Chapter Text
Javert did not know it until the morning.
He did not wake in the dead of night to a shout, or a kiss to his temple, or a steadying hand against his chest.
He did not wake at six to the stirring of Valjean, or a hand against his cheek, or a soft word of goodmorning.
The sun was high and hot, when Javert awoke and his life, his very soul, his heart of hearts, fell shattered at his feet.
And he drew a sheet over his friend, his most beloved.
And he sat and he mourned, and the world dulled about his senses.
He felt too much and nothing at all,
and it did not seem real,
and it was far too real,
and when would Jean come, as he always did, to wake him from his nightmare, with gentle hands and gentler words, coaxing water to his lips?
And he was afraid, so, so afraid,
and he tore his clothes and said the Kaddish and felt as fragile as a promise.
And he felt nothing, and said nothing, and felt the ache of someone missing deep in his soul.
And the salt of the ocean dried on the rocks, and a wave came and washed it away.