Violin Concerto in D Major

by Chlokers

A sequel to the Les Miz Orchestra AU fic, Symphony in G Major, by Splintered Star.

Javert heard piano at the door.

His hand raised for the doorbell stopped, caught in the air, a silent fermata. Months had passed since Valjean ran into him in the park. The repertoire had been updated for the new season, although for him merely another round of repetition. Cosette practiced diligently, and he found himself satisfied for having taken her as a student – enjoyed it, actually. And Valjean spoke about his past, about how the kindness from the Bishop had illuminated his way to music. Since then, Javert had accepted his invitations to tea.

And like that, the animosity between them subsided, strangely similar to how tension between two themes was resolved in a sonata. After ten years' worth of dispute and pursuit, the initial sharp discordances eventually relented, dissolved in harmony in the recapitulation.

So far, no new compositions had been posted on Madeleine's website. Javert was hardly surprised. Cosette and Marius were engaged, and it was not difficult to imagine how Valjean was feeling. The silent resignation of the man was all too familiar to him (how he had seen it so many times). He wanted to help, but found himself unable to ask; the frustration was so compelling that he played the man's work more often than ever.

Now, the piano was being played. He held his breath, and listened.

The notes were hesitant, the pauses too long, the cadences rushed and harsh - nothing like the composer he knew. The works of Madeline were unassuming gifts from God, and despite Javert's fantasies long since dispelled, Valjean's notebooks were always neatly sketched on. He had imagined the man effortless in his composition, methodical at least, but the faint touch of keys jarred his ears with agitation, devoid of the fluency and simplicity he used to find.

Once again, the music stopped all too abruptly. Frowning, Javert put his fingers to the doorbell.

"…I am terribly sorry."

Valjean pushed the teacup to Javert. "Cosette received an unexpected notice for rehearsal…There will be no lessons today, I'm afraid. Sorry that you weren't timely informed." Javert noticed the slightest dark bags under his eyes, and the disconcertingly dishevelled white curls. Might well have been losing sleep for some time.

"That's alright." He quickly replied. The details irritated his nerves regardless, dissonant like microtones - the fallboard still raised, the blank pages scattered on the piano bench. Of course, it could be that Valjean simply answered the door in haste. The feeling of intrusion lingered, nevertheless - a scene too intimate for him, a territory he was not supposed to tread upon.

"Sorry for you to see this," Valjean murmured. He must have noticed his discomfort. "I was…too caught up in my emotions. I've nearly forgotten that you were coming today." Javert waited for him to excuse himself, to stand up and go collecting his privacies. The man only sat there, elbows on his knees, fingers crossed, his whole body a taut string.

Then perhaps he wasn't trespassing so much as he had thought. So, like the first sound of quiet woodwind beyond the trilling strings, Javert ventured softly.

"What is it that's on your mind? I may be of some help, if you would allow me."

Valjean's brow smoothed, but his eyes only dimmed further. Shoulders folded, head slumping, he was almost curling into his shell.

"Well…uh. I want to write a piece for Cosette and Marius. A gift for their wedding." He looked down at his hands, "Only…Cosette, she is leaving. I always know this would come someday, and I must write something special for her, the best as I could - love, if a theme must be named."

"That would be most appropriate." He remembered the duet for violin and cello, the only one in its genre. It had always been a little too sorrowful for him, to be honest, but knowing the reasons, he could understand why Valjean had written it that way.

"But I can't." Valjean's fingers tapped against his knee, the beats irregular, even aleatory. "I've been thinking for days, Javert, but nothing came out. I can't find the tune that I want to give her - them. Hard as I tried to pursue that beauty, the ideas in my head were only banal and more so each time."

"Your music is never banal." He never knew how to comfort, so he stated the truth. Valjean laughed softly.

"They are also far from magnificent, as you once said. But whatever my music is, I'm willing to leave the judgement to the audience who cared to listen - that is not the problem, no. You see, my compositions are selfish, Javert. That's what sets me apart from the professionals. I have never been commissioned before."

Commission. Javert's words caught in his throat, a note crudely muted. In the past two decades of his career, music for him was almost always associated with commissions, the exception being only a few composers, Madeline among them. In order for music to be a profession, commissions are a necessary means, because musicians are not spared the daily necessities that need attending. A composer is commissioned to compose, a performer commissioned to perform, and even if Javert himself had accomplished his commissions with a clear conscience, such was the truth that the establishment detracts from the authenticity of music. And now, Valjean of all people, was troubled for his music being unbound -

"You confound me." He tried his best not to sound angry, "Valjean, the justice of music lies not in commissions. To compose without compulsion, that is not selfishness. That is sincerity."

"But you overestimate me, Javert, as you always do," Valjean sounded almost sad, "I have never composed for any of the higher purposes, never for justice, glory or piety. Melodies surface and linger in my head, so I note them down, that's all. And in that way, I am constantly diverted from sublimity."

"But as far as I can see, your works are sublime already!"

Valjean smiled at him tiredly, then moved his eyes away, staring at the piano. Javert knew what that smile meant. "That would be enough", for neither of them was good with words, nor was ever able to persuade the other. His grip on the violin case tightened.

Conversation, he had hoped, would make Valjean feel better. It didn't, and what else could he do? He was proficient only in technique, well, Valjean's works were never impressive for technique. What the composer excelled in was coaxing meaning from music, a development as natural as branches swayed in a breeze. Never prominent, but striking in their simple grace.

A thousand strings sang in his head. He remembered every one of the pieces. Such breadth of emotions, whose beauty he had never doubted even when he was shaken to the profound. If he could somehow show Valjean the wonders he had seen, if by mere listening the man would be able to find the inspiration he was seeking, then yes, Javert would play everything for him, anything -

- and maybe that was something he could do for him.

Valjean watched him in confusion as he swiftly opened the case, applied rosin to his bow, and set the violin on his shoulder.

"Now, give me a commission, Valjean," he ordered, reassured of the hardwood against his chin, the smell of varnish in his nose. These were the things he knew, things he felt sure of. "A piece. Any will do. You want to know how a commission is taken. Well then. Let me show you."

Valjean stared, as if caught off guard, but eventually he nodded. "…Wagner," after a moment of contemplation, he proposed, "Siegfried's Idyll."

Javert closed his eyes. His bow fell on the strings.

"—Please, tell me about your thoughts, monsieur."

The blonde orchestra leader had the voice of a countertenor. "We're not in our best, admittedly. We haven't rehearsed properly for two weeks since Maestro Lamarque was transferred. The orchestra is still running, but none of us would ever be able to take the conductor's place."

Valjean smiled. Enjolras, such a talented young student, received education himself at the Conservatoire, yet viewed all music lovers as equal, regardless of their education and their pasts. He even volunteered to be the chief manager and concert master of this society, the Orchestra of ABC, where amateur and professional players are admitted alike.

To Valjean's knowledge, the Conservatoire de Paris held more than two hundred concerts each year, requiring definitely an immense amount of practice. Simply keeping up to the rehearsals would have been demanding enough. But here this young man was, doing his best to organize a performance for an orchestra that did not profit him in any tangible ways. The passion he saw in that face reminded him of his own short stint in Montreuil-sur-Mer, those precious, short-lived days when he once served as a conductor.

"I'd be very happy to help. But first, some questions to be asked…"

The invitation was exactly why Cosette insisted dragging him here, Valjean was seeing it now. His precious girl had been grown enough to design tricks for him…At least she was still by his side, for now. The bell had already tolled, but before having to let go, Valjean would cherish the few moments when he still had her company.

Business, he reminded himself. "Don't worry, it's only a few practical concerns. When will your performance take place, and how much time has been arranged for rehearsals?"

"The performance date hasn't been finalized, Monsieur, but it's most probably in early June. Rehearsals are currently twice a week, three hours each, but we can arrange for more if necessary. The timetable would be flexible, as we'll coordinate everybody's schedule beforehand."

"Ah, that sounds fine for me. How about the programme?"

"We haven't decided yet. We do have a repertoire, but this year is the tenth anniversary of our orchestra, and we've got a record turnout of performers. I was hoping that we could handle some bigger pieces. A concerto, perhaps? It's been years since we did one last time, and several members are graduating this year. They won't be able to play here then, presumably."

"A concerto I'll be very happy to conduct. But do you have a soloist?"

"I believe I have several candidates in mind."

"Then I believe my questions are all answered." Enjolras regarded him evenly, and Valjean smiled. "Sure, I'll be your conductor."

"Thank you, monsieur," Enjolras said, elegantly taking Valjean's hands in an expression of gratitude, eyes shining bright, "for your gracious and timely assistance." He would have held a lyra in his hands, thought Valjean, if it hadn't been a violin already.

"I'm more than willing to. The musicians you have here exceed my expectations. It'll be a delight to work together with you."

For the few times he had come and listened, Valjean had mostly focused his attention on Cosette. Then again, she always inquired about his opinion of the orchestra from a conductor's perspective. His opinion was that these kids were all very talented indeed: That trumpeter who slept incessantly was Bacchus himself when he picked up his instrument; the wispy percussionist played the snare drum with his little head held high, like the leader of a parade; and the brunette, with whom Cosette often chattered and giggled, played the violin as if she were wielding a sword, reminiscent of the way he had imagined Javert when he wrote The Wolftongue.

Enjolras nodded, his eyes falling for a second on the music hall. "I am in your debt, Monsieur." His gaze returned to Valjean, "I heard that you compose yourself. We can put your works onto our programme, if you wish so."

"Ah, thank you for being so kind, but." Valjean's face burned slightly. Despite Cosette's best efforts to console him, being openly recognized as Madeline still felt bizarre. Had it not been for that awkward reencounter at her birthday party, and the fuss it made, his interest in composing would still only be known to two. Perhaps that was why Enjolras had invited him here, backstage, to negotiate these affairs?

"My works will not suffice for such an important occasion as yours." He found himself a more practical excuse, "My pieces would barely make for recitals or chamber music. Besides, I am never good at orchestration."

"But Monsieur, in our orchestra, everyone is equal before music. Your compositions I may have not heard, but your conducting skills I do have seen."

Ah, he knew which performance it was. His thoughts drifted away as he listened to Enjolras overcomplimenting his conducting skills. Before the confrontation and the ensuing separation, Valjean had contrived to coax Javert into several peaceful collaborations. With the funding for music so limited in Montreuil-sur-Mer, only a few performances were recorded during his stay, and that was also uploaded to the Internet, only one. Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony, a work that Javert much loved.

If Javert felt any anger towards him then, it had been soothed by the eloquent, pervasive Russian strings. His concert master always restrained himself on stage, but with music like that, even a man of stone would be shaken. He could still remember how Javert had followed his indications with the corner of his eye, leading his section in subtle but profound eloquence.

The memory faded, merging into a flashback from last week, Javert playing the Idyll in his house. Another touching piece - longing in a slumber, with a hint of fate foreshadowing. Javert always brought out those emotions well, even if he didn't in fact like Wagner personally.

Valjean's heart skipped a beat. An inopportune performance mishap - but no one noticed.

"You flatter me." realizing that Enjolras had been waiting for his response, he finally replied, "I have composed anonymously, and do wish to remain so. Please…allow for my peculiarities. Being able to pick up the baton again is enough a favour for me. I shall thank you all for allowing me this opportunity."

"Then we have done each other a favour." Enjolras inclined his head, "I'll do some research and confirm the programme. We'll make it beautifully, monsieur." He stretched his hand at Valjean, who mechanically took it with a standard smile, shaking it firmly. "Surely we will."

"No." Javert said decisively, and took a sip of tea.

"But Monsieur Javert, we really need the best violinist!" Cosette, who had just endured his captiousness for two hours, somehow managed to look not tired at all, her violin case slung over her shoulder. "We all crave for something different. Many of us have never worked with a soloist before!"

"That's exactly why I find this doubtful. How can you expect expertise if most of your musicians have no experience at all?" He placed the tray on the table and glanced at Valjean, who was sitting to his right, smiling apologetically. "The quality of music is my foremost concern."

"But we'll learn fast! You won't believe how amazing our musicians are, they'll adapt in an instant, Monsieur Javert. Papa has seen us rehearsal. He can testify to that." Cosette looked to Valjean expectantly, "You will, right, Papa?"

Valjean rubbed the nape of his neck, unnerved under the attention of both. "It depends, Cosette." He regarded Javert somewhat helplessly, "A student orchestra is certainly not in the front rank, but we're in Paris, not the provinces. L'orchestre d'ABC…would at least surpass Montreuil-sur-Mer, I guess."

"See? Monsieur Javert, our orchestra is far from lame as you might think." Cosette exclaimed cheerfully, while Javert curled his lip. "If you don't believe Papa's words, listen to our recordings instead! You'll at least consider it, Monsieur. This performance is really important to us. We're almost done negotiating with Philharmonie de Paris! That's exactly the music hall where you often play, isn't it, Monsieur?"

He did play there – that was where most of the concerts of l'Orchestre National de Paris were held. Maestro Gisquet had seen students around talking of collaboration, as he had mentioned during some rehearsal. That they had really come this far was indeed something unexpected…Either the orchestra was truly exceptional, or they had a really prominent patron behind. Better be the former, mused Javert.

"Send me the recordings." He conceded, "I'll discuss with your father. No promises."

"Thank you so much, Monsieur Javert!" Cosette was not in the least disheartened, her voice chirping as a lark. "Papa, Monsieur Javert, I must go now. The whole string section will be waiting. If I'm late, Marius is going to think nonsense again." She waved to them in the doorway. "Papa, you must persuade Monsieur Javert to come! Our hope is all on you now!"

Valjean's face flushed a little. He smiled as he raised his hand to wave her goodbye, while Javert inclined his head. The door closed. Javert turned to Valjean, catching a glimpse of his smile before it turned to a wistful minor.

"That's where she met the boy, was it?"

"Ah, yes." Valjean's voice was floating. Javert decided not to give him another chance to sink into melancholy.

"I'll pay special attention to the ostinato when listening." He tried.

The man was indeed amused. "Thank you, Javert, but that child was actually good. Scolding him wouldn't be easy."

"Unsteady bowing, insufficient vibrato," he felt his own lips tugging upwards, "involuntary acceleration, they don't even realize it. Always prone to these, the students. Never seen an exception."

The glory of spring gushed in through the window, painting the walls a light green. Birds were singing outside. (Was that a robin? Memory of a debate with Valjean surfaced briefly, on the subject of Messiaen.) Valjean gazed at him in silence, as if with something on mind.

"What?"

"Their concert master, Enjolras…he plays in your orchestra as well, if memory serves me right."

Javert smacked his lips in annoyance, avoiding reflecting where Valjean could have possibly acquired the information. Then it made sense. Wouldn't it be easy for that rich boy to take an orchestra to the Philharmonie, himself being so acquainted with its patrons! Exercising power on music like that…Not that he hadn't seen it often already, but still. "I didn't know he intended to continue his career in music. All that kid wants is revolution."

"It seems that he has made music a part of it. His orchestra cares not where you are from, or what past you have. No discrimination between professionals and amateurs. 'Anyone who loves music is a friend', that's how he put it." Valjean's tone was careful, a note piano yet powerful, "And that, I think, is a doctrine we both agree with."

Javert frowned. That Valjean would juxtapose himself with Javert was unsettling enough, but Madeleine's aphorisms in parallel with Enjolras' childish illusions? Incomprehensible. "When I played in the park, it was only for your music to be heard."

"And like that, you make no distinction between your listeners. I mean…well, I just thought you may feel closer to them, put like this."

"Say what you must, Valjean."

Valjean's hands were folded in his lap. "I don't want to force you into something you're not willing to do, Javert."

He went silent, like drum skin stretched tight, waiting for the blow to fall. A simple question, but Javert was never good at lying. "Whether I am willing or not is beside the point."

"But you do have a busy schedule. That I can understand."

"…No." Why did he have to make it all clear, when it pained him so, "No, Valjean, only you would have such fantasies. Why on earth would you think that I could ever play as a soloist?"

"Why couldn't you?"

Valjean's consternation contained nothing but genuine bafflement. Javert wanted to laugh. He took a deep breath. It was a gruesome piece, but since Valjean was so intent to hear out the coda, he would grant him that.

"I am not professionally trained. Enjolras can dream about his idealisms, universal equality, well then, let him dream as he like. The truth stands. Without systematic education, self-taught musicians won't get high on the social ladder. A concerto is not the kind of music written for people like me. Yes, one may attain the position of concertmaster if he practice hard enough, but I know all too well how much charity I have already received over these years. Me, the soloist, playing in a concerto? Me, under the gaze of all, alone responsible for creating beauty in that sacred hall? I am not worthy, Valjean. I would bend. I would break. I would ruin the music as well as myself."

He saw his failures, from every solo in the auditions to the one performance accident he couldn't make himself forget. And then there was that birthday party, further witnessing his incompetence. Broken strings cannot be repaired. He could shroud himself in numbness and get used to the stage, but he would never get used to attention, never be worthy of the centre of the spotlight. Valjean should know that better than anyone else.

"... Javert."

He couldn't understand how Valjean put so much meanings into one sigh. His heart was trembling more than when he was hearing the most affecting music piece.

"I may have never told you before, but you are the best violinist I have ever had the chance of knowing." Rough fingers covered the back of his hand, and he shuddered. "I…have seen what you are capable of. You might not feel at ease, playing with people watching, for certainly I do not. I've always felt a little out of place in the suit. If you are not willing, if you're uncomfortable, then don't do it, you don't have to. But never say you're not worthy of music."

Valjean let go, but did not draw back, his hand hanging several inches over Javert's own clenched fist. A plead, an invitation.

"For every time I composed for you, I composed believing this: the only person who could do my music justice is you."

He was trembling, like a plucked string. He had never thought that Valjean would talk about his music like this. It was private enough for him, knowing who Madeline was and being accepted in the paradise he created, every "for J" a precious gift he did not deserve. He had never expected more, never dared - and yet. Valjean had never taken a commission. He wrote those pieces in the belief of Javert - the glorious, ethereal beauty, divinely created as well as storms and spring, was truly written for him –

"…I guess I do owe you one performance." His voice was bordering on huskiness, "Your music should be heard by a wider audience. This is good opportunity."

"Ah, Javert…I appreciate that, but I've never written any pieces for an orchestra. Enjolras asked if I could compose one, but time is limited and I'm never good at orchestration. And you know, I've already got a piece to busy myself with." Valjean was deflecting the topic, a rest arbitrarily placed on the staff, and Javert would not let him. If the conductor didn't notice his mistakes, it was the master's responsibility to point them out for him.

"But if I play in the concerto, there will be an encore."

Valjean stiffened. And for the first time, Javert gathered his courage, and returned the calloused hands with a firm grip.

"…Thank you, everybody, that was really good. Woodwinds, the sweetness is excellent, just keep the pitch stable, ok? Cellos and basses, uh…try to make your notes more determined, and lift your bow faster. Yeah, that's much better, thank you. And - percussion, I need you to be a little softer when you enter. Great. Beautiful. Now let's try again, starting from bar 127."

He didn't realize he had missed it so much. It was refreshing, standing in front of an orchestra again, participating in the actual making of music. He still went to concerts in Paris, but it was different from actually conducting a piece. Sitting in the auditorium, he could only take what was given to him, but to conduct was to bring out beauty with his own hands - an unprecedented freedom for a man with past like his. He caught Cosette grinning.

The revised section was much better to ear, and Valjean gave a few more words of encouragement. "I think we can have a break now. How about…ten minutes?" He looked questioningly at Enjolras, who gave his consent. The students cheered, and the hall was filled with chatters, laughs and noises from instruments in an instant.

"They were calling you Jean again." A familiar baritone grumbled in his left, penetrating the hubbub.

Valjean couldn't help but smile. "Well, to the old times." He turned to face Javert, and made to toast with his baton. Javert was always fastidiously dressed even for rehearsals, his hair combed in an immaculate ponytail. Here they were, after all these years, again working together for music the higher course. Valjean found in himself a sudden urge to embrace his – not master, but soloist, which meant that they were equals now.

"I'm so glad you're here. Come," Instead he just placed the baton on the music stand, then helped Javert lay down his case. Javert made no opposition to his offer, intent on the routine preparations for playing. "We were practicing the pieces of the second half. You've heard some of it, I suppose?"

"Tolerable," answered Javert, eyes on his bow, his hands unstopping with the rosin. "At least they practiced." Valjean knew how much Javert valued diligence, so that from him would in fact be a tremendous compliment.

"Ah, Monsieur! It's you!"

The female voice at the entrance attracted their attention both. Valjean recognized her as the girl who normally sit next to Cosette, another package humped on her back apart from the violin case. He had wondered about her absence when he came, but let his question slide, remembering that Enjolras once stated that rehearsal attendance was not mandatory. "They've been talking of this supreme violin soloist and I'm so curious, but I didn't realize it was you, monsieur! How come! The whole string section will have nothing to worry about."

Javert frowned in surprise. "You play here?"

"Why, yes!" She grinned, "Sorry for the delay, part-time job. I'll be able to come on time from next week on. Ah, and Monsieur, you're also here to conduct! What a family we've got."

Valjean voiced his perplexity at the same time Javert did, in the same exact words. "You know her as well?"

"Well, it's a long story." The brunette blinked cunningly, "You, monsieur, I have encountered at the rehearsals, you're Cosette's father. And this monsieur," She gestured to Javert, "I met in the central park, and guess what? Cosette all but hassled me until she got the news out! I told her of your looks, and she recognized you in an instant. You're her tutor now, I heard? How marvellous! How I would like to have you teach me, if only I can afford."

Javert regarded Valjean, who returned his gaze. "Your daughter is…something," the man allowed, somewhat beaten.

"I think I do have underestimated her a little," Valjean wringed his fingers in his hair, "She more or less tricked me into this as well, if that makes you feel any better…"

"No, never mind." Javert turned to the girl – whose name was Éponine, as Valjean now remembered. "No discussions of tutorship before you show me what you're capable of."

"So you are willing to consider it?" Her eyes brightened. "Thank you, Monsieur!"

She elbowed her way across the room to her seat with some rudeness. Javert shrugged to a dumbfounded Valjean. "Like I said, the quality of music as my foremost concern. I shoulder my responsibility when I have to," He reiterated, gesturing with his bow, eyes smiling a little. To the old times. "Now, where would you like to start from, Maestro?"

It took them three months to go through the concerto.

Free from scruples about bureaucratic courtesies, Javert talked more straightforwardly. Valjean gradually asked his opinions first before instructing the orchestra with his own proposals. They still would disagree, Valjean finding the demands unpractical, Javert the amendments disrespectful. But the debate was no longer agitated, as they make their suggestions respectively in almost an amicable competition, suggestions which were then put to practice to determine which produced the desirable sonority.

Some days, Javert would come early, sit by and listen as they rehearsed the other two pieces on the programme, and then walk over to point out the students' insufficiencies one by one with a stern face after Valjean declared a break. The children all took it well; the self-taught musicians were but happy to hear his instructions, Éponine among the most avid pupils.

They often watched each other during the piece. (Such was the necessity for the conductor and the soloist to coordinate.) The kids sometimes would applause when one of Javert's solos was over, a practice he found rather puerile, exaggerative rather than sincere. The same applause would burst out when Cosette took Marius's hand or some other students he couldn't name went close, startling the two who had long forgotten the passions of youth. But when Valjean himself decided to join the students to play hurrah boys, Javert found himself unable to throw a fit at him. The man would regard Javert with utmost sincerity and pride, as if the notes he had just played were not merely a realization of what was written on the score, but something precious, even invaluable.

Day by day, the music was shaped and polished and burnished by their efforts, like a sculpture bearing life out of meticulously carved marble. The performance day drew near.

The last rehearsal took place in the evening before performance. The students practiced assiduously; Three hours passed in a flicker as Valjean led the orchestra through some of the most difficult sections, adjusting interactions with Javert.

When Valjean declared the rehearsal over, Enjolras walked to the front and delivered a passionate speech to the whole orchestra, lecturing about how this performance was not only important as a celebration of the orchestra's 10th anniversary, but also part of the progress to draw public attention to this music society and its tenet that everyone should be equal. The students applauded with claps and even more with instruments, an especially impressive long note of trumpet mouthpiece sounding loudly from the brass section.

Then a genial young flutist with glasses came to the front and reiterated some requirements. Time, place (Javert's attitude towards Enjolras was mitigated once he knew they rented the hall by only qualified means), dress code, instrument preparations, and other things Javert had already known. He reacquainted himself mentally with the fingering of the cadenza, until he felt Valjean, who was sitting by his side, gently touch his arms.

"Stay for a little while longer, would you? I've got something to show you."

He stayed until Cosette was discussing with Eponine about stage makeup arrangements, and Enjolras, after giving the two guests due respect, went to Courfeyrac who was in charge of backstage management. Unoccupied, the two walked out of the practice hall and settled themselves in a vacant room outside.

After carefully closing the door, Valjean handed him a sheet of music with utmost carefulness.

"You've finished it." He realized aloud.

"Thanks to your assistance." Valjean gave him an expectant smile, "Would you indulge me one more time?"

"Why would you still ask? ...I've never been able to resist."

He heard the piece as he read. Valjean had recovered his voice indeed. Tranquil and slow, in the same style he would normally write for Cosette – but, ah, how infinite the tenderness! If the last duet had been a travel in somber woods, this one would be a promenade by the open lake. The two instruments extended one theme in dialogue with each other, rippling and sparkling with celestial timbre.

"What do you think?"

"Impressive, as always," Valjean somehow tensed – that incredible moron – so Javert clarified, "Magnificent."

"…Thank you." The man relaxed, puffing a little. "I'll give it to them tomorrow, when the performance is over, I think."

Javert's fingers brushed along the handwritten notes. "They're lucky to have you here."

"And I you too. Without your assistance, I wouldn't be able to create such a work."

When on earth would the old obdurate composer stop his dreams about him? Javert handed the score back to Valjean, suppressing an urge to roll his eyes. "Yes you would. You're unlike me, you're bestowed with the power of creativity. I am but a craftsman doing his job, helped nothing but witnessed your creation."

"But performance is already creation, only in a different form." Valjean folded the paper carefully. "A composer would never be able to exhaust his intentions on the written, however meticulous he is. There will always be blanks unfilled, articulations uninstructed. It is in these seemingly trivial details, distinguishable only between performances, that your rendition of a work becomes unique."

"I'm sworn to a duty. Respecting composers, satisfying patrons. As long as an audience await, I cannot bear to set myself free."

"But tomorrow you'd be free."

And he was right about that, Javert realized. The rituals for concerts were all too familiar to him, keeping up his self-restraint with the dress code of suit and bow tie, that he had forgotten how it was different this time. This time he was no longer forced to play. No longer a servant playing for his benefactors, no longer a slave of the institution. In this one concert, he was not to sound his instrument in exchange for a living—it was for himself solely that he would play. An expression uncompelled, the same as when he played in the park.

"…Thus you can create. Justice does not stand in opposition to beauty, and we both know beauty is something you're capable of making."

"…if you insist." Closing his eyes, Javert allowed Valjean's hand to fall onto his shoulder.

"Take a good rest. Tomorrow will be a tedious fight." Valjean said as he opened the door for him—how unfathomable, that such tenderness should one day be addressed to him. Javert nodded, the newfound melody lingering in his head.

The applause could be heard even behind the walls, laden with whistles and bravos. One last piece to play. The ending piece for the first half, an encore for the concerto in D major, work by the mysterious composer Madeline, the first composition Valjean wrote for him. Violin solo in ruvido. The Wolftongue.

The choice was early decided. Since Valjean preferred to write simple and graceful pieces, there were not so many technically challenging passages suitable as candidates for an encore. Javert stepped out from the side of the stage, violin in one hand, bow in another. The applause ascended like a tidal wave.

He walked to his place, next to the conductor. All sounds dissipated in a swirl, leaving only the effulgence of lights, cascading over the stage. Eyes of the audience and of the orchestra were all fixated on him. He glanced at Valjean. The man's white hair was bathed in gold, baton in hands in almost a prayer, eyes smiling.

He played.

Valjean had so often seen Javert play, yet for each time, the man's creativity and virtuoso would amaze him even more. Javert playing The Wolftongue was every bit like what he had imagined, yet more striking tenfold. Music flowed through him, thereby carved by him; with a wolfish grin, the violinist conjured a storm out of his strings, plunging the listeners into a plain overcast with thunder and lightning.

Sharp, tense notes drummed against his ears. He couldn't breathe. Raindrops slashing onto the ground he saw, like a thousand of arrows – and Javert was there, panting, his hair soaked with sweat, having just finished a chase, or have just begun –

Then, across the downpour, a flicker of rainbow.

The note was not supposed to be there. He knew his own composition. Valjean's heart clenched, clasping the baton. What was wrong with Javert?

A mistake.

But it wasn't a mistake. Javert wouldn't fool himself. Ever since Valjean showed him the duet, its melody had anchored itself in his head. Something in it was familiar.

That night he fell into a slumber cradled by music. One moment it was the encore designated for the performance, the next seamlessly it became the new composition of Valjean's. They were, naturally, distinct in nature: fierce whirlwinds against fluent brilliance. Yet Valjean's elegance surpassed the varied characteristics, confusing the two pieces in his dreams—he heard an underlying stream of serenity beneath the acute harshness, twined in complete consonance, as if were originally intended.

He woke up with the hybrid tune still in his mind. He diverted himself with sundry affairs before a performance for fear of further confusion, but the harder he tried to forget, the more persistent the idea remained.

Javert was never comfortable with improvisation. Music without instructions disconcerted him. Even for the solo cadenza in the concerto, he had picked a version available and well-performed instead of writing his own. Auditions sometimes required him to manifest his skills through improvising on a given theme, so he memorized several variation patterns out of expediency. Some of them never found use, as the auditioners were often quickly satisfied—or put up with him.

Apart from that, he had never played outside what was notated.

But Valjean, the composer, had granted him the power to create. In this concert, only in this one concert, his music would truly enjoy freedom—

Valjean's breath caught in his throat. He recognized the melody, buried deep in the lower notes, unfolding as the harmony progressed—it was the one he had recently written, the benediction for Cosette and Marius. Javert interweaved the two pieces into one, the seemingly contrasting themes in perfect unison.

The Idyll was ringing in his ears.

"Whatever the commission is, there will always be references." Javert had put down his bow, as if he cleared his thoughts through playing, an inspector taking hold of the critical clue. "Passion is but one motive of composition. Skills are also necessary for fulfilling the rest. Valjean, you have the power to combine Mozart's ingenuity with Beethoven's masterstroke. You know how to grow a seed into beauty. –Yes you do. You only need an initial idea to start from."

"But my muses are gone, and I do not know where to find them." He had answered, a tightness in throat, whether due to former emotions or the music Javert had just played, he could not tell.

"Maybe you only looked in the wrong direction." Javert's tone was almost mild, Gottfried as he led Jean-Christophe through the barren fields.

"When I am stuck in a section, I'll practice, I'll look to the masters, listen to their interpretation. I've got my way. Composers all have their own ways. Messiaen, his canyons and birds. Debussy, his gamelan. Even Beethoven had his lanes to walk. Now, what is your way, Valjean? The seeds to your music, the emotions, where do they come from?"

He blinked, scales falling from his eyes. "…my experiences. My life."

Bleak fancies do not lend itself to love. He forced himself to imagine the happiness of Cosette and Marius, but in the end, the happiness wasn't his own. No wonder why all his attempts sounded hypocritical. He should look elsewhere…

"Have patience. Do not approach love with your themes. Approach them with love, instead."

And thus came the epiphany. How could it be that he had never realized it before? It was on the ride back home that the theme first came to him, Cosette by his side. With a curious look, she told him he was humming again, establishing something like a melody—

That was the first time the orchestra came to the end of the concerto. Valjean had heard Javert play the cadenza, knowing that the artwork with both their contributions was, in a sense, finally complete. Inspired by the long-waited joy after hardships, he had captured the emotion as the initial notes. Everything then proceeded as smoothly as Javert predicted; it took him only one week to finish the piece.

Now he understood the reasons.

In the end, to him, Javert and 'love' was one and the same theme.

Javert ended the last note. The applause flooded the hall, but nothing the violinist seemed to have heard. He looked at Valjean, unmoving, waiting.

The lights casted his contour on stage, a faintest tremor in the bowed hand. The familiar grey eyes were held in panic and regret, like a repentant child, abashed and pained as Daedalus in the Labyrinth. Yet despite everything, a tinge of hope remained—the shimmering notes of harp against tortured strings and muted woodwinds.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres…

Valjean smiled, walked down the podium, and pull his concertmaster into a warm embrace.