Who Am I - Les Miserables - Part 2
Title: Who Am I
Author: roselani24
Artist: queenmidalah
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 2
He came to wakefulness gradually. First he felt the pain from his limbs and ribs, both battered and bruised. Then he became aware of tightness in his chest, a sign of sickness. Finally, he became aware of the harsh pounding in his head. He moaned, wishing he had stayed oblivious.
“Inspector? Are you awake?”
The voice was soft and quite close. It was also vaguely familiar, but he could not recall the person to whom it belonged. Well, there was no point pretending he wasn’t awake. Reluctantly, he tried to pry open his eyes. It took far too much effort for his liking. An elderly man was sitting near him, his hair gray with hint of white, face uncertain but kind. He was dressed simply in a shirt and vest of the upper class and dark trousers. For some reason, the sight struck him as wrong.
“Wh-” He choked, mouth dry and rough like a sackcloth. The man brought a cup to his lips, letting him take small sips of cool water. When it was gone, the man set the cup aside.
“I’m glad you’re awake. You had quite the fever last night.”
A fever? Yes, he supposed he must have. He felt awful enough for it to be true. It certainly explained why his chest felt a bit tight, like his lungs were constricted. “Who-who are you?”
The man shut his eyes, a plethora of emotions crossing his face so quickly he could not decipher them. “You know who I am.”
He frowned. “I don’t remember you.”
Silence. Then, “Do you remember your own name, monsieur?”
The question struck him square in the chest. Desperately, he cast his mind back, searching for the answer but came up with nothing. A tremble raced through him.
Here in this warm bed he was finally able to take full measure of what his missing identity meant.
He did not know who he was. He had no memory of his past life, of his birth place and childhood, or of choices as a man. He could remember nothing beyond waking up in the snow with those wicked men over him. An unfathomable terror and confusion filled him.
Who am I?
Panicked, he tried to rise, only for the pain in his ribs and head to flare in violent protest. He fell back with a cry. The old man caught him, lowering him softly. “Take it easy. Breathe.”
He did his best, but the panic did not recede. “Drink,” his caretaker commanded, holding the cup to his lips once more. He swallowed more by reflex than conscious choice. The water slid down his throat, cool and sweet. Gradually, he calmed some. Water gone, the gentleman removed the cup.
“I feared as much. You received a blow to the head, monsieur. I am no doctor, but I believe that is the cause of your memory loss.”
A blow to the head? His hand jerked up to feel the bandage on the side of his temple. Bile rose in his throat and his hand quickly dropped as if burned.
“You know me,” he whispered, fingers digging into the blankets. Faintly, he could remember hearing a name fall from the elder man’s startled lips when he had opened the door. But the name was lost in the haze that had swallowed him as he had collapsed. “You called me inspector a moment ago.”
“Yes, it is the title of your position: an inspector of police in Montreuil-sur-Mer.”
A police inspector was a respectable position, wasn’t it? He thought it was. Montrieuil-sur-Mer must be the name of a town, he guessed, though he did not recognize it.
“My name?” Please, he silently begged, tell me my name. Tell me who I am! I have to know. Who am I?
“Michel Javert.”
Exhaling, he sank back into the pillow, testing the name. “Michel Javert.”
It fit. Somehow, he knew it to be true. The chokehold of fear lessened and he could breathe easier. He was not nameless. But that did not change the fact he had no recollection of who he was. What was he going to do? His mind raced.
“What happened?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the man admitted, contrite. “You arrived late last night, half frozen and injured. I have tended to your injuries as best I can. Still, it would be prudent to see a doctor soon.”
He realized then he was stripped to his underclothes beneath the blankets. Fighting a blush, Javert mumbled quiet thanks. He scarcely noticed the old man’s nod. The explanation had reminded him of his flight through the woods to escape his would-be murderers.
“Javert.” He was drawn from his inner confusion as the gentleman recalled his attention. He was holding a bowl. “You must eat and regain your strength.”
He nodded, moving to sit up. His bandaged ribs made it difficult to move his torso. They ached as he shifted, thankfully only in a dull way this time. His keeper moved the pillow up so it was behind his back, and then assisted him up to lean against the wall. There was no head board, Javert realized.
A large hand, like a lion’s paw, placed the bowl of broth in his hands.
Once Javert was confident of his hold, he nodded to the gray-haired man. The gentleman relinquished his grip and sat back, watching. Clumsily, Javert grasped the spoon and carefully raised it to his lips. The broth was hot in his mouth and warmed his insides as he swallowed. He repeated the movement, gaining more confidence as his ate. Seeing his patient could eat without assistance, the gentleman moved away.
Javert ate slowly, taking the time to examine his surroundings.
The room was surprising large. A stove was on the far side of the room across from him, black and large. A few feet away to the right, there was a simple wooden table and a few crude chairs. Just beyond, a little further to the right was a coat rack with broken hangers and the front door. On the adjacent wall was a set of sturdy bunk beds bookended by two baskets instead of chests. His bed was bigger, tucked in the opposite corner with a small table next to it and a chest at the foot of the bed. In between the beds was a small fireplace, the fire low but crackling and warm.
His attention shifted to the man who had saved him. The man stood well over six feet he estimated, with broad shoulders and hands that looked far more suited for hard labor then the gentile clothes he wore suggested. His face was creased and sad, like he had known great strife and hardship in his life and something else that Javert couldn’t quite name. His hair was gray and somewhat curly, the ends tipped with white. All in all, his rescuer seemed quite dignified. Why then did he feel so unsettled?
Before he could puzzle out the feeling further, movement at the gentleman’s side caught his attention. He frowned, squinting. Was that…it was! A small girl was tucked against the old man’s side.
He stared at the child. She was a thin and bedraggled thing and, honestly, quite ugly. She was a stark contrast to the gentleman sitting beside her. Despite this difference, the child looked at the man with adoration and trust. Her grandfather, if that was what he was, cared for her deeply. His lion paws engulfed the girl. She may very well have been a mouse next to her guardian. Those giant hands, however, were extremely gentle, if a bit unsure, as they combed her hair. The little one had probably not been in the gentleman’s charge long. Javert wondered what circumstances brought the pair together. He added it to the many questions already circling his mind.
When Javert finished the broth, the gentleman cleared his bowl and, to his embarrassment, helped him over to the corner to use the chamber pot. Javert was settled back in bed, considering the best approach to question the old man when a small face peered at him from the foot of the bed. Big blue eyes stared at him, full of innocent curiosity and confusion.
He expected the small girl to talk, but to his surprise she seemed content to just look at him. For some reason her scrutiny made him quite uncomfortable. Why didn’t she speak?
“Hello,” he said, awkward. The child blinked, startling back in sudden fear. Why was she afraid? He had not meant to frighten her.
The old man came up behind her and laid a hand on her head. “Forgive me, I have forgotten my manners. Inspector Javert, this is my daughter, Cosette.”
Javert barely heard her reply, her voice reedy and thin.
“Hello, monsieur.”
She peaked out at him from behind her doll, dropping into a clumsy curtsey.
“And I am…Valjean,” the gentleman bowed his head deeply. “At your service, Monsieur Inspector.”
Javert was struck by an absurd familiarity with the gentleman’s name, though it inspired feelings of suspicion and oddly enough, hurt. He wished he knew why. Politely, he tipped his head in acknowledgement. It was the perfect time to thank the man for assisting him, but the words refused to come.
Valjean did not seem bothered by his silence. Instead, he quietly instructed Cosette to go play with her doll. When the child was settled on the floor, Valjean sat down in the chair beside Javert’s bed.
“Inspector Javert, I hope you will not take offense, but I must ask.” Javert knew all too well what the old man must be wondering. He wasn’t surprised when Valjean continued. “Do you remember anything about yesterday or how you came to be here?”
Javert scowled at the delicate phrasing. His fingers tugged at a loose thread on the blanket. “I remember waking up in the snow. Two men were nearby, talking about how to kill me. When they began to fight, I escaped into the forest and became lost. I found your home by accident, monsieur.”
Valjean gaped. Javert did not see why. He was simply stating the facts.
“How do you know me, Valjean?” Javert demanded, taking advantage of the other man’s astonishment. “You say I am a police inspector from Montreuil, you have told me my name, but you have said nothing of how you know this. You have been watching me with a wary eye, as if I will spring from this bed and send you and the child running. I am inclined to believe you wish we did not know each other and that my presence is in fact a terrible inconvenience.”
“You are not an inconvenience, Javert,” Valjean said quietly, after a moment. “Though I admit your arrival was startling.”
Javert said nothing. He had said what he needed to say. All he needed now was to wait for Valjean to reveal his true motives. The truth would out.
“I know your status in Montreuil because I was the mayor there. We worked together for the past year.”
“You were the mayor?” Javert asked, sharply. It did not sound like the mayor left because his term was finished.
“Yes. Recent events made it so life in Montreuil was no longer welcoming. I left to fulfill a vow I made to a dying mother.”
There was a great deal Valjean was not saying. Javert did not think he was lying, though, despite his carefully chosen words. He would get to the bottom of it, Javert silently swore. If he was to be in the man’s debt, he would know the truth.
“Cosette’s mother,” he deduced.
Valjean’s broad shoulders drooped.
“Yes. Fantine was a worker in my factory and was fired unjustly. She had left Cosette in the care of an innkeeper and his wife and she struggled to pay for her continued welfare. It was a terrible situation. She became quite sick. I am ashamed to say I did not realize or discover her soon enough to help her. She died, but not before I promised to seek out her child and see to her care.”
The old man glanced at Cosette, the guilt mixing with wonder and affection.
“She is not yours?”
“Not by blood,” Valjean replied. “But I will raise her as if she were.”
There was a hint of steel in those words. A promise made and determined to be fulfilled. Javert did not doubt Valjean would do exactly what he said.
“The child has not long been in your care, then.” Javert was pleased his earlier assessment proved true. He may not have his memories, but he still had his logical mind. With that at his disposal, he was certainly not helpless.
“No, only these past couple days.”
Javert was surprised. For only being together for such a short time, the pair seemed to have developed a deep bond.
“The innkeepers were not kind to her,” Valjean went on, keeping his voice low, answering Javert’s question even as he came to the same conclusion.
No, they certainly had not been, Javert thought darkly, looking at the child’s ragged dress and thin arms as she cradled the doll in her arms. What foolishness drove her mother to leave her with such obviously inept people? Not a good mother, certainly. The woman was dead, however, and no answers would be forth-coming to any questions about her conduct.
“How did we meet?”
Were we friends? He did not think so. The mistrust he felt did not seem conductive to a friendship with the former mayor. Perhaps that mistrust came from not being able to remember the man? Javert was not sure. He was almost certain there was something else.
Valjean sighed. “We met many years ago at Toulon.”
Javert straightened. He recognized that name. “The prison? Did we work there as guards?”
The unspoken question hung between them. Javert inwardly balked at the thought of being a former convict. Convicts were the scum of the earth; wicked men who did not belong among society. They broke the law without regard, destroying order with their sinful ways. That thought gave Javert pause. How could he know that about convicts but not know his own name or profession?
“You did.”
It took a moment for those words to sink in. Javert had worked there, presumably as a guard. But Valjean had not, which meant that…“You’re a convict?”
Valjean’s chin was low. “Yes. I was released on parole eight years ago.”
Javert’s mind was reeling. The man who saved him was a former convict? This must be a joke.
“If I am a police inspector as you say I am, then why would a convict help me?” he challenged.
“It is the right thing to do.”
Javert stared hard at the old man, searching for any hint of deception or malice. The gray-haired man looked back, serene and honest. But how could a convict be honest? It did not make sense. Were he in full possession of himself, perhaps he could make sense of this and could discern whether or not Valjean’s character was as he presented. Valjean said they knew one another. Surely then he had already taken full measure of the man! But without the memory, Javert was forced to make the evaluation again.
“As a convict you should never have become mayor,” Javert declared. “It is against the law.”
Valjean half smiled. “You would remember the law.”
Disconcerted by the man’s reaction, Javert pushed forward. “It is against the law. You could not have been elected if the people knew you were a convict. Therefore you must have deceived them. You broke parole.”
The old convict turned his head away.
“I needed to start over. I never wished to become mayor.”
“Once a convict always a convict,” Javert sneered. “Men like that can never change.”
Valjean regarded him sadly.
“How do you know?”
Javert flinched. Valjean may as well have slapped him. He ground out, “I just know.”
But his words lacked the certainty he wished to convey. The truth was, Javert did not know. Valjean did not seem convinced either. Rather than dwell on the niggling doubt, Javert buried it and pushed the conversation forward.
“I recognized you from Toulon. I am the reason you ran.”
Valjean nodded slowly.
“What do you take me for?”
The old man startled at Javert’s hostile tone. Javert leaned forward, glowering. “If any of that were true, why would you help me? Because it is the righteous action to take? Bah! No, you’re lying. You’re a liar.”
Valjean’s eyes were round, mouth open in shock. When he found his voice, it was to say, “I am not lying to you.”
“Yes, you are,” Javert snapped, undeterred by the protest. “No convict would risk helping the man hunting him. Unless…” his gaze narrowed. “Unless you set those wolves on me last night and did not expect me to find your hideout. By assisting me, you mean to earn my trust for your own purpose.”
“No,” Valjean declared vehemently, irritation crossing his features for the first time. Gray hair quivered as he wagged his head, annoyance vanishing as quickly as it came. “I do not know who attacked you yesterday or why. That was not my doing. You are a good man and have only ever done your duty. I would not do that to you.”
Oddly, Javert believed him, though could not fully ascertain why. “Perhaps. However, you are still lying about our acquaintance.”
Valjean shook his head in exasperation. “I do not deny lying as one of my sins. But I have spoken the truth to you now, Inspector.” He stood. “I will bring you some tea.”
Javert watched him go, silently fuming. The man was lying, he must be! There was no other logic for Valjean’s actions. A convict would no sooner help a policeman than a dog would befriend a cat. It was just not done.
How do you know? Unconsciously, he recoiled as Valjean’s question repeated in his mind. How did he know? Could he be wrong? Was Valjean telling the truth? Where did that leave Javert then? The fear that nearly swallowed him the night before snared him. No, no, no.
A large hand touched his shoulder, drawing him from the tumult inside him. He looked up to see Valjean peering down at him with sympathy.
“Here.” Valjean held out a steaming cup. For a brief moment, his lips curled in a sheepish smile, one that would be more appropriately given to a guest or friend. “I would offer cream or sugar, but I’m afraid we have none.”
Javert regarded the offered cup as if it were a viper. Hesitantly, he accepted the tea. He did not realize how cold his hands were until they wrapped around the warm, ceramic cup. Valjean moved away, pouring his own cup before sitting by Cosette. He could not help be feel some gratitude for the older man’s insight. Right now, Javert needed to think and puzzle out what he was going to do before he spoke further with Valjean.
He took a cautious sip, focusing on the taste. He could taste nothing amiss. It tasted just like, well, tea. Another sip soothed his throat and he briefly allowed himself a moment of relaxation.
“You have only done your duty. It’s a minor sin at most. All of us have made misjudgments, you’ll return, sir, to your post.”
Javert started as he heard Valjean’s voice in his head, echoing similar words in the same commanding, but kind voice he used earlier. Why would Valjean say something like that to him before? He tried to remember, to recall the circumstances or even his own response, but there was only the void. Frustration swelled and without thinking he squeezed the cup in his hands too hard.
“Javert!”
He blinked, becoming aware then of liquid soaking his lap, and pain in his hand. That large lion paw pulled the broken remains of the cup away, tossing it into the fire place. He hunched over, trying to pull his hand away, but that lion hand had a firm grip on his wrist.
“Let me see,” Valjean intoned softly.
Trust him. He was being asked to trust him. It was foolish. Valjean was a liar. He even admitted it! But-if he was telling the truth-dear Lord, how could he trust him? For that matter, could he trust himself?
“Javert, you are injured.”
Yes, he knew he was. In fact, he was fairly certain the cup left a shard or two in his hand. It was stupid to not allow Valjean to tend to his hand. Had Valjean not already cared for his other injuries? But Javert couldn’t make his fist uncurl. A tremble wracked him. He shook his head mutely, unable to speak.
Valjean sighed and began to pull Javert’s fingers open. The large hands were profoundly gentle, given their size, and his own hand seemed small in comparison as it slowly was tugged open to reveal the bloody cut across the palm. He wanted to stop him, wanted to protest, but he found he could not. Instead, he endured Valjean’s ministrations in brooding silence as the self-proclaimed former convict cleaned the wound, removing the shard-there was only one-and gently bandaged his hand.
He expected questions, to be prodded, but when Valjean finished he simply cleaned up, providing a dry blanket after lowering him onto his back and left Javert alone. It was just another instance of the old convict turning his expectations on their head. Really, if Valjean was the convict he claimed to be then he was without a doubt the worse one there had ever been!
A much smaller hand, calloused and bony, brushed against his newly bandaged hand. Javert jerked back, gaze falling from the ceiling to the ground. Cosette peered at him with concern.
“Does it hurt?”
Javert shook his head. No, he was too numb to truly feel the pain.
“I burned my hand once. Madame Thenardier was real upset with me.” Cosette shuddered, her face clouding with pain and memory. The look quickly disappeared as she regarded him seriously. “I am glad it doesn’t hurt.”
Then she astonished Javert by wrapping her tiny, bony arms around him. He couldn’t move-struck speechless by this simple action. Cosette pulled back, smiled brightly, and scampered away to scoop up her doll, singing softly to herself.
As for Javert, he lay there motionless unable to understand the kindness these two people showed him. What a riddle they presented! The man who claimed to be a convict, the very man Javert was pursuing when he was attacked, and the abused child. Neither behaved exactly as Javert was sure they should. This brought him full circle to the one truth he knew: he had no past. How then were any of these things he knew grounded? Without the foundation the rest floundered and fell.
He closed his eyes tightly as a wave of nausea hit. Carefully, he curled up on his side so his back was to the open room and his keepers. He welcomed the darkness of sleep.
~*~
On to Chapter 3
Back to Chapter 1