirely. Every step in the dust sent daggers of pain lancing through the bottoms of his feet. Valjean held out hope that eventually it might subside, but in time he would come to realize there were reminders of his ruin which would be with him always.

Eventually, a city grew out of the barren earth, nestled amid jagged outcroppings of rock. It was the city Pandemonium, the high seat of Lucifer, Prince of Liars. Valjean’s chest ached to look upon it, for there were in the infernal geometries and non-euclidean turns of the buildings still the echoes of Heaven, of a home that once the Fallen had tried to rebuild. As they approached, the devils led Valjean through a tall gate above which was raised a rusting portcullis. Though the gate was open, he could not escape the notion that those bars were sealing him inside forever.

Valjean did not know what awaited him in that dark and terrible place; as his guides ushered him inside a stone gatehouse, his stomach rolled and he steeled himself against tortures unimaginable. Yet they led him into a small room where they dressed him, first in a tunic, then in plates of armor that looked as though they had seen some use. 

At first Valjean was baffled, for their movements were cautious, almost reverential, until one bowed to him and he understood. Valjean was not an angel any longer—he was a demon, an inhabitant of Hell like them. A wry smile twisted his lips. Then a bloodstained sword was thrust into his hands, and Valjean nearly dropped it in revulsion.

From there, he was taken back into the streets, where the throngs of fiendish creatures stopped all they were doing to watch him pass. Their multitudes were monstrous and wicked and hungry; Valjean kept his eyes to the street, indifferent. At the very rear of the city, built into the stone bluffs, was a palace. This was their destination. As they drew closer, Valjean’s heart began to thud with weary anticipation.

The antechamber passed in a blur of torchlight and the distant echoes of screams. Valjean was all but dragged into the throne room, where a long strip of red carpet stretched down the length of the hall to the dias at the other end. Lucifer’s court looked on in silence as Valjean was deposited halfway down the aisle, his escorts fleeing before they could be addressed. In their absence, Valjean collapsed to his knees, too tired and heartsick to carry on.

Nothing moved for a long moment, not even the rustle of a wing. For Valjean perceived now that the others watching were all themselves Fallen angels, ones whom he had not laid eyes on since the Rebellion. It was surreal to be among them again—

Valjean’s thoughts were interrupted as he was addressed from the throne.

“So you are the latest come to swell my ranks. It is not every day an angel Falls from Heaven.”

Valjean lifted his head. There upon a seat wrought of bones reclined Satan himself. The former Seraph was resplendent with his six onyx wings and crown of ram’s horns. He was breathtaking, except for his eyes, which were cold and without mercy. Valjean shivered, for they reminded him of someone he knew.

Leaning forward, the Prince of Hell said, “You will pledge your allegiance to me. I am the only God you serve now. Your Creator cares nothing for you—why else would He not have plucked you out of the air to safety? So rejoice, for in your service here, there is freedom.”

Closing his eyes, Valjean murmured, “Yes, Lord,” even as his heart whispered, You do not command me.  

Perhaps Lucifer knew his thoughts, for the Prince smirked.

“Come closer,” he beckoned, and Valjean felt himself flooded with the strength to get up.

Rising cautiously to his feet, Valjean padded down the thick carpet, until he stood at the base of the dias. Lucifer reached down from his throne, cupping Valjean’s chin in a clawed hand. Valjean stared into yellow eyes, which gazed back at him thoughtfully. 

“So this is one who was punished for the sin of loving,” the Prince mused. “I understand, better perhaps than you can imagine.”

He paused, continuing to study his new subject, until finally he released his grip and Valjean staggered backwards.

“In Hell, demons may feel whatever they wish,” Lucifer told him. There was something almost like regret in the way he added, “But do not count on your love—in a thousand years, you will feel nothing but misery.”

Dismissed, the court dissolved into chatter, dukes and duchesses of the damned gossiping amongst themselves. More than a few heads turned in Valjean’s direction. Alone and uncertain of what to do or where to go, Valjean wavered on the outskirts of the crowd. The Prince’s parting words rang in his ears, a forbidding omen of what was to come. Barely aware as he was of his surroundings, Valjean nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched him lightly on the arm.

Turning, he found himself faced with warm brown eyes that were strangely familiar.

“So it is you.”

The voice, too, was familiar, though roughened by the years. Recognition stirred.

“Fantine,” said Valjean.

“Ah, you remember.” A slight smile curled her lips. “Come with me. We should speak.”

So saying, she slipped past the others, taking him into a smaller neighboring chamber. The crimson walls were hung with flickering sconces, while stone benches surrounded the perimeter, draped in animal hides.

“The palace has the closest thing to comfortable accommodations here,” said Fantine, taking a seat. “You should enjoy them, while you can.”

Tentatively, Valjean sat beside her.

“I wondered what became of you for coming to my aid,” the Fallen woman said. “Though when I never saw you again, I decided Javert must not have cast you out of Heaven, as he did me.”

“That changed today,” Valjean murmured.

Fantine’s look was pitying. “Because you desired someone...?”

The truth must have shown on his face, for the demoness’ eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “Forgive me, I did not know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Valjean.

“I desired someone once,” Fantine murmured. “A Virtue, until he Rebelled. I stood by his side, and for that, I Fell. He has not looked at me since.” Sniffling, she continued, “I wanted to talk to you, to tell you some things.” Fantine adjusted her tattered shift, then looked him in the eye. “Because no-one else here will.”

Nervously, Valjean asked, “What things?”

Gently, the woman explained, “You are not an angel any longer. You should understand what that entails. No more miracles. No acts of healing, not even for yourself. They will ask you to hurt people. You will have no choice.”

Valjean lowered his head, staring at his lap. He did not know that he could bear an eternity of this without going mad. 

“And another thing,” Fantine said, her soft features serious. “There is a chance, slim though it may be, that you will see your lover again one day. Should that come to pass, you must run.” Laying a hand on his knee, she continued, “Angels are an anathema to our kind. Their weapons are poison—their very blood will make your flesh boil if it touches your skin. Never forget, they were made to destroy us.”

Of the Authorities, Valjean could agree that Fantine’s words perhaps rang true. Yet he thought of the others, of Guardians he had known for some millennia, and grief twisted through his heart at the thought that even they might now revile him. It was a grave and cruel thing which had been done to him, for the sake of a sin he did not believe he had committed.

Fantine patted his hand, rising sympathetically. Valjean watched her go, fatigued by anticipation and hopelessness.

It was not long before the demoness was proven correct; Valjean was put to work, outside of the city. In Heaven, he had heard tell that the souls of the blessed dead dwelt beyond the walls of New Jerusalem, a Paradise of their own making. He had never set foot there, and was uncertain of the truth. But he could say, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was outside the gates of Hell where the damned were sent to be tormented forever in the fiery pits.

On account of his strength, Valjean’s first instructions were to heave weighty stones onto the chests of sinners, crushing the wretched souls for their crimes. Valjean refused. For that, they beat him, flaying his wings and his back all to ribbons. The silver whips cut deep, and the wounds bled for days after.

He protested less after that, carrying out his orders until his self-loathing was indistinguishable from hatred. Valjean turned it everywhere and nowhere, and day by day the light at his core dwindled further beneath the malice, until he was little more than a raging maelstrom of fury and despair. In it, it was easy to lose who and what he was, and so he did for uncounted hundreds of years. That destruction of the self might have continued into annihilation, had it not been for what came next.

It happened on a day no different than any other. Valjean arrived at his post, grimacing at his victims, when he noticed that one man among them had a strange presence. The other lost souls cowered away, but this one lay calmly, accepting of his fate. Perplexed, Valjean approached, and beheld a soul which glowed with a faint aura of light.

“You are a holy man,” said the demon.

The soul smiled. “In life, I was a Bishop,” he said. “But such titles are meaningless in death. I am a servant of our Lord, and I seek to do his will.”

“But, then, why are you here?” Valjean asked, dumbfounded. There were Bishops enough in Hell, and Cardinals and Priests and all those holy men who used their authority to do evil; none of them shone with such a light.

The Bishop was as serene as though he lay in a green pasture, rather than atop a bloodied sacrificial stone. “I have chosen to give what comfort I may to the condemned,” he replied. “I am not at peace in His Kingdom knowing that there are those who suffer. When the trumpets call us all to be judged, then I shall rest.”

“But...” Valjean licked his lips.

The Bishop turned his head, regarding him with curiosity. “You do not seem very wicked, for a serpent of the pit.”

“I -”

“Perhaps you will find this amusing,” said the Bishop, “but I know what you must do, and I forgive you for it.”

The Fallen angel gaped at him.

“There can be great power in forgiveness,” the Bishop continued. “It changes people. Perhaps even demons.”

Before Valjean could move away, the man reached out and clasped his hand.

“Never underestimate love,” he said. “For that is God’s principal commandment to us—‘love one another’. It will overcome every obstacle.” 

With that, he lay back again, folding his hands and waiting for Valjean to do what they both knew he must. Slowly, Valjean plodded to where a teetering pile of boulders awaited him. He hefted one, reluctance causing his feet to drag as he carried it back to the Bishop’s side. There he lay it down as gently as he was able. The man made no sound as the weight settled onto his chest, though it must have been nigh unbearable. When Valjean stood again, he found his face to be wet; he had not wept tears in centuries. 

From that day on, Valjean continued in his tasks, but he did not forget himself again. And through it all he thought often of the soul who damned himself out of love for his fellow men. 

He thought of him for a long time.

Chapter Text

Valjean’s eyes fluttered open.

Tel Megiddo was empty, and also on fire.

Blinking, the fallen angel shook himself free of the last of the memories’ grasping tendrils and wondered what had happened. He did not have to wonder for long; a thunderous roar more cacophonous than a hurricane shattered the eerie stillness, and above the gable of the ancient temple Valjean saw the Dragon rear its seven heads, belching tongues of fire. Crimson scales flashed in the light like rubies, illuminating the contingent of angels swooping down upon it. 

It was Michael who led the charge. Even at that distance, his sword hurt to gaze upon, its aura imbued with holy retribution. Behind him the others followed, as stinging gnats that swarm the eyes of a lion. Valjean watched with bated breath as the dragonfire swept over them, sabre teeth biting and snatching. The heads tore through the celestial ranks, scattering the careful array of tactical formations. Angels plummeted from the sky trailing plumes of smoke and flame. Javert was up there somewhere; no sooner had that thought occurred than the Dragon bellowed, lunging all seven of its heads toward Michael Archangel. 

Michael pointed his sword at his foe, and the jets of fire diverted around him as he smote the Dragon from the plains; so it was, for so it had been written. The great beast fell, its infernal scream breaking upon the ear of all who heard it. As it tumbled back into the Pit, the monster’s tail swiped through the air like a mile-long whip, a scarlet gash in the firmament. Flailing and contorting, the tail razed the remaining company of angels, flinging some far across the valley and others into the ruins of Tel Megiddo itself. They streaked through the atmosphere like falling stars, crashing to earth in a blaze of light; victorious, but at what cost?

A ball of white light exploded not far from where Valjean himself stood; it could have been no more than the next level down. Valjean did not hesitate, not even to see whether Michael would succeed in shackling the Dragon to its eternal prison. He ran to follow the lingering, pulsating glow without quite knowing why, aware only of a pull he could not help but follow, an old and nearly forgotten instinct to protect rearing in his breast.

It took Valjean more time than he thought to locate the epicenter of the impact; debris obscured his path, and the labyrinth of arches and walls and staircases conspired to lead him in a dance around his goal. Eventually he turned a corner, and that was where he found it: a courtyard flattened as if by a bomb detonating, and in the center the fading halo of an angel, hurt. 

Valjean blinked, his eyes adjusting to the ethereal glow. Precious seconds ticked by, but then he could see well enough to pick out the nature of the being in the middle of the crater. The demon’s stomach turned over, even as his heart fluttered with a certain foregone inevitability.

There, lying slumped against a broken column, was Javert. Valjean paused warily, but the Authority’s eyes were closed and the hand laying upon his chest trembled. One of his wings stuck out at an awkward angle, trapped beneath a pile of rubble.

As he watched, Valjean perceived two more demons crawling from where they were hidden amongst the wreckage, one in the shape of a wolf, and one a horned devil with blue flesh and black beetle eyes. They slunk nearer to where the angel lay, cautious in case he should spring up to defend himself, but Javert merely groaned, his head lolling to one side. The demons looked at one another, grinning with malicious intent.

Valjean stepped forward from the shadows, his boots clipping on the shattered flagstone. The demons spun about, teeth bared, until they observed the color of his wings. Then just as quickly, their manners turned obsequious, bowing and scraping before him.

“Look what we have found, lord,” said the wolf, her voice a low rumble. “He is pinned down, unable to fly. Join us, and we shall have our way with him.”

“Go from here,” Valjean interrupted, stepping between Javert and the monsters. “This one is mine.”

The devil’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “Even one of the Fallen cannot hope to kill an angel alone and unaided,” xe hissed. “Let us help you, do not deny your brethren our victory.” 

Valjean spread his wings in warning, pointing to the archway and the street beyond. 

“Go!” he commanded roughly. Dark energies pulsed through his aura, and the demons scampered at once, the wolf tucking her tail between her legs. 

Only when the square was clear did Valjean turn to look at the angel who had so unexpectedly landed in his power. Javert was watching him now through eyes slitted with pain. The hand on his chest had curled into a fist. 

“So,” Javert gritted out. “This is how you would spend the time remaining to you. That creature was right—you cannot kill me. And I warn you, torture me though you may, I will give you no sport.”

With no little irony, the corner of Valjean’s mouth lifted as he said, “Do not be afraid.”

Javert glared. “Your tricks will not blind me, demon scum.”

Wordlessly, Valjean crossed to where the largest chunk of broken limestone was crushing bone and feathers. Bending his knees, he slotted his fingers under the stone and lifted with all his might, just as he had done for the last thousand years. Only this time, he kept the stone held aloft.

“Can you move it?” he asked tersely, nodding at the trapped limb beside his foot. 

For a moment, he heard only quiet. Then there was a grunt followed by a strangled cry as Javert wrenched his wing free. Valjean returned the boulder to the ground, staggering as the exertion caught up with him. When he looked behind it was to see Javert forcing himself to sit up, his wing refusing to fold neatly to his back. Valjean crouched at his side, steadying the angel with a hand, and ran his fingers over the crumpled feathers.

“It does not feel like anything is broken,” said Valjean.

“No,” Javert agreed through a gasp. “But my leg -” He seemed to remember then who he was speaking to and lapsed into silence, even as Valjean carefully coaxed the feathered joints into collapsing as they should. 

Laying the angel back against the column, Valjean met Javert’s eyes. They were filled with tired resignation, numb to whatever horrors he imagined Valjean to have in store for him. There was no question that his leg was fractured, for it lay unnaturally; Valjean wondered too about the sanctity of his ribs, as Javert’s every breath seemed to him too labored. 

Tugging the gauntlets from his hands, Valjean turned back to the angel and carefully removed whatever armor he could reach. Javert tolerated these attentions with his jaw clenched, though as his layers of protection were stripped away, it seemed that the Authority’s features grew steadily paler; or perhaps that was simply his injuries taking their toll. 

Lacing their fingers together, Valjean raised Javert’s hand to eye-level. It was dripping with gold, ichorous blood, and the more Valjean looked, the more of it he discerned, from where the Dragon’s tail had lacerated Javert’s torso to where his head had struck against stone. A single bead of it rolled like liquid metal along the back of Valjean’s hand, and he winced as it touched his unholy flesh, smarting and boiling. 

“This calls for bandages,” Valjean murmured, his ears full of the sound of Javert’s harsh pants. The angel was not looking at him, but rather stared straight ahead. As he spoke, the sandy ground beneath Valjean’s knees twisted and reshaped, becoming long lengths of linen cloth.

“Here,” he continued, wrapping the lint around the deepest of the gouges in Javert’s arm. Now it was Valjean who looked purposefully away, though he could feel Javert’s piercing eyes boring into the side of his head as he worked. Angel’s blood ran onto his lap, all down his fingers, but he ignored it, focused solely on his task. Not until he tried wrapping bandages around the Authority’s middle did Javert stop him.

“Valjean,” said the angel.

Valjean looked up with a start.

“Look at your hands.” Javert sounded more exasperated than anything. “You will... poison yourself if you continue like that.”

Glancing down, Valjean saw that Javert was not wrong; his hands were as red and seared as though he had placed them into a vat of holy water. 

“Ah.”

Hurriedly, Valjean wiped himself clean on an unused scrap of cloth, but Javert continued to stare at his burned fingers with something like bemusement.

“This is a strange sort of torment you have assigned me.” The angel shook his head. “Surely it would be easier to simply rip out my innards?”

Valjean gave him a withering look. “Truly, you have no imagination,” he said. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have all the implements of Hell at my disposal.”

To his surprise, Javert flinched. “If you wanted to...?”

“But I do not,” Valjean said firmly. “Surely that should be obvious by now.”

“It goes against the order of things.” Javert pulled a face as he strained whatever he had done to his ribs. “You should not be coddling me like we share the same side. We do not! Would I could lift my sword—I would smite you here and now, without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Yet you cannot.” Valjean smiled slightly. “So I fear you are stuck with me.”

Javert did not say another word as Valjean continued to carefully bind his wounds, though occasionally he would glance at the burned patches on Valjean’s hands with a deep frown. 

At last, Valjean said, “I have done all I can.” He sat back on his haunches, studying the angel for any injury he had missed. He did not dare try setting Javert’s leg; healing was no longer a power he was granted. “Will you be safe here?”

“Are you going somewhere?” Javert demanded.

Valjean blinked. “I am due back to join the others,” he said. “To await the final Judgment of us all.”

“To avoid Michael finding you here with me, you mean,” Javert countered, pushing himself up straighter against his backrest. “You do not seek Judgment, you seek to escape it.”

Valjean hummed. “Perhaps I cannot imagine falling on any sword but yours,” he murmured.

The Authority’s eyes were wide and wild. “You do not mean that,” he said. “You cannot - Why would you -?”

Without speaking, Valjean bowed their heads together. Gently, he pressed his lips to Javert’s brow. 

“That is why,” he whispered.

A huff of air escaped him that was both fond and sad, and Valjean added, “Send me from here, and you need never see me again if I disgust you so. It will all be over soon.”

Javert’s fingers tightened over Valjean’s wrist, a silent plea which for all its tentative nature the demon could not summon the will to refuse. It was only a matter of time before the angels would come back for one of their own, but Javert was gazing at him with something approaching both wonder and terror and Valjean found himself utterly incapable of moving. He remained as he was, curled onto his knees and Javert’s hand in his own, until at last they were surrounded by a riotous blur of bodies and voices.

Someone seized him, and Valjean was hauled to his feet. A blade pressed at his jugular; he shivered as the promise of oblivion opened before him, but he did not resist. This was how it would happen, Javert at his feet and his lips still tingling slightly where they had brushed angelic skin. It was not so bad a way to go, he told himself. After all, he had known all the happiness he would ever hold, and even eternity had to one day end.

Then, a voice was arguing. The hands on his collar tightened their grip, but the blade disappeared. Valjean slumped—perhaps they would cage him in the Pit of Tartarus instead—and the voices surrounding him grew in pitch and urgency. The last thing he heard was the sound of Javert, speaking his name in a tone that nearly couched on concern. Then the giddiness overcame him again, and his knees gave out as he tumbled into a bottomless swell of white light.

Chapter Text

From the moment they carried him in until long after the others had left, Javert sat at Valjean’s bedside, watching him sleep. The demon’s brow was creased, his slumber fitful, and Javert could not help but wonder at the cause; was it the anger of a trammeled beast, railing against a rightful punishment? Or was it merely the face of one who was in pain, the reason for which Javert had himself witnessed? 

After some time had passed, Javert’s vigil was interrupted by a Guardian who flit about the room like a butterfly, never quite standing still. Ey attended to Javert’s wounds in a heartbeat, his leg straightening and grating as the bone knit back together, his ribs popping and his rent flesh closing under eir hands. For Valjean, there was less ey could do; the burns on the demon’s palms seemed to resist all efforts to heal them away. There was nothing for it, the Guardian explained, but to wait for him to wake.

“Will he wake?” Javert asked gruffly.

The Guardian gazed at him thoughtfully until at last ey said, “Only God knows that.”

Then ey departed, and Javert was left alone with Valjean once more. Even now, he could feel the chill of his skin where the demon’s lips had kissed his head. Such things were forbidden; and yet, if that were so, why had they been permitted entry to Heaven once more? Surely God in His omnipotence could not have failed to notice this thing that had passed between them, nor the way that Javert’s own thoughts broke apart like a boulder into which ice had intruded. Suddenly his convictions felt scattered, made fractal by nuances he was never before conscious of existing. It did not suit him; an Authority’s judgement was meant to be absolute.

Indeterminate lengths of time had passed when Valjean produced a noise like a whimper. The demon blinked his eyes open only to tense at the first sight of his surroundings; doubtless, the plainness of the infirmary gave rise to thoughts of cells and lengthy imprisonment. After a moment, his assessing, roving gaze landed upon Javert. There it remained, growing more uncertain as the angel only looked at him. 

After a long minute in which neither of them spoke, Javert said finally, “I warned you about making yourself ill.”

Valjean’s answering laughter was nervous. He sat himself up, swinging his legs off the narrow ledge where the angels had laid him, and shook out his dark feathers in a ruffle of wings. 

“What happens now?” he asked, folding his hands in his lap.

Javert heard in his words the echo of Valjean’s earlier sentiment: I cannot imagine falling on any sword but yours. The deferential bow of his neck, the quiet anguish in the set of its mouth, all of it suggested that Valjean believed Javert so callous as to stand before his protector and separate the head from his shoulders. If it were an accusation, it was an unwitting one; and yet it stung all the more for the fact that it was deserved.

“Perhaps,” said Javert quietly, “we could take a walk outside.”

Valjean’s eyes widened, confusion and suspicion warring for control of his features. At last, they settled instead into something disturbingly like trust. “Very well,” he said, climbing to his feet. He waited for Javert to get up; then, the demon’s fingers curled lightly around Javert’s arm.

The Authority stared at that hesitant point of contact, feeling his resolve drain through the floor. Not until Valjean cleared his throat did Javert realize he was standing there paralyzed; he shook himself, for he was no coward. And yet, he could not help but be very aware of Valjean clinging meekly to his elbow as they went forward into the hall.

The first step into the light was like a dream; there was an unreality to it, as though with the world’s ending everything that had once been was now washed clean. Valjean shrank against Javert’s side, seemingly unaware he had done so. It must have been strange, to toil for centuries beneath Hell’s sunless, smoggy sky only to be suddenly returned to the pristine heavenly air. 

“Javert,” the demon said quietly. “What am I doing here? Should not your comrades have...?”

He trailed off, but Javert knew well enough to what he was referring. The Authority shuddered at the image it evoked, of Michael with the long edge of his sword pressed to the bottom of Valjean’s chin, tipping his head back, and Valjean allowing it, less the picture of a demon and more that of a sacrificial lamb.

“I forbade them to,” Javert said. The words were difficult to dislodge from his throat, but he would not deny the fact. “And then the trumpets resounded, and we were told the War was over. All battalions were to return at once.” 

“But why -”

Valjean fell into silence as they reached the plaza proper. The reason for it was immediately apparent—long tracts of the marble paving stones were torn asunder, cracked and pushed aside by roots. Everywhere, vines crawled over the palace walls, covering the stone in vibrant shades of green. Flower blossoms filled the air with their sweet aroma and trees grew where no tree had stood since the start of Creation. 

“What happened here?” Valjean asked in amazement.

Equally astounded, Javert murmured, “I do not know.”

From around the square, other angels crept just as cautiously into the verdant daylight. And, Javert noted, neither was Valjean the only demon in the crowd; scattered creatures with blackened wings hung back along the outskirts, as though uncertain whether they were meant to be there or not. No angel lifted a sword to stop them, and presently Javert’s hand fell from his pommel. He could not say what they were waiting for, but wait they did all the same.

It was not long before Javert had his answer. A light began to glow from within the densest part of the foliage, until out there stepped a figure. Where He trod, mosses and briars grew out of the soil, though the thorns held no sting. At once, Javert fell to his knees, not even aware of the others doing the same. The light which shone from the Father’s eyes seemed to pierce his very spirit, laying it bare, and Javert felt all his flaws and misguided deeds cast suddenly into sharp relief. 

One by one, the Father beckoned forward the onlookers. To each, He murmured words of encouragement and they went forth from that reunion healed in body and spirit. The first demon to step into line trembled, but at a touch of the Father’s hand, the ebony feathers fell from her wings as ones white and new sprang into their place. Through it all, Javert remained frozen on the ground.

At last there came the moment which Javert dreaded. The Father raised His hand, and motioned Valjean to go to Him. Slowly, Valjean rose; almost, Javert wished to hold the demon back, or to turn away. He did not move. 

“I am not deserving of your grace,” said Valjean as he stepped closer. “I have done... terrible things.”

“Oh, my son,” said the Father then, drawing Valjean close. “Do you not know that I forgive all sinners?” 

He reached out, embracing Valjean in His arms, and Javert heard something not unlike a sob from Valjean as the demon’s feathers molted and turned to white again. But as the Father raised his head above Valjean’s shoulder, he met Javert’s eye, and the angel was suddenly struck by the terrible suspicion that those words were not meant for Valjean at all.

For the first time in the whole of his existence, Javert understood that there was a choice before him.

Valjean remained where he could watch the proceedings as the Eternal Father called the next angel forward, a halo of light crowning his head once more. He was oblivious to what was happening a stone’s throw from his side; so much the better that way, Javert thought. The Authority staggered to his feet, slipping away from the crowd before any could think to hail him. 

He had made his choice. 

It was more difficult than Javert guessed to find somewhere abandoned and empty. Everyone, it seemed, was celebrating—the winning of the War, the resurrection of the dead, the ending of the world and the start of something new—and his grim thoughts had no place amid their revelry. At last, fate or fortune led his feet back to the locus that had in it the makings of his greatest sin. The quiet park stood empty, but for Javert. Soon, it would be empty again.

The place looked exactly as he remembered it, though he had not returned since the day which ended in Valjean’s Fall. The buildings above shielded the overlook from view, which suited Javert’s purposes fine. Straight-backed and stiff, the Authority strode across the park until he arrived at the railing. 

On the opposite side of the narrow parapet, the stone fell away into the void, its bottom edges concealed by wispy clouds. The slight breeze tugging at his hair had never felt insidious, but now it seemed to him like a beast which paws inquisitively at its prey when it is assured escape is impossible. Hanging in the empty air below was the earth, scorched black and red by the events of Armageddon. Beyond that, the remnants of Hell appeared as little more than a spark; yet it was enough. 

There had always been a choice. 

Once, the Authority believed choices to be the purview of lesser beings, beings that stood not in the harsh, clarifying light of the Almighty’s judgement. His actions were eternal and irrevocable. That was what was meant to be an angel; there could be neither doubt nor repentance, because either suggested some twilight state of moral ambiguity.

Choices, he understood now, swirled around him constantly, a million pathways too numerous to be wholly separated into Good or Evil. And in his blindness to that—a willful blindness, he added, for he had chosen not to see—Javert had committed acts of Evil in the name of doing Good.

He had brought harm to so many—

He had brought harm to Valjean—

Valjean had watched over him—

If Javert asked, the Father would surely forgive him, and then Valjean would press his innocent lips to his brow once more and all would be as though the Authority had never done wrong. He could let that happen. It would even be easy. And yet, Javert knew just as well what was written, that a lifetime of wrongdoing was worth no more than shame and everlasting contempt. He felt both rise like strangling vipers in his throat, choking him. There would be no peace for him in choosing the easier path.

Javert did not realize he was weeping until he felt the tracts of tears running down his face. They were not for his sake, but for the scars on Valjean’s back that forgiveness could not heal, for the burns on Valjean’s palms where the demon had sheltered one who should have been his greatest adversary. What kind of demon knew more of mercy than an angel? What kind of God would create an angel without mercy?

Javert’s mouth was dry; he wet his lips, knowing as he did so what was required of him to balance the scales. Carefully, tenderly, Javert laid down his sword beside the parapet. This was how it had to happen; if he was afraid, why should that matter when he had seen all the fear and pain in Valjean’s eyes and cast him aside anyway?

No forgiveness would wash away his guilt, a stain which went deeper than the skin. For any other, the Authority would have prescribed one punishment alone; he was not so craven as to deny himself the same.

Unflinchingly, Javert climbed onto the rail. There, the wind pulled more insistently at him, as though impatient now to snatch his body between its jaws. Abruptly, he faced about. His wings trembled, but that was the point; backwards, there was no chance of avian instinct preventing his demise. 

For the final time, Javert tipped his head up, taking in the sight of the palace he had always strived to serve well. In that, it seemed he had failed, his steadfast belief that he knew what was right stripped away the moment God looked upon a demon and called him “my son”. And Valjean... Javert laughed, a shaky exhalation of air. He could not comprehend why Valjean might profess to love him, when even he could see that there was nothing he deserved less. 

The sun on the bright towers would be the last thing Javert saw before he stepped backwards, into the empty air.

Falling, Javert found, was not so different from flying.

At first it was terrible; great buffeting gusts tore him every which-way, ripping pinions from the edges of his wings and sending him tumbling in dizzying spirals through space. 

But in time, the descent had lasted for so long that it began to feel as though Javert were not moving at all, that the universe was unraveling around him and not the other way round. Feeling strangely distant from himself, Javert reflected that there was a dangerous euphoria in annihilation; perhaps that was why Valjean never resisted him. Soon he could not even tell whether he were Falling at all, or ascending into something else entirely. He closed his eyes, and gave himself over to whatever might happen.

The heat struck him first, like a wall. Javert’s eyes flew open to see clouds of poisonous vapor parting like a veil, and beyond it a vast pit of bubbling brimstone. At once, he snapped into alertness, overtaken by panic. His wings tried once to spread, to slow him, but it was far too late for that. 

Javert broke upon the surface of the lake with an impact so forceful as to drive through his chest, expelling any frantic gasp of air he had managed to swallow on the way down. Several things shattered, but he had no breath to cry out. And immediately after, when it seemed that surely no sensation could compare, that there was nothing left for him to feel, there came the plunge. 

Into the pool he sank, the fire licking his flesh with covetous greed. Molten rock closed over the angel’s head; it seeped into every crevasse. Javert thrashed about, floundering as the infernal heat ate away at his every celestial defense, until he was laid bare and vulnerable and there was no relief from the agony. His wings, heavy as they were, only dragged him deeper; Javert could not have fought his way out even had he wanted to. 

A groan rumbled in the angel’s throat, unheard by any. Not even his armor had the power to resist hellfire. Javert felt his breastplate buckle, felt his chest give way with it, and his eyes rolled back in his head almost to senselessness. There would be no dragging himself to shore, to wander the ruins of Hell like a wraith. 

Instead, he would sink forever further into the fire, until it engulfed him completely.

Chapter Text

Hell was nothing like Valjean remembered it.

In the aftermath of the War, the walls of Pandemonium were cast down, the plains of torment empty and cold. Over everything there settled an acrid layer of ash, which blew and shifted in the ceaseless hollow wind. It had always been a desolate place, but now it seemed sad, as if it remembered what had been done there and regretted it. Only the lake was unchanged, gurgling and hissing as it spit fire and sparks into the misty grey sky.

Valjean sat in the dust, his newly made wings tucked close to his body. His legs were folded, and in his lap rested Javert’s head. The Authority—for even like this, Valjean struggled to think of him as anything else—did not open his eyes, scarcely even seemed to breathe. Valjean kept watch and waited.

As time passed, Valjean’s gaze strayed more and more from the featureless landscape to the creature who lay, terribly helpless, in his care. Javert had never seemed small to him, but without his blinding halo of light, with his skin burnt crisp and bloody, so paper thin that Valjean could not be sure it would not crumble away into dust at any moment, he seemed more like a lost and frightened child than either an angel or a demon. 

Gently, Valjean brushed a strand of hair from Javert’s face. He had not meant to pursue him when the angel suddenly left the gathering in the square. It was something in the look upon his face, a haunted stare that bade Valjean follow. He was ignorant then and he was ignorant now, why Javert should do such a thing. But then, they had never understood one another.

Gradually, the shallow rise and fall of Javert’s chest steadied and grew stronger. Valjean carded his fingers through the sooty feathers, straightening the crumpled ones and discarding those which pulled loose. On his own, it had taken Valjean weeks to preen the clumps of grime and gore from his demon’s wings. He would make Javert more comfortable in whatever way he could. 

As Valjean continued his ministrations, or perhaps because of them, Javert stirred. Immediately, Valjean stopped what he was doing, but Javert merely huffed in dark amusement.

“You think too much of being a Guardian angel,” he croaked out. “It is not for you to save everyone.”

“Then it is not for you to punish everyone, yourself included.” Valjean shook his head, though with more affection than he cared to admit. “Be still, and allow me.”

The Guardian returned to his attentions, and despite his words Javert shifted just slightly, permitting Valjean to reach the underside of his wing. 

“There are no stars here,” he murmured, staring vacantly up at the sky.

“No,” Valjean agreed. Then, “You showed the stars to me, once.”

“It was a long time ago.”

The silence stretched as Valjean continued his work, teasing bloodied feathers apart until his fingers were covered in streaks of liquid gold. It did not burn him this time, though as he watched, the gold turned slowly to black. 

Eventually, Valjean gathered his courage enough to ask, “Why did you do this?”

Javert scowled. “I do not care to speak of it.”

“Very well.”

Finished with what he could reach of the wings, Valjean eased Javert’s head from his lap. He inched around him carefully, until his hand hovered above his chest.

“May I?” Valjean inquired.

The look Javert gave him was searching, but at last the demon nodded. Buckled by the heat, his breastplate was cracked and warped and digging into flesh in a way which must have been very painful. Valjean removed it piece by piece, and it was not long before Javert’s shoulders trembled. Still, he neither made a sound of distress, nor told Valjean to stop. Only when Valjean laid his fingers tentatively against the abraded skin did Javert hiss through his teeth.

“What are you going to do?” Javert demanded, and Valjean wondered if he too was remembering Tel Megiddo, and the insinuation that Valjean would have done better to tear out Javert’s insides.

“I am going to try to heal this,” Valjean said quietly. “I do not know whether I can—it is a long time since I last could heal anything.”

Javert hesitated. “Do what you must,” he said gruffly. “Though any other would surely let me suffer for my sins.”

“Is that what you are doing?” Valjean asked sharply, though his hands remained as gentle as ever where they traced over the demon’s breastbone. “I would not settle the score so you must take it upon yourself?”

Javert did not reply for so long that Valjean thought perhaps he refused to. Yet as the healing flowed through him, Javert reached out to clasp Valjean’s fingers, turning over the Guardian’s palm. The skin there hurt no longer, but it was marred still by the red patches where celestial blood once seared infernal flesh. 

“There is something flawed in me,” Javert said. His gaze grew distant, then suddenly piercing again. “My judgement is compromised. Surely you more than anyone can see this was a fitting end for me. I should have perished in the hellfire.”

“I am grateful I found you,” Valjean murmured. He traced over Javert’s chest, no longer bleeding but warped by scars that could not be healed, just as Valjean was. “I do not want to think of you... gone.” 

“You should hate me.”

“You know I do not.”

“Yes,” Javert said wearily. “I know.”

The now-demon’s gaze drifted once more to the empty sky. “Wandering stars,” he recited mechanically, “for whom the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved forever. Jude one.”

They sat in silence for untold lengths of time, Valjean watching and Javert curled listlessly on his side. Nothing moved in that empty landscape, save the wind and the dunes of ash. Valjean’s mind turned repeatedly on a thought; finally, he spoke it aloud.

“You could come back with me,” he said.

Javert blinked. “Where?”

“To Heaven.” Valjean hesitated. “They would welcome your return.”

“No,” Javert said at once. “I will never leave this place.”

“As you say,” Valjean acquiesced. “Then I shall stay with you.”

“You will not.”

“I will.”

Frustrated, Javert turned to look at him. “I did not do this for you to throw yourself into exile alongside me.”

Valjean inclined his head. “Nevertheless, I will stay.”

“And what if I do not wish you to?” Javert said mulishly. “What if I said I would rather you left me here alone, that your presence is intolerable to me?”

Valjean’s heart gave a pained squeeze, but he replied, “Then I would say you have much to learn still of being a demon, for you lie badly.” 

“Damn,” said Javert into the dirt. 

After a moment, Valjean asked, “Would it truly be so bad? To go back?”

Javert shifted, his wings wrapping him tighter in their protective sheath. “I would be ashamed to.”

“Because you would not be seen with me?”

Javert snorted. “I should think it would be the reverse. Would you wish to be seen with the one who banished you to Hell out of misbegotten pride?”

Valjean’s gaze was equal parts tender and sad. “I hold no grudges. And I would have you be happy.”

Javert looked at him in silence for a long time. At last, his throat bobbed in a swallow. 

“Then I am yours to command.”

Their return to Heaven was without fanfare. The silver gates opened, revealing beyond a solitary pair of figures waiting to meet them. One was a Guardian, her white feathers glowing in the daylight and her smile beaming. The other was none other than the Eternal Father Himself.

“Fantine,” said Valjean, grinning. “You look well.”

“As do you,” the angel replied. Fantine glanced at Javert, but she said nothing more.

For his part, Javert held his head high, though his eyes were downcast, as he at last faced the Almighty. Haltingly, he grit out, “I do not believe I am ready to be forgiven yet.”

The Father gazed thoughtfully back, giving this speech the attention it warranted. Valjean was suddenly, unaccountably nervous on Javert’s behalf.

He need not have worried. After a moment, the Father bowed His head, and added, “Should you change your mind, you have only to ask.”

Then he turned His beatific smile upon Valjean instead. “There is someone waiting for you at the Gate of Sapphires.”

“I will take them there,” said Fantine. 

As they walked, Javert stuck close to Valjean’s side. Valjean was sympathetic; he knew how strange it was, to return to Heaven yet feel as though one did not belong. After some deliberation, he twined his fingers through Javert’s, so loosely that it might have been an accident. Javert did not pull away.

Fantine led them to the far side of the palace, to a gate inlaid with stones the color of the sky at midnight. As they walked, Valjean beheld that the great city had only grown wilder in their absence, the stones of the palace walls all but obscured under climbing vines and cascades of flowers. The gates alone seemed free of it, but they stood open wide to the plains beyond. 

Except, Valjean perceived, they were not empty plains anymore. Instead, as with the city itself, a great explosion of life had taken place, with groves of trees and little rivers spreading out as far as the eye could see. And standing beneath the gates was the shimmering shape of a soul whom Valjean knew.

“Why, it is you!” Valjean said in surprise. 

“My brother,” the Bishop laughed, beckoning him closer. “I wanted to be the first to welcome you home.”

“The first?” Valjean asked, bewildered.

The old Bishop winked. “There are many souls dwelling here who wish to meet their Guardian angel.”

“Yes, come and see!” said Fantine in delight. 

Overwhelmed, the joy welling in his heart shining through his very skin, Valjean turned to invite Javert along with them. Only then did he realize the demon was hanging back, looking anywhere but at Valjean as he vacillated under the arch of the gate.

“A moment,” Valjean said to the others. 

Turning back, he hastened to Javert’s side.

“Will you join us?” he asked.

Javert did not meet his eyes. “I make poor company,” he responded. “Go on. I will see you another time.”

Valjean hesitated, torn between excitement and the knowledge that something surely was still not right. 

“Javert,” he said slowly, “I have only ever wanted your company. Will you deny me that now?”

Almost convulsively, Javert took Valjean by the jaw and pulled him close, pressing their mouths together in what was not so much a kiss as a desperate, petrified clash of teeth and noses. When he released him a moment later, Valjean swayed where he stood.

“Well,” he said.

Cheeks burning, Javert turned away, the bitterness of shame and mortification etched into his features. 

“Go on,” he repeated, though there was a tremble to his voice which had not been there before. 

“Javert.” 

Valjean caught him by the hand. Javert looked down at their joined fingers as though stupefied. 

“Come,” said Valjean softly.

Javert paused, gripped by uncertainty. Slowly, he looked back, the despair in his eyes joined by a small, hopeful light. Valjean gave him a slight, meaningful tug.

At that, his resistance crumbled away and Javert let himself be led. And so, Valjean guided him through the gate in the direction of the trees, of the shade and birdsong and milk and honey. 

Thus at last, angel and demon walked hand in hand into the Garden.

And it was Good.