Here's another variation! (And there are still more coming!!) Hope you all enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Les Misérables and all related material are solely belonging to Victor Hugo. I have yet to find out whether or not I am related to him, so I cannot tell yet whether or not I can claim some of it... =T_T= Thanks to Bramblefox, by the way, for the sideburned smiley!

This one is dedicated to Marionette Javert Edwards. Thanks for reviewing!

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The Path to the Right

Javert approached the river.

His face was hidden in shadow; his head was bowed. He walked slowly, watching his feet take one step, then another, and another, on and on. His hands were clasped behind his back, and anyone who looked closely would have seen that his fingers were quivering ever-so-slightly, despite how tightly he was holding them.

But no one saw. The city seemed completely deserted. The empty, dark streets looked eerie and foreboding. A mist had descended, shrouding everything in obscurity. Even though it was summer, a fierce, merciless wind had stirred up, and it now swept through the streets, scattering everything in its path. Reaching Javert, it skirted around his legs and tugged cruelly at the hem of his coat, occasionally blowing it back and exposing him to the cold. He took no notice of this, however, and continued trudging until he came to the Pont Notre Dame.

Reaching the parapet, the inspector leaned both elbows on the top of it and rested his chin in his hands. He gazed down at the river. The twisting, frothing water seemed to whirl and contort almost as violently as Javert's own thoughts. Churning, the river sent waves crashing against the structure of the bridge, as if it wanted to knock it down and sweep it away, taking it prisoner.

As Javert could have taken Jean Valjean prisoner.

The inspector unconsciously clenched his hands tighter than they already were. Why, he lamented, could Jean Valjean not have killed him when he had the chance? It would have suited him; Javert had, after all, made his life miserable enough. But no, that old man had to be confoundedly good-hearted and set him free.

No. He by no means set me free, Javert thought. Indeed, Jean Valjean had shattered everything that had once been so strong in Javert's mind. Javert now felt hopelessly and utterly lost.

The river still swirled beneath him.

Javert tried to discern something of the water that he could hear so clearly. He saw nothing but blackness. The sky above him was black, too...

Suddenly, Javert felt that he could not go on. This terrible conclusion jumped out at him from some obscure corner of his mind, and he was almost immediately as sure of it as he had been sure of everything else in his life. Of course, that had all been wrong, but the thought of being wrong now did not once occur to him.

Javert took his elbows off the parapet. Then, with a brief, decisive motion, he took off his hat and laid it on the parapet. He was about to climb to the top of the wall when a voice rang out behind him:

"Javert!"

He spun around, somewhat startled. Who was seeking him at this late hour? Why now? Then a white head emerged from the shadows. It was Jean Valjean.

So that was how it would end. Javert smirked. How very fitting. He fumbled in his pocket, feeling for his pistol. When his fingers grasped the deadly cold of it, he drew it out and threw it at Jean Valjean's feet.

"Kill me," he demanded.

Jean Valjean gazed, motionless, at Javert, who was shaking and yet still held his head with the defiant pride that he would possess till the last minute. But he shook his head. "No," he said softly.

"Fine, then." Javert's voice now shook as badly as his hands, and, with difficulty, he searched himself until he found a knife. He threw it down beside the pistol. "Use this rather."

Still, the old man did not move. Somehow, the pile of weapons at his feet made him seem all the more saintlike

"No," he repeated.

"Then what are you going to do?" Javert seized Jean Valjean's arms and shook him violently in a frenzy. "How are you going to kill me?"

Jean Valjean gently freed himself. "I will not kill you," he answered simply.

This, Javert could not stand. "Oh, yes, you will!" he cried. He snatched up the pistol from Jean Valjean's feet and forced it into his hand. But the old man hurled it away, and a distant crack announced that it had fallen against some remote building.

"Kill me!" screamed Javert. He stooped to take the knife, but Jean Valjean's boot moved to cover it before he could grab it. So the inspector stood and took his arms, shaking him again. "Why won't you? You were supposed to – at the barricades! You did not! Kill me now! You must!" He paused to take a great, shuddering breath, then exclaimed, "You want to!"

Jean Valjean had become very alarmed at Javert's want, almost desperation, to be killed. He looked down at this terrible man, and suddenly noticed that, although the inspector was usually taller than him, he now stood below him, his pale face upturned to see him. It occurred to Jean Valjean that this was because he was, more or less, holding Javert up. If not for his support, Javert would have most likely collapsed.

"Yes!" The inspector laughed hideously. "You do want to!"

Jean Valjean shook his head very firmly. "No, I do not," he responded, and he let go of the inspector's arms and twisted free from his grip.

Javert staggered backwards and fell against the parapet, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he sank to his knees, pale and trembling.

"Why won't you kill me?" he begged, his head bowed. "Don't you understand? My life has been – wasted! Completely wasted! It is useless for me to continue living; the world has turned upside down for me; everything I once thought is gone…gone…" This thought seemed to be the hardest fro Javert to bear, and his voice shook more violently.

"You have hands; you can till the ground." This suddenly came back to Jean Valjean, from the other world in which Javert had asked for his dismissal. Javert had said the very same words about himself, when asking to be dismissed from his position.

Javert raised his head. A single tear traced down his cheek. His peculiar memory also remembered nearly every detail of that faraway conversation. But he shook his head. "No, I cannot," he whispered softly. "I cannot live on like this. Everything is gone…the earth has vanished beneath my feet. I am falling through darkness. I cannot keep blindly falling for the rest of my life."

Jean Valjean regarded this desperate, yet still proud man with a compassionate eye for a moment, then spoke. "But you needn't fall, Javert. The ground is still right here." He patted the pavement ground between them. "See? No blackness. You are still right here. So am I. So is the rest of the world."

"But what am I to do in that world now? My thoughts have shattered. How can I go on?"

It was an honest plea for help. Coming from this man, Inspector Javert, it was heart-rending. For a moment, the steel eyes met the kind ones in silence; then, with a sigh, Jean Valjean stood up. Javert watched him, motionless. He gave a slight start when his former enemy offered him his hand.

"I…" The inspector was unsure of what to do.

"Come, monsieur," Jean Valjean gave a small smile. "You will go on, and I will help you if need be." He paused. "But, for now, it is a cold night, and there is a fire at my home. I am sure Cosette would not object. Let me assist you for tonight, and we will see about tomorrow when it comes."

Javert felt his heart swell with a profound gratitude for the wonderful man before him. A little surprised at the emotion within his soul, after all the years of being deprived of it, Javert was set off his balance a little, and he took a breath to steady himself, closing his eyes. How very tired he was. How he would like to go home with Jean Valjean...just to rest...

He opened his eyes again. Jean Valjean still stood before him, his hand outstretched expectantly. So, taking another breath, Javert replied, "Thank you, monsieur; I would like that very much." He allowed himself to be helped up. Once he was standing, however, his knees sagged, and he swayed slightly, clutching Jean Valjean for support.

The older man looked down at Javert's ashen face, alarmed. "Are you all right, Javert?" You seem ill!"

"No, not ill," Javert assured him, though his face was still drained of color.

"What, then?"

The weakness passed, and Javert straightened, letting go of his companion. "I am fine," he said. "I am just, perhaps, a little tired..." Indeed, the dark shadows under his eyes stood out all the more clearly against his pallor.

Jean Valjean nodded understandingly. "Come; follow me," he told the fatigued inspector, and he led him away from the river.

They walked in silence. Twice, Javert stumbled, and Jean Valjean had to catch him so he would not fall. Javert would continue with admirable perseverance, but it was clear that he was becoming more and more weary. He kept falling behind despite his long stride, and by the time they turned onto Rue de l'Homme Arme, the inspector was quite exhausted. Proud, long-suffering man as he was, however, he had not uttered a word of complaint; he would have sooner gone back to the Seine and thrown himself in.

Bless his soul, thought Jean Valjean, glancing at Javert's pale, drawn, face. His mouth was tight and pinched, and tinged with purple; a cold sweat beaded on his brow. Painful effort was drawn on every line of his features, and yet he gave no sign to suggest it. He struggled on, a soldier in his own battle.

The pain in Javert's face was, however, very nearly too much for Jean Valjean to bear, caring soul that he was, and it was a relief to him when they finally stopped in front of his lodgings. Javert's breathing was ragged, and his shoulders were slumped most uncharacteristically in his weariness. At first, he tried to stand on his own, but his legs gave way and he fell against the wall, leaning on it heavily. Even his iron constitution had been broken by the preceding events.

After a moment, Javert spoke, his voice hoarse and weak: "I thank you, monsieur…I am forever in your debt."

Jean Valjean turned to face the inspector, who had closed his eyes for a brief moment to rest. Then, with a smile and a shake of his venerable white head, he laid his hand on Javert's arm. Javert opened his eyes again.

"No, Javert, you are not in my debt. You have done more than enough to repay me. You have set me free." Jean Valjean paused, watching Javert. "What more could I want?"

Javert lowered his gaze. "But you granted me my freedom as well. The barricades? Your freedom is payment for that. I remain in your debt, Valjean."

"Then…" Jean Valjean thought, then said "then you have repaid me with your friendship. Or, at least your willingness to stay here for the night.

"Or for the day," murmured Javert, glancing back up. Indeed, it would be light in a matter of hours.

"Or for the day," Jean Valjean agreed, smiling again. Javert met his kind gaze for a moment, his own steel blue eyes aching with exhaustion. Then, with a simple instruction of "Come," Jean Valjean, his hand still on the inspector's arm, steadying him, opened the door to his rooms and let in Javert.

As Javert stepped into the warm room thankfully, his soul felt strangely light and free. Tomorrow would come, he thought, and with it, it would bring the sun.

And Javert would be there to see it.

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Merci for reading!
I enjoyed writing this one. I think it maintains Javert's character more than my other variations do...what do you all think?
Now make me happy and press the green button and review!

;)