First some notes:

1) I'd like to start with thanking my betas, Voksen and Morgan, who have been a huge help in whipping this fic into shape. Thanks!

2) I seem to have mis-posted this fic, since it's 2012 movie!canon, and not actual Brick!canon. Sorry, but when I couldn't find a Les Misérables movie category, I didn't think to look for a musical category. Since some people are following this here, I'll just leave it where it is. Hope it doesn't disappoint people!

Thanks for reading this far!


The eleventh time

Javert woke to a moment of disorientation. It was that morning, but also not. There was still the scent of lavender and sea, but where was the maid walking past his room? Why was the light different, half a shade brighter than it should have been? He turned his head against the pillow, seeking support in a suddenly unstable world and winced as his neck cracked painfully.

Someone knocked on the door, the sound familiar from his sleep. This must have been what had woken him. Then he heard the maid's voice; soft, because she was wary of the inspector from grand Paris, but dutiful enough to knock until he answered.

Now he understood. It was past time to wake up and begin anew. He should not be late on his very first day.

But Javert's head ached as if his skull had been cracked open the evening before, and someone was pulping his brains in this very now. Beneath that pain, his neck felt stiff and crooked as an old board, and there were a hundred worries swirling inside him.

The last two deaths had been harsh; Javert found himself reluctant to begin another round of this cruel game.

And so he called out to the maid, sending her away so that he could remained in bed a little longer. He must try to sort out the strands of memory and hope still flowing through his throbbing head if he was ever to repair the plan that had seemed so clear when he had concocted it lifetimes ago.

When Javert had realized that the child and her connection to Valjean were essential for his progress towards whatever end awaited him, he felt at first an overwhelming sense of frustration. This tangle was far more opaque than merely ensuring that a woman was not fired without cause.

Javert knew the outlines of how the lives of the mayor and the orphan intersected, but he did not understand why the girl mattered so. Worse, he could not imagine how he should push Valjean in that direction. When Javert dared allow himself to indulge in some semblance of friendship with the mayor, when the problem of Champmathieu's trial was defused without Valjean being revealed, he seemed only more inclined to remain in Montreuil-sur-Mer. To fumble blindly and hope to somehow find the right chain of actions seemed a tremendous waste of time. He had further seen how each action could cause a rippling change that was not obvious at once, and feared he would overlook a critical detail.

After meditating on the matter, Javert realized that he should treat the problem like any other crime to be investigated, with one great difference. It was a crime both having been committed, and eternally waiting to take place on the other side of death. Further, Javert himself was the only eyewitness who could come into question.

Problem identified, there was only one solution that suggested itself: to witness it from the beginning and learn the facts. Without further ado, Javert decided to sacrifice a lifetime to investigate what happened to Fantine.

Which exact events led to her premature death and to the mayor's promise to care for her child? How could he stop the first, while still guaranteeing the latter? It was no different from any other investigation; if one lacked sufficient facts one must collect them with due expedience.

Embarking upon his new life with the conscious effort to behave as distantly as he had the very first time ought not to have been difficult. His memory was excellent, so he need only to refrain from interfering. Simply wait and watch, while everything slowly careened towards disaster...

Intellectually, Javert knew that in this life events occurred close to how they had in the first world. The real world, he supposed he should call it, though it was a concept he found himself struggling with more and more, the further his purgatory stretched. It was an appalling weakness, but he found he could not keep hold of sanity if he imagined that everyone around him was merely a twisted shade created to teach him a lesson.

Much to his frustration, while acknowledging his surroundings to be reality saved his mind, the decision pained his conscience. It meant his actions in this wasted life hurt not only himself, but his fellow men. And for Javert to be part cause for another's misery, while having knowledge that could change fate...

Necessity drove him to refrain, but it was a constant temptation to intervene and try to salvage what could still be saved. To his lingering embarrassment, he was also certain that Monsieur Madeleine would have approved heartily of the moral dilemma he experienced. Of course, being who he was, Madeleine's solution might have been more elegant than to plod through the entire sorry mess of a year and attempt to figure out what to improve in the next life.

Javert had never considered Fantine a friend, or even an acquaintance of note. However, as he came to realize, they had interacted often during the two spans of five years he had lived in a prospering Montreuil-sur-Mer. She was a friendly woman, grateful for his help; she was also a proud woman, never feeling that she had to crawl before him for what she saw only as justice finally being served.

Fantine's working hours had remained long in all lives, even with the mayor helping to pay for her child's schooling. Thus, Javert had frequently passed into her on his way to leave an afternoon report or to remind Monsieur le Maire that, while charity was a virtue, budget restraints still existed. He had acknowledged her greetings and, after a few lifetimes, they had even begun exchanging a few polite phrases.

To then stand aside and not bring Madeleine's attention to her plight, was difficult. Javert had spied on her, watched how she slowly lost everything: hair and youth, dignity, health, and hope. As the months progressed, he saw her again as he remembered her from the very beginning: bitter, old before her time, a toothless woman who only clung to life for the flickering memory of a small girl.

When she had grown ill, the decline of his own health followed a few days later.

This time, Javert did not rage over his illness. He only tried to hide the weakness in his limbs and dampen the cough that plagued him. What before had seemed the whim of fate he now considered fair penance. He had let this woman suffer for nothing but his own selfish gain – no more than right that he paid with his own health in turn. Hopefully, what he learned would be worth their shared suffering.

Fantine numbed herself with cheap gin. It turned her pale cheeks flush without giving them the glow of life and he watched with disgust how she sold herself to rough, unkind men, slowly turning even harder than they were.

If she had been a man, Javert realized, he could have mistaken her for a lifer at Toulon, one of those men who had not expired only because they were too worn down from the chains and the lash to realize that they were walking corpses.

And she hated; oh, how she hated. Whatever small mercy Madeleine had offered her during her final days, it must have quelled her hatred somewhat, or she would have gone cursing into the dark. But she was still alone in this life and he smelled it on her, hatred enough to overpower the stink of gin and filth accumulating on her body.

If she had been a prisoner under his guard, he would have given her double chains and not spared her from the lash. But she was a woman, and so her hatred was ignored. She was poor and desperate, but not vicious enough use a blade to take what she needed. Or, more likely, she was too naïve to know how to begin, but clever enough to realize that a failed attempt would mean her daughter's death.

His own sickness kept pace with Fantine's, despite Javert having access to proper food, warmth, and a safe place to rest. It was more a curse than an illness, he suspected, but nevertheless it must not defeat him too fast.

As the year progressed, Javert grit his teeth and took an ever-increasing dose of laudanum with his daily snuff. The bitter tincture slowed him down and dimmed his faculties, until he was forced to relay on memories of suspects collared in other lives to carry him through his duties.

This foul but necessary habit burdened his already meagre purse. Further strain was added when his failing energy forced him to choose between either managing his duties as inspector while taking proper care of his home and garments, or doing his duty and allotting additional time to investigate Fantine. No matter what Javert attempted, he could not find the energy to do all three. Stumbling through his work with dark bruises beneath his eyes because the hours in the day did not suffice was bad enough on its own.

With the cough of a consumptive already marking him, with the fear and contempt this drew from neighbours and fellow policemen alike, Javert knew that letting himself appear slovenly or struggling might well end with him losing his position. That he dared not risk, for he desperately needed the authority to threaten Fantine when the night came. There was only one solution; he hired a housekeeper who could also cook for him, and sought much-needed rest in the embrace of the poppy every hour that he could afford.

Since these new expenses took all the coin he earned, he found himself facing the unfortunate choice between appearing respectable or having dinner on his plate.

There was one obvious solution; the same one which had leered at him since he had first put on a guardsman's uniform. But ill, and drugged, and destined for death he might have been – Javert was still determined that he'd rather spend a lifetime clinging to the lowest rungs of hell than accept any bribes.

So he borrowed. Perhaps this was also a form of theft, as he had no intention of staying alive long enough to pay back the majority of the money, but it was at least not against the letter of the law. Javert racked up a hefty debt in a surprisingly short amount of time and found that he had to constantly keep money shifting between the lenders to hide the extent of his financial problems.

His reputation from Paris, and his unsubtle threats regarding the weight of the law on those who engaged in usury and were stupid enough to implicate an officer involved in it, kept the scum thinking that they each had a secret, solitary grip on his wallet and good name.

When Fantine finally broke and assaulted the ninny harassing her, Javert could hardly manage his lines. His words echoed strangely in his mouth and the entire world wavered around him. It was good luck that Monsieur le Maire paid him no attention whatsoever, or he might have wondered why his Chief Inspector was struggling so to stay upright.

It took no time at all to get medical leave the morning after his failed arrest. The clerk at the Administration Centrale had been hinting about just that with increasing volume for a month or two; Javert's doses were on such a level that he could no longer quite tell the days apart.

The last of his wages went to renting a closed wagon to take him to Montfermeil, the price rising twice when he was interrupted by a coughing attack during the negotiations.

Once arrived, he paid the loathsome innkeeper for three nights in advance with 'money' unlawfully confiscated from a forger. That crook's operations Javert would have revealed in two months time, in any saner world. The disgust he felt at handling counterfeit money in such a manner made his hands crawl with revulsion. Bad enough that he had confiscate the money with selfish intent in mind; he'd regretted his choice almost before the transaction had finished, but had been unable to find a better solution at this late date. But this was nothing compared to the utter self-disgust he felt when he – a man of law! – passed on adulterated coinage to anyone, even if it was a rat like Thénardier.

If he had to do this over again, Javert swore to himself, he'd simply cancel his damn rental contract and sleep in the office. Anything was better than debasing himself like this!

The miserable state of the inn did at least help alleviate his guilt at fooling Thénardier out of his proper payment. Javert's final three days were spent down in the public house, spilling the disgusting slop served on the floor and his own shirt to make it look as if he actually drank it. Between the short time he had left and the way the cough tore through him with every other breath, not even Javert considering bringing the crooks gathered around him to justice. Instead, he finished off his store of medication and observed.

Years as a prison guard, decades as a policeman, and he was still stunned by the amount of pickpocketing, trickery, hustling, swindling, scamming and sheer blatant theft taking place around him.

The innkeepers stole everything they could grab, including Javert's lead-weighted stick and his boots. The stick was nabbed while Mme Thénardier attempted to hawk him a tonic against his cough (ten francs for what, if his senses hadn't completely taken leave, was mainly cat piss and indigo dye) and he lacked the breath to demand its return.

When he woke on the second morning of his stay, Javert found that his boots had aged twenty years and acquired a crack in the heel overnight. The night after that, now assured that he truly was as ailing as he appeared, the innkeepers stole back the cracked boots and left him with a pair of ill-fitting wooden clogs. When he remarked on the matter, Thénardier tried to sell him back his original footwear for twice what Javert had paid in the first place.

If the entire pub had not been such a disgusting hovel of filth that Javert suspected that one night under its roof could leave a man with the clap – if he did not land himself with a case of the plague after one taste of the "beer" – he would've sent some of his cockier young constables here to learn the true meaning of vileness. And then he'd simply torch the hellhole.

Disgusting as the environments were – and they were abysmal enough that he, who had grown up on the leftovers of convicts, preferred to starve for three days rather than risk the food – they could not compare to the filth Javert saw in the owners' souls.

There were men ruined by bad fortune who quickly learned to take joy in cruelty, who forgot everything that had once earned them the title of 'men'. Javert had seen plenty who used any little excuse to abandon everything they knew of God's law, of decency and honour, and he despised them all. But even among these lowest souls, few showed the same gleeful willingness to root in the filth and effluences of humanity as the Thénardier couple. No crime seemed too low or dirty for them as long as there was a coin to be earned.

To make matters worse, they did not even have the pride to admit their thieving ways, but spoke of the ongoings in the inn with an affected, simpering air. "Our little tricks," Thénardier would tell his guests, "our little games, don't we enjoy them together?" The woman was as bad: "Needs must, deary, needs must," she whispered to her young daughter before she pretended to have an accident with her dress, after which she robbed her suitor dry.

As far as Javert was considered, give him a quartet of highway robbers over this lot, any day of the week.

During his entire stay, the laudanum making his mind heavy but not completely dulling his eyes, Javert saw not one instance of kindness in their hearts, nor a flake of generosity in either of them; not even toward the woeful little child left in their care.

He only met little Cosette on the second day of his stay, when he took a constitutional walk through the woods. There, he knew from earlier lifetimes, he ought to find a well. Hopefully, the water was fit to ingest, because the thirst was driving him mad and the so-called beer only made it worse.

The child was struggling with a heavy bucket when he saw her and he understood immediately why Valjean had chosen to take her closer than all his other charity cases. She was too young to be ruined by her environment: marked by the grinding poverty, yes, but with no stains in her clear eyes. Watching her struggling through a task she was not grown to handle, Javert thought her blessed with a face straight from an illustration prescribing charity towards the Lord's children.

It was not merely that she was unhappy, though she was, or that she kept striving to finish a task so clearly unsuited for her small frame. It was that this miserable little girl was so blatantly undeserving of all the evils in her life; she had committed no crime, earned no punishment, and carried around no further sin than that allotted to every soul of woman born.

If Javert hadn't already suffered a headache, he was certain he would have developed one soon. In some aspects, Jean Valjean remained incredibly predictable, no matter what name he carried.

When he in Toulon had spotted a potential escape, he had climbed any wall, never stopping to think of how to navigate the world beyond and keep his freedom. Likewise, Javert knew that upon meeting this orphan girl, Valjean would be quick to see in her every deserving thing he refused to recognize in himself. He'd let Monsieur le Maire fall to the roadside, bury both the inventor and the charismatic politician deep inside: to save a child like this, he'd hide away everything of himself and never take another risk in his life if he could avoid it, without consideration of what such a single-minded devotion would entail for the future.

If he had been a betting man, Javert would have wagered his badge on the innkeeper receiving a pocketful of undeserved gold for giving the girl up. That, too, explained why Thénardier would be so quick to recognize Valjean in Paris years later. Javert might further have bet, not that anyone would've been fool enough to take it, that the girl would soon be coddled with all the luxury Monsieur le Maire had never afforded himself.

Perhaps it was a good thing he was already so infirm, or he might have been tempted to interfere.

Only one mystery remained to him. How did the child come to have such an influence on the fate of things, that her lack from Valjean's life had caused him to die twice? He could not fathom how this act of charity could be so much more deserving of consideration than Monsieur le Maire's dreams of a large, well-staffed children's hospital, which he was unlikely to have time to build if he was also to adopt the girl.

But Javert's place was not to ask questions. His, the role of the sinner trying to strive and repent.

When, on the morning of the third day, he heard the carefully cultivated tones of Monsieur le Maire demanding the child, he could barely contain his gratitude that this awful existence was at an end – nor his annoyance over the fact that Thénardier walked away with two thousand francs. Had he not been too weak to call the mayor to task for his foolishness, it might all have ended then and there.

Instead Javert managed to drag himself up the stairs, to the lice-infested pallet he'd rented for a king's ransom, and collapsed. While he lay choking on the noxious phlegm of his own lungs, too weak to even use the straight-razor he'd tied to his chest, he prayed that the plan he had concocted during these hellish days would be enough to save him from a similar fate ever again.

When he next woke to the familiar morning, in his fresh, clean room with lungs that could freely supply him with air; when his body was his again, when he could speak and run and draw a thousand breaths without tiring, he had fallen to his knees in supplication on the wooden floor. His prayers were jumbled, but never had he spoken a more heartfelt thanks to the Lord.

In retrospect, Javert realized that he had made a number of critical mistakes during that first day, too drunk on his returned health and fitness to consider the impressions he would leave in the town. He had cut his visit to the precinct short, offhandedly proving his knowledge of the routines with several examples that shocked his constables in their exactness.

Then, too impatient to ride the same route through Montreuil-sur-Mer once more, he had gone to the church. It took only a few harsh orders before he was admitted to the bell tower.

He'd rushed up the stairs, laughing with more than a little madness, and thrown the shutters open as soon as he reached the top of the tower. Air! Fresh, sweet air! Barely a prickle of sweat down his back, not a cough to be heard. His body was reliable again; his choices once more his own. In that moment, the familiar streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer appeared as dear to him as the gates of heaven and he swore to protect them from the dangers that waited ahead.

Not for Jean Valjean, not for Monsieur le Maire, but so that he would always have this unsullied moment to recall: The clock tower, the open sky ahead, and beneath the citizens striving forward in their everyday lives, honest men and women under his protection.

Filled with new elation and dedication to his duty, Javert returned to his usual path. He had a mental map of events now, and planned to use this hard-won knowledge in the best way. First, there was the introduction to the mayor to take care of. He slipped in a small word regarding the familiarity of Madeleine's face, but allowed nothing but admiration to show at the feat of strength when the cart broke.

For Fantine, there would be two days of useless search for new employment before she left to sell her medallion and returned shorn. Then she would not return to the docks for another three days, not until a letter had arrived from Thénardier which demanded further payment.

Five days, which Javert used to investigate every nook and cranny of the town, so that he could 'happen' to run into her when she was returning to the docks and stopped her before she lost her teeth. After years of watching Monsieur le Maire, whose soft words and compassionate eyes could connect to the last remaining gentleness in a hardened soul, it wasn't hard to display enough concern that the distraught young woman unburdened herself to Javert.

He promised to bring attention to the matter, although he tempered it by insisting that he must see the child in question first, as well as reassure himself of her good character so that he did not drag Monsieur le Maire into a scandal. Until then, he needed to get Fantine off the street and out of harm's way.

Javert's rented rooms included bedding, curtains, and all other fabrics a household needed. Since the items were clean and of reasonable quality, if worn from years of use, he had never bothered to exchange them before. They did however show their age, so it was easy to engage Fantine to sew him a new set while he made inquiries into her case. The money he could offer was less than the factory's wages, and far less than a proper seamstress would have demanded. Still, it was honest pay, and she was canny enough to consider his vested self-interest a further proof that his unusual attention was no cover for something more sinister.

When Javert informed the station of his intention to travel to Montfermeil to investigate a potential case of fraud, there was more overt opposition than he had become used to during his latest lives. His policemen and the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer alike had previously learned to save their grumbling for the truly radical ideas proposed by Monsieur le Maire. Now, it took several sharp words and an oblique reference to a threatening scandal to quell the protests. Javert left the town in an agitated mood. Some of his officers, men he knew inside and out, seemed to have grown wary towards him, and it rankled him. He did not have the patience to investigate any further complications right now!

It took only a single day to gather enough proof the Thénardiers were involved in criminal activity, had abused the child Cosette, and were committing fraud against her mother, that he could confront them with his findings and see them blanch. When he revealed himself, Javert had to struggle to hold back all he wished to say to the rotten pair, but his efforts were well rewarded. The draft of a letter sticking out of his pocket proved an irresistible temptation and, in the midst of his lecture, Mme Thénardier made her daughter cry out pitifully while she lifted the note from him.

Javert left with Cosette and the stated intention to report their crimes to the local constabulary. To his complete and utter lack of surprise, the premises were abandoned when the authorities returned. The police turned the entire town upside down, but the Thénardier family had flown the cage.

Escaped, full of vengeful feelings towards Javert, Fantine and hopefully all of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Monsieur Thénardier would have plenty of reason to study the stolen letter wherein Javert had outlined his suspicions regarding the true identity of Monsieur Madeleine, alias Jean Valjean, alias the parole-breaker 24601 of Toulon. If that didn't convince him to come creeping around the mayor, well... Why bother worrying about the impossible?

In many ways, it made things easier that the innkeeper wasn't a complete dullard. He knew Javert would be there, would know his face and that of his family. He ought to suspect that Fantine would both recall and resent his features once the truth of little Cosette's treatment came out, and he would of course need to investigate whether there was profit to be had from squeezing M Madeleine.

Which there was, in considerable amounts, and so Javert estimated that he would have about a year before the Thénardiers appeared again. A year spent in hiding, waiting for the inspector to forget, for Cosette to stop recalling the horrible innkeepers, and then the crooks would slink into town to try and sink their poisonous claws into the good mayor's wallet.

Until then, Javert had his job cut out for him: He must make sure Fantine was reinstated in her old position, while keeping her child away from Monsieur le Maire so that he wouldn't have time to send the girl to a convent or something equally troublesome. Then, when Thénardier arrived, Javert must be in a close enough position to reveal his knowledge to the mayor without the man either fleeing or ignoring Javert's warnings. It was a fine-tuned web of intrigue and he prayed that he was skilful enough to play it as it should be done.

Realizing that of the players in this game, the one he knew the least of was Cosette, Javert decided to use the carriage ride back to Montreuil-sur-Mer to familiarize himself with the girl. This turned out to be more difficult than he had anticipated. The girl was happy to follow him with the promise of food and her mother waiting at the end of the ride, but she was hardly a brilliant conversationalist; an accusation that could be laid against Javert as well, which lead to several attempts that ended up both awkward and uninformative.

As the carriage rattled down the road, the girl had remained quiet, nibbling on a piece of bread Javert had given her. Now and then, when she thought he was looking out through the window, she would mouth what looked like songs to the rag she used as a doll, but as soon as she felt his eyes on her, she clammed up. Feeling that it would be futile to hope for her to initiate conversation, Javert decided on the direct method. He would question her and see what he learned.

"What do you wish to become when you grow up?" he asked, after they had spent most of an hour glancing at each other in silence.

The girl considered for a moment, and looked down at the rag as if seeking support. "A pretty lady, like my Mama."

"Do you not have any grander dreams, any aspirations of note?"

She chewed on a finger, and he attempted to twist his lips towards something friendly. Perhaps it worked, because she answered. "...I want a castle."

"A castle?"

"Yes, a pretty white one."

Her ambitions were certainly lofty enough. "And when you have this castle, what do you intend to do with it?"

"I want to take Mama there! And Papa will come to live with us, and we'll be happy together."

"I see."

"I'll have lots of pretty dolls too, in my castle."

Javert considered informing her of the importance of diligent work for realizing one's dreams, but glancing at her red, cracked little hands, he abandoned that idea. Since the questioning gambit didn't seem likely to pay out before they reached Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert changed tactics. With the environment she had grown up in thus far, it might be good to ensure that she realized that crime did not pay.

Cosette didn't always follow the judicial details, but was willing enough to listen to his stories of criminals apprehended and punished. Proving herself a young woman of character, she was also more interested in the girls (whom she insisted on referring to as princesses) and mothers (Javert had, in a stroke of insight, realized how he should tailor the stories to keep the interest of his audience) being saved, than in gruesome details of corporal punishment.

When they stopped for a rest and some refreshments, Cosette found a piece of wood, no doubt torn from a tree during a storm, and incorporated it in her play. If one squinted, Javert supposed that the flattened, wider part of the piece might show some similarities to his hat. When the coachman donated a rag, the wooden inspector acquired a coat as well, and was thus perfectly equipped to arrest both the evil Madame and a fire-breathing dragon.

The rest of the journey was spent explaining the more approachable applications of the Code Napoléon, sometimes using a folded rag-doll and a piece of wood to demonstrate the issues. Javert soon realized another reason for Valjean's attachment to the child: they shared the same stubborn insistence in viewing events from the most favourable angle possible. Even if the girl lacked the vocabulary and education to make her points convincingly, she definitely had the mindset of a defending attorney.

It was a great relief to deliver the child to her mother at last.

When he then spoke to Monsieur le Maire, it was an even greater relief to show him the other face of Javert, after living a year of enforced solitude. To watch his shock and suspicion turn into honest joy at this proof of mercy was perhaps more satisfying than was quite proper, but Javert decided that he deserved a little lenience; it was not if fate would give him any.

He was careful to make the barest mention of Cosette, enough that the mayor was reassured that Fantine was fit to care for her, if only she could regain her place. He also implied that the child's presence was the best deterrent against further immoralities from the mother.

Javert was certain that Fantine's independence would keep her from relying too heavily on the mayor's charity. He planned to cultivate his own acquaintance with her more thoroughly than before to make sure of it.

If she then followed the pattern and began sickening in four years... and if Javert could keep Thénardier from blundering the extortion he was sure to attempt against Monsieur le Maire by revealing that he had no concrete proof, only Javert's list of suspicions... if he could keep Valjean from taking fright and running off until it was time for him to leave with the soon-to-be orphaned girl... If he could use his influence to keep Montreuil-sur-Mer from falling into ruin after Monsieur le Maire left... Many variables, too many unknowns for his peace of mind, but it was a viable plan. Javert had all intentions that it should succeed at his first attempt.

Until things fell in place, or fell apart completely, he had his work to do and two friendly relationships to initiate. Compared to the misery of the last year, it was almost a dream come true – perhaps the reason he failed to notice the growing unrest in his own police force.

If another had viewed the matter from outside, they might have condemned Javert less harshly than he later judged himself. He had at that point spent roughly seventeen years reliving his time in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The further each life stretched, the more events morphed and formed new, unpredictable patterns. However, unless Javert took radical action, his first year always remained unnervingly similar in each cycle. To solve the crimes that always occurred was a trifle at this point. He could have done it in his sleep – and had; how else to describe the year spent in the waking dream of the opium addict?

Thus, secure in the knowledge that the results would remain the same, Javert allowed himself to shorten his working hours somewhat. He knew exactly where to send his men on patrol, he knew who to interrogate and about where to begin searching for any stolen goods. What harm a small reprieve? The citizens and Monsieur le Maire alike seemed satisfied with him.

Certainly Javert used some of his free time to keep an eye out for Thénardier, and also invested a certain effort in the task of mingling with the more liberal-minded of the influential townspeople, building connections for the future.

Most of the time, though, he tried to keep an eye on the key players in the game of fate.

Every other week, he would meet with Fantine and Cosette in one of the more reputable inns, where he bought them dinner and quizzed Cosette on her understanding of justice. Seeing as how Fantine could not shake her reputation as a fallen woman even when she hid her short hair under a cap, she had few friends among the workers in the factory. Though a bit wary, she seemed glad for this occasion to speak to a reasonably friendly face. They had each taken turns at making oblique, but firm, rebuffs of any potential romantic entanglements before they might be issued from the other party. Javert was relieved when he realized that the idea repelled Fantine as thoroughly as it did him, and after that, their meetings flowed more easily.

Cosette, too, was something of a loner. The nuns had accepted the child without prejudice, but Fantine mentioned her worry about the girl having few friends of her own age. Javert, who had grown up shunning the few children around him with the same fervour with which he detested their parents, could offer no advice. He attempted to plant the idea of a new start in another city as a fine if unattainable dream for Cosette's future, but was not at all certain that Fantine understood his hints.

His careful overtures of friendship towards Monsieur le Maire were rewarded faster than Javert had expected. Soon they were spending at least one evening each week together, usually taking long walks through the town while debating everything from justice, law and the correct interpretation of the Lord's word, to improvements to their town and the architectural and financial problems connected to them. The latter tended to become especially intense with regards to the town-wide sanitary system which the mayor considered a necessary step to combat the spread of diseases.

While Javert had been convinced to his point of view some two lifetimes ago already, and had studied several treatises on the topic in the intermittent years, he still had many issues with the exact form of Monsieur le Maire's plans. He especially took offence at the way the man planned to to finance most of the project out of his own pocket, rather than apply to the government to use Montreuil-sur-Mer as a full-scale study for evaluating new styles of civic engineering.

As the mayor argued, the latter would cost him years of work and, as even Javert had to admit, the odds for success where not impressive. Doing it on his own, while the project still required careful planning and budgeting, the work could theoretically begin immediately. Meanwhile, Javert argued passionately for using the proper channels and thereby ensuring that the project was anchored in the district on all levels before any money was spent. This way, if something happened to Monsieur le Maire, there would still remain people convinced of the merits of the idea on its own.

Further, Javert pointed out, if he managed to finish the undertaking without emptying his coffers completely, it would only give the misers in the government fuel. What would happen when another town, lacking a philanthropic millionaire for mayor, asked for financial support to improve their sanitary regimes?

That argument carried them through the entire summer, until Javert compromised so far as to have one of his constables guide the architect Monsieur le Maire wished to invite to town for a first inspection. The mayor, in turn, began the arduous process of convincing Paris to release money for a large-scale infrastructure improvement in his little provincial town.

When they shook hands on the decision, Javert had to fight to keep a smirk from his lips. He had never before convinced Monsieur le Maire to do something he truly did not want to and was happy to bask in even this small victory.

Perhaps he had not entirely managed to hide his high spirits, because the mayor took one long, suspicious look at him before breaking out in a brilliant smile and inviting him over for dinner. When Javert made to protest, he merely hooked their arms together and used his ridiculous strength to propel them down the street while he waxed praise on the fine fish his housekeeper could prepare for them tonight.

In retrospect, perhaps they should not have begun this step of their friendship in full view of all and sundry.

After fifteen months in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert was a regular guest at the mayor's table. Fantine had gained some friends among the newer girls in the factory; Cosette had completely lost the gauntness in her face and no longer flinched like a kicked dog at raised voices in her vicinity. Things were going well, though he was beginning to worry that Thénardier had taken himself off to the ends of the world instead of returning like a proper little blackguard.

If such turned out to be the case, Javert supposed he would have to suddenly "recall" seeing Monsieur le Maire before and perhaps try to bring it to the attention of someone involved in Champmathieu's arrest and acquittal. Unfortunately, that path would take weaving even more misleading half-truths, perhaps even blatant lies, and Javert knew this was not properly in his nature. He'd thus decided to give Thénardier more time to appear, and to wait until the year ended before setting anything else in motion.

The debates between him and Madeleine, some of which had grown comfortable like an old pair of favourite slippers, took on a different tone. They strayed outside of their old topics, allowing the discussion to meander back and forth as fancy carried it.

Now and then, they happened to touch upon the general subject of politics. At first, Madeleine had attempted to disguise his lack of informed opinion on events that had occurred during the twenty years he'd spent in Toulon. He relaxed when Javert revealed that a jailer was almost as isolated from the goings-on of the world as the prisoners he guarded. The memory of another Madeleine illuminating his conversion from convict to philanthropist also made Javert admit that he'd been born to the lowest position of society, and had a very provincial upbringing.

"So, my personal concerns kept me out of the great events that ended an age, while your youth and station in life did the same with you?" Madeleine summarized their situation when they were in his sitting room one evening, sharing the last of a bottle before Javert left. "Then it is doubly good that we have each other to sharpen our words on. Or else we'd soon be revealed as shockingly ignorant, and wouldn't that be a scandal!"

"Yes," Javert drawled, wine and warmth making him a little careless, "if the good burghers of Montreuil-sur-Mer ever found out that both their master and their guard were in truth an uncultured pair of labourers, their collective outrage would tip the town into the sea!"

For a moment Madeleine stared out of him from the corner of his eye, frozen like a rabbit with the snare around his throat, but then he snorted and cracked a laugh. It was not the paternal chuckle of Monsieur le Maire with his chain of office openly displayed, but a drier, more world-weary sound. And all the more honest for that, even if it was quickly buried.

Oh, Javert realized, he had heard laughter like this before. He had perhaps even uttered it himself, once or twice, in the darkness of his childhood where every day was heavy and every night too long. In prison, joy quickly eroded into glee... But, this laughter. On those rare spring days when the sun broke through the clouds and spread warmth enough to soothe broken backs, yet did not cause sweat and thirst to lash at the convicts; then, it could be heard.

There had once been an old tomcat, fat and cleverer than half the inmates, which took a liking to a warden of a similar age and rotund stature. It slept sprawled close to him whenever it could. Then one morning they had been spotted while lying in the first true sun of the year, man and animal breathing in time, peaceful as nothing.

Nobody had bothered to punish for the hilarity this sight inspired.

"Monsieur le Maire," he began, and Madeleine's eyes were wary, but laughter still bubbled inside them. "If you ever need my help," Javert said, leaning forward and pitching his voice low, "I shall stand by your side."

"Your help?"

He could speak now, but what if it was too early to reveal things? He would not lie, not to this man. So Javert chose a third way, and dared lay his hand on the mayor's, feeling the labour-marked fingers twitch beneath his own.

"Monsieur, if one of our fine citizens catch you out being shockingly ignorant, simply call for your Inspector. I shall provide them with such a tedious sermon on the law that your every word will shine witty and brilliant in comparison."

This time, there was nothing furtive about Madeleine's laughter and Javert felt himself answering in kind. His hand remained on the mayor's as they continued to speak of trivialities not worth recalling, talking far into the night while the fire burned down beside them and their glasses remained empty on the table.

Perhaps his words had been prophetic, perhaps his spirits had simply been to high for fate not to stomp down on his foolish self. It was only five days later that Javert's sleep was interrupted by heavy banging on his door. As he had retired a scant hour earlier, it took him a moment to parse what was going on. Only a few seconds of confusion, but it was enough for two men to kick open his door.

That woke Javert completely. He was on his feet, nightstick in hand, before the assailants reached him. With a snarl, he twirled the lead-topped stick, giving the nearest man a good wallop when he tried to grab him. He was about to crack the other one's head open, when he caught sight of a familiar shape entering through the broken door.

"Hold, Javert! In the name of the law, hold!"

The gravelly voice was unmistakeable. Javert stepped back from the fight, though he kept his cane raised. His eyes had not belied him, for before him stood the lanky shape of Inspector Sauveterre; a dutiful man when Javert had met him before, who had the ear of the Prefect of Police himself. Now, looking closer at the men who had attempted to grab him, he could see in their stances how they might have been trained by the force.

The Inspector nodded gravely as their eyes met again, and he held out his hand. "I ask for your cooperation in this, Inspector."

His heart beat faster, and his mind filled with the direst misgivings, but Javert handed over the weapon. While he did not know what was happening, he would not lift a hand against a fellow policeman, much less a superior, no matter what.

"Might I be allowed to dress myself first?" he asked, wryly gesturing to his nightshirt.

"Please," Sauveterre allowed, "but make haste. We have several grave accusations to investigate. Although..." He removed a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it with excessive caution. "The matter would be much simplified, if you could swear to me that this is not in your handwriting?"

Javert was not fool enough to attempt to try take the paper to look at it, though the wild desire to grab the note and tear it up filled him as he recognized the words. He would have lied himself to damnation and back regarding his having penned it, if the grim set of Sauveterre' jaw did not make clear that he'd revealed himself immediately upon reading the letter. His own damning, damned letter about the best man he had known.

"This is all mere conjuncture," Javert tried, feeling blood rush to his face. Or, perhaps, that booming in his ears was not his pulse, but the hungry growl of the river? "I had suspicions when I arrived, but there was nothing. No proof, no sign of guilt. It is nothing."

Sauveterre sighed and folded the note away. "Perhaps it was conjuncture when written. Now, it is evidence. Get the prisoner dressed and bring him along," he snapped to his men before pivoting on his heel and marching out of the apartment.

They brought him to the station. Not in cuffs, but surrounded by four officers. The two from Paris were joined by young Dubois, whom Javert had scolded in every life for his spendthrift ways, and Martel, whom he had fired several times and once thrown into a river. Early as it was, he fancied that he could feel the eyes of the entire town on his back, staring and gossiping. Yet, the shame remained an abstract thing, hovering far below him, and his thoughts were frozen and still. Everything about him had gone cold, as if he was still falling through that river, never dying, never drowning, only tumbling further down into the dark.

Not until he saw Monsieur le Maire did the ice start to crack. Still refined and gentle, even sitting in this ugly, official building, with ugly, official handcuffs around his scarred wrists. They had taken his coat, torn his shirt open to reveal the brand on his chest, but despite this, despite how Javert's bungled attempts at scheming had led to this indignity, he still found it in himself to offer a comforting smile.

"Ah, Javert," he said, "I believe these gentlemen are suffering from a misapprehension regarding our relations. Though I have attempted to explain that you had no way of knowing that I disguised my past from the citizens of this fine town, they are naturally wary of taking my word."

He then made an aborted motion, a mere twitch of a hand, but Javert recognized it. Monsieur le Maire wished to adjust his collar, a frequent gesture of his, but his instincts held him back. Because he was Jean Valjean again. That man knew how the clinking of cuffs around a strong man's hands unnerved jailers, how likely they were to engage in violent reprimand if he moved. They were falling back through time, and if he could not stop it, Javert knew they would land in hell.

"No, Monsieur," he said. His mouth was full of sand, but he must speak. "You should not attempt to... I have done you wrong, and now we will both pay the price."

"Javert, there is no need."

But he could not listen to such kind words, not now. He turned away, tried to fill himself with ice again. The river was waiting, but this death he did not deserve to hurry along.

"What are the charges?" he asked, catching Sauveterre's gaze.

"Corruption. Forged papers. Harbouring a fugitive." He pursed his lips as some of the officers whispered another word, laughter spreading through the room. A dark frown, and the men fell silent. "We are investigating bribery as well," Sauveterre said, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

He shook his head, mute; not the last, never.

The senior inspector nodded, apparently satisfied. "No, I thought not. Greed never was your vice, Javert," he said, and gestured to his men to take them away for questioning.

Perhaps Monsieur le Maire called something, but he could no longer hear him. The river carried him away as it hadn't for lifetimes, his senses drowning in mud and silt, all of Javert drowning in despair.

It ended quickly after that. Javert would answer no questions and the trial was swiftly prepared.

When the first witness was brought in, Javert was surprised to vaguely recognize him from the Thénardier's inn. A disgusting man, drunkard and worse, who had been cleaned up, dressed in finery and put on the stand. Here, he called himself Monsieur Jondrette, and was willing to swear up and down that he'd seen Javert accept 'suspicious packages' from the mayor.

Inspector Sauveterre followed, his testimony delivered in short and concise terms. He explained how a former convict from Toulon had appeared before him (to soothe his guilty conscience, he'd claimed) and revealed that the man calling himself M. Madeleine was in truth an old con from the chain-gang. Sauveterre had dismissed him, only for the man to provide a note. Since it was written in a hand startlingly like that of a trusted officer of the law and named several names, he had felt pressed to show it to the prefect, despite its dubious origins. An investigation had been opened.

Officer Dubois appeared and spoke with great animation about how there had always been something eerie about Inspector Javert. He spent considerable time describing how he seemed to know too much about all the goings-on in the town from his first day, especially on any matter pertaining to the mayor, and how he could walk straight into an argument and collar the guilty party without asking as much as one question.

"We weren't at all surprised when that old drifter recognized him from Toulon and said he was a bohemian brat born in there," he finished his testimony, wrinkling his nose. "Blood will tell, your honours, won't it? Like seeks like, and all that, no?"

Then several witnesses who all testified that the mayor and the inspector, both renowned loners, had quickly taken to each others company and spent many a late evening together. Some would not admit to having seen anything more suspicious than that, but two made wild insinuations on everything from their lack of character and immoral ways, to the huge amount of smuggling they controlled together. Officer Martel was one of them.

Javert remembered him among the working ladies; eyes looking too closely, hands grabbing too eagerly. A behaviour that shamed the entire force, yet bothered no-one, for who looks at one more man turned beast amongst the whores? Not even him, so long ago... not the Javert who was happy to follow the letter of the law.

Monsieur le Maire, no, Jean Valjean was displayed before the court. The scars on his wrists and ankles were pointed out, the brand on his chest examined and the faint limp he suffered demonstrated. Not one of the citizens would meet his eyes, not even when he confessed to all except to the insinuations that Inspector Javert had knowledge of his deceit.

Said former Inspector refused to speak, not answering any of the questions shouted into his face. He had nothing to say, not in defence nor condemnation.

For had he not stolen, if not in this life, then the one before? There had never been bribes taken from the mayor, perhaps, but not turning over the counterfeit money he had confiscated was an equal crime. Had he not lied, had he not planned to drive the mayor from the town with underhanded means to save his own worthless soul?

Only on the last day of the trial did Javert manage to shake off the worst of the lethargy filling him. It was the sight of a familiar pair of leering faces staring at him from the other side of the aisle, their jackal souls not hidden by any amount of make-up or lace.

How, he wondered for a bewildered moment, how had they managed to elevate themselves so far, even if only for one day? The titillating scandal of seeing not one, but two pillars of community fall had drawn every gawker from far and wide. There was no possible way that such scum of the street as those two could find places in the first row on this day of the final verdict!

Javert felt the eyes of the guards follow his movements, and tried to still himself. Pleased with his reaction, Mme Thénardier turned to the side and whispered something to her husband, which caused him to snigger loudly. She then leaned back, badly hid her face with a fan and hissed a few words to the well-dressed gentleman next to her husband...

The same well-dressed gentleman, in fact, who Javert recalled seeing since the first day of the trial. Whose finery contained several pieces of jewellery, whose walking stick was ostentatious in its gold-and-enamel décor, and who wore a ring with the insignia of the stone-cutters' guild. A man whom he had seen conversing with the judges two days earlier, a man who would doubtlessly profit from a rival failing. Who might even, with this scandal to ease his way, gain control of both the factories and M. Madeleine's patent for creating jet.

A man whose pockets were full enough to satisfy even the Thénardiers' greed, and whose influence would keep them safe from the law. The same law which Javert had used as a bludgeon, to threaten them to give up the girl, to drive them from their homes, and which they had now turned against him. Mme Thénardier noticed his stare, and blew him a mocking kiss.

Javert tasted blood.

He must bide his time. He ought to wait until death freed him from his chains. It should not take long now, for there were shadows creeping up over the world, features growing hazy as the river of death invaded this doomed reality. But then, if he was doomed already...

Javert could not draw a proper breath, but he no longer needed air; when all the world had gone to hell, he too could become a demon. They had tried to take everything from him, and he saw no reason to leave them anything in turn.

His good behaviour and Sauveterre's lingering regard had kept the bailiffs from chaining him too hard. There were no fetters around his ankles, nothing to keep him from leaping up and throttling the hateful innkeeper, from breaking his neck with his bare hands. Perhaps he'd even have time to grab the wife before they brought him down, before they had to kill him. Let others handle grace and mercy. Sisyphus was already in hell, and he would crush his fellow inmates with the boulder before he allowed himself to forget that.

There was a jangle of chains and Javert felt the press of a foot against his leg. He did not want to look back, he did not want to see those eyes so full of piety. But he had erred, again. He had brought Monsieur le Maire to this, and he owed a debt. So he turned, and beheld Valjean, who shook his head; a warning and a plea. He opened his mouth to protest, tasted the river, and the only thing he could think to ask was 'why'?

Whatever Valjean tried to tell him, Javert could not read it in his eyes. Here, before the judges, there was no possibility to speak and on the other side of death, whatever this man wished to tell him would be gone, impossible to recall. He would never be taken to task; so easy to escape those painful words with one moment of satisfying rage.

The Thénardiers lived.

Valjean, the repeat offender, was sentenced to a lifetime of hard labour. Javert, the corrupt official, was sentenced to twenty years of the same.

There was a crowd waiting behind the courthouse, Fantine among them. She held a jet-beaded rosary in her hands and tears spilled down her cheeks when she saw them. "I will pray for you, Messieurs," she called, "may sweet Jesus guard your souls!" At her feet, little Cosette echoed her words. To Javert's surprise, they were not the only ones. As they were ushered towards the closed cart, more and more voices called out – prayers, well-wishes, angry shouts, calls for mercy... Dozens of work-roughened throats, having escaped their labours for one day to make their farewells and show their gratitude. And while most called to M Madeleine, there were among the distraught faces some that sought Javert's eyes.

"Thank you!" that blessed fool called to them, using the mayor's dignified voice for one last time. "Thank you for your forgiveness, and may the Lord shelter us all!"

Javert could not answer, but he managed an awkward bow despite the bailiff's grip on his arms. He wished, such an idiotic thought to have, that he could make clear to Cosette that even with this end, the law was just... That she must remain within its shelter all her life.

They were sat on hard wooden benches, their chains fastened to the walls. When the door shut between them and the daylight, Javert could still hear the indistinct noise of the crowd. The wagon jerked to a start, rattling slowly through Montreuil-sur-Mer and out through its gates, leaving behind the town and all of its inhabitants.

In the sparse light, Valjean was a shadow, his head bent over his hands; perhaps in prayer, perhaps in despair.

Javert closed his eyes and leaned back against the hard wood. From the depths of his memories, the stench and noise of prison rose up. It mixed with the tarry smell of the wagon, where so many fears and regrets had been sweated out. The stench flew together with the heavy, choking river-water until it felt as if the weight of his memories would crush his soul.

"So here we are, then," Valjean said, his voice a spear through the oppressive shadows growing around Javert. He must still have been looking down at his hands, because Javert heard no noise from the chains around them; despite that, his voice carried no blame.

"Here we are," he answered. "On the road to hell."

"I have tried to recall what I feared most in jail," Valjean said slowly, "but I cannot. Is it the work, the whip, the fetters? The glowing iron, with which they will brand me again? It has all grown together in my mind, twenty years of despair, and I do not know if I – should I steel myself, Javert? Should I pray for deliverance? Or should I put it all away, and sharpen my mind, ready myself for the moment of escape?"

"You plan to escape?" Now, he opened his eyes and took in the man before him.

With a snort, Valjean lifted his head, and unless he was wholly mistaken the clasped hands had turned into clenched fists. His knee bumped against Javert's and he fairly spat out the words. "Of course I plan to escape! You might crave death for this dishonour, but I have not struggled for so long only to give it all up now!"

"Then why did you stop me, in the courtroom? Would not chaos have aided you?" Not, Javert realized, that he would have come far, chained at hand and feet.

"I may be strong, but even I cannot break chains with my bare hands," Valjean said. "Besides, I needed to ask you, if..." He coughed, awkward suddenly.

Javert waited. They had time, if nothing else.

"Ah, it interests me to know, how did you come to your conclusions?"

An old question, an old answer. "I have a good memory for faces. There was your strength, Monsieur, there was your limp; you heard all my suspicions during the trial."

"Then why did you let it be?" he whispered. "What held you back?"

For a moment, Javert considered lying, imagined saying the lines he had once so meticulously planned: He'd had no proof, which was why he had created the list, to sort out his mind. He could not believe that a peasant such as Jean Valjean could rise to the stature of a mayor, not without bringing disaster with him. He had investigated, had found no crime, and when his notes disappeared, he had closed the book on the matter.

But schemes and deceit had brought them here, and Javert was tired unto death of lying.

"Because I no longer care! Whatever your past, you are a good man! You did the town good, you did the state proud, you were my superior and the best I have ever known. If you have served nineteen years for your crime, then why could I not in good conscience let you live this life in peace?" His voice was rising, he knew, but he could no longer hold back his frustration. "If I brought you before justice, I would have done wrong against the laws of God, for you do not deserve these chains! When I left you in peace, I broke the laws of man, and for that I deserve to be punished, but you? No! You, Monsieur le Maire, deserve no more punishment –"

"Do not call me that again!" Valjean cried. "I hate to hear those words from you."

If he had grown wings and flown to heaven, Javert would not have been more flabbergasted. Again, the only thing he could think to ask was 'why'?

"I did not care when we were speaking of official matters," Valjean said, the gloom obscuring his features from Javert, "but I grew to hate it at other times. Every time you said it, I recalled how I was deceiving you."

"But I knew," Javert mumbled.

Valjean shrugged. "I did not. You named me friend, as I did you. When you praised my moral standing –"

"I never!"

"Then why did you always defer to me when we spoke of Grace? Why did you try to defend me against tricks and lies as if you considered me too pure to handle them? Javert, I can hear you turn away, and I will not have it. We're rolling into hell on Earth, but at least we can speak clearly tonight! I called you friend, believing all the while that I was lying to you, that my real name would disgust you. There was a chain choking 'Monsieur le Maire' and it grew heavier every time we spoke as friends."

"Then I have wronged you in turn, have I not, Valjean? You speak of me as your protector, but this time, I brought your doom. Because the only way to bring law and mercy into harmony was to try and hide you! But I was stupid enough to trust in blind chance and craven souls to arrange matters. I thought only of my escape, without seeing how I doomed us both with my lies!"

"Do you think I care? You speak to me of fateful mistakes? Sometimes, it feels as if my life was nothing but a chain of such! But now, I will bear this guilt no longer. Hear me out, Javert! I have money stashed away," Valjean said, his voice falling to a whisper, "and I have learned a great deal about hiding. If God grants me but a chance, I shall flee and make a new life again."

He reached forward as far as his bonds allowed and Javert saw with wonder how Valjean's fingers seemed to strain towards his own. Slowly, half in a dream, he lifted his own hands, stretching the chains tight, and felt rough fingers stroke against his own.

"I, too, have deceived you," Javert whispered.

"So we both lied, and not only to the great faceless behemoth called law," Valjean admitted, "but to each other. Perhaps that was our sin."

"Perhaps that was our sin in this life... You would make a difference, there? Between lying to the law and," he pulled his hands back, heard Valjean's hiss of breath and, slowly, found his touch again. "Lying to a friend?"

"Yes. Oh, yes! I could live the lie an eternity, if but one friendly soul knew my true name," Valjean answered, and Javert thought he was right. When had he allowed himself to forget? When had Monsieur Madeleine grown so large in his eyes, that he stopped seeing Jean Valjean?

"Now, we are freed from the shackles of our lies... if I can free us from the shackles of the state, will you follow me, Javert?"

And Javert closed his eyes, and felt the river rise cool and refreshing around him, another mistake washed away, another step taken. "If not in this life, Monsieur, then in the next."

They fell silent then, all their words spent, with only the points of their knees and the tips of their fingers touching.

When, many hard and heavy days later, Valjean asked if he could swim, when Javert did not have time to answer before a guard came too close, when their chains broke and strong hands pushed him into the water, then Javert learned that drowning in the sea was almost equal in horror and fright to drowning in the Seine. But this was not the water of his despair, and so he sank towards death and hope alike.


Two lifetimes lived, two deaths endured, and what had it left him with? A body that was breaking down from all the death laid on it and a heart that had been cracked open, left defenceless. But perhaps, Javert prayed, another road had opened, and there were new possibilities before him waiting to be explored.

That said, not much would happen if he continued to woolgather like this, except that he would be late for his introductions. Freshly dead or not, that would not do.

He managed to lurch out of bed and gingerly moved to the washbasin. The sight of the water combined with the pervasive scent of the sea in the air was enough to bring him back to the salt-stained deck again, Valjean's hand resting against his back; not yet pushing, only waiting, waiting for the moment of escape.

Then, the mirage lifted. Montreuil-sur-Mer and the inn, the here and the now, appeared and Javert began to wash himself with the utmost care.

As he scraped the razor down his cheek, it felt as if he was scraping away the sediment of death and guilt with it. He'd made mistakes; so be it, he'd paid dearly for them all. He'd learned some harsh lesson, but he'd also learned of... Javert's mind shied away from the thought; the implications too large to grasp on this morning when his time was already running short.

He should focus on the central issues, he thought, putting on his trousers and the, once again, new shirt. No short-cuts for Inspector Javert, no thinking that he could swan through his duties by relying on his foreknowledge. Tying his cravat a bit too strictly, Javert uneasily recalled how he had unwittingly sown seeds of conflict in his last life. His mood only further soured when he considered those men who had helped them grow and bear such ill fruits.

While he knew there was the beginnings of a decent inspector well-hidden beneath that young moron Dubois' mop of hair, he'd have a hard time not simply decking Martel the next time he saw the louse. A below-average officer whose vicious temper caused problems enough, even without the arguments his lecherous behaviour ignited in lifetime after lifetime. And he had the gall to accuse Javert and Monsieur le Maire! Of smuggling, which Martel had suddenly brought up during the trial, smuggling and – Pfah! That was not illegal, anyway, and the Law did not care for morals in that sense.

The matter of smuggled goods, on the other hand, was firmly within the purview of the courts. This time the magistrates had chosen to leave the issue aside due to lack of evidence, but... Now that Javert thought about it, it was quite odd that the point had been brought up at all; especially with overwhelming evidence on all other counts.

Javert tried to recall whether anyone had asked Martel about it specifically, or if he had simply babbled. The other witness who had mentioned it had appeared a half-idiot, at least. He might well have been a drunk bought for a pittance in the nearest seedy inn and had mostly parroted what had been said before.

Not wanting to get ahead of himself, Javert tried hard to recall anything he or the mayor might have done, that suggested smuggling in particular. Or perhaps, he considered, there lay something else buried here? A man with a guilty conscience would often see his particular crime mirrored around him. It was worth investigating – and perhaps dreaming of putting the cuffs on that toad of a 'policeman' would keep Javert from foolish overreactions.

A further knock sounded on his door, the cadence of the knocker identifying one of his men. Javert straightened, did his best to ignore the heaviness of his limbs. Another lifetime of toil before he could hope for the sweet silence of the grave.

Despite his worries and the lingering pain of his body, he found his mind largely untroubled as he walked through the familiar inn. He stopped for a moment, thanking the innkeeper for his services and his wife the outstanding freshness of the rooms, receiving a small package of dried lavender for his words. He found himself nodding at young François, who would become errand runner for the station in three months, and who had shed tears as they carted off Valjean and him off to Toulon.

His horse was there, perfectly saddled and tacked as always. Despite knowing this, he allowed himself a moment to inspect the animal, enjoying the feel of the reliable beast beneath his hand, its every cue familiar and fond after so many years together.

As the bells tolled the hour, he nodded to his troop and they sat up; time to take up his duties anew. The streets were full of mud, the beggars around the factory loud and pitiful as always, and he lacked a clear plan to bring Valjean and Cosette together at the right time... and yet, when Javert looked around at his town, he knew again that he was privileged to be its protector.

And, this afternoon, he would make his introductions to Monsieur le Maire. At that thought, the last phantom pains cleared from him.