Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect or variation of Les Miserables. That genius belongs to Victor Hugo and all of those who followed.
Title: Reprieve
Summary: Sometimes life gives us a second chance, but are we too weak to take advantage of this gift? Javert had thought he would die; he had hoped he would die. However, it seemed that life had not finished with him just yet. How can he hope to make a new start with all that had transpired? Life has an answer to that, as well.
Author's Note: Welcome! This is my second Les Miserables fanfic. I really wanted to showcase Javert, as he is certainly one of my favorite characters and one of the more complex in the story. I see this story turning somewhat scandalous for some reasons that will have to remain secret for now. However, I hope you bear with me and look deeper into it than just the widely preferred pairings. Hmm. :/
Chapter 1
- After the Fall
It was so cold—so very cold. It hit him like millions of needles, each and every one piercing through to the bone. It was impossible to breath, and not just because the Seine was caving into his nose and mouth, drowning him. The lengthy fall alone had been enough to dizzy him, let alone the severe temperature of the water. It only took him seconds to become aware of his new aquatic surroundings because almost immediately he lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes next, he was met with the harshest of lights. His eyes stung and refused to remain peeled. It was as if he had not seen the sun all of his life. He managed to turn his head, very slowly and very carefully, toward the source where the light was the brightest. Gradually, his vision returned to him. He was patient with it; and, it revealed to him a stone wall with a wooden window carved into it. It was only then, at the appearance of this material thing, that he was struck with a shocking revelation.
"I am alive!" he croaked.
He nearly cried out in alarm once again at the surprise of his own voice. It was not the voice he remembered. It was worn out and weak. His hand went up to move instinctively to clutch at his throat, but a sharp pain wrecked his body the moment he brought motion to the limb. He grunted and gritted his teeth. Not only were the muscles bruised and fragile, but they were also tight and sore from lack of use.
He breathed deeply, which was no less troublesome. The strain had caused his heart to pick up to account for the action. He sank back into the feather mattress underneath him. He almost expected to find himself drowning once more, except this time it would be in a sea of material and feathers.
He heard a wooden door at the end of the room creak open. He could not see it, for his eyes had shut again and he feared moving again would cause another bout of pain. The clicking of footsteps crossed the floorboards to his bedside before leaving off in silence. There was a thud he could not recognize then a quiet splash. Droplets hit whatever water was nearby. Despite all of the forewarnings, he still gasped in surprise when he felt the cold cloth hit his forehead.
"Ah," came a husky feminine voice, "so you are awake."
Even if it was out of pure curiosity, he cracked open his eyelids and stared up at the woman who addressed him. She looked to be of middle age and of the working class. Her dirty blonde hair had been pulled back from her freckled face, contained to restrain it from getting in the way of her duties. Her dirt-brown bodice was laced up until her large bust prevented it from doing so. She balanced one hand on her hip and peered down expectantly at him.
He shrunk away, or as much as was possible, subduing a disgusted curl of his lip. The best he could accomplish was turning his head in the opposite direction so he would not have to look upon her any longer. Despite his situation, there was opposition that dwelled within him regarding someone of her stature in life.
Yet, she found some amusement in this reluctance. She scoffed, peeling the cloth from his forehead and dipping it into the basin of water she had brought in with her.
"What a way to greet the one who pulled you from the river," she complained.
He scowled in her direction. "You?" he questioned disgustedly and incredulously.
"Yes," she confirmed. "And if you don't watch it, I'll toss you right back in."
He bit his lip, stifling the retort he was prepared to utter on her behalf. After all, a more humane part of him thought, she had rescued him. That is, if what she claimed was the actual truth.
"Where am I?" he shot in his new coarser voice. He was steadily becoming more accepting of it. He kept his gaze on the inner wall opposite that of the one with the window. If she required civility, he at least did not have to look at her while acquiescing to it.
"Le Petit Hirondelle," she pronounced, placing the cloth carefully back onto his warm forehead.
"What the hell is that?"
"It's my tavern, you are in one of the rooms in my tavern," she explained.
"And who might you be?" he drawled, not even sure himself if he wanted to hear the answer. It was more out of necessity that he learned the answers to these questions than any want to know.
"Madame Loriel to you—the proprietor of this humble establishment." She seemed quite proud of this fact. "But perhaps the more pertinent question at hand is who are you?" She raised an eyebrow expectantly.
He scoffed. "That is the silliest question I have ever heard. I suppose there's no getting around your incompetence, though. I'm…" But he trailed off before he could introduce himself.
His voice caught in his dry, sore throat. He turned his head toward Madame Loriel wearing a rather confused and frustrated expression. His eyes looked accusingly at the strange woman, but she just continued to stare at him skeptically.
"This is absurd," he excused. "My name is…" But again he trailed off. He hesitated. "I'm…"
"Are you having trouble remembering, dearie?" she asked, concern actually evident in her tone.
"No!" he insisted defensively. "Of course not! This is simply ridiculous. I am not required to explain myself to someone as low as you!"
He again turned his head away, this time more resolute. In actuality, he was more disappointed in his own self than actually irritated at her. Why was he unable to utter a name—his name? Why was it so hard to remember? The harder he attempted to think, the denser his brain felt and the greater the ache knocked against his skull. He wasn't one to give up, though, just because the going was tough. Even if he didn't know his own name, he at least knew that much.
He felt that he should be panicking at that moment. He was in a strange house with an even stranger woman tending to him and completely unable to remember his own name. The only clear memory in his head at that moment was freezing water rushing at his face, pounding against his cheeks, and altogether consuming him. Yet, he would not allow this dreadful woman to see him under any distress. Well, that was, any other than what she had already found him in.
"It's alright. You don't need to strain yourself," she cooed. It was rather eerie the change in her attitude and tone. It unsettled him. She once again collected the towel from his forehead. "I know who you are."
"What?" he shot, incredulous. His head whipped in her direction so quickly that he was surprised he hadn't strained his neck in the process. However, this leak of information bothered and disturbed him so much that he wouldn't have cared either way.
"Of course." She looked preoccupied, gathering the items she had just brought in.
"Then why this charade? You know who I am?"
"How could I not know the man who ordered the soldiers to kill my dear husband and son?" She peered over at him through some fallen strands of hair. The expression in her eyes was of the strongest malice and hatred that he had ever seen. It took him quite aback, even if he refused to show it. The only evidence of this was a small gasp of air that escaped his lips.
"E-Excuse me?" he stammered, rather apart from himself. He attempted to maintain his stoic, if not dismissive, exterior.
"That's who you are, isn't it?" She stared at him accusingly now, with the wash basin and towel in hand. "You are Javert, Inspector Javert."
His eyes went wide and suddenly all of the memories before the plunge came rushing back to him. It sent his head reeling and aching even more so than before. He had a name now, and a past. He had a history. He had memories and a life.
"I see you remember now," Madame Loriel commented.
"I should be dead," he breathed, still thinking back to his plummeted from the bridge into the icy Seine.
"Trust me, dearie," she sighed, "there are many who wish you were."
Suspicion surged Javert at this response. He peered at her with all of the mistrust contained in his body. "I do not doubt that you must be one of them. So, why haven't you taken your revenge yet?"
"You don't have to worry about me, Inspector. I won't harm you."
"Why not?"
A small smile cracked her lips. "I have my reasons." She moved toward the door of the room. "You are in my hands now, Inspector Javert," she called behind her. "And they are good hands."
She turned back to him with the door open, before exiting. "You brought horror and death upon me, monsieur. However, I shall bring you kindness and understanding. Think of this as a second chance—a new life. Good bye for now, Inspector."
Madame Loriel closed the squeaky door behind her. Javert stared after her feeling even more exhausted than when he had first awoken. A few seconds passed before a scowl resumed its natural place upon his face and he rolled away and shut his eyes.