Author's Note: I had a bad case of writers' block so thought I would try some freewriting. The result, probably because I've just finished reading Les Mis, was an exploration of Javert's childhood. I'm still editing the story so hope to have the next part up within the week. :)

Intro

A hush fell slowly over the world. The wind sighed, the deep sigh of the widow who lost all she ever loved, then lapsed again into quiet reflection. Wavering shadows of trees, caught in night's breath, ceased to tremble. Pinpricks of candlelight flickered and died as window shutters closed in distant buildings. The rattle of wheels, the clip-clop of hooves, some solitary carriage crossing some faraway bridge, faded into nothingness. All silent, all at rest, save for the lapping river.

Javert was alone now.

He edged closer towards the Seine. But for the vague shade of a man shivering momentarily on the swirling river below, the movement might have passed unnoticed. Still his elbows rested on the parapet, still his chin rested in his hands, his fingers buried in his whiskers. A shifting only of his upper body, a slight tilt forward, his gaze more intent upon the black waters. Nothing more stirred. Except in the depths of his soul.

Javert's mind was in turmoil. It was a terrible thing to be a servant of the law and to flout the law. It was a travesty to wear the badge of police officer when that badge was tarnished. He, Inspector Javert, who had always conscientiously fulfilled his duty, who had always been above reproach and a fine, upstanding citizen, had allowed the prisoner Jean Valjean to go free! If his heart beat in sympathy with a convict then how could he trust his heart again? If his eyes burned with tears then how could he see justice as clearly as before? If he was weak enough to doubt then how could he be strong enough to judge? The law said the convict was evil. Yet Valjean spared him when he had every right, every means, to kill him. Valjean, the convict, was good. If Valjean was good then the law was bad. Javert's whole life, his whole purpose of being, had been built on a crumbling foundation. And what was his life without a purpose? A life was worth nothing lived as a lie.

The moon slithered out from behind a mass of grey clouds, casting misty silver light amid the thick gloom, silently watching. With sudden resolution, as if Death called his name and he would quickly answer, Javert removed his hat, set it down on the quay and leaned over the icy waters. The moon and the river waited. This man's life must soon be over. This man must surely die alone, friendless, unmourned, unloved.

And yet he was a boy once.