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Valjean felt the solidity of the pavement abandon him as he sent himself flying over the edge of the bridge. The wind whistled past his ears in a long, shrill note. I’m too late, was the only thought running through his head before he slammed against the merciless, freezing water of the Seine. He searched frantically in the dark, swirling current. He was exhausted, but if he could just catch a glimpse of Javert in the murky river, there was a chance he could save him.
He hadn’t given the decision to jump more than a moment of thought. He had simply seen his nemesis teetering on the edge before falling into the abyss. How ironic, to be the one chasing him now. The mirthless thought crossed Valjean’s mind just as he felt something in the water. Frantically kicking toward whatever mass had touched his hand, he fought to stay above the surface. At last, under a starless sky, Valjean grabbed hold of Javert’s coat. He pulled the Inspector’s heavy body close and began to steadily drag him to shore. In an effort to keep the larger man’s head above water, Valjean struggled to keep himself from inhaling the rancid water of the river.
When he finally pulled himself and the police inspector to the edge of the rushing current, Valjean couldn’t stop his arms and legs from collapsing under him. For a long moment, he laid next to Javert and simply breathed. What a pair they must’ve looked, two battered bodies caught in a silent battle for life next to the energetic constant splashing of the running river.
When Valjean finally mustered the strength to sit up, he reached for Javert’s neck, praying that he may find some pulse or breath still fighting in the man’s seemingly lifeless form. His hands shook, and he could not entirely determine whether his fearsome opponent was still living, or if he had already passed into the kingdom of heaven. He slumped over Javert’s body and whispered a prayer into the constant murmur of the river.
“Oh Lord, please let me bring him home. This is not right, I cannot allow him to die like this. Please, I cannot imagine this world without him…” he pleaded, his head resting on Javert’s chest. It was strange to put words to such a feeling, but Valjean found no falsehood in the admission. After so many years running from this man, it felt deeply wrong for him to imagine an existence free from his weighted gaze.
Javert’s chest spasmed and a choked cough erupted from his throat. Valjean pulled back instantly, as if the movement had burned him. He frantically reached to hold Javert’s head and allow him to breathe. The inspector turned onto his side, coughing and wrenching up water until a pained cry escaped his throat. When at last breath moved cleanly through his lungs, he raised his gaze to meet Valjean’s.
For the first time in what felt like a decade, Valjean truly took in the man’s appearance. His long hair, graying at the temples, fell in disheveled strands around his face, dripping with river water. His mouth hung slightly open, still fighting to breathe regularly. His eyes, unreadable in the dark, still pierced to the heart in Valjean’s chest and filled him with anxiety. His eyebrows, however, betrayed his emotional state. They were raised just slightly, and their deep furrow seemed to ask a thousand questions.
“Valjean-“ he rasped, but another fit of coughing interrupted his words. Valjean’s hand flew to Javert’s back, patting him gently as he collapsed again in exhaustion.
It was there, with both of them baptized in the vile water of the River Seine, that Valjean vowed to care for his enemy. Eventually, he mustered the strength to make his way to the road and flag down a carriage. Without an exchange of words, Valjean then extended a hand to Javert. It was an olive branch of sorts, and he thanked the Lord that Javert chose to take it.