Chapter Text
Javert’s mind became quiet. Finally.
Since the moment Jean Valjean had cut the ropes, Javert’s mind was as busy as the morning market. Thoughts and long-buried memories resurfaced, haunting him and assaulting him in waves. He could not escape them. He could not bury them again. But unless you knew him very well and looked carefully into his eyes, which were always cold, firm, and determined, without any doubt, which always frightened anyone they locked onto, but which now lacked everything that would be familiar, you would not notice anything amiss. So devoid of expression his face was to a casual observer. And yet, for the last several hours, a different observer would notice a slight frown on his eyebrows that softened his harsh features. They’d notice him turning his lips down, unsure and perplexed, and for a few moments, Javert would lose the ever-present, overbearing air of authority and look rather lost before regaining his typical composure.
And now those troubled eyes gazed straight ahead on the surface of the Seine. With its silvery image, the water drowned all Javert’s efforts to find answers.
He had been torn between two crimes—the crime to let a criminal go and the crime to arrest him—pulled into two directions, both dark and unpleasant, both undesired. One of them frightening as nothing had ever frightened him before.
But no more. The manacles around his wrists were heavy, and the morning fog obscured his vision. His mind emptied, for there was only one answer. There was no other path to walk. He’d have to make his own.
Javert moved, his whole being focused on one thing. Step after step, he entered the Seine. It was cold. The pressure increased the wetter his clothes got. The iron marking him as a criminal became heavier. Soon, the water would swallow and hold him within its grasp forever. Darkness and silence and peace. Javert awaited it. Welcomed it.
“Javert!”
No. The owner of the voice should not be here. He was not here. Just another disagreeable assault his mind made on him. When would he escape him? Javert closed his eyes. He inhaled and exhaled and took another step through the resisting water, feeling a phantom of an iron ball dragging behind him.
He was tired.
“Javert!”
His nostrils flared. Like a wolf catching the scent of its prey, he raised his head. The instinct was still alive, still sharp. His fingers flexed; a claw wanted to catch its prey, but a chain held it down. Javert lowered his head. His soul whimpered; disgust, disappointment, and then, worst of all, desire to get back into its master’s good grace, all mixed into one big inextricable mess.
“Javert! Stop!”
He did not want to listen.
He wanted to obey.
A huge paw touched his heart and squeezed. His chest constricted. The heartbeat was loud in his ears, his breath coming up short and quick.
Why didn’t the man leave him alone?
Javert desired oblivion.
One more step.
The river reached his chest.
Strong fingers dug into Javert’s upper arm, and Javert’s breath caught.
“Stop,” Jean Valjean repeated, his tone hard and severe. His grip felt heavier than the chains around Javert’s wrists.
Javert let out a laugh, a short and ugly sound. Once more, he was a prisoner, and Valjean a free man. Once more, it was Javert who was in Valjean’s hands.
“It is fitting,” Javert muttered.
“What is?” Valjean asked.
Javert blinked, realising that he had spoken aloud. “Have you come to watch my punishment?”
Valjean stayed silent.
“You have the right,” Javert continued. “Now, release me.”
Valjean’s hold on him tightened. A flare of anger rose within Javert, but as fast as it appeared, it disappeared. He hung his head. “Release me.” He sounded exhausted.
“No,” Valjean said. “Come with me.”
Valjean pulled and tugged at Javert’s arm. Javert tried to resist, but his foot slipped, his knees bent, and he swallowed a mouthful of water, face submerging. Valjean’s fingers slipped away. The iron manacles dragged Javert deeper. He couldn’t move his hands. He wanted—He needed to get a hold of something. Where was Valjean? Terror spread through his mind and body as he fell down and down further away from the murky light into the green and brown emptiness, his eyes wide open. His lungs burnt. The bottom of his coat stuck to his chin. He had to breathe. He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
He swallowed more water.
This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Peace and silence. No confusion. No thinking. No pain. The eternal rest.
If he could, he would laugh.
He closed his eyes.
Something grabbed him, and Javert resisted. His wrists hurt. His whole body was aflame.
Had he reached the fires of Hell?
*
Javert coughed and spat out water. The cobblestones were hard under his knees, but he barely felt them. He coughed and coughed, his body twisting, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. His chest hurt. He was alive. The chains rattled as Javert tried to move his arms—to support himself, to grab on something, to make it stop. He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Helpless.
Javert’s breath quickened. His chest heaved; he breathed through his mouth, and tears fell slowly down his wet face. Disgusting. Unbecoming.
Like an anchor, a strong hand gripped Javert’s shoulder. Javert gave a start, his heart beating in his temples. The hand pressed harder. Javert exhaled and bent his head, chin brushing his wet cravat. Why was this man here? Why had Javert ever crossed paths with him?
Valjean. Jean Valjean. He was like a weed Javert could not get rid of. It took root in his mind, and even when Javert yanked it out, even when he planted different plants, he could never obliterate Jean Valjean. And now, the weeds were sprouting, covering every inch and nook of Javert’s mind.
He could not see clearly. The paths, so clear, so light just two days ago, were obscured and unbeaten.
Javert was lost.
His shoulders slumped. Valjean guided him gently towards the ground, and Javert let him. He lay there, on his side, noting the small clusters of grass growing between the cobblestones. Yes, weeds never cared about order and their proper place. Never.
Valjean sat down with a heavy sigh, close enough for Javert to touch him with his knee. For years, Javert’s only desire was to catch Jean Valjean, to put him back to where he rightfully belonged, but now . . . Now, he was tired.
“Javert,” Valjean said and stopped. His fingers tugged at the grass close to his leg, curling the straw around his index finger. It snapped.
“You cannot get rid of weeds.” Javert’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat.
Valjean’s fingers stilled. They were dirty.
Javert wrinkled his nose. “You smell,” he said. “Why haven’t you changed your clothes?” Javert didn’t wait for an answer. Now, when he started to talk, he couldn’t stop. “Why are you here? Did you not understand I no longer want anything to do with you? Why would a prey search out its hunter?” Despite the words, Javert spoke quietly with no derision or scorn. “I wished, for years, that chance would bring us together. I knew it would. It did, just hours ago. But this is ridiculous. Why aren’t you at home? You should have killed me. You should have let me die. That would be justice.”
“Do you still believe me capable of murder?” Valjean asked in a strange tone.
Javert’s head hurt. “Why does it matter what I believe?” Javert could see it again. The flames in Toulon, and Valjean risking his life to save his fellow convict. Risking his disguise to save an old man from being crushed by a cart. Saving that prostitute. Saving her child. Saving that idiot boy Pontmercy.
Letting Javert go.
“I let you go,” Javert said.
“That isn’t like you, Javert.”
Javert sat up, swallowing a groan. The manacles clinked. His arms were in pain. “Don't talk as if you know me.”
“That never stopped you.” Valjean raised his head. He looked as exhausted as Javert felt.
Javert sighed. “Go home, monsieur.”
“Where’s the key, Javert?”
Javert must have looked confused because Valjean added, “You’re wearing handcuffs.”
“Ah . . . yes.”
“Where’s the key?”
“There’s no key.” Javert looked at the river. “A crime was committed. I’ve sentenced myself to death.”
Silence, then Valjean laughed. It was a short and mirthless sound. “A crime? You?”
Javert’s stomach tightened. Did Valjean still not understand? Javert pursed his lips and said nothing, locking eyes with Valjean.
Valjean’s face was unreadable. Or perhaps Javert lost the ability to read in it. Maybe he never could—only seeing what he expected, never listening, never understanding.
Valjean stood up with a groan. “Can you walk?” he asked.
“Why?” Then, with a sigh, “Yes.”
Valjean helped him to his feet. Javert burned with shame as he stumbled and collided with Valjean’s body. The last two days couldn’t have been any worse.
“About that key . . .” Valjean said.
“I left it on the parapet.”
Valjean hummed and started to walk away from the river, Javert’s arm firmly in his grasp.
Javert could do nothing but follow.
*
“What would you do if the key wasn’t here?” Javert asked, rubbing his wrists. He had removed his wet gloves and thrown his coat over the parapet. He regretted the loss of his hat. It was a good hat.
“Take you to the station-house.”
A convict, a recidivist, dragging him, a policeman, into a station-house! The image made Javert shudder. But he didn’t have the right to call himself a policeman anymore, did he? He was a criminal like Jean Valjean.
Javert took the manacles and ran his thumbs over the cold iron. They didn’t feel as heavy now. He remembered the weight; he remembered the pressure of water, squeezing him, crashing him, trying to claim him. In that darkness, Javert had been afraid. A coward who wanted to live when his sentence had been just. Pathetic.
“I am ready.” Javert heard a quiet voice. He blinked. His heart was racing, and the fog in his mind cleared. Valjean stood in front of him, arms slightly lifted. As if—
For a moment, Javert could not understand what he saw. His grip on the manacles tightened. Was that what it looked like? Did Valjean think Javert would, after all . . .
As if someone else took hold of his body and moved it without his permission, Javert turned and hurled the manacles over the parapet. They plopped loudly. Javert felt something inside of him breaking and shattering. The silence that followed was deafening. A hole opened through the fog of uncertainty and confusion he had felt since the afternoon. Javert knew it was the right thing to do, and yet, why was it so frightening?
He felt himself tremble.
“Javert?” Javert had never heard his name said in such an unsure tone. He fisted his hands into his coat. The last of the circles that had disturbed the river disappeared.
Javert grabbed his coat and started to walk away. “Good day, monsieur.”
“Stop.”
Javert’s body obeyed. He lowered his head. How many times had he yielded to Valjean in the last several hours? “Don’t ask any more of me.”
“Come with me, Javert.”
“No.”
A soft touch brushed his sleeve on his elbow. “Come.”
Javert surrendered.