Chapter Text
One:
His last thoughts were of his inability to live life in the face of the moral contradiction that was Jean Valjean. Perhaps, more truthfully, Javert’s inability to understand himself in the face of Jean Valjean, the convict saint.
Two:
Taking that last step off the parapet and the lurch in his stomach as his weight tipped and the wind whistled in his ears.
Three:
The painful sting of his body crashing into the filthy, fast-moving currents of the Seine, as if every inch of his skin had been slapped, hard and sharp.
Four:
Opening his eyes into the murky water and the instant fiery pain; opening his mouth instinctively to breathe and tasting the gritty river on his tongue, airless and endless.
Five:
Thrashing, unthinking, as the ruthless current folded him under, and the faint, nearly-imagined sensation of fingers closing around his wrist.
Things that he does not remember:
Getting pulled out, although he must’ve been. For even if the Seine had been merciful enough to wash him up on its dirty banks, it would have been far too late for Javert to still be breathing evenly, as he is now.