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Despite it being mid June, the warm breeze that blows past Javert from across the water seems to send another chill straight through him. The middle-aged man feels so physically shaky but in his mind, his purpose has never been quite so clear.
Deep down in his heart, Javert knows that he has always been a man who thrives on consistency and viewing the world through his strictly black and white perspective. So how could it be that one single man has managed to turn his world view so quickly on its head? How could it be that this man who had every right to strike him to the floor and exact his revenge however he saw fit, had instead taken mercy upon Javert, and handed him back his life?
Javert feels as if the ground is falling away beneath him, leaving him flailing helplessly with nowhere to turn. The stubborn stone of the bridge he stands on becomes his trustworthy anchor, pale hands clutching desperately at the railing before him. He turns his gaze to the night sky above, and finds that stars and constellations he once turned to for comfort, now feel indifferent and cold.
With suddenly steadied legs, the man climbs slowly onto the railing overlooking the peaceful Seine below. He takes a moment to admire the view.
The moonlight from up above casts a beautiful glow across the water, the stars twinkling softly in the reflection. He feels almost as if from the dirt on the shore, he could reach a hand down into the chilled water and touch one somehow through its reflection.
How would it feel, he wonders, to touch a burning star.
It is no sooner than a moment later when a tentative voice calls out from on the bridge behind him.
“Pardon me monsieur, but I feel I am obligated to ask you to reconsider whatever you’re surely thinking of doing.”
The man speaks slowly, as if trying to coax a frightened animal, or how one might speak to a small child waking up from a nightmare. If Javert was in a better frame of mind, he’d have surely recognised the voice as the one that had been tormenting him for so many years, but alas he simply says nothing, mesmerized by the swirling water below.
He isn’t sure how much time passes before he feels a gentle hand on his wrist, pulling him carefully down and forcing Javert to step back onto the bridge to avoid falling backwards. It is only then that the two men lock eyes.
Vajean immediately flinches, his hand almost slipping from where it rests around Javert’s wrist. This was the first he was seeing of the man’s face since he’d stepped onto the bridge, and a million thoughts seem to race through his head as he tries to understand. The other man simply says nothing, only watching Valjean with tired eyes.
“I’m sure I misunderstand what I’ve seen,” Valjean says softly, his expression a mixture of curiosity and something…sadder.
Javert wrenches his arm away from Vajean’s tentative grip but doesn’t step back. A few moments of silence pass, and just when Vajean is almost sure the man has nothing to say to him…
“Why must you always insist on interfering,” Javert finally hisses, sounding more spiteful and defeated than the older man had ever heard him.
Valjean still refuses to loosen his grip as he analyzes the Inspector with his piercing gaze, his bright eyes squinting at the man in his tender grasp. The older man has always considered himself remarkably good at reading people, his dear Cosette, his previous workers, even his old cellmates and fellow prisoners from decades ago, but now, confronted with the anomaly Javert proves himself to be, it seems as if his mind has fogged over with an overwhelming amount of conflicting emotions.
Several years ago if he’d have been in this same unlikely position, he’d have probably pushed the Inspector from the ledge himself, but now…He tries to search through himself for any kind of anger, resentment, pent up rage for the broken man before him, but he somehow comes up empty. He tries to summon up the will to just leave, to let go of Javert and leave him to his fate but he just…can’t bring himself to turn his back on this man who for better or worse, has been a constant part of his life for longer than just about anyone else.
“Despite whoever you may take me for Javert,” the older man begins slowly. “I am not the sort of man to abandon someone clearly in need of help.”
That earns a bitter laugh from the Inspector, who looks upon him with what seems to Valjean to be a poor attempt at disgust, disgusting the pain and desperation shining clear in his dark eyes.
“The last thing I need is help, especially from an escaped convict who I’m sure would no less than revel in the chance to shove me from the ledge himself,” Javert spits back, despite knowing entirely well that every piece of evidence points towards the opposite being true. Valjean has once again not hesitated to save his life, and furthermore could have easily pushed him from the bridge ages ago if he truly wanted the younger man dead. Though, there was no denying it would be no less than he deserves.
Valjean sighs sadly, his gaze feeling to the other man that if it lingered any longer it might risk searing Javert’s skin. His mouth opens and shuts for a few moments as he struggles to navigate the delicate situation without running the risk of scaring away the frightened animal he desperately clutches onto. When he finally composes his thoughts, all that leaves his mouth is a single word; a question.
“Why?”
Javert blinks, taken aback.
Then fury replaces his shock.
Is Valjean really so blind that he cannot see everything that Javert has done? The pain that he’s caused, the way he’s abused his power, the way that he’s spent his entire career tossing his humanity aside for the sake of upholding the law? The way that he’s consistently turned his back on people in need?
And the ways in which he’s spent the last decades of his life tormenting Valjean himself?
“Why not?” Javert retortes. “You know of the things I’ve done; how can you truly think that I don’t deserve death?” Against his own faltering will, his voice cracks at the end, and he can no longer bear to meet Valjean’s eyes.
Valjean watches with keen interest as Javert continues to fight the impending urge to fall apart, and his grip on the man’s wrist softens ever so slightly.
“Surely you must realize that killing yourself won’t fix anything at all,” Valjean attempts to reason, tilting his head to try and meet Javert’s ashamed gaze. “But it’s never too late to try to change and make the world around you a slightly better place,” he says, his voice low and a combined mixture of both gentle and firm, clearly speaking from his own experience.
Javert’s face assumes a look Valjean can only describe as wistfulness.
“At what point will you finally realize that some people are no longer capable of change?”
“Javert,” his voice is painfully soft, softer than Javert deserves. “The very fact that you allowed me to save that young man’s life in the first place, I believe, is proof that you have changed.”
He watches as Javert struggles with his statement, the man’s eyes flickering about nervously as his unoccupied hand nearly trembles at his side. Then he sighes yet again, before slowly turning back to the ledge of the bridge, and resting his hand on the stone as he gazes over the side. Valjean casually moves with him, still keeping his careful grip.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. And yet, I’m not leaving.”
They lapse back into silence, the river flowing below them and the stars somewhat clear in the watery reflection, along with the silhouettes of the two unmoving men.