Author's Note: So, this probably isn't my best work, but I got the inspiration to write, and I just couldn't rest until I got this little fic out of my system. Anyway, a few quick notes about the story: Javert in this story is somewhat a mix of Russell Crowe's portrayal in the recent film and the more traditional image of the character. I really love Crowe's portrayal of the character and was inspired by one of his Twitter posts in which he lamented the fact that the horse he rides in the film really doesn't get enough attention. Since Russell is a horse-lover, I figured his Javert might be one too. So, Russell and Gymont, this is for you. I'd also like to dedicate this fic to my own equine friend, Little Creek, who passed away at the age of seven. Rest in peace, my friend.
Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables. If I did, Javert wouldn't die. :P
A Horse and His Boy
There is no secret closer than what passes between a man and his horse.
~R.S. Surtees~
Javert removed his officer's hat, tucking the black bicorn beneath an arm as he paused to dab the sweat from his brow. It was as much a necessity as it was a sign of respect, the warm, sunny afternoon air belying the solemn occasion that required his presence. There would be no funeral, no formal honors or goodbyes—a shame, really, considering all that he had done for the police force over the years. He had died a noble death, caught in the crossfire while chasing a runaway criminal (not all escaped convicts were as mild-mannered as Valjean, the inspector noted grimly). That alone should have been enough to warrant a proper military burial in his opinion. But it was not his place to make such a decision, merely his duty to see to it that the body was taken care of. And so, never one to shirk his duty, Javert had reluctantly complied.
It was always unfortunate to lose a fellow officer—inevitable, but unfortunate nonetheless. It came with the territory. If you signed up with the police force, you never knew which day might be your last, and death was something you saw so often that eventually you became desensitized to it. Still, they had been partners, and Javert couldn't deny the slight apprehension he felt about seeing the body of one he'd known for—what was it? Twenty-five years, now? Longer than he'd known Valjean—and that was saying something. Briefly, he pondered over the supposed mayor's current whereabouts, but he quickly shook the thought from his head. There would be plenty of time to worry about that later. Right now there were more pressing matters to attend to.
They had met when he first entered the force, fresh from training and barely more than a boy himself right before he'd been assigned to the prison at Toulon halfway through Valjean's sentence. They had both been young, then—foolish, stubborn, headstrong, and ready to take on the world. He smiled faintly at the memory. Perhaps that was why they had been such good partners.
Of course, they'd had their differences, too. He had been strong, statuesque, and of good breeding with that slightly Roman nose that made it seem as though he'd be more at home on a fox hunt with the aristocracy than guarding the dregs of French society. Javert, on the other hand, could almost pass for a prisoner himself. Indeed, without the uniform, his long locks and slightly swarthy complexion had earned him more than a few disrespectful stares. Even now he did not pretend to be so naïve as to think that there weren't still a few whispers behind his back.
But his partner had never been among them. In fact, one could almost call him a friend.
Was that what they had been, Javert wondered? Friends? They were certainly more than acquaintances, and yet he had so little experience with any sort of meaningful relationship that the idea seemed foreign to him, having distanced himself from the whole of humanity. Over the years, Javert had come to the conclusion that there were two types of people in the world: those who despised him for being born outside of the law and those who despised him for enforcing it. And he'd learned long ago that it was safer to devote oneself to a cause than to a person. The law was just and unchanging; people were fickle, frail creatures prone to failure and disappointment. He could think of very few who deserved the title of "friend," and upon attempting to count those who he considered anything more than a nuisance, he promptly gave up, realizing with a tinge of regret, that even a handful of fingers was too generous of an estimate.
He paused and ran a hand through his hair, now shorn to a more respectable length and faded to a slate gray that seemed to match his eyes, drawing a sharp intake of breath at the tarpaulin-covered heap suddenly within his view and trying not to wretch at the thought of what lay beneath the tattered burlap cloth. The news of his associate's death had affected him more deeply than he had let on, his ashen countenance betraying the façade of stoic indifference he had become so accustomed to wearing. He recalled the conversation from earlier that day.
He was sitting at his desk, reviewing the details of prisoner 24601's criminal record for what must have been the hundredth time that day, when a knock at the door had interrupted his thoughts. Muttering under his breath about the inconvenience of the situation, he shoved the papers back into a folder and pushed the dossier aside.
"Enter."
The door opened to reveal a young man who gave a nervous bow. "Inspector." He was new to the force, still wary of the man whose reputation as the epitome of French law preceded him.
And rightly so, Javert mused.
"Whatever you've got to say, Laroche, be quick about it. I've no time to waste on your incompetence."
The man removed his hat and bowed again. "Of course, Inspector. It's…well, it's about the men you sent out on patrol this morning." He shifted uncomfortably. "They located the escapee."
Javert looked up with mild disinterest. "And were they able to apprehend him?"
"Y-yes, but—"
"Then I see no reason that you should need my assistance."
"He opened fire on them, sir."
The inspector stood, suddenly attentive. "And?"
"A few of the men were injured. Ledeux had the horse shot right out from under him! The horse landed on him. He's not doing well, and—"
"Where is he?!" Javert demanded.
"At the hospital, sir."
"Not Ledeux, you idiot!"
The young officer frowned. "Then who—?" He stopped short, eyes widening in realization.
Javert had started pacing. "I let him out of my sight for one day, and you fools manage to—"
"I'm afraid he's dead, sir."
Javert froze. Though his back was to the officer, the shock in his voice was unmistakable. "Dead?" he repeated flatly.
The young man looked down, fidgeting with the hat in his hands absentmindedly. "With all due respect, sir, shouldn't you be more concerned about Ledeux? He was just an—"
The inspector turned sharply on his heel, eyes burning with such ferocity that it caused the informant to take a step back. "An employee of the federal police department who assisted in the capture of more criminals in a year than you likely will in your entire career." He resumed facing the wall. "You are dismissed."
As he heard the door close, Javert let out a sigh and sank numbly back into his chair.
He was laid out on a cart, ready to be wheeled away at a moment's notice and looking for all the world like a large, lumpy sack of potatoes destined for the market. Javert might have found some humor in the thought if it wasn't such a morbidly accurate description of his fate. He tried not to dwell on the similarities for too long, crossing himself before hesitantly reaching for the corner of the tarp. Slowly, he peeled back the layer, fingers lightly grazing skin that had grown cool to the touch, pausing to sweep a dark lock of hair out of clouded, glassy eyes before coming to rest over the wound. Noticing the dark droplets falling softly to mingle with the blood, he vaguely wondered how it could possibly be raining without a cloud in the sky, startled to discover the glistening tracks on his cheeks were the only part of his body getting wet. It took him a moment to realize what the dark splotches were.
Tears, his mind prompted—silent, dignified tears, but tears nonetheless.
And he made no move to stop them.
Finding his voice at last, he looked down at the large bay horse who had been his companion, his partner, and his friend for the majority of his career. He patted the neck fondly for what he knew would be the last time, a fresh wave grief escaping from behind the prison of his lashes. "Good boy, Gymont," he whispered hoarsely. "Good boy."