Chapter 39 - Create Your Own

The Pont au Double was empty. The bridge deserted. Javert stood looking over the side at the gently flowing river beneath. The waters were brown and murky.

Had it always been that dirty? When he had stood here with Grace, the river seemed to sparkle like the shimmering scales of a giant serpent passing underneath them. But perhaps that had been because of her. Because of her presence. The world had sparkled when Grace had been in it. Now, it held no magic for him whatsoever.

The Seine was the colour of shit. The facade of Notre Dame was stained with soot and smoke. The bridge itself was crumbling and unremarkable.

But he felt the breath of her memory on the back of his neck. He could see her face before him, replaying all those old memories of when the two of them had met here under the cover of nighttime. When they had sat together and eaten on the wall, when they had argued over politics, when they had kissed…

His extraordinary woman, his star from another time, had winked out. Leaving him with nothing but those ghostly memories of her. And now, there was nothing but the pale shadow of her existence. Bleached and vague. An insult when compared to the burning vibrancy of what she had been like in life.

He had promised to love her until the end of his days, to protect her with every ounce of strength he possessed, to send her home and back to a place of safety…

Torment and guilt tore his soul apart.

To have been shot by Jean Valjean would have been better than this. To have been beaten to death by the boys of the Amis d'ABC would have been better than this. To have thrown himself in front of the Gribauval cannons would have been better than this.

Each second that he existed in a world without her was as painful as having the flesh flayed from his body.

He would have gladly been flayed, burned, boiled, mutilated…anything, if it would have saved her. But the ultimate hurt of all had been God's decision to spare his life, but not hers. He had known plenty of pain in his life. He had thought of it as a necessary part of existence. Perhaps even relished in it, from time to time, believing that it made him harder, stronger, better than others. But this was a pain that he could not live with.

There was something natural about stepping up onto the wall of the bridge. Something soothing as he steadied his shaking legs by holding on to the iron lamppost. He had looked death in the eyes many times during his life, but never once had he believed that it would come to him as his own choice.

He'd been raised to believe that what he was about to do would send him to Hell. No burial on consecrated ground, no Christian prayers said for him, the Prefecture wouldn't even give him a ceremony of honours customary for a man of his station. But as he stared at the shit-brown river below, as he heard the ghost of her laugh on the wind around him, he knew that he was already living in Hell. What could possibly be worse, waiting for him after death, than this?

Javert closed his eyes. He tried to recall to mind the joyous moments of his life, few as they had been. Most of it had been marred with strife and difficulty, and as he looked back, he saw a man who was often unkind and cruel to those around him. Not the steadfast and unshakeable pillar of the Law he'd often believed himself to be. Now she was gone, who would truly mourn his passing? Who would shed a tear when they heard that Inspector Javert was dead? It was embarrassing to realise the reality of his life: A man who had marched through most of his existence in almost complete ignorance, only just recently, in his middling years, having understood the error of his ways and the true pleasure of loving someone and being loved in return. Again, it seemed cruel of God to grant him a taste of true happiness by giving him Grace, and then snatching it away.

Still, it felt somewhat comforting to feel the breeze pass through his hair, knowing that it would soon be whipping all around him. He wondered for a brief moment what the embrace of The Seine would feel like, but he pushed it from his thoughts. He'd know soon enough.

Javert glanced down at the water below. He estimated that there was about a thirty foot drop or so. Perhaps the fall would kill him outright, but most likely, he'd drown. He had never been the most confident of swimmers, as shown when Burgelesse had been forced to drag him out of the harbour at Alexandria, and he'd made no efforts in the years that followed to improve his lack of skill in this area. And then there'd be nothing. No more of this pain.

He extended a foot out. Let it hover in the negative space over the side of the bridge.

All he had to do was tip himself forwards. Let the weight of his own body drag him towards the river.

He tried to picture something comforting to go into oblivion with. And in the end, he settled on that night in Provins. That purple dress. That smile from across a room. The night his soul had caught fire, and hadn't stopped burning until this very day.

Maybe if God was merciful, then Grace might be there to greet him in the place wherever lost souls go. But from the course of his life, from the last day or so on the barricades, he was in no doubt of God's character. If God existed at all, then he had no mercy for him.

He loosened his fingers a little, and they began to slip from around the iron lamppost…

His skin tingled as he felt his chest lean forwards…

And with eyes scrunched shut, the iron slipped past his palm…

"INSPECTOR!"

His eyes flew open. With a gasping breath, he scrabbled for a hold on the iron lamppost again.

It was almost too late. He just about managed to grab on to the metal before his whole body fell off the Pont au Double. But he couldn't stop the momentum of his body on time, and he swung perilously forwards, one hand grasped around the lamppost.

His eyes were wide and wild. The breaths came hot and harsh from his mouth. Pebbles and grit dropped from his boots, down the steep drop before him, and his thighs trembled with terror as he tried to right himself.

"Help him!" a voice of fear cried out behind him.

Something about that voice made Javert stiffen. Even despite his dangling terror, he found himself pausing. Going rigid with disbelief…

He felt desperate, grabbing hands around his waist. He was hauled backwards by someone he could not see. The Seine disappeared beneath the brick of the bridge, and Javert tumbled backwards, falling to the floor in a heap.

The sky spun above him. He looked up at the passing clouds in a daze. Too many emotions were flooding his brain. Too much confusion was marring his vision.

There was a man, lying on the floor and panting right beside him. Javert did not know him. Quite frankly, he looked like any other unwashed labourer he might have found on the streets of Paris. His grey, wild hair covered most of his face. Perhaps he was just some bystander that had walked past the bridge and seen him at just the right moment.

"Bloody hell…" another person breathed. Not the man lying on the ground beside him. Another person…

He thought he'd maybe imagined it before. That voice that had made him go stiff. The tone and timbre of it made his soul ache. He thought that he'd made it up, wishing to hear that voice in his lowest moment of sadness and despair.

"What the hell were you thinking, you bloody idiot?!" The voice asked indignantly.

He didn't want to sit up. Didn't want to turn around to face them. Because if he was wrong, then the pain of disappointment would kill him.

"Good Lord, I did it." The grey-haired man beside him breathed. "I changed the story! He lives!"

He sat up brusquely, casting a wild, slightly manic look down at the Inspector. His eyes were sparkling with triumph.

"We did it, Grace! We stopped the soliloquy! He lives..! He lives!"

The wild man looked back over his shoulder, beaming from ear to ear.

The name he'd said…The person he'd spoken to…

Javert had to shut his eyes to prevent himself from following his line of sight.

"Javert..?" She called out to him.

A pain started deep inside his chest. Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. That voice… That voice…

It couldn't exist. It had to be a cruel trick of his broken mind. That voice couldn't exist anymore.

"Javert..?" She called out to him again. Her voice was almost pleading with him, hungry for him to turn around and see her.

"The story is born anew! A new world! A new life!" The gleeful grey man said, hopping to his feet and leaping about. "You were right, Grace! My magic could change the story!"

The grey-haired man paused in his gleeful hopping, going very still very quickly…

"Grace..?" The grey man asked, calling out to her.

But this time, Javert heard the concern in his voice. The alarm.

That was finally enough to shake Javert out of his stupor.

He pulled himself to his feet, desperate to see her now. He felt the urge to protect, to defend, to shield roar back into life in his stomach. And he turned just in time to see Grace slip from the saddle of the horse…

"Grace!" The Story Teller exclaimed.

Javert lurched forwards, catching her in his arms before she could hit the ground.

Her face was white-pale, her eyelids fluttering. A smear of blood marked her right cheek, but as Javert held her close to his body, he marvelled at each miraculous detail of her. The face he thought he'd never lay his eyes on again. The warmth of her that he never thought he'd feel again. His own expression was a gormless mask of shock. But it was her…

It was her…

He touched a hand to her face. Her miraculous face. Wanting to feel the realness of it.

His fingers were trembling. His whole body was trembling.

"Grace..?" He asked, his voice about to break with emotion. Tears of joy filled his eyes. "Grace..!"

He shook her body gently. Tried to rouse her from whatever had claimed her. But she remained limp and slack in his arms.

"What happened?!" Javert asked, looking up at the Story Teller, demanding answers with the ferocity of his scowl. "What happened to her?!"

"Oh…I have been such a fool…" he sighed.

Javert followed the track of blood down her cheek. There was blood too on her neck, her shirt, her slacks, fresh and red. Whatever blooming relief he'd felt inside him instantly withered into dread.

"She wanted to find you. That was all that occupied her thoughts. Find The Inspector, save The Inspector..! Nothing for her own wellbeing…"

"What happened to her?!" He roared, fire burning inside him.

"I…I found her in the rubble of the barricade. Half-buried… Half-dead…"

Javert searched her skin as he listened. A horrible, dreadful feeling of panic began to rise in the back of his throat. His fingers pulled at the stained shirt on her body, and he knew…he knew what he'd find before he found it.

"They shot her…" he said, almost flatly.

And there, almost to prove it, was the wound.

Ugly and weeping.

Spewing out angry, purple veins and clotted crimson blood from the hole just above her hip.

Javert shook his head, grim determination settling over him.

"No." He breathed, his teeth ground together. "No. No, no, no, no! I will not allow this! I will not let you die again!"

He glanced up at the Story Teller, grabbing him by his shirt and dragging him to the floor.

"You! You are the man who sent her here?"

"I am, sir..." The Story Teller responded weakly.

"Where she came from… can they help her there?"

"Well…Yes. I imagine so."

"Then send her back! Do you hear me?! Send her back!"

"Don't you dare..." a weak voice mumbled from the ground.

Javert gasped when he heard Grace speak again. He had thought her out cold. Taken away by blood loss and shock. But she was just conscious. Just able to keep her eyes open as she stared up at him, her marble-white face turned skywards.

"Grace…" he sighed, touching a hand to her cheek as tears misted his eyes.

"I'm not going back. Don't you dare send me back…"

"Grace, I…I watched them shoot you." He choked out. It pained him to say it. To relive it. "Don't ask me to watch you die."

"I'm not going back!" She repeated again. Grace looked the Story Teller dead in the eye and held his gaze. "Whatever he threatens to do to you…" she said, nodding her head at Javert. "… don't you dare send me back through that Star. Coming here was not my choice, but leaving it damn well will be!"

"You!" Javert exclaimed, glancing to the Story Teller.

The Story Teller looked small and afraid. He said nothing, his eyes wide with shock.

"Do it! Work your magic! Send her home!"

"But Sir, she-"

"I don't care what she said! Send her back to where she belongs!"

"My life is my choice, as long as I'm still breathing!" Grace shuddered out. She paused for a second, gathering her breath and fighting down the winces of pain that made her face twitch. "And my choice is no."

"Grace, please…" Javert begged. Tears were now running down his crooked nose.

"I'm not going back!"

He scrunched up his eyes and wept softly. Javert held her body close as he trembled with fear and rage. Once again, God had spared him from the pain of her death, only to have her perish right before him. He couldn't have pictured a worse sort of torture for himself if he'd tried.

The sound of soldiers' boots pounding the pavement made all three of them look up, over the roofs.

"Well, whatever you decide, you both need to leave this city." The Story Teller said, looking cautiously over his shoulder. "

"But…they're all dead." Grace said, her voice cracking with sadness. "Why are they still searching the streets if they-"

"They'll want to re-establish control of the city." Javert's cut in quickly. "Root out any other troublemakers that might still be hiding in the woodwork."

The three of them went silent and still as they listened to the approach of the voices.

"If they find us, they'll kill you." Javert added darkly. "And I'll be too preoccupied with my cell in La Force to step in and spare you."

"What?" Grace asked weakly. "What have you done?"

"I told my superiors all the insurgents were accounted for." He grumbled. "And here I am, with one of them bleeding in my arms..."

"Then go! Disappear!" The Story Teller exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

The strange man grabbed the reins of the horse he and Grace had rode together on, dragging the animal towards them.

"Both of you can leave this city. Escape now from this story and create your own!"

Javert scooped Grace up, off the floor. He held her close to him as she hissed and whimpered in pain.

"But…how?" Javert asked him with a frown.

The Story Teller snatched the tophat off from the top of his head. With a flourish of his wrist he tossed it over the Pont au Double and it fell down towards The Seine.

"They won't bother looking for a dead man." The Story Teller said, turning to him with a strange smile on his face.

Javert blinked wordlessly at him. It made sense. A few moments ago, he had considered that fate for himself. He had been hair-raisingly close to joining that hat somewhere at the bottom of the river… And he knew that the world of 'Javert' was over. 'The Inspector' could not go on living any longer. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

He placed Grace back in the saddle, turning back to face the Story Teller with a dark, stormy look on his eye.

With a shrug of his shoulders, he let his heavy leather coat fall from his frame. He handed it reverently to the strange man, as if he were handing him a holy relic or perhaps his war medals. It was heavy in his arms. A weighty presence that he felt the absence of now it was off his shoulders. He was handing him a part of himself. But now it was gone, he finally felt free of 'The Inspector'.

The Story Teller took it in his fists and flung it too over the wall of the was gone with a flap and a flutter of black leather. 'The Inspector' was gone.

He turned from the Story Teller in a bit of a daze. Taking his first steps, naked and new. But Grace made a woozy-sounding groan and swayed in the saddle again. He rushed to her side and held her up straight, knowing that this was where his new place in this world was. With her.

He mounted the horse, Grace at his front, and took the reins of the beast in his hands.

"You. Story Teller." He called out to the man. "You said that you have…sway in this world. Influence."

The Story Teller nodded his head, something potent and magical firing in his eyes.

"Make sure they make Malloirave Prefecture. And don't… don't let him be the one to find my..." He nodded briefly over the bridge, gesturing towards the tophat and coat that had just been flung into the water. "I think he knew. He somehow knew that I was not myself, and I wouldn't want him to think that my death was, in any small part, on his head."

The Story Teller nodded in understanding.

Javert nodded back, and jostled the horse into movement.

Grace groaned and flopped her head forwards. She felt Javert's chest at her back. She felt his strength, his arm wrapped around her waist. She might have fallen again, might have slipped back into the black unconsciousness, had he not held her firm to him.

"Where will you go?" The Story Teller asked Javert.

"She needs care and attention that I cannot give her. Knowledge and healing that nobody in this world can give her."

"Oh my God, stop whinging and get me to someone who knows what pain-relief is!" Grace grumbled, lifting her chin just a fraction off her chest.

"If berating me is what it takes for you to stay awake, then berate away." Javert responded dryly.

"God speed to you both." The Story Teller said, stepping back from the whinnying horse.

"I wouldn't bother asking Him for favour." Javert said darkly. "We are the ones writing this story now."

He kicked the horse's haunches, and the animal reared into life. Without a backwards glance, they both rode off into the streets of Paris, leaving the stink and pain and death of the city behind. And even despite his blase dismissal of God just a moment ago, Javert still sent up a prayer to each and every one of the saints on Notre Dame, begging any of them who might be listening to spare Grace. They'd spared him, after all.

Malloirave held The Inspector's soaked tophat in his hands.

He stood on the banks of The Seine, staring down at it with a hollow feeling inside him.

It had been two days since the morning the barricade fell. Two days since Javert had disappeared. Two days of stomping through the streets of Paris, arresting anyone who looked vaguely threatening.

The city had slowly relinquished itself back to law and order, but it had come with a heavy price. Once Louis-Phillippe had stopped flaunting his victory and ridden back to Versailles, the cleanup operation had begun.

They had thrown all of the timber and wood from the barricade into the river, and the debris had created something of a dam. That's when The Inspector's hat and leather coat had turned up. Strewn over the remains of a coffin. Limp and sodden.

He should never have left Javert alone. He could tell that his mentor was out of sorts ever since he'd returned from the barricades. Acting strange, saying nonsense things, attacking the marksmen on top of the block of apartments… And now, he could not beg his forgiveness. He only had the hat in his hands to whisper his regret to.

The inside of his chest felt hollow and heavy. What would he tell the men of the battalion? What would he say to the Préfet? How would he explain his morose mood to Amelie tonight?

The women down at Madame La Bouche's would get good custom tonight. Lots of tired, drained men, looking for some friendly arms to fall into. And he'd be one of them tonight.

He kept the worst of it all from his favourite. The one with the red hair and the wide smile. But Amelie always had a way of sensing his mood. When he'd rather sit and talk rather than… engaging in her other services.

Tonight, he'd sit on the end of her mattress with his head in his hands, telling her about the top hat the'd dragged from the river…

"Inspector Malloirave." A voice called out to him.

He turned around brusquely to find two of his men shouldering a rather grubby looking man between them both. They approached him at a steady pace, the feet of the grubby man, trailing behind. His face was dipped low, but the scent of sewage that clung to his clothes reached Malloirave's nose before he had even gotten close.

"We found him, Sir." One of Malloirave's men said. "He came up for some fresh air on the Rue Marron."

Malloirave approached the man cautiously. He had his head hung low, eyes cast to the floor. The stains around his knees and all over his hands were all hues of brown and black. His hair too was damp and caked in filth, and Malloirave wrinkled his nose at him.

"Did he have any evidence on him?" He asked one of the men.

"Indeed he did, Sir. A nice little cache."

Malloirave raised an eyebrow at the foetid creature before him. "Thénardier, was it?"

The filthy man raised his head slowly. His eyes met Malloirave's and he nodded. He looked little better than a sewer rat. A sewer rat that had finally been caught in the pest-killer's trap.

"I see you've transitioned from robbing the living to robbing the dead."

"They didn't need it no more." He mumbled back bitterly.

"Yes, but you got greedy, didn't you." Malloirave said reproachfully. He paced up and down, in front of the man, hands tucked behind him, like Javert had done. "You weren't happy with your pocket-watches and rings. You had to come back to try and ply the gold fillings out their mouths. Yes, the undertaker informed us that many of the bodies arriving at his morgue came there with bloody gums." Malloirave tutted and shook his head. "Tampering with the dead. Mutilating their remains. Lord above, you are a sewer rat, Thénardier. You can't help but knaw away at the remains, can you."

"I 'ad a deal with the other one." Thénardier said shortly. "The Inspector. He said that as long as I gave him information, then I'd-"

"Inspector Javert is no longer in charge of this precinct." Malloirave interrupted quickly. There was pain in his voice.

The men who held Thénardier also winced as he voiced it aloud. Javert had been a hard and often cold commander, but he had been their commander. When he'd disappeared two days ago, Malloirave had rarely been forced to draft people into the search party. Javert could be a bastard, but he was their bastard. And the news of what had been dredged from the river had clearly spread quickly through the ranks.

"So, any deal you had with Inspector Javert, I'm afraid it's not going to fly anymore." He added somberly.

Thénardier looked at the young man with something like fear in his eyes. "But…But…"

"What? Are you disappointed you didn't get to loot his corpse too?" Malloirave asked dryly.

"Jean Valjean… he must have killed 'im!" Thenardier exclaimed.

Mallorave narrows his eyes at him. He snapped his head to both of the men who held Thenardier's arms and gave them a subtle nod. On command, they both released Thenardier and marched off back to their duties.

Thenardier slumped to the floor and Malloirave crouched before him. He stank. Stank so much, he made his eyes water.

"You said that name before, in the cells." Malloirave said.

"He's a criminal. A thug. A dangerous man. The Inspector was desperate for information on him. The slightest whiff of him, and he dropped everything! And he was vicious, Monsieur! I told him not to go after him, but Javert was adamant! He wouldn't leave him be!"

"Yes, that sounds like Javert…" Malloirave grumbled. "So, he went after this man by himself?"

"He did, Sir!" Thenardier exclaimed. "I saw him, carrying a great heavy corpse on his back! My other boy, Gavroche was with him too! It weren't enough for Valjean to have stolen one kid from me, he had to take another!"

So, that's what became of him. Malloirave thought grimly. He met this man alone in the dark and they came to blows. Valjean most likely put his body in the river to disguise what he'd done.

"But…?" Malloirave asked, his frown deepening. "If he took your child, why did you not pursue this man too?"

"I…uhh…Well…"

Malloirave scoffed and shook his head. "Too cowardly for that. So you let Javert go alone. Why risk your own neck when there were more treasures to be plundered?"

"I got more kids at home, Sir!" Thenardier squealed. "Eponine might've gone and got 'erself shot, but there's Azelma and the little one. Me wife too! All of 'em need their Papa! What are they gonna do if I crumble into the dust, like the rest of Paris?!"

"As if any child would be lucky to have you as their father…" Malloirave growled.

"A father like me is better than no father at all."

"Hmm…I don't know about that."

Malloirave looked the man up and down. He could arrest him. Get him sent off to some distant prison or shipped to the other side of the world. But was the man right? Was a disgusting, putrid excuse of a father better than no father at all?

Perhaps this is where Inspector Javert had been going wrong all of these years.

It was one thing to punish the wicked when they had sinned, but how does one prevent the sin in the first place?

He looked Thenardier up and down introspectively. There were hundreds… thousands… of men out there more deserving of help than he. But he was suddenly reminded of the Gospel of Matthew:

"Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

"Perhaps…" Malloirave said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I can make an honest man of you, Thenardier."

Grace could hear someone singing. And she was rocking.

It was nice. Soothing. Like being in a cradle.

She was warm and comfortable, and whoever was singing had a lovely, rich voice.

It took her a little while to fully shake off the last dregs of sleep. She had completely passed out from the pain and the blood-loss some way into their ride through the city. Javert had done his utmost to keep her awake. Had shaken and jostled her in his arms as he drove the horse on. But she couldn't stay awake. Not even for him. And the last thing she truly remembered was the sky going black as they rode through the empty fields of the Bois de Boulogne.

But now, there was singing. It was low and vibrating. A pleasant rumble that tickled at the back of her eyelids.

It sounded like a lullaby. Waking her up so gently, she wondered if she truly was awake. Was this another dream? Like the one she'd had about her Mum?

"Before Lord God made the sea and the land,

He held all the stars in the palm of his hand.

And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand.

And one little star fell alone."

She blinked a few times, trying to clear her blurry vision as she listened. There were swinging herbs and metal pots in the space above her head. The gentle rocking made them tinkle softly as they knocked together. It smelled of cloves and cinnamon. Spices from far away…

"So the Lord God hunted through the wide night air.

For the little dark star in the wind down there

And he stated and promised

He'd take special care

So it wouldn't get lost again."

Grace turned her head ever so slightly, searching for the owner of the voice. She was within a small but cosy wagon. And she could sense that voice near to her. It was a man. Deep. A small quaver to it. Lush and soft, but also a little unsure. Like he had not sung often in the past.

"But I've been walking all the night and the day

Till my eyes get weary and my head turns gray

And sometimes it seems maybe God's gone away

Forgetting the promise that we heard him say

And we're lost out here in the stars."

Javert was singing to a baby. He sat, tucked away, on a little bench, surrounded by woven blankets and persian pillows. Little Zaida was swaddled in his arms and he bent his head low to her, whispering his sweet lullaby to her whilst he rocked the infant gently. The baby was still, sleeping peacefully thanks to the low vibration of his rumbling voice.

"Little stars…

Big stars…"

Grace felt tears welling in her eyes. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she watched the tender and loving scene before her. Somehow she'd never put Javert and children in the same realm as one another, but watching his face, his soft eyes, his bouncing arms… it pulled at something deep inside her soul.

"Blowing through the night.

And we're lost out here in the stars…"

"You have a lovely baritone." she croaked out, her throat sore and raw.

Javert gasped. "You're awake."

The baby mewled in his arms.

"Keep going, she'll wake up." Grace said, mustering a weak smile.

"Oh, she's not made a sound for a few dozen miles." another voice said nearby.

Grace lifted her head off the pillows to find Athalia sitting at the end of her bed. She was grinding up some kind of poultice in a stone mortar, her eyes flicking from Javert to her.

"He's good, your man. Better than you, even, at keeping Zaida quiet." Athalia added, a cheeky grin lifting up one corner of her mouth

Grace fumbled for words. She didn't know what to say. Instead, she let the tears flow, feeling them leaking from her eyes and rush down her cheeks.

Javert stood to his feet, handing the baby back to her mother and rushing to Grace's side. He pressed his forehead to hers and cupped her face in his hands. She could feel him fighting back tears too. Tears of relief. Of joy.

"You're awake… You're awake…" he repeated softly. His breath was warm against her cheek. She could feel the scrunch of his brow against hers as he lost his battle with his emotions. "When I couldn't rouse you… When you fainted-"

"We ran into one another as you were fleeing the city." Athalia chimed in swiftly. "Our camp was on the move. We didn't want to stay around Paris, with all that we heard about what was going on in the city centre. And a lone man on horseback, carrying a lifeless girl in his arms, rode into our midst."

"Athalia…" Grace breathed softly. She still couldn't find the words.

"But I did make him beg, on his knees, for my help." Athalia said, the smile on her face growing wider.

"I would have eaten the dust of your wagon wheels, Madame, if you'd have asked." Javert said thickly.

"How long…Where…?"

"We've been on the road for perhaps two days now. I'll wager we'll be outside Provins by this afternoon. I gave you henbane and poppy first, to make you sleep. The shot is gone. And I did my best to clean and dress the wound." Athalia said matter-of-factly. "And God be good, you show no signs of fever. The Inspector almost shouted the camp down! I think he would have bartered away his own life for 'The mould! The mould! Give her your precious mould!'"

"Just Javert. Not 'Inspector'." he said hurriedly. "I am 'Inspector' no more."

Grace studied his face carefully as he spoke those words. There was a sadness there, but also a relief. Like the burden of himself had finally been lifted off his shoulders.

Grace scrunched up her brow in confusion. "But… I thought.., The last time we spoke, Athalia, you said-"

"I might be a proud woman, Grace, but not even I can allow someone to bleed to death on the grass outside my wagon purely out of spite."

Grace cracked a small smile, a single chuckle leaking from her mouth.

"And I must say, seeing an Inspector on his knees before you, begging with every breath in him for help, does wonders for dispelling anger and resentment from within you. I'd say he has been sufficiently humbled."

Javert swallowed thickly. He might have argued back, but his pride had well and truly left him when he'd approached the gypsy convoy. He didn't even feel like correcting her again, as she'd called him 'Inspector' once more. He simply shook his head softly and took Grace's hand, planting a grateful kiss on her palm.

"How do you feel?" he asked Grace gently.

"Woozy…" Grace responded, eyes travelling up to the swaying herbs and banging pots in the canopy of the wagon. "What did you say you gave me? Poppy?"

"Amongst other things." Athalia said with a nod.

"Bloody hell, no wonder I was out for two days..." Grace mumbled. "You got me on that OG heroin."

"What?!" Athalia asked, snickering at Grace's apparent nonsense.

"An Oxford thing?" Javert asked her, eyebrow raised.

"Mm-hmm."

Javert smiled and scoffed out a laugh. Perhaps it was something he could ask her about later. And by God, was he happy that there would be a 'later'.

"I'm hungry…" Grace said, wriggling a little in her blankets. "Thirsty too."

"I wouldn't go eating too much. Henbane can make you quite nauseous. But water, I can fetch for you." Athalia stood to her feet and went rummaging around the wagon for a full skin.

Javert leaned in close to her whilst Athalia was distracted. "You are a stubborn mule." he said warmly. "I cannot believe that you point blank refused to go home."

"I told you, it wasn't my decision to come here, but the decision to leave will be. And…I've decided I won't leave if it means leaving you."

Javert blinked at her for a moment, his heart roaring with emotion. "But… your Mother… Your life…"

"I can create a life for myself here, with you."

"Grace… I can't… I won't allow you-"

"You don't 'allow' or 'permit' me to do anything, Sir." she cut in shortly. "You aren't an Inspector anymore."

"But you don't belong here!" he hissed back. "My star from another universe… This isn't where you should be."

"You should be at the bottom of The Seine now." Grace stated, grabbing his hand and holding it firm. "It's like the Story Teller said: Neither of us should be here, so we can make our own story now. And if I'm the one writing my future now, then I want you to be a featuring role in it."

"But…your device…Once that runs out, are you content with never seeing your Mother's face again?" he asked thickly.

Grace's throat bobbed and she swallowed hard. Casting her eyes to the floor, she took a moment before answering. "If…If I could tell her that I found you here, she'd understand. She wanted me to be happy. She wanted me to get my life back. And I did. I found it here."

Javert touched a hand to her cheek. It was slick with tears, but her face, when he gazed into it, was happy. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes misting and bottom lip quivering.

"You'd…you'd truly stay here…for me?"

"For you? Pfft! Don't flatter yourself." Grace tried to say glibly. Although her eyes were shining with love as she looked at him. "As soon as I'm up and about, I'm heading off to America! We'll strike gold out West and find our fortune or something… I don't know, I'll remember something. What's the use in being from the future if you can't use hindsight to make yourself stinking rich?!"

Javert couldn't help but laugh, and as Athalia approached the bedside, he wiped his tears away with the back of his sleeve.

She gave Grace a great glug of water from the skin, dipping the neck to her mouth and telling her to go slower when the liquid sloshed from the corners of her lips. Javert was there to dab the water away. He too told her to drink slower.

"You'll choke." He said reproachfully. "And then all our hard work will have been for nought."

Grace gasped when the skin was pulled away from her. "You'll kill me by dehydration then. God I've never been so thirsty…"

"Try two weeks in the Egyptian desert."

"Oh, I didn't realise this was a competition…" Grace grumbled.

Little Zaida let out a small noise from her mother's arms. Everyone stilled as the infant made a few mewls of distress.

"Oh look." Athalia sighed. "You two have woken her up with your bickering."

"Well, he started it." Grace mumbled.

Javert gave her a tut and extended his arms out towards the baby. Athalia handed her over without protest.

"I'll sing her back to sleep." He said gently, pulling the infant close. He flicked his eyes up to Grace. "You too. You can rest for a little longer. Iosif kindly rode ahead and delivered a message to the Château de Montrame for us. Monsieur Julius won't be expecting us until nightfall."

"Julius? You wrote to Julius?"

"He gladly welcomed you back, Grace."

"Does he…does he know what happened to Enjolras?" She asked, sorrow catching in her throat.

Javert paused for a moment. He nodded his head solemnly. "Word of what happened at the barricades would have reached him by now."

A surge of sadness flooded Grace's chest. "I can't…I can't go back there. Knowing that I survived and his son didn't…"

"It was through no fault of yours that Enjolras died."

"They all died…" Grace said, her voice quavering. "All of them…"

Their faces flashed in her mind. Grantaire, Combeferre, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Eponine… All of them beautiful in death. But Shadowed. Distant.

"The guilt of survivors can be the thief of joy." Javert said steadily. "I learned that too, out in Egypt. We can make our own story now, Grace. Don't let it be marred by a guilt that isn't yours. Don't let the barricade take any more lives…"

Grace remained quiet, sniffing and whimpering as the tears refused to subside.

Javert extended a hand out to her and began stroking her arm. "Rest. Please."

Grace closed her eyes. The well of sadness inside her roiled like a stormy sea. But she was tired. The rock of the wagon helped to soothe her aching chest somewhat. The little baby gave out another impatient cry, and as Javert withdrew his hand, she kept her eyes shut tight as she listened out for his voice.

"And we're lost out here in the stars.

Little stars, big stars

Blowing through the night.

And we're lost out here in the stars…"

Hearing his voice chased away the last of the tears. The pain was still there. Perhaps it always would be. But knowing Javert was close soothed her into a slumber. And perhaps it was the heady cocktail of poultices and medicines Athalia had given her, but when she was on the twilight of that sleep, she felt other presences nearby too.

Their shadowy, distant faces momentarily cleared. She could see all the details of their faces. Their smiles. Their bright eyes… Her friends.

She wanted to call out to them. Tell them she was sorry.

I'm sorry. She said in her mind, over and over. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…

But it was Eponine who gently shook her head, as if sensing what she'd been about to say. She did not open her mouth. Did not speak. But Grace could feel that courage that she had once asked for, flowing from Eponine to her. And she knew she would carry it into the future with her. Forever. For all of them.

"But if you seek God's face, you will find his peace

And your head may lay down and your suffering cease

'Cause the father will find you, every lost star of His

Every little star, big star

Blowing through the night.

Blowing through the night."