Who Am I - Les Miserables - Part 1
Title: Who Am I
Author: Roselani24
Genre: angst, friendship/family, drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing for a little while.
Warnings: References to past child abuse and violence
Summary: Javert has always known who, and what, he was. He always did his duty with the upmost diligence. There had not been such a policeman as Javert so wholly devoted to the law and justice. But what if he lost all those memories of himself? What then? 2012 Movie-Musical based AU with added details from the book.
Story Notes: This story was was written for the 2013 angstbigbang. The story occurs after Jean Valjean has fled from Montreuil and has just retrieved the child, Cosette, from the Thenardiers. Javert is chasing him and he leaves from the town with post haste, bound for Paris in a fiacre or carriage.
Author's Notes: First I would like to thank my Lord, Jesus Christ for his great blessings and endless mercy and grace. I know this story would have never been completed as it has without Him. I therefore dedicate this story to my Lord Jesus Christ.
I would like to thank my artist, queenmidalah for her lovely cover art, wallpaper and icon. You can see them all here. I would also like to thank my dear friend, laughtersmelody, for her last minute beta work on this piece. Thank you so much!!
~*~
Chapter 1
His breath came in ragged gasps as he scrambled through the snow-covered night. A sliver of moonlight bathed the forest in eerie light, the trees casting long shadows on the ground, obscuring bushes and rocks and making his trail harder for his pursuers to find.
He had woken to hear two men arguing in hushed tones about how to kill him. Ingrained instinct had demanded he escape this fate. He had laid in wait, patiently anticipating the moment he could slip away. He could not explain why, but the two men had been familiar; somehow he knew them and it had irked him that he could not recall. Judging by the increasingly heated words, the fight would soon escalate. His assumption proved true when suddenly the more robust, shorter man had swung fiercely at the gangly one with red hair and in moments the two had been brawling.
Carefully and quietly, he had crawled away from them. He was well into the brush when he heard their enraged cry at his disappearance. Forgoing subtly, he had clambered to his feet and started running. He had no idea where he was going or what lay ahead, but he had run anyway. Behind him, he had heard the men in fast pursuit. To stop was to accept death.
He had observed that the snow was not soft, but rather hard and did not break easy beneath his boots. It could work to his advantage. He wove through the trees, dodging here and there, keeping to the shadows as much as he could. It effectively confused his hunters, like he hoped, ultimately allowing him to put more distance between them as they scrambled to track him. He could hear them swearing, both at him and each other, collectively making so much noise it was easier to gauge his new direction. Gradually, the voices faded, growing less and less distinct until it was but a distant hum.
He kept running and weaving for some time after the sounds of the men behind him faded completely. There was no way to know if his pursuers realized their error and now hunted him silently or had given up in frustration. He dared not find out.
A small hill rose ahead of him. He started climbing over it quickly, staying close to the shadows, checking behind for any sign of the men hunting him. As he reached the crest, his feet slipped on a patch of hidden ice. Scrambling, arms waving, he tumbled down the other side in an undignified heap. He hit the bottom hard, the wind knocked from his chest. For a while he laid there, bruised, bleeding, and aching from the exertion and cold. A slight tremble wracked his muscles as the adrenaline faded from his system.
Around him, the air was silent.
He was alone.
Relief pulled a heavy exhale from his chest. Then, gathering his strength, he got to his feet.
For the first time since he started running, he really looked at his surroundings. He was deep in the wood, surrounded by snow, icicle covered trees, and bushes with no idea where he was or which direction to go. A tremor of fear raced through him. He neither knew his name or where he had been when he had been attacked and fled. He was well and truly lost. Another tremor wracked him, reminding him that he had another more immediate problem.
There was little choice but to start walking
He walked for a long time.
Was there no end to this forest? It seemed to him there was not. A sense of hopelessness washed over him as a chill wind blew through the air.
Shivering, he pulled up the collar of his coat and buried his hands in his pockets. Something cold and hard brushed his fingers. Confused, he paused and pulled the object out of his pocket. It was a silver snuff box. A closer examination revealed it to be engraved with two letters: M and J. His initials, maybe? But what did they stand for? No matter how hard he tried, he could not think of his name. The letters stirred no memory.
“Bah! Quit standing here, you fool, and keep walking,” he scolded himself. Shoving the box back into his pocket, he resumed his journey with renewed vigor.
It did not last. The night was cold, the wood bleak and lonely in its silence. Something in him quelled at the situation, screaming his folly. He looked upwards, wondering if there would be any help forth-coming from the heavens. Through the canopy of the trees, he could just glimpse the stars, glittering brightly in the night sky like a million candles, some close and others far away. For some reason it comforted him. Stars were sentinels of the night; always there and never changing.
Despite the brief assurance he felt, despair was quick to catch up with him as he continued along. He was hanging onto hope by a thread when he spotted light in the distance, and the slight curl of smoke. A house? Please say it was so! He started walking faster, his limbs stiff and aching. Then a dark thought filled him and his pace slowed.
What if it was the men determined to kill him? In all his weaving, he had truly lost sense of his bearings in the wood and had no idea what lay ahead of him. What would it matter if it was his hunters? If it was, he was dead. If he remained in the forest, wandering without direction, he was surely dead also. He set his jaw squarely. So be it.
Once more, he quickened his step. The wind blew against his face, a cold caress that left him shuddering with fatigue.
As he drew closer he could see that it was indeed a house in an open space at the forest’s edge. Beyond it he could just make out rows of gaunt, curled trunks and arching branches bent in the wind.
He came to the ridgeline and abruptly came to a halt. Once he left the cover of the forest he was completely exposed. No, he shook his head, he already decided his course. He would not be deterred now by the fear of what he may find!
It did nothing to elevate the feeling of exposure as he stepped out of the woods. Somehow the house seemed far away and too close all at once. He blinked, startled to realize he had fallen to his knees. Shaking, he tried to get back to his feet but found he did not have the strength. He crawled.
The door to the house was but a few feet away when he tried to get to his feet again. He managed this time, barely, and he staggered the last few steps to the door. Roughly he rapped his knuckles against the door.
The door opened to reveal a tall, older man that instantly struck him as familiar though he did not know why. His expression, kind and puzzled quickly dissolved into one of fear and shock. “Javert!”
“So that is my name,” the man, Javert, muttered. His eyes rolled back then as his body finally succumbed to the abuse and cold.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Of all people to appear on his doorstep at this hour, the last person Jean Valjean expected was Inspector Javert with his uniform and overcoat torn and soaked through with snow and mud, face covered in blood.
“Javert,” he gasped, both from shock and horror at the sight.
“So that is my name,” Javert muttered. Then he passed out.
As Javert collapsed, Valjean instinctively reached out to catch him. He gasped as he felt the inspector’s icy form. With shocking strength for a man his age, he hefted Javert up in his arms like a babe, quickly carrying him inside.
“Cosette, my child, fetch the blankets.”
A waif of a girl no older than eight, half hidden in the corner of the room, quickly obeyed. As Cosette gathered some blankets, Valjean turned his attention back to the unconscious inspector in his arms. What on earth had happened to the man?
Valjean pushed his questions aside. There would be time for that later. He carefully laid the man down near the fire, though not to close as he would be burned accidently. The inspector had clearly been outside for some time. There was no way to know how long, but it immediately concerned him. Many a man had died from exposure to the bitter cold of winter. If it did not kill them right away, they would become sick and die later, much like Fantine had.
A deep ache opened in his chest as he thought of the poor woman. He had failed her in life, but he would not fail her in death. He would keep his vow and raise her child. But how could he hope to see that done when inspector Javert hounded him like a wolf hunting a deer? What man in his position would want to help the man who sought to destroy him?
Cosette approached carrying several blankets too large for her small form, pulling him from the dark turn his thoughts had taken. Later, he decided. Whatever his feelings about the man unconscious before him, they were of little consequence. Javert needed help immediately if he was to survive. He quickly took the blankets from Cosette with murmured thanks and spread the largest over Javert. Another he used as a pillow beneath his head.
Javert moaned and Valjean rejoiced at the sound. The man had been far too quiet since he collapsed at the door. He considered what needed to be done, his mind working like a Swiss clock. Valjean was no doctor, but these past eight years, while living in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he had often watched and assisted at the hospital. He had learned a few things that would certainly prove useful.
Foremost, he needed to get the inspector warm.
Quietly, he instructed Cosette to retrieve a kettle and fill it with water to be warmed on the stove. With his daughter occupied, Valjean began the more difficult task of undressing the inspector to assess his wounds. Javert was as limp in his hands as the doll he had bought for Cosette earlier. As he stripped the inspector of his overcoat and jacket, however, he was pleased to notice the man starting to shiver. Good. He swiftly removed Javert’s boots, soaked stockings, and breeches, leaving the man in his undergarments.
That finished, he covered the inspector in the blanket again and assessed his injuries.
Blood, dried and cold snaked down the side of Javert’s face, mingling with his beard. A head wound then. Was that the reason for Javert’s strange words before he collapsed?
There was such an incident back in Montreuil-sur-Mer, four years past, when a poor craftsman was accidently struck in the head with a plank as his companion spun around to speak with him. When the unfortunate man woke he had no memory of the incident or the day at all. The doctor warned that such wounds to the head sometimes caused memories to be lost and never recovered. Indeed, the poor man never remembered the events of that day as far as Valjean heard, though he was certainly told about the event. There had been similar incidents back at Toulon, though it was hard to say how many. Convicts were not treated as men, but as animals for that is what the place turned them into. And there was no way to say whether or not a convict was lying.
Could such a thing have happened to Javert?
“Papa, the kettle is ready.”
“Thank you, my child.” He smiled at Cosette gently. There was no denying the surge of warmth in his chest when she called him papa. It was a strange feeling, but one Valjean found he liked. “Please lay out his clothes to dry. When you’re done, you may play with Catherine while I finish tending to the inspector.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Valjean stood and moved over to the stove. He settled the kettle down to heat over the stove, thankful it was still hot from their dinner. While it heated, he assisted Cosette with the inspector’s clothes. It was disconcerting to find the blood on the collar of the usually pristine uniform. He made sure to keep it from Cosette’s innocent hands. Bad enough she saw the state Inspector Javert was in, she did not need to touch the man’s bloodied shirt. When this was finished, he urged Cosette to play again and checked on Javert. The man had still not woken.
Concerned, he went to the bed he had intended to sleep in. It was the largest bed, intended for the husband and wife he supposed, and would accommodate Valjean’s own large frame nicely. It was also the closest to the fire. After his jump into the ocean outside the hospital, his old bones were demanding the extra warmth. Not now. He gathered the remaining blankets from the floor and laid them on the bed. The smallest and thinnest he kept, settling it on the back of a kitchen chair as he passed by to check the kettle.
The water was ready.
He poured the hot water into a wash basin, gathered several strips of cloth, and carried it over to the inspector’s side. Javert’s shivering was becoming more pronounced, his eyes moving behind his eyelids. He muttered some calming words, not really paying attention to what he said as he dipped a square piece of cloth in the water. Gently, he began to wash away the blood and dirt.
It was well past midnight by the time Valjean was satisfied. Javert’s injuries, aside from the head wound, were not serious. The inspector was bruised and scraped, appearing to have fallen a time or two. Bruises on his chest and ribs suggested he had been kicked as well. Closer examination of the ribs confirmed they were mercifully not broken. Valjean did not believe the ribs to even be cracked, but had carefully bandaged them tight to ensure they were supported to be sure. Throughout his ministrations, Javert never roused. He groaned and made other small noises of discomfort, but no more. Valjean could only pray this was not a sign for alarm.
His task finished, Valjean carefully picked Javert up once more and put him in the bed closest to the fire. He arranged the blankets around him securely to ensure the policeman remained warm. With Javert safely in bed and his injuries treated as best he could, Valjean turned to tucking in his new daughter. Cosette was barely awake, peering at Valjean through half closed eyes, Catherine clasped tightly in her arms.
“Will he be all right, Papa?”
“Lord willing.” Valjean answered, coming to kneel beside her. He pulled the blanket up and over her frail shoulders. “Sleep, Cosette. All will be well.”
She gave him a sleepy smile, so full of trust and adoration it broke Valjean’s heart, and closed her eyes.
It was not a complete lie. All would be well for Cosette. Valjean was determined that Cosette be provided and cared for before allowing Javert to drag him back to prison. For Valjean, returning to prison meant going back for life. Years ago, perhaps even a week ago, he would have shuddered at the thought, but the man Valjean had become after being granted mercy by the Bishop of Digne, by God in heaven, did not. He had passed the first great test the Lord put in his path: admitting his identity to save an innocent man and giving up his life in Montreuil-sur-Mer. This is not to say he wanted to return or did not fear what returning to that hell on earth would do to him, merely that he had come to terms with his fate. He had known what lay ahead when he went to Arras and disrupted the trial there to rescue Champmathieu from the sins of 24601. If not for his vow to Fantine concerning her daughter, he would have willingly gone with Javert the other night at the hospital. Nevertheless, he had promised her and to keep that promise Valjean had fled from Javert’s grasp.
Shaking his head, Valjean stood and went to the fireplace, where the flames were beginning to ebb. Taking the poker, he stirred the wood and the flames grew stronger once more. He then retrieved the chair from the small table and set it down at Javert’s bedside, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. He would not sleep tonight.
As he kept vigil over his unforeseen patient, Valjean allowed his mind to wonder and marvel over the circumstances that brought Cosette and himself to this small house.
The fiacre had taken them from Montfermeil at a quick pace on the road that weaved toward Paris. Valjean had first deigned to just walk and not draw attention by paying for the ride, but Cosette’s poor condition and the danger following him advised him to take the risk this time. He had to put as much distance as possible between them and Montfermeil, for surely Inspector Javert and the policemen under his command would arrive soon hunting him.
Another man perhaps would not have worried about the inspector who refused to believe his word or grant mercy. Not Valjean. He knew Javert would go to Montfermeil seeking Cosette because Valjean had expressed that intention. It was a starting point for the policeman to begin his hunt anew after losing Valjean to the water outside the hospital. A lion always knows when it is tracked by a wolf as bold and fierce as Inspector Javert.
It did not slip past Valjean’s notice that the wheel had turned around again, leaving the wolf at the mercy of his former prey.
The fiacre had been passing through the woods near a large spread of farmland when it happened: the driver had dozed off and failed to notice a large pot hole in the otherwise smooth road. The wheel hit hard, startling Valjean from his thoughts and waking Cosette. They barely had time to react when the wheel cracked and broke, bring the fiacre to an abrupt, bumpy stop. It was a miracle neither Cosette or himself was injured.
Valjean had soothed Cosette before he had climbed out to investigate. When he learned what happened, he had momentarily despaired. What ill-fortune to befall them when he was hunted so this night! That was when the farmer and his son arrived, having heard the horrendous crash from all the way across the fields. The farmer, a simple man called Rousseau had proved to be most kind indeed. He offered Valjean and Cosette the use of the small lodge near his orchard, a quarter mile from the main house while his son took the driver into town to find the carpenter. The lodge was shared by two families during the summer and fall, Rousseau explained, so that when the fruit became ripe they were at hand to pick and store the trees’ sweet offerings. The man was truly a God send and Valjean graciously thanked the man and sent up a prayer of thanks to the Lord for providing.
In light of who had stumbled upon his doorstep, it was far more than chance that the fiacre had broken down or that Farmer Rousseau offered them sanctuary.
But why would the Lord deliver him from Javert’s clutches only to lead the man right to him again?
Valjean rested his chin in his hand, finger absently rubbing his sideburn. For all his faults, Javert was not a wicked man. Stubborn, a rigid abider and upholder of the law, the man was only doing his duty. His thoughts, his devotion was completely to that of the law. He was cold and devoid of mercy. It was enough to ignite Valjean’s own temper at the inspector’s cold, unbending belief in the worst of humanity. He had seen it in how the inspector performed his duties in Montreuil-sur-Mer, in the fire in Javert’s eyes when he came for him at Fantine’s deathbed. Anger burned hot in his blood. Javert had no reason to draw his sword.
“You know nothing of Javert! I was born inside a jail. I was born with scum like you; I am from the gutter too!”
The memory gave Valjean pause. At the time, he had been a little more concerned with the sword pointed at his chest. Here, in this small lodging far from Montreuil, he examined the words for the first time. As he did, his ire faded away.
Javert was born inside a prison? Valjean shuddered. Prison was no place for a child, much less a babe! Valjean spent nineteen years at Toulon prison. He remembered the stink, the fear, the darkness, and always looking down. What horrors had the child Javert witnessed in such a place? A shiver raced down his spine. He knew what travesties occurred in prison. Dear Lord, how long had Javert been there? Enough to learn where he was and what it meant most certainly. He prayed it had not been too long! This explained his scorn for those condemned to prison, why he did not believe Valjean’s promise to return after rescuing Cosette and finding her a good home. How could Javert believe him when he had been born among convicts, among the very dregs of society?
Another curiosity presented itself. Why did Javert admit his origins at all? In all the time he had known the inspector in Montreuil, he had never divulged anything truly personal. He supposed that could be attributed to the inspector’s ire in the hospital. This understanding, however, only reminded him how determined Javert was to put him back under the chain and on the rack.
Valjean abandoned his chair and began pacing back and forth.
Javert sought to imprison him again without care that he stole Valjean’s life from him or that he condemned the innocent child in his care. Now, now the wheel had turned around once more and Javert was helpless in Valjean’s hands. For 24601 it would have been a sweet irony and something to be reveled in. But the man that 24601 had died to become did not. In fact, he would have much preferred it if the former guard and current police inspector had never fallen on his doorstep. Why him? Why here and now? To what purpose did this conundrum land in his lap and yoke his shoulders?
He ran a hand through his gray hair.
Surely leaving the inspector to his fate would not be wrong! Yes, he had more than fulfilled his duty to assist the younger man, had he not? Valjean would just take Cosette in the morning and be on his way. He would inform the farmer of the man who had arrived during the night and leave it at that. His duty would be fulfilled. He could then turn to keeping his vow to Fantine and the Lord to raise Cosette.
Unbidden, his eyes drifted to the white bandage covering Javert’s head wound. His stomach twisted in a horrible manner. He still vividly recalled the dull surprise on Javert’s face after Valjean opened the door. “So that is my name.”
Those words plagued Valjean’s mind. He recalled again the incident in Montreuil-sur-Mer and the man who lost his memory. Was it possible to forget more than just a day to such an injury?
If that were true, if it were indeed possible, then the inspector may be in more danger than Valjean first believed. There was still the mystery of what had befallen the inspector to put him in the injured condition that he was. Where were the other policemen under Javert’s command? Who attacked him and why? Only Javert could answer those questions and if his concerns proved correct, Javert may not know himself. It was unlikely. The man possessed an uncanny memory.
But Valjean could not shake the sense that danger was imminent, that darkness waited to consume the inspector should Valjean leave him alone. He could not explain the sensation, but he felt it to his core.
Love your enemies, and do good unto those who hate you. He needs you. Above all, he needs Me.
The quiet words he heard in the stillness brought him to his knees. Valjean knew then, what his heart had already known. He bowed his head.
“Your will be done.”
He would not leave Javert alone to save his own skin. Javert had been brought to his doorstep by Providence’s hand, entrusted to his care as much as Fantine had entrusted him with Cosette’s. They were both his responsibility. He would see it through, to whatever end.
A feeling of peace filled him then, the kind of peace that comes from making a decision that determines the fate of the soul.
Valjean glanced out the window and a small serene smile played along his lips. It was snowing.
Chapter 2