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He had always been Javert. Ever since he was born, ever since he stepped foot out of prison, and ever since he first set eyes on Jean Valjean.
After all, what would you expect of him? His predicament was a rather queer one for that time period, his situation unique in a society where people like him would be sent to the guillotine. If he pretended hard enough, he could almost fully forget his first name given by his criminal mother, forget the fact that he had been given such an unfitting, ugly name that made his whole body shiver in disgust. But no, he could not forget, and so he resorted to the next best thing: to pretend it never existed. And with that, he had just been Javert from the beginning. Nothing more, nothing less.
Perhaps the knowledge of the reality of the world had been a gift given to him by God out of mercy. As a child, listening to his mother’s stories failed to fill him with childhood curiosity and wonder. The stories his mother told him were of princesses and castles on clouds and a whitened place where love always triumphed and darkness conquered, but he thought all of them nonsense, the rambling words of a mad woman, a criminal destined to waste away in prison. When she died, just after Javert reached the age of 12, he was slightly relieved at the fact that he would not have to hear his mother call him by that ill-fitting name anymore.
When puberty came, it hit him hard. It came late for him, at the age of 14, when his chest started to fill out and his voice remained high, instead of dipping to the low tone that he had been expecting. He cursed and swore at the sky, at God, at the world, for making him like this, but alas, there was nothing much he could do other than grow. And grow, he did, forgotten in a secluded part of a prison he’d never deserved a place in, all up until he was released by the guards three long years later. Bitter from an imprisoned life given to him by his criminal mother, Javert signed up to for a post at another prison, this one more prestigious than the last, and he took control of his life, grasping on the chains that held him down and pulling hard, forcing life to meet him halfway in his demands.
Although it had been relatively annoying and tedious to adjust to life as a working man on the cusp of adulthood, he found that he didn't really mind it all that much. Being a man outside of prison was very different from being a man inside of prison, but he'd rather be free than be trapped in an insignificant, forgotten prison tucked away in the dusty corners of France. Plus, he'd found his footing relatively quickly, and it went as such:
Firstly, his identity. He knew that being born in a jail, he had no identity, and as such, he was to create one, to begin his journey outside of prison. This was not that difficult, as not only did the prison officials help him with it, he also had a name bouncing around in his mind for quite a while now. C. Javert. Charles. It had a nice ring to it, and he quite liked his full name, but he only ever used his last name. The identity-creating process was quite smooth-sailing, though he had expected otherwise. Two prison officials accompanied him to a government building, and they sat with him while waiting for the clerks to prepare the documents, silent but their presence reassuring.
Perhaps they had mistaken him for anything other than a boy. No matter his short hair, sliced off frequently every few months; no matter his masculine clothing that hid his bosom; no matter the scowl that marred his facial features, making him seem less of a young lady and more like a boy; either way, they were surprised at his conviction when he gave the clerks his name, age and sex.
Charles Javert.
16.
Male.
It was the beginning of it all.
~~~
Next, it was the matter of fixing his chest.
There were places dedicated to this. They were hard to find, but Javert persisted anyway, up until he could find what he was looking for. He had to travel to Paris to visit a special little clothing shop for men who required… peculiar kinds of assistance, and there, he got a soft piece of fabric that served well as a binder of sorts, allowing him to hide his bosom. It worked quite well, as he was so inclined to say- one look in the mirror had him dizzy with pleasure, as his masculine appearance was beginning to come together.
As he was still young, he knew that he had room to grow (despite his mother telling him that he would not grow an inch when he was past this age), and perhaps you could call it sheer force of will, but oh, did he grow. His height shot upwards the year after he got out of the prison, and he was content with it.
His growth spurt had further solidified his identity to his peers as he grew along with his post in Toulon. His co-workers, albeit older men, all looked upon him fondly as the stern and serious young boy who was a hard worker, and his superiors looked upon him with pride, for how much he'd grown and how far his career had progressed. Nobody suspected a single thing, suspected that he was missing a certain body part to determine his sex. Still, he carried on with what he did, unflinching and unrelenting, and before long, he'd built a name for himself in that prison.
And then he met Jean Valjean.
~~~~~
Jean Valjean was a thief. That was all he was. An unrepentant bread thief who seemed to think that him being a tree pruner would not land him in jail. Javert thought him pathetic, at first, as he oversaw the young man's branding, eyes trailing over the numbers 24601, burnt into the skin by unforgiving metal. But he should have known that a man who did not flinch at such pain, while other hardened murderers and rapists shrieked and cried with pain, would give him such problems for the rest of his career.
Perhaps it was his odd situation that God had placed him in, perhaps it was him mingling with criminals way too much, but he'd found himself staring at Valjean, something burning at the bottom of his stomach, making his throat dry and his chest ache. Was it attraction? He would not lie, if he had remained a woman after getting out of prison, if he had kept his horrid old name and become a pretty lady of society, he would've considered it. Considered him. Valjean was young, lithe and strong, his locks long, dark and luscious, and he looked like he did not belong there. Rather, he looked like he was a freshly graduated schoolboy, a bright young man with ideals and charm. But that was fiction, and reality was harsh on them all- he was a bread thief, no matter how young he was or how many noble reasons he had, so he belonged to the gutter and nowhere else.
(Somewhere across France, a young woman cried in agony as her third son died, succumbing to hunger and illness.)
Unaware of what his future would bring for him, Javert continued his duty, watching the criminals serve their time, time they deserved. He watched as Jean Valjean lost his boyishness quickly, having no access to facial hair removal equipment, and became a haggard gangster, all hard muscle and beard and glares. It was something that he was grateful for, at the end of the day, as now he no longer felt that burning for him as strongly as he had before. He could no longer associate the young man with a begging glint in his eyes to the growling, dark beast that had attempted a prison break two times, the man who had spat at him as he sentenced him to solitary confinement for 6 months, and informed him of his extended sentence.
(Inside, one of the man grew more chained. Which one, only God knew.)
(Javert heard a man's scream of agony, echoing in the night and in the halls of Toulon, and he turned over his document and continued to write.)
~~~
And then, Jean Valjean rescued a man. And it became a common recurrence.
Javert was not sure if he was doing it to win favour among the guards, among the authorities. They were not about to let him go early, he had attempted escape too many times for that to happen, and when he informed the prisoner about this, he received a blank-eyed stare in return. Did he care? What was he planning? Another escape? He was a dangerous criminal, with the strength of three bulls, capable of lifting the heaviest of boulders with his back, what made him think that this would get him out of jail?
How foolish.
And then, more time passed, and suddenly Javert had spent 19 years at the prison, a senior guard at Toulon. 19 years spent as a man, a stone cold pillar of masculinity, watching passively as men were broken down into monsters, forever branded and bound to the gutters.
And then, Jean Valjean perished in an attempt to save a man from falling into the waters.
And then, Javert left Toulon shortly after.
And then, he became Inspector Javert.
~~~
The Police Force was a place he'd settled quite quickly into. Hardened from his years in prison, having seen the worst of mankind in that hellhole, transitioning to the Police was not hard at all. Everyone who worked with him was either scared or impressed by him, and he always got things done, no matter what. His loyalty to the law unshaken and strong, he went about his duties with a seriousness that not many had.
And he almost forgot that he was an unconventional man. Javert nearly forgot that he lacked certain parts to truly be a real man, at least up until his menstrual cycle would hit him. When it did, it hurt, and it sent him into a dreadful mood, which spilled over into his work. Most people just feared him more during these short periods of time, and it was probably a very good thing that he had a serious disposition in general, as it hid the real reasons why he would get so grumpy.
He was well-versed in having an iron-clad hold on his emotions. But during his courses, that tight grip would waver and loosen, and there were several close calls with one of his cases causing him to break down and weep. One of such, the most important one I will document today, is as follows.
Early 1820. At this point, Javert didn’t really know where he was anymore, as his work brought him to many parts of France, chasing criminals, solving cases, ridding the streets of crime. He was probably in Southern France, if he recalled properly, and he was on the chase for a serial killer, who left a trail of dead women behind him.
The murders had started in 1815, the first case appearing on his desk in headquarters with a frantically scribbled note on top: URGENT. Curious, the man had looked through the file, and what was documented intrigued him. A gruesome crime scene, set in an alleyway, blood splattering on the walls and the floors and leaking through the bricks that lined that particular street. The area was cordoned off, guarded by national guards and policemen alike, and he was sent to the crime scene to uncover more about the case.
The victim was splayed to the heavens, dress and corset ripped and chest exposed to the surroundings. She had a look of agony forever frozen on her face, her eyes so wide that it seemed that someone forced them open, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth in a dried stream of thick, cakey blood. There was a single open sliced wound down her chest, from in between her breasts, straight down to her omphalos . The belly button.
It was a scene straight out of hell.
The woman's screams, silenced in the middle of the night. An innocent life, snuffed out.
Javert could not just stand aside.
~~~
His eyes, wide and insane. A touch of desperation in his eyes as he backs up against the wall, manic eyes on the barrel of Javert's gun.
A woman lay to the side, breathing her agonising last breaths. She can't scream, her vocal chords stabbed right through and making her struggle to breathe. A single line down her chest, similar to all the previous hundreds of victims before her. The wound is bleeding sluggishly, but steadily. Her fate is sealed.
And so is her killer.
Javert stares him down, fire in his eyes. "Surrender. There is nowhere to run, Pierre de Fontenay."
"Don't call me that!" He roars, but he stays plastered against the wall, fists clenching at his side's. "My name is Amélie!" His dress, something that Javert initially thinks is a disguise, is stained with blood.
Javert understands far too late. He drops the gun to reach towards her, but she is turning the knife on herself, dragging a deep, painful wound across her throat, and she slumps to the ground, knife clattering on the ground next to her. He falls next to her, on his knees, and she tries to mouth something at him, an apology, perhaps, or a plea.
She gurgles, blood spilling out of her mouth, and manages a few more painful breaths before going limp in his grasp.
Pierre de Fontenay.
Amélie.
He'll never be the same ever again.
~~~
It was the reason why he was moved to M-sur-M. He couldn't get the look on Amélie's face out of his head for months.
~~~
Monsieur le Maire was, quite probably, the next person he could safely say that he was attracted to.
That man had a natural aptitude for kindness. Kindness was not something that Javert really believed in, as he believed that kindness was mostly false and a way to cheat the natural order of getting what you work for. There was something different about Monsieur Madeleine, though, and his kindness was something that he could not see him without.
Madeleine was a well-groomed, kind man with a gentle disposition, and it was said that if you desperately needed anything, you could go to him for help and he'd try his best to assist you. He was selfless, he always gave, he put up with Javert’s presence (he was so unworthy of walking the same damn ground as Monsieur le maire- ), and most of all, he was someone the police inspector could call friend, the first, true friend that he’d ever had in his entire life of work and loneliness.
He frequently came across the Inspector during his walks around the town, when the man was doing his patrols. They would walk the streets together, enjoying each other’s company silently, as Jean slowly empties his wallet throughout the day and the other keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. Javert slowly found himself wanting the mayor’s company more and more, the feeling simmering under his skin, almost coming to a boil and threatening to spill out into his surroundings, spilling out into his actions. It was not fair, how unfairly attractive Madeleine was, and attraction aside, sometimes Javert grew jealous of the mayor, of the way he reeked with masculinity each and every single step he took out in the streets.
The inspector had gotten close to telling Monsieur le Maire about his secret, too. It was December 1822, and it had been raining quite profusely for the past weeks or so, and Christmas was just right around the corner, holiday cheer creeping into everyone’s hearts and making its stay there for the season. Javert had forgotten to take an umbrella with him (rather, a canopy) and had resigned to getting slowly soaked to the bone by the rain that fell lightly around them, but Monsieur le Maire was far too kind as usual, and he offered to share his canopy with the inspector. Not thinking about the implications of this action, he nodded in gracious silence and fell into step next to Madeleine, and they did their usual patrol in the streets, the mayor talking idly about his day and the inspector nodding along to his words.
And suddenly, the feeling was there. Oh, how he wanted to tell Monsieur le Maire about his secret… It grew stronger and stronger, the urge to tell this kind man about his life predicament, in the hope that such a well-established, honourable man would be understanding and accepting and perhaps, even considering. But no, what if he was not like that? What if he was just like every other aristocrat, one of those people who whispered about homosexuals in a high, disgusted, scandalous voice, saying that such people (and people related) ought to be sent to the guillotine? Along with longing, conflict rose up in him, and he battled with himself whether to bear his soul to Madeleine…
“Inspector? Javert? A penny for your thoughts?”
Javert jolted back to reality, violently wrenched away from his thoughts. He’d completely forgotten that Madeleine was talking, and he’d quite literally drifted off in the middle of the conversation!
“Oh- pardon me, Monsieur le Maire, I didn't mean to-”
“It’s quite alright, Javert. I have noticed your affinity for slipping into such a state most recently. May I inquire about anything that may have happened to you, in or out of your police work? You can always come to me for anything, Javert.”
The offer was right there in the open! Madeleine was quite literally openly offering his assistance to Javert! He ought to tell him. But oh, the worry that Madeleine might have a negative reaction to the truth! What was he going to do? The conflict was driving him crazy! He could not possibly tell anyone the truth! It would put him in too much danger! His job, his reputation, his life was on the line-
“Nothing, Monsieur le Maire. I’m alright.”
(He did not know if he was angry or relieved when Monsieur Madeleine turned out to be Jean Valjean, after a whole mess of a trial. Perhaps he should not have been surprised at all.)
(Watching Monsieur le Maire- no, Jean Valjean- bear down on him with his full strength, uncaring of the sword Javert held, nearly sent him to an early grave.)
~~~
Paris was tragic.
The streets of Paris were filled with the worst of humanity. People who had fallen to the lowest points of their entire lives, the scum of humanity, orphans, all of them roamed the streets of Paris, trying to survive in such a cruel, merciless world.
Javert had been sent straight to Paris after the fiasco that had happened in M-sur-M, and after Jean Valjean had once again apparently drowned himself in another attempt to escape. He never believed that that was the case, however, he still held the very strong belief that Jean Valjean still walked this earth, roamed the streets of France, and resolved to get him one day, no matter how long it would take him. But now, he was to investigate a gang that had terrorised Paris for years, the Patron Minette. He knew that the Thenardiers were associated with this gang, and a nefarious plan was in the making, one that involved the extortion of elderly gentlemen.
He had been approached by a Marius Pontmercy, a poor young student who tipped him off about the planned robbery and murder of a gentleman, by his neighbours who lived just next door to him, the Jondrettes. Almost immediately, he knew who these Jondrettes were, they were the Thenardiers that the Police had been looking for, and sprung into action, immediately composing a letter to the relevant authorities about the information that he’d just received. After having scribbled out the notes, he stood up in a flurry with the letters and notes in his hands, and was met with the sight of an expectant Pontmercy in front of his desk. Had he been waiting for him all this time?
“Monsieur. Are you able to give me an estimate as to when they’ll commit the robbery?”
“Tonight, Monsieur L’inspecteur. They plan to rob and kill him in Jondrette’s own home. I overheard them convincing him to return tonight.”
“Then it is settled. I will arrive at your address when the sun has halfway set, but I shall conceal me and my men in the streets so that we will not scare away the Patron Minette. Take these pistols and when the time is right, fire them to alert us that the robbery and assault has begun. We will catch the bastards once and for all!”
“Yes, Inspector!” And the boy was gone, scampering out of the door. Ah, the exuberance of youth.
Later that day, Javert found himself lying in wait for night to fall on Paris, his men behind him, as they hid in an alleyway tucked away in the corner of the street. The squad of men he had brought were all young, freshly trained constables, stuck in between boyhood and manhood, all buzzing with excitement at the prospect of taking part in the capture of such a notorious gang. He did not take part in the excitement, as he’d long learned to separate his own feelings from work, but he would admit that inside, he was looking forward to getting them.
The night then came, dawning over them in all its star-filled glory. As they lay in wait for the shot to signal them, the excitement of the constables died down and drowsiness overtook them instead. He made sure to keep them awake as Pontmercy’s signal might come anytime, but he mostly did not bother them, instead staring up at the dark sky and admiring the stars that blinked down at him enchantingly.
His career had come so far. Had he made a difference, in all the years he’d been active in civil service? For all his life, he’d remained loyal to the law, steadfast to the one thing that kept France together. But was it worth it? He was one small, insignificant man in the course of history, could he really make a difference with what he was doing? What was he thinking? Of course he could, everything made a difference. And if he would be the only one in the world to do so, he would do it. Someone had to do something.
The gunshot that echoed throughout the street made him look down from the sky, and he took a breath, pushing himself away from the wall and barking orders at his men. There was a Patron Minette to catch, and a gentleman to save.
(Who was that gentleman exactly, and why did he run?)
~~~
Perhaps in another life, Javert would have made a good insurgent.
In another life, he could see himself getting along with these school boys. Once upon a time, he’d been as young as them, and he’d had that same passion as them, albeit a little quieter and more serious. But life had shaped him and the student insurgents differently and thus, they were here now, Javert a spy and their days numbered. At this point, watching all these boys discuss plans and speaking passionately about a better, free future, he could not help but be slightly jealous of them. Did they know hardship? Did they know loneliness? Have they ever felt so alone in their situations that they felt so terribly chained down by their mortal problems? To put it quite crudely, these school boys lived life as proud males while Javert had no prick, being forced to go through many lengths just to pass as a man. They could grow their own facial hair, while Javert had to discreetly buy some, and stick it painstakingly to his face! At least with all this, it overall strengthened his appearance as a man.
No one would expect a woman to wield pistols like he did, at least.
There was also their friendship, something he was quite jealous of. They were close, a group of friends with ambitious ideals, with hopes and dreams and goals they all shared together as one collective group. Les Amis de L’abc, they called themselves, and the inner circle of the group knew each other by name. The last time he had any sort of friendship, was with Monsieur le Maire, he thought wistfully to himself, leaning against a wall and hiding half of his face in the shadows, watching as they passed around guns and laughed at each time someone dropped one. But then again, it had all been a lie anyway, so he technically had never had any friends.
Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was serving the law. And with this, the authorities would be able to nip the revolution right in the bud, and ensure that they wet themselves with blood.
Still, as he watched the leader in red lead his hopeless band of revolutionaries in a rebellion doomed to fail, he could not help but sigh. Young lives wasted and gone. They could have done this another way, but no.
(He should have expected it coming, when that street urchin called him out on his ruse. At least they did not tie him up to the point of suffocation, thank the Lord for small miracles.)
(There was a dark-haired man passed out in the corner of the cafė, a bottle of alcohol in his hand and a piece of paper clutched in his other hand. Javert thought that he could see a hint of a slender face and long, curly locks on that crumpled parchment. What was that about?)
~~~
When the inspector saw Jean Valjean’s face staring at his bound figure in surprise, he could not help but laugh.
“Valjean, of course,” He sneered, mood abrasive from being tied up for hours. His arms were starting to cramp. “The law is inside out, the world is upside down.”
“Javert. What are you doing here?” Oh, God, this infuriating, impossible man.
“Police work. I got caught. They’re planning to execute me with their guns, since my stupid colleagues executed their friend. Feel free to stay here and watch, Valjean.”
And of course, Valjean was no longer listening. A complicated look fell over his face and he seemed to slip off into his own thoughts, and so Javert sighed, sinking back down into his binds and letting his eyes flutter shut. The day had been eventful enough… he’d just take a little nap…
(He was jolted into wakefulness by Valjean, who told him that he would be his executor. Of course he would jump at the chance of taking his revenge.)
(His heart and mind were numb as he stumbled away from the barricade, feeling slowly returning to his arms and legs.)
~~~
Who and what was Valjean?
A tree pruner. A bread thief. A convict. A mayor. A criminal. Jean Valjean was many things, and not many were good. He broke the law, and was forever branded with the mark of a criminal, chained to the number 24601. He should have been a bad guy, a beast more than man, a criminal through and through. But he wasn’t, and he’d cut him free of his ropes, letting him walk away free from the confinements of the café, from the barricade.
Nothing made sense anymore.
The world was always black and white for him. It was easier to see it in this way. Society was, at its core, separated into two types of people: law abiding citizens who worked hard and contributed to their country, and criminals who broke the law, no matter what excuses they gave, all belonging in a jail cell. He had first-hand experiences dealing with the scum of humanity- murderers, rapists, gang members, thieves, robbers, people who did not seem to understand that they had to work to get what they wanted, he saw them all. And most of them were pathetic beasts, they snarled and growled and barked at them from their chains, pathetic in all their glory, helping to solidify the fact that criminals were truly horrible people who only meant harm to humanity.
But then Jean Valjean came along, and he did not understand what he was. Was he a criminal? Yes. He stole, he broke out of jail, he took on false identities, he lied. But was he… God forbid, a good person too, repentant and kind like Monsieur le Maire, empathetic and headstrong and loyal to God? That did not make sense to him. It was hard reconciling the man he knew at Toulon, the man he knew at M-sur-M, and the man who let him go from the barricade.
And it was maddening.
Subdued and silent, he walked the streets of Paris, watching as the sun rose over a silent city, one that did not rise up to the occasion like the insurgents had so strongly believed it would, one that mourned for the blood of martyrs spilled and an impossible future that seemed so far away.
He was so tired. The weight on his shoulders had never felt heavier.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Sluggishly, he turned towards it, and the entrance to the sewers came into view, and there was a man creeping out of that place, a hulking figure whose hunched shadow stretched huge and long on the walls adjacent to it.
Slowing to a stop, he could not help but stare as a dirtied Jean Valjean came into view, carrying what seemed to be a dead corpse on his back, covered in dirt and grime and mud and faeces. The man spotted him almost instantly, and Javert found himself walking to him, almost without thinking.
“It’s you Javert, I knew you would not wait too long. The faithful servant at his post once more.”
That last line sounded mocking. Cutting. It would have made the inspector incensed if not for his bone-deep weariness, one that clung to his limbs and lashes, making him blink slowly while processing those words.
“This man has done no wrong! He needs a doctor’s care.”
Was that… Marius Pontmercy? Was he not shot dead at the barricades, like all his other friends were? Why was Valjean trying to save a corpse? His head heavy and his tone flat, he replied to the man’s words, sounding much more cutting than he’d meant to sound. “I won’t be swayed, Valjean. Your words are meaningless, coming from such a lying mouth. I won’t give in.”
“Just one more hour, Javert, and then I’m yours! And all our debts are paid!”
I’m yours.
If he had been the same man all those years ago, he would have rejoiced at such a sentiment. I’m yours. He would have done anything to hear Monsieur Madeleine say that to him, or anyone, for that matter. He’d been so alone for so long, and he had long succumbed to that loneliness, even learning to accept it at times. Still, sometimes he would dream. But those days were over, and now those words only made him angry, though he swallowed it down and spat out his reply in a few curt sentences.
“The man of mercy comes again, and talks of justice…”
“Our time is running short, Javert! He’s standing in his grave, Javert! Make way!”
And he suddenly grew furious, all the weariness vanishing from him in an instant. “Take him! Valjean!” He was almost shouting now, the volume of his voice echoing around them in the secluded area. “Before I change my mind!”
For some reason, he felt the need to add, “Before I change my mind. I will be waiting, 24601…”
(The chains had never felt heavier.)
~~~
There was a man named C. Javert, and he bore a full chest and nothing between his legs.
No one suspected that he wasn’t anything but a man. And he wasn’t. In fact, his experiences alone would make him the manliest of them all, as most could not even imagine going through. But what he went through, you could say, was exclusive to Javert. It was Javert. No one else could go through such a thing.
Chained, he was, for the most of his life. Chained down to the mortal plane, chained to his wrong body, chained by the weight of his experiences. But he was strong, and he powered through it all with a determination that no one could compare to, thinking that he could change the world with what he did.
(He couldn’t.)
It all came crashing down on him when Jean Valjean nailed the final nail into the coffin, condemning Javert to an uncertain aftermath. Brain muddled from bloodshed and confused from an angelic demon, the inspector walked along the pavements next to the rushing waters of the Seine, rushing endlessly with strength and persistence, cleaning away the sins of the past. His hat was clutched in his hands as his world was turned upside down, and for the first time in almost 30 years, tears pricked his eyes, threatening to slip down silently and season the earth with salty liquid. He’d untied his hair, pulled a meticulous lock out of place, the strands obscuring his vision, as he walked as a sinner, hopeless and anguished and unsure.
(The water rushed along, cold and unfeeling, oblivious to not-quite-man’s internal struggle.)
(The afternoon moved along to the evening, darkness beginning to fall over the land once more.)
Stepping up to the baluster that separated human from water, he contemplated his life in its entirety, from its start to now. How far he’d come. How much he had done. How often he failed. Amelié. Madeleine. The school boys at the barricade. It was all too much, and too little, and his mind whirled into an oblivion of darkness, filling the void with stars that he reached for but fell, black and cold and uncaring of his plight, as he rested his hat on the top of the stone baluster, digging out his pistol and a note he’d written just after he’d gotten out from the barricade, leaving them next to it. The Seine rushed in his ears, a sound that burned through his eardrums. He can’t- It was too much- There was no way to go on-
“Javert!”
And he fell backwards at the sound of his name, yanked away from roaring waters, staring up into the evening sky tiding over into the night. Perhaps the stars weren’t black and cold. They framed the sky with lines of light, filling the dark void with beautiful constellations that connected with one another, steadfast in their twinkling, scarce to be counted, filling the darkness with order and light. If he squinted hard enough, he could see himself in them, ever steadfast in his duty, unwavering and unflinching in the face of a hard life here in the world. And with Valjean’s panicked voice behind him, talking and rambing in his ear about how he ought to live and live for the sake of God’s love, he felt a little bit relieved that the angelic demon had come back for him. Just a little bit.
~~~
(Valjean had known for a very long time, and he’d never seen him as anything other than a man.)
(He did not know if he should be happy that he never ended up like Amelié.)
(Valjean had never looked so beautiful in the enchanting evening light of Pontmercy’s wedding.)
(Perhaps there were happy endings for people like him.)