Gladiator is not mine. Ridley Scott, while from the same area as me, is the one who produced it. I only own the blu-ray and my imagination.

Les Miserables does not belong to me either. Victor Hugo was a far better writer than I, and I have nothing to do with them film of it.


Maximus staggered his body exhausted and weak. He could feel the cool wind upon his face, could smell the scent of his fields, usually so strong, drift past him in wisps.
There was the door into his property. He reached out a hand... He went to push that door...

"Maximus!" He started, trying not to let the voice pull him back. "Maximus."

"Quintus. Free my men." They would not remain stuck in this bloody arena, or anywhere like it, hopefully. "Senator Gracchus is to be reinstated... There was a dream that was Rome. It shall be realised." His true Emperor, his... father... would have his dream come true, even after his son had tried to ruin it.

"These are the wishes of Marcus Aurelius."

He heard the command to free the prisoners. He would have smiled, if he'd had the energy.

There was that smell again. He could feel the heads of corn brushing against his fingertips... He was so close. He felt his body give out. He did not feel the ground though.

"Maximus..." Lucilla... Her son could be emperor now.

"Lucius is safe." He would be a good emperor. He liked the senate, and they had a fondness for him.

She nodded her head, but sniffed. Was she crying? Why... Why was she crying? He could smell the manure of his fields now. So close... He could hear his son's laughter echoing across the fields...

It was cool. The pushed through the gate, and saw his home. This... This is what he had been longing for. Home.

He walked through the fields, not keeping to the muddy tracks, but through his crops, skimming his hands across the heads. His hands were clean now, the blood was gone.

He was clean, and he was home.

"Not yet..." came a whisper, but he paid it no mind. His wife stood on the main track, her arms around their boy's shoulders. She was so beautiful. Tall, majestic, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall...

The child ran towards him, a large smile breaking across his innocent facec.

Maximus fell to his knees and pulled the child into his arms. This hug was not tinged with sadness, and filled with smoke; unlike the last hug he had given to his son's body...

His boy was so much bigger than he had last seen. He had missed so much, fighting for the Emperor...

"Papa!" He cried, voice tinkling with joy, "I did not think you could be here yet."

"What do you mean?" He spoke, voice still rough.

"We will be moving on now, Papa. I am so glad to see you."

"Yes. We can move on together." He smiled, but the boy shook his head.

"No, my love." The melodic tones of his wife's voice greeted him. "We move on, but you are not done yet."

"No. I am done."

"My love, you are not." She looked kindly at him. She was not sad.

He stood and took her in his arms.

"I am done." He could not bear to be parted anymore. He had fulfilled his duty, surely. She pressed a kiss to his lips and it was like sweet water after weeks in a desert.

"Not yet..."

Javert jerked awake, blankets tangled around his body. He lay, breathing heavily, flat out on his small bed, trying to calm himself. It was not the first time he had experienced such dreams, nor would it be the last.

He had discovered, as he had grown, that the dreams that filled his sleep were not his imagination; that the tattoo on his upper left arm had been there since birth, a remnant of another life.

In his 21 years, he had discovered he had lived many, many more. His mother had always treated him as a fae creature- something to keep at a distance, to use as she pleased as opposed to her child. She did not see herself in him. He had decided it did not hurt though. If he was reborn after death, then he had many mothers. Surely, he did not need one in this life too.

Who he was, who he had been... The lines blurred severely. He could remember other lives too, living in many countries. His appearance never vastly changed, and this had on occasion caused trouble.

He had been an Englishman before; he had been born in Moscow. Once, he had been born in the Americas- His pale skin had not been a concern as they had had bodies and souls of others returned as their children before. It made him wonder if people found it sorrowful when they birthed their child, to find someone who had lived before.

He had died old, he had died young. There were times he did not survive infancy, he was sure. He had many children, he had had grandchildren. He had lived both with a vast family and without one at all.

Yet, he was 21 years.

The young guard sat up, sweating slightly from the summer heat. He would not sleep anymore tonight. Outside, there was noise; the raucous laughter of the off-shift guards, the soft growling of the convicts, though they were not close to the guards quarters, he liked to think he could hear the roar of the sea amongst all this.

He took a step across the room to wash his face in the bowl set on the floor, before wiping his sweat away with a blanket and dressing.

He fastened his boots and left the room, walking silently past the other men. He often felt distant from them, he found it difficult to attach himself to people as they would die and move on. He did not.

He tried to remember the face of his wife, the face of his son. He tried to remember Hagen's face, or Juba's... They slipped by him like water through rocks, visible for but a moment.

"Javert!"

"Sir." He moved over to the warden, prepared to receive his instructions for the day.

"There was another escape attempt last night. 24601 has received his lashings but is in solitary. You are bringing him his food today. I want you to send a letter to Paris as well, but that can wait till the evening to be written. Also, 22984 has asked if we will send a letter to his wife. You are to write it for him at some point this afternoon. Otherwise, keep an eye on the labour."

"Sir."

He left, trying not to let his displeasure show. He did not become a guard to do light work, but here he was delivering food and writing.

He would age though, and things would improve.