
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2558348.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Les_Misérables_-_All_Media_Types, Les_Misérables_(2012), Les_Misérables_-
      Victor_Hugo
  Relationship:
      Javert/Original_Character, Javert_&_His_Mother
  Character:
      Javert_(Les_Misérables), Javert's_Mother, Original_Characters, Jean
      Valjean
  Additional Tags:
      Eventual_Valvert, Pre-Canon, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence,
      Prison, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Period-Typical
      Racism, Historical_References, Religious_Discussion, whump!Javert,
      Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Psychological_Trauma, Abuse_of_Authority,
      Branding, Flogging, Eventual_Post-Seine_AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-03 Updated: 2014-11-11 Chapters: 3/? Words: 3749
****** The Creation of a Man ******
by OpenEyes
Summary
     The untold story of Javert's childhood. Unwanted at birth, demeaned
     and dismissed until he comes to the attention of the wrong people
     that forge him into the distant and commanding young presence that
     strides into Toulon and dogs Valjean's until he is shattered a final
     time.
Notes
     This has been a story that's been bouncing around in my head and
     seems to just be getting bigger and bigger. Unbeta'd (takers
     welcome!). Chapters will vary in length until the story starts to
     pick up. Comments loved!
     I'm trying to keep this historically accurate, but some discrepancies
     will probably occur.
     French terminology will have definitions at the end of the chapter.
     WARNING: This fic will feature EXPLICIT and IMPLIED sexual child
     abuse, EXPLICIT PERIOD TYPICAL VIOLENCE, and period typical religious
     discussions. If this will cause any triggers, please use extreme
     caution while reading.
***** Prologue- Born in the Bagne *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Her screams echoed down the corridor, drowning out the sound of rain against
stone. Faces were grim as the other women in the prison counted the many hours
that had passed since the labor pains had begun.
So far, it had been a hard labor. Inside the infirmary, the midwife’s arms were
coated to the elbow in blood and other fluids as she reached between the gypsy
woman’s legs, trying to forcibly pull the babe into the world. She glanced up,
noting the shallow breaths and the paleness that belied the normally swarthy
complexion. Maybe it’s just God’s will to not be this time, she thought. We
don’t need another of those in the world anyway. Deciding this birth was a lost
cause, she moved to pull her arms from the dying body before her when she
finally felt the babe slip and start moving along the birth canal.
Surprised, and her decision now forgotten as the habit of many births took over
again, she gently moved her hand away, murmuring encouragements to the new
mother and reaching for the swaddling cloth.
“Pousse-tu, fille,” the midwife scolded impatiently. “Push, girl.”
The woman’s eyes fluttered, but she gathered herself with a deep breath and
screamed one last time, bearing down against muscles loose from pain and
fatigue and the black void offering her solace and peace. And the newborn slid
slowly from her womb and into the arms of the waiting midwife, who wrapped him
carefully and offered him to the woman to suckle. “A boy,” she announced
clearly.
Exhausted and with a small look of disgust, the woman turned her head away,
leaving her arms down by her sides.
The midwife felt irritation stir. Stupid, ungrateful woman, she thought. She
was not looking to care for the babe herself all night. Striding over to the
pile of bedding that had been created for the infant, she set him down and
continued out of the room to fetch someone else to play wet nurse, studiously
ignoring the newborn’s wails.
Chapter End Notes
     "Pousse-tu, fille"-Push, girl
***** Gitan Bâtard *****
Chapter Notes
     This is about an 8 year time jump from Javert's birth.
     La Manche, France, 1788
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The boy crouched in the shadow of some crates, stacked haphazardly against the
dockside warehouse. His mother was down the street, on the corner, calling for
the sailors and the few adventurous merchants to stop at her table. Tarot cards
flickered and flashed too quick for the eye to follow between her slim, nimble
fingers and dusky ringlets fell from her kerchief to frame a fine-boned face.
Known only as Oiseau, her husky voice was less the high song of a sparrow and
more the low coo of a mourning dove.
Many of the men spit at her feet and cursed her as they passed. He did not need
to look to see it. Everyday was the same. Soon, she would pack up for the night
and he would wander back to their small room in the tenement house while she
went to drink away what little coin was earned. Maybe, if she found a “friend”
for the night, he would be able to beg her for some food in the morning. He
would not count on it, but hunger was the only feeling he had ever known.
Eventually, she would remember he needed fed.
He could not remember if he had ever wanted to steal a piece of bruised, half-
rotten fruit from one of the crates he frequented or a small sou dropped by a
heedless stranger, but Oiseau had beaten him with the strip of leather she used
for a belt if he even glanced. He ducked his chin to his chest, shoulders
hunching defensively at the memory.
No, he did not need to watch her.
Instead, he stared at the small boy, maybe eight years old like himself,
climbing uncertainly into a small, modest carriage, followed by a red-faced
corpulent merchant. The other boy’s yellow hair looked freshly washed in the
setting sun, thin limbs barely covered with rough wool-spun clothing, torn and
threadbare against the autumn breeze.
Pain pricked his memory. The boy reminded him of Luc, and Gabriel, and Michél,
but mostly Luc. He wanted to shove the memories away. The last time he saw
them. They had been playing hide-and-seek, his cheeks hurting beneath his dusty
hands from holding in giggles. Luc was whispering as he peered inside empty
barrels, salt brining crackling beneath his small fingers.
“Javert...Javert?...Michél?...Gabriel?...come out. Come out. You can win, I
promise.” The smile on his face betrayed the lie.
He continued his search, peeking under garbage into abandoned crates, poking
his face into cracks running through the alleys walls, even chancing a glance
in some open windows and coming ever closer to Javert’s hiding spot. Until he
appeared to walk right past. Javert had to stifle another giggle that turned
into a yelp as water splashed against the top of his head.
“Gotcha!” Luc yelled, wiping his hands dry against his breeches next to a small
puddle from last night’s rain. “Gabriel! Michél! Javert has to count! Come
out!”
Javert glared, crawling out from behind a parked cart. “Yeah, yeah...,” he
paused, looking around. “I don’t think they are coming out. Maybe they really
like their hiding spot. Just go hide. I’ll start counting.” Turning away,
Javert closed his eyes. “Un...deux...trois...” He could hear the soft suck of
Luc’s bare feet in the mud as he began his search.
Once Javert counted to ten three times. He opened his eyes and cocked his head,
listening. He could hear someone whispering and grinned. He was supposed to
call out when he started looking for the others, but maybe he could sneak up on
Luc and return the favor of puddle-sharing. Sliding his feet to minimize the
noise, cold mud oozing between his toes and crawling up his ankles as he slowly
sunk into a level of silt, he grimaced and glanced around the corner at the end
of the alley. The whispering was louder, but the street was deserted. Odd.
Javert frowned, looking around. It was midday. Someone should have been
wandering the streets.
He shrugged the tension out of his shoulders, eyes shuttling from shadow to
shadow as he determinedly followed the whispers. They were loudest by an empty
alley, but there was a barrel resting against a short stone wall. He smirked,
the odd silence of the street forgotten as he creeped onto the barrel, ready to
spring over the wall and catch all three of his friends. Until he heard what
they were discussing and froze.
“Stupid cigani métis. Last week, ma mère swore we are missing a whole franc
after he stopped by! He’s a thief. Un gyppo, just like the rest of them.” The
voice finished speaking and spit.
“Oui! Did you see his face when I threw that piss on him? Stupid! I bet he
thought it was just water from the puddle!”
“Un clébard.”
“Non, un cleb.”
“Et un corniaud.”
The group beyond the wall broke into peals of laughter. A quick glance over the
top of the wall proved that it was his friends that were calling him these
names. Tears welling in his eyes, Javert slide down off the barrel and slunk
bad down the deserted street towards the tenement house room, feeling as
desolate as the streets he wandered.
Blinking back fresh tears and shaking off the memory, Javert’s gaze moved to
the merchant, a stranger to the docks. He minced across the cobblestones,
wincing as mud sunk up the toe and high-heel of his slippered feet. Stains from
the salt spray of the La Manche dotted his silk overcoat.
He often wondered what happened to the docks’ children that walked away with
merchants or the occasional servant of a merchant or minor noble, perhaps. He
would never again see them on the docks, but if he tried to run up and ask,
they kicked at him, shouting, “Fiche-moi le camp, gitan bâtard!” At their cry,
reinforcements would gather and he would have to run into the back alleys and
crevices in the city’s structure to avoid angry, grasping hands.
But each time, unease curled in his belly, heavy and sour. Without knowing why,
each time, he would offer a small prayer of thanks to God that he was seen as
an ugly child.
His musing were interrupted and scattered like the leaves tumbling down the
suddenly deserted street as his mother yelled for him. “Javert! Javert!
Quickly! Tout de suite! Aide-moi! Help me!”
The panic and urgency in her voice had him leaping to his feet, sprinting along
the building line before his eyes registered what was before him.
A troop of police inspectors were striding confidently down the road, brass
buttons and badges polished to a high-shine and their royal blue uniforms a
startling splash of color to the muted gray-brown of the docks. As he watched,
still running toward his mother who was frantically trying to pack up her
things so they could run, one inspector yanked a sleeping drunk out of a
doorway, the metallic chink of the cuffs audible even from this distance.
Another grabbed a shrieking prostitute who hadn’t made it back to her brothel
fast enough. One of his fellows came to help as she clawed at his cheeks,
leaving bloody streaks on his fair skin.
Javert and Oiseau had had to hide from the police before, but it was always one
cop. This...this was something different and his young heart beat desperately,
mouth dry with fear.
Chapter End Notes
     Un...deux...trois...- One, two, three
     cigani métis-Half-breed gypsy
     ma mère- my mom
     gyppo- gypsy, also cheat/swindler
     clébard/cleb/corniuad- Mutt/mongrel
     Fiche-moi le camp, gitan bâtard- Beat it, gypsy bastard
     Toute de suite! Aide-moi!-Quickly! Help me!
***** Le Depot (The Holding Cell) and Tribunal *****
Chapter Notes
     Minor Edits may occur later, but I wanted to get this up before bed.
     It's a much longer chapter, so I hope you enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Javert twisted his wrists, feeling the skin heat in cuffs cinched too tight as
he tried to repress his trembling. They were marching through the streets,
heading toward the small, squat building he knew housed the police. His mother
walked in front of him, staring defiantly ahead while the others in line had
their heads bowed, shoulders hunched against the small stones and splatters of
mud other children were throwing as they processed. The police bordering the
column occasionally calling for them to stop as their parents gathered,
alternately whispering and yelling when they spotted his mother’s olive skin
and dark hair.
He had just reached his mother ahead of the police inspectors. She had still
been trying to gather her small table, dropping her tarot cards in her haste.
He had pulled frantically at her skirts, watching the inspectors rapidly
closing in. She slapped his hands away. By the time she had looked up, it was
already too late. One had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and sharply
wrenched his arms behind him until he yelped and heard the icy cuffs click shut
on his wrists. Another had grabbed his mother’s arms and hissed something in
her ear. She reared her head back until it met his nose with a sharp crack,
followed by a spray of blood, dribbling down her back and the front of his
uniform. While he was dazed, she managed to pull away, biting another hand that
reached for her, but there were too many and she was quickly subdued.
The squeal of rusty hinges jolted Javert back to his present circumstances as
the police herded the many people they had arrested into a small cell,
unlocking their cuffs as they filed in. He tried to count how many had been
caught in the raid, but it was beyond his small abilities and in the tight
confines, the stench of liquor and unwashed bodies rapidly became overpowering.
There was one barred opening on the far wall and he slipped around the dull-
eyed prisoners to lift his face to the window, breathing deeply.
This proved to be a mistake and he gagged. The smell of piss and shit, rancid
and rotting wafted on the air. They must empty the chamberpots right through
the bars. Suddenly the rust dotting the iron bars didn’t seem as innocent. He
scrambled away and back to Oiseau, trying to keep his breathing shallow.
“Maman,” he whimpered. “What’s going on? I want to go home.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, boxing his ear. “This is your fault. If you had come
when I called, we could have escaped them. Leave me be.” She turned to her
side, effectively shunning him.
Javert knew this wasn’t fair. He had come when she called, when he saw the
police, as fast as his small legs could bring him. He had tried to tell her to
leave her things. He had tried. He had. He backed against the wall, his thin
arms wrapping his knees to his chest trying to ease how the air felt heavy and
slow in his lungs. He could hear the inspectors laughing and slapping each
other on the shoulder as he tried to quiet his thoughts and watched the
occasional sunbeam travel across the shoes of his cellmates for the night.
*********************
BOOM!
The sound of the cell door slamming shut yanked him out of the fretful sleep he
had fallen into. Blinking rapidly to clear the haze from his vision, he sat
frozen, arms still wrapped around his knees in the now mostly empty room. The
remaining women were pinching their pale cheeks and staring into tiny puddles
on the dank floor, scrubbing at smudged cosmetics. Oiseau stood with her back
to him, pulling at her dress, tugging out wrinkles, tightening the ties at her
waist and baring her shoulders slightly. Removing her kerchief and spitting on
it, she turned towards him and smoothed the fly-aways in her hair.
“Javert,” she snapped her fingers impatiently. “Here. Now.”
Cautiously, he did as he was bid, finally placing the sense of wrongness he
felt. The men were gone. The older boys were gone. He had easily been the
youngest of the people crammed into the dirty area, but now he was the only one
who was not a woman. A odd mix of gratefulness and hurt weighed in his chest.
Stopping in front of his mother, he held himself rigid while she scrubbed
roughly at the mud and grime on his face.
“Pick the dirt from under your fingers,” she instructed, following her own
orders as she turned back around, dismissing him.
Gingerly, he touched his nose and cheeks. They were warm to the touch and from
long experience, he knew they would be bright red. He hoped too much skinned
hadn’t been removed by her efforts and he slid back to his place on the floor
against the wall, dutifully digging under his ragged nails to extract what he
could.
*************************
Several hours later, the women done preparing and an officer walked up to the
door.
“Line up,” he barked.
They obeyed with some discreet shoving and glares to move to the front of the
line. Oiseau hissed. She had ended up third in line, pulling fiercely on
Javert’s arm. He could feel the prick of her nails and bruises forming under
where the cloth was bunched. He tried to gently tug to loosen her hold, but it
merely tightened. She warned him with a look and then they were moving.
The man’s boot slapped loudly against the stone floor, echoes bouncing in the
empty corridor as the whisper of the women’s slippers were swallowed and
Javert’s bare feet didn’t make a sound at all as they skimmed along the floor
at their brisk pace. Occasionally, they would pass an open door and suffer the
bored gaze of other police, sitting at desks or talking as they stopped for
lunch. Mostly, it was just a different type of cell with long, gray walls until
they eventually were led through a set of unassuming double doors and before a
tribunal.
Three men sat raised on a dais, looking down on the troupe as they filed in.
Javert kept his eyes on his mud-caked toes, but stole a peek between his
lowered lashes when their attention focus on the first woman in line.
“Step forward,” the man on the far right called. He was corpulent, but pale,
like he’d never seen sunlight. He reminded Javert of a worm he found once on
the edge of a composite heap, layered in rolls and slightly sheeny with sweat.
The next man was thin and something about him seemed sharp, like the point on
the loose fish hooks littering the dock streets as it slices through the bottom
of a foot. Even his eyes were the cobalt-gray of a fall storm, Javert swallowed
to wet his suddenly dry throat, skipping quickly over the the last man. Old and
frail, he shook where he sat, lids drooping, combatting fatigue even as he
spilled a glass of water onto his lap while the other men thinned their lips,
ignoring him.
The center man read the charges with the soft toll of funeral bells. “You stand
before us charged with vagrancy and prostitution. Do you deny these charges?”
The woman stared straight ahead and answered calmly, “Yes, sir. I was merely
walking home from a friend’s house. I work as a maid for a small merchant
family, but I’ve been given Tuesdays as a day of rest while they are on social
outings.” Her dress seemed to uphold her story. It was of modest cut and demure
navy in color.
Worm snorted. “Do you have papers stating thus?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman quickly produced the papers in question and handed them
to the men.
They studied the papers briefly and conferred. Then, Worm moved to return the
papers, telling her, “You will remain in the holding cell until we can further
corroborate your story. Your papers are old, nearly illegible. They may no
longer be truthful.”
The woman protested she could easily lose her position as it was already the
following day and she had not returned to her employer’s house to work. Her
pleas were ignored as another officer entered the room to return her to her
cell.
The next woman stepped forward and the charges were read. Javert recognized
her. It was the woman who had scratched the faces of the police when she was
arrested.
“You stand before us charged with vagrancy, prostitution, public drunkenness,
physical assault on a gardien de la paix, and resisting lawful arrest. Do you
deny these charges?”
The woman just snarled and spat on the floor at their feet. This wasn’t the
first time she had faced a tribunal administratif. They had no love for each
other.
Fish Hooks remained even. “Very well. You are known as Fleur Rose in our
records. They indicate this is your third arrest, and with the excessive list
of charges, the appropriate sentence is two years in the bagne. You will be
transported at the end of the week. Officer.”
And suddenly, it was time for Javert and Oiseau to face their crimes. Again, he
began, ““You stand before us charged with vagrancy, prostitution, suspected
theft, multiple charges of physical assault against the police, resisting
lawful arrest and crimes against persons. Do you deny these charges?”
Javert wanted to speak up and ask how these charges could possibly be against
him, but he knew better. Anything that happened here couldn’t be worse than
what Oiseau would do if she felt he had destroyed her chance to escape the
charges. And indeed, his mother smiled and laughed lightly at the men.
“Messieurs, I am simply an entertainer. No harm is intended with what I do and
the people that come to my stand know this. Some live very dreary lives and
look for a few moments of hope. And I am very sorry for injuring the officers.
They had scared me. I did not understand what was happening. I was working in
peace and preparing to return home for the night. I reacted unthinkingly.” She
apologized prettily.
“So, you admit to the charges of assault and that you are a charlatan, stealing
money under false pretenses.”
Her eyes widened. “No, monsieur. No, not at all. No more than going to the
theatre is a false pretense. Just silly stories. I must feed my beloved son
somehow, good sirs. His father passed away a few years ago. How is a young
widow with few skills to survive?” She pleaded, but Javert knew she lied. She
took great pleasure in cursing his miserable, wasted criminal father, stuck in
a bagne somewhere for life for a barroom murder. She compared him to his
worthless father often enough for him to remember this forever.
“I see,” was the man’s response, notating on a slip of paper. “And of course,”
he added, “you have properly registered papers?” He had indeed taken note of
their dark hair and smooth, olive complexions, but not to their advantages. “As
you know, France requires all of her les bohémiens to be properly registered to
restrain their inappropriate lifestyles.”
She made a show of searching her pockets. A bit desperately saying, “I do know.
And I’m terribly sorry, messieurs, I must have forgotten them at home
yesterday. I was in a terrible rush, hoping for a few more sous to buy my son
proper shoes before the weather turns.” She indicated his unshod feet while he
bit his lip and turned his head away slightly in shame. Whether at his ragged
appearance or her easy lies, he wasn’t sure and allowed his limp bangs to cover
his eyes.
“I see,” Fish Hooks responded again, piercing them with his stare before
turning to convey with Worm. The old man had finally lost his battle and had
fallen into a light doze.
Worm turned back to them with a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes, but Fish Hook
passed their sentencing.
“As is dictated by the laws of France and our King for any Tsiganes found to be
without properly registered papers, showing that they are an established,
contributing member to our society, you and your son, métis or no, will be
shaved, flogged and branded as both punishment and reminder of this mandate.
For the rest of the charges, it is quite a list for a first arrest.” He paused
a moment. “We are willing to remove the possible charges of theft. However, you
and your son are sentenced to three years, eight months in the bagne. The
officers will obtain your information and carry out the first part of your
sentence tonight. You will be transported at the end of the week. Officer.”
His mother’s face transformed, becoming the familiar hard mask as she cursed
them and they were led away. Javert’s face was pale. He felt nauseous and
faint, and his nightmares had yet to begin.
Chapter End Notes
     gardien de la paix- Guardian of the Peace (literal) Lowest ranked
     police officer
     tribunal administratif- Local Criminal Court
     les bohémiens- Bohemians (now archaic term used for the Romani people
     in France), this also included beggars, true vagrants and other
     "disreputable persons"
     Tsiganes- a term used for the Romani people in France
     métis- someone of mixed blood
     The shaving, flogging and branding was an actual punishment carried
     out for not having proper papers if one was a Romani woman in this
     time period (upon re-reading my notes, location is a ????). Exile
     could also be part of this punished. Men could/would be sentenced to
     the galleys for life. I can add a citation here later. (My pillow is
     really calling me...)
     Also, "crimes against persons" is a vague charge that they often used
     against women. I cannot find a proper definition for it, which I
     suppose makes a kind of sense in a sexist system. Gossip and slander
     were criminal charges they could bring against women too. Along with
     public drunkenness which they did not criminalize for men.
     Enough with the history lesson. Comments appreciated! :)
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