Wow, this is it, the final chapter. I'm both a bit excited and a bit nervous to be posting it. Hopefully everything is appropriately epic and without continuity failures. If you notice any loose ends I did not tie up or have other suggestions for improvement, please do not hesitate to tell me. This is going to be my last Les Mis fanfic for a while. It's not that I'm lacking ideas, but other fandoms are requiring my attention. If you enjoyed this, do consider checking out my other work, here and on wattpad under the name "TheLifeOfEmm". Thanks, and enjoy!

In Which the Curtain Closes on Act Two

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this and all is mended:

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear,

And this weak and idle theme

No more yielding but a dream...

"That way," Amali pointed. "Bifrons will be in the room at the far end of the hall."

"Amali..." Javert took her by the outstretched wrist. "Stay here. You too," he added, turning to the others. "Bifrons is already holding Jean captive to get to me; if you follow me, what's to stop the demons from using you as well?"

"And if you go it alone?" Amali asked sharply. "What then? If the twelve of us cannot take them together, how can you hope to win by yourself?"

"I don't," Javert said simply. "But it's me he really wants. If Jean were here, we could take him and run. Instead, you're going to have to leave me. Rescue Gavroche; we cannot abandon the child to his fate. See to it that Raphael and Michael return to the Citadel safely. Let them recuperate. Together, the Council can defeat Bifrons. It would seem now that that is our only hope. I will do what I can here."

"You cannot ask us to abandon a companion-in-arms," said Enjolras.

"It is the sensible thing to do."

"But it is not the right thing to do."

"I am going." Javert looked once in everyone's eyes. "Do not follow me." He turned and stepped with long stride down the hallway. And he did not look back.

"We're not going to just leave him, are we?" Jehan asked in a small voice.

"He has a point," Michael said. When everyone stared at him incredulously, he shrugged. "If we get ourselves caught, the Inspector will have no choice but to surrender to keep us from harm. It is sensible for us to stay here."

"But," Raphael said softly, "it is not Right."

The mortals looked despondently at one another. Then, as a company, they made their decision. Quietly, cautiously, they tiptoed down the hallway after Javert.

The room at the top of the stairs was saturated with Loçolico and with noise: shrieks and growls pervaded the overlying murmur of inhuman voices. Each of the nine terraces was packed with demons that grew more injurious of nature the further they descended, until one saw that the lowest and smallest ring seated each of Bifrons' hideous offspring. Melalo alone was absent from the gathering. When Javert entered, the menagerie fell silent.

The Inspector stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, onto the uppermost tier. Before him, the demons edged to either side, shrinking away from his footfalls and clearing a path. As he descended, they closed back in behind him.

Javert looked neither left nor right, but walked, straight-backed, down to the circle at the center of the room. Its only other occupants were Bifrons, who stood just to the side, and Valjean, who, after his removal from his cell, had been subsequently chained to the altar by means of heavy iron shackles around his ankles. He sat up, visibly shaking, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

Stopping in front of the Demon King, Javert said loudly and clearly, "It's over. You're done."

There was a moment's continued quiet before this outrageous statement was met by uproarious laughter from all quarters. Only Bifrons restrained himself, though his smile could have churned butter.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," he said softly, garnering him immediate stillness from his subjects, "but we have not even begun. In point of fact, you are tonight's guest of honor and not your petrified lover. Such a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur l'Inspector." He gestured at Valjean. "What do you think?"

"I think, given the charges of assault, kidnapping, and abuse, I should issue a warrant for your arrest."

In spite of his confused terror, Valjean stared at the Inspector.

"You came back."

Javert nodded, though he did not let his gaze leave the Demon King.

"For you."

"How very touching, I'm sure," Bifrons said dryly. "'Twould be all the more so, perhaps, if this one remembered who you are, but I suppose we cannot have everything."

Valjean gaped, looking between the two figures. "You were telling the truth? I know you?"

"Jean," Javert said sadly, "if you remembered me, you would know that I never speak anything but the truth."

"Fix it," Valjean demanded, glowering at Bifrons, a shadow of his lost personality showing through his features. "Fix it now."

The demon yawned. "So demanding. Still, I think it is tradition that the condemned be granted a final wish before they die, so, if you insist..."

With a lazy turn of his wrist, a faint purple mist condensed around Valjean, shimmering in the air for a moment before sinking through his skin. The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and a spasm worked its way down his spine. It was clear, however, that the Demon King's counter-curse had had its effect, for though his eyes remained closed for the moment, Valjean no longer shook like a frightened mouse.

"Javert. Clear out of here."

"On the other hand," Bifrons said with a shrug to no-one in particular, "one may not really want their memories back, because of course then it means something when you watch him die. 'Ignorance is bliss', and all that. Oh well. Too late now."

Valjean opened his eyes and met the Inspector's directly. His gaze conveyed a thousand messages - love, absolution, profound apology - and above all the clear directive to run.

The Inspector accepted the former and brushed off the latter. Instead, he drew together a breath and his sword.

Amali looked keenly around the edge of the doorway, crouching low on the stairs. The others fanned out behind her, forming an anxious blockade of the hallway. She could see, over the heads of the oblivious creatures in front of her, Javert in the ring below as he unsheathed his sword and directed it, fearlessly, at the chest of the Demon King. The silver edge glinted in the dancing torch light.

"Let him go," Javert said, "or I'll run you through."

This time when Bifrons spoke, it was as from the bottom of a deep well, something vast and ancient echoing through his speech.

"A very pretty blade," he said, "but..."

"But?"

"But... I think it is not the one you were looking for." The demon held out his hand even as his fingertips distended into claws. The sword's hilt tugged against Javert's palm, and though he fought to hang on, the guard dragged between his fingers and the sword flew, summoned by the stronger power, into Bifrons' waiting grasp.

The magic sword did not burn with Divine Light. It did not reduce the Demon King to a pile of ashes. Instead, once in his grip, the beautiful silver metal tarnished, turning black and oily. The star opal boiled, twisted, became empty and lifeless like a spent ember.

"All that glitters is not gold," said Bifrons with a leer.

"I don't understand," Javert murmured without feeling. "Lilyi said -"

"Lilyi is a nickname," said a voice behind him. "Most of us call her Lilith. And Lilith lied."

Javert spun around, his fists clenched at his sides. Across the circle stood a precise double of the Inspector, sans a few of his more recently acquired bruises and tears in his dress.

"Melalo," Javert affirmed through clenched teeth.

"So they call me," Melalo conceded, mimicking his study's mannerism flawlessly. "But tonight, I am you. It... amuses me."

"You'll forgive me if I do not care for the jest."

"Forgiveness is the business of angels. Pester one of them about your ill-wrought redemption."

"After I've given your carcass to the Hellhounds, perhaps I will."

Melalo advanced slowly. "You cannot defeat me. My beautiful wife gave you a sword but said it was one of two; it is, in fact, part of a tryptic: one to heal the spirit, one to sever the spirit from the flesh, and one to sever spirit from all worlds eternally. You expected the first of these. You received the last. And by bringing it here to us, freely, of your own volition tonight, you have co-signed the execution of both yourself and your sweetheart."

"You're a liar," Javert hissed.

"Generally. But not about this."

There was nothing the Inspector saw that he could use to defend himself. The prognosis was looking increasingly grim. Sensing the motive behind Javert's furtive glances, Melalo gestured innocently.

"I am unarmed. So are you. That's a fair fight."

Javert's eyes narrowed. "I doubt any fight with you is likely to be fair."

"But that's the beauty of it." Melalo's glamour rippled as he fine-tuned it, adjusting it so that in every aspect he was identical to the haggard Inspector, from the circles under his eyes to the fraying hem of his greatcoat. "In this form, we are exactly matched."

"Yes," Javert murmured skeptically, "besides the fact that you are an immortal Loçolico with supernatural powers, perfectly matched."

Melalo waved away his opposition's retort. "Immaterial. There's no satisfaction in it for me if I incapacitate you with magic. Using your own strength against you has its own virtues."

"I've no guarantee of that but your word."

"It is sound."

"Do not be too disappointed, then, when I win."

For all his jaunty bandying of words, Javert saw little hope in the outcome of the fight. No matter what form Melalo took, he was at his heart immortal, and Javert was quite the opposite. He knew the demon would wear him down eventually, and probably sooner rather than later. He put on a brave show nevertheless for Valjean's sake, and because it was not in his nature to do otherwise. He stood still, letting the demon make the first move.

Melalo did not waste his time with scare tactics. The moment the Inspector ceased speaking, the demon lurched forward. Javert stepped nimbly to the side, allowing his magicked double to run past. Melalo skidded and turned sullenly back to his opponent, seething through the jeers of the observers. It was then that Javert perceived the true nature of their conflict: Bifrons was displeased with Melalo; this was as much about the demon prince's humiliation as it was about Javert's own destruction.

The demon's eyes smoldered with barely suppressed hatred. He lashed out, catching Javert by the arm. It was all the Inspector could do to keep from overbalancing.

Above them, unseen, Amali winced. She too could tell that events were unlikely to proceed favorably; indeed, they seemed to be getting steadily worse.

"He needs a weapon," Enjolras murmured.

"He needs the proper sword," Amali growled. "I can't believe I was so stupid - I should have recognized Lilith on sight!"

"No-one can blame you for that - not even Michael saw her for what she was."

"Your reassurances, though appreciated, do nothing to solve the problem. The fact remains that Javert needs not just a sword, but a blade that is the very antithesis of evil. Those are not exactly common, Enjolras."

The student rested his hand on the hilt of his own weapon. In his mind's eye, he saw Melalo's spell parting before him, dissolving. The reader will, conceivably, recall Lilith's oath: "You shall have what you seek." A promise so vague over something of such incomparable value is fertile soil for the intervention of higher Powers. Was it possible? Enjolras considered. Could he have, in fact, purloined the Sword of Light even as Lilith handed Javert the Blade of Shadow?

"What about mine?" the student asked, glancing at the girl. Her eyes remained riveted to the fistfight beneath them, but a small frown puckered her lips at the young man's words.

"Your sword? Heavens, I forgot all about it. Why... I don't know. I suppose it would be better than nothing, but..."

They looked together at the figures spinning around each other. The struggle, to all appearances, was as evenly matched as Melalo had promised. The demon was evidently taking strides to suppress his paranormal capabilities.

"Which is the real Javert, again?" Enjolras asked, frowning.

Amali bit her lip. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

Distracted by their conversation, the hidden onlookers had entirely lost track of which Inspector was which.

"Please, tell me you are kidding."

Javert was sweating bullets as his opponent ducked and swerved around him. Melalo was, too, but looking the demon in the eye, the Inspector knew it was just for show. He was running out of endurance; Melalo had an endless reserve of it.

He grabbed the immortal by his shoulder and pulled him forward, stepping to the left and letting the surprised demon fall flat on his front. Javert took a deep breath, wiping the perspiration from his brow, but Melalo, rolling in his fall, took Javert by the ankle and dragged him to the floor also. The demon, sitting up before the Inspector had time to do the same, wrapped his fingers around Javert's throat.

"Die, mortal," he whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Javert!" They both looked up at the shout from above them. The man saw Enjolras shoving his way through the crowd and down to them, waving his sword around in the air, and he groaned inwardly.

"Enjolras?" Melalo asked innocently. "What did you come back for?"

"Don't list'n to 'im," Javert grunted, Melalo's gloved hand still tightly compressing his vocal cords. "'S Melalo."

"Liar!" Melalo exclaimed gleefully. "Quickly Enjolras, the sword! I have to finish him off!"

For a long moment, the young man hesitated, torn. Finally, he slowly extended the hilt towards Melalo. Javert closed his eyes. Defeat bore down on him, and he found that he almost didn't mind.

There was a flurry of motion above him; a beat later, Javert felt the pressure on his throat lift marginally and a heavy metallic weight dropped into his hand. He sat up, blinking, finding the weapon clutched in his own palm and Melalo slinking backwards.

"Only you," Enjolras said with a wry smile, "would lay down and close your eyes when a demon is seconds away from cutting your throat."

"We're going to have words about that later," Javert grumbled, pulling himself to his feet. He cut the air experimentally - the sword felt good in his hand, perfectly balanced. Melalo had come to a standstill a few feet away and watched this display hungrily. When the Inspector turned to face him, however, a flicker of doubt creeped over the glamour's features.

The demon stepped left, attempting to edge around Javert and twist the sword from his arm. The Inspector blocked him, and only a swift rolling maneuver on Melalo's part prevented the fight from ending then and there. With another backhanded swipe, Javert brought the tip to meet the demon's Adam's apple. As he was readying himself to drive it through the facsimile, there was an authoritative command from the center of the circle.

"Wait."

Javert glanced up and felt his arm sag as if weighted with irons; Bifrons was holding the long edge of the tainted sword to the throat of a very uncomfortable-looking Valjean. With a disdainful gesture, the Demon King threw the weapon in the dust at Melalo's feet.

"Defend yourself, brat, else your life is as forfeit as his."

Spitting, Melalo picked up the proffered weapon and brought it with a knee-shaking crash down upon the Inspector's, sparks crackling off the metal. Javert slid his out from underneath, jabbing at the demon's side. Melalo did not even bother with parrying, instead sliding away faster than Javert's stroke fell, swinging at the Inspector's head at the same time. Javert blocked the hit. The demon was seeing red; he abandoned reason for rage and strategy for risky gambits, banking on his superior experience and forbearance to carry him through. As they fought, Javert watched, trying to pick out a pattern in his movement.

Melalo swung the sword faster, the blade a black streak in the air, and it took more of Javert's concentration to match the fury of his hits. A mortal would soon tire of such a pace - not so a demon prince. Step, thrust, parry, step, feint... The fight dragged out to five minutes. Javert ground his teeth. If he was lucky, he would pass out before long. If he was unlucky, he would never have the chance.

And then he saw it. A gap in the demon's defense when he extended his sword arm at chest height. He covered his front, but not so his neck.

"You know," Javert said conversationally, "if you are me tonight, and you said yourself that you are, I probably ought to warn you that my character has always been particularly self-defeating."

Conscious that the moment he moved he may never again have the opportunity, the Inspector broke off his own defense suddenly, stepped forward and grabbed Melalo by the wrist. In a single smooth motion he drew up his own sword and did not hesitate. There was a sickening schick and Melalo's head slid cleanly off its shoulders, the glamour melting like wax from a feathered body.

Javert saw none of this. The moment his weapon had connected with sinew, his mind had imploded. The Inspector had thought it bad when Bifrons in the guise of Michael had stripped Amali of her immortality, but the death of an immortal was worse. Incalculably worse.

The demon's dying screech ripped through his head like a knife through silk fabric, clawing on the most intimate of levels through his memories, as if catching one in his talons might save his life. Barriers Javert did not know he had shattered, and in an avalanche of emotion felt every moment of despair he had ever experienced crash down on him at once.

Perhaps he gasped. Perhaps he screamed. But after a second and an eternity, Melalo was well and truly dead, and the ringing echoes in Javert's head dissipated. Blinking, he found himself kneeling on the floor of the circle. He was not the only one to be thusly affected. Everyone, it seemed, minus the Demon King himself, was huddled on the floor, their hands clapped to their ears. Recovering the fastest (would the wonders of adrenaline never cease?), Javert clambered to his feet and rushed to Valjean, cracking the blade down hard upon first the chains and then the handcuffs. With the proper sword in his hands, the bonds cut like a hot knife through butter. Valjean stumbled pulling himself up; Javert caught him, and Valjean clasped his friend in a bone-crushing embrace.

"Can't... breathe, Jean," the Inspector chuckled weakly.

"You," Valjean said sternly, "should have run while you had the chance. But I'm glad you didn't."

Bifrons coughed politely. "Perfectly poignant. But you realize that this changes nothing except that you saved me the trouble of killing the bird myself. I never did like him much," the Demon King continued. "Melalo was the reason it never worked out with Ana, after all."

Bifrons raised his arm, the black sword flying again to him.

The demon's form shifted and he stretched taller, his legs giving way to a mass of roiling tentacles that snaked across the stone floor. One whipped upwards, wrapping around the Inspector's sword arm, a multitude of tiny barbs cutting into his skin. A gasp escaped parted lips, but still Javert kept his presence of mind. He twisted his wrist, the hooks tearing jagged cuts as he did so, struggling to bring his blade down on the muscled limb.

The tentacle squeezed tighter, immobilizing his arm entirely, even as another slithered across the floor toward his foot. He stomped on it, grinding the heel of his boot into the fleshy appendage.

Bifrons hissed and recoiled, striking instead at Valjean with a trio of tentacles, wrapping them around his calves and chest, dragging his feet inexorably forward. Valjean fought back, ripping the slimy appurtenances from his skin without a care for his clothes or the pain, but by this time the Demon King's lower half was truly writhing with limbs - far too many to fend off. By degrees, they were overtaken, until they hung, flaccid and spent, in the constricting clutches of King Bifrons.

"Two sacrifices for the ceremony tonight, I think," the demon announced, meeting with cheers from his audience.

Valjean turned to the Inspector.

"So this is how it ends, then? Both of us die here, now, forever? Why didn't you go when you had the opportunity?"

Javert smiled with a bizarre levity. "You told me once that you weren't going to Heaven without me. That's a sentiment that goes both ways, Jean. Pardon my existentialism, but I'll take oblivion before an eternity of being alone."

The lights flared and then dimmed, and a spark of electricity ran around the circle. The upper tiers took up a deep chant, growing slowly in volume as Bifrons turned his gaze to the hole in the ceiling, watching the skies above them shift. At last, the thunderheads gave him some imperceptible signal.

"If you've any final words, I advise you say them now," the demon told the Inspector, fastidiously burnishing the edge of the Dark Sword on his scarlet robe.

Javert looked Valjean directly in the face. "I love you."

Valjean smiled warmly, past regret or sadness.

Bifrons levied the sword point at Javert's breastbone, joined the chanting of his minions and led it to a crescendo. For a moment, time stood suspended, and the Inspector fancied he could hear the rushing of a river.

The moment shattered like candy glass. A battle cry went up from the back of the hall and Bifrons jerked around in time to see a group of twelve rush in and bear down on the Loçolico. Amali took point, pulling weapons off corpses even as she felled them, tossing them over her shoulder to the Les Amis, who were only too happy to revenge themselves on their captors.

There is something to be said of foresight, and something else to be said at the lack of it. From the perspective of the Demon King, it made sense to keep his most powerful supporters near the bottom of the pit such that they would be well at-hand during his ritual. That had the effect, however, of ceding the advantage of height. As the Les Amis swooped down, the monsters were forced into fighting an uphill battle, a tactic which always bordered on unsustainable, even when one's army is largely immortal.

Maybe we can't kill them, Amali thought fiercely as she cleaved an imp in two with a scimitar, but we can damned well leave them incapacitated.

Bifrons bellowed with fury. In his distraction, his grip on his captives loosened slightly, enabling Javert to twist his arm down and drive his blade through the tentacle wrapped around him. The sloughed-off limb fell twitching, dragging shreds of the Inspector's skin and clothing with it, and Bifrons let out another howl, this one of pain. Swaying to regain his balance, Javert cut likewise through the suckered arms binding Valjean.

Where the Sword of Light touched demonic flesh, the King's essence frayed, decaying into black rot that flaked away into ash. Bifrons spat and shrank into himself, out of the blade's reach. Javert brushed flecks of residue from Valjean's vest, taking a moment just to stare at him. Valjean stared back, a spectral smile brushing his lips. His hand on Javert's arm was warm through his coat, and in this light, he looked more solid than he did translucent.

They read each other's thoughts wordlessly; Valjean yielded and dipped his head slightly before twisting away to join the less dangerous fray. Fighting the immortals without a body to protect, Valjean was nearly as unstoppable as they were, his immense strength and invulnerability to the usual weapons of war sending the Loçolico scattering.

"Defend your lover if you like," Bifrons sneered. "I do not need him to finish this ceremony. I just need the soul of a good man."

Javert shifted his weight, raising his sword across his chest.

"Well," the Inspector chuckled softly, "I hate to disappoint you, but I'm afraid you'll find me lacking in that department. After all, that's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, quite. You're here to finish a redemptive arc you barely managed to start. I almost pity you, succeeding in your goal only to die moments later."

"I am anything but a good man," Javert hissed through clenched teeth.

Bifrons grinned crookedly. "Your sword would beg to differ."

Javert glanced down, his eyes widening as they latched on the blade. The plain steel sword was shimmering white, the air around it cracking and popping with energy.

Mouthing "What...?" quietly to himself, Javert drank in the sight of the light dancing along the weapon's edge. It looked like it should hurt, the angelic fire playing over his hands, but instead he only felt a faint, pleasant tingling.

"When you're done imitating a carp..." Bifrons smirked.

Javert lifted his eyes, radiating a quiet, amused acceptance that took the place of brutal determination. He glanced Heavenwards a moment, murmuring something that sounded like, "Let me die, but... bring him home."

Scowling, the Demon King whipped the Dark Sword overhand and down; the sound of it hissing through the air was audible. Javert ducked out of the way and the sword hit the stone tiles in a flurry of sparks. He lunged forward, attempting to catch Bifrons in the underbelly, but for all his girth, the demon's movements were fluid and quick. He danced out of the path of Javert's blade, eyes alight with Hellfire.

The Inspector had not even a moment in which to catch his breath before the King was bearing down on him once more, driving the blade down toward the top of his skull. Javert swung his sword up to parry the blow.

When the steel clashed on black silver, the empty space around them erupted like the interior of a hurricane; the Dark met Light, and energy rolling off in massive shock waves disrupted the normative equilibrium of the Astral, twisting the fabric of the plane around them. Had Javert taken pause to observe his surroundings, he might have noticed the Loçolico fighting the Les Amis at one instant in slow motion and in others at a pace that could only be termed supernatural as the magical disturbance distorted the chamber.

Javert was not observing this marvel, however. He was instead focusing the whole of his attention on pushing the Demon King's weight off of him. His arms trembled in their sockets; he could feel the beginnings of give in his knees as Bifrons applied even more pressure to the blades above the Inspector's head.

Grating against Bifrons' weapon, Javert shifted toward his right, moving by inches to the side and forcing the Dark Sword to slide gradually to the far side of the blade, away from Javert's hand and, hopefully, into a position the Inspector could get out of. Realizing what the man was doing, Bifrons suddenly lifted his blade from the Inspector's. At the sudden loss of weight across his top, Javert overcompensated and swayed where he stood, disoriented. In that brief interlude of confusion, Bifrons brought his weapon level with Javert's chest. The Inspector did not so much as wince, though he felt the point of the blade depressing his skin through his clothing.

"Your Majesty," he said in a final flash of cynicism, "piss off."

He had lost, clearly. Pursing his lips in vague annoyance with himself, the Inspector took a desperate final stand. Even as Bifrons was driving the blade into his chest, Javert raised his sword over his head and threw it with all the strength he could muster at the monster towering over him. He closed his eyes and could not have said whether the projectile found its mark. White light burst behind his eyelids, and everything faded into ethereal nothingness.

He had not expected erasure to be so pleasant. He was floating in a sea of white, warm and comfortable. The sensation could almost be described as heavenly.

It was this realization that sent a flicker of suspicion quivering across Javert's consciousness. Was it even possible for him to be capable of thought if his soul had been destroyed?

The white haze around him gained a sense of solidness and definition, and he felt a heaviness come over him. Mostly sure that he knew what had transpired, the Inspector fought the return to lucidity, enjoying the peaceful sensations while they lasted. It did him no good. The world darkened to a soft black, and Javert discovered that his eyes were closed.

There was the sound of gentle breathing next to him. Feeling a deeply rooted sense of déjà vu, Javert forced his lids to open, though it seemed to take a monumental effort on his part. The ceiling above him was crafted of pale wooden planks supported by graceful beams. His body told him that he was laying in what was quite possibly the most sumptuous bed he had ever been in the same room with, and his ears informed him, by a hitch in the breathing he had before observed, that his visitor saw he was awake.

"'Morning," Javert said, lifting an eyebrow but unable to muster the motivation to turn his head.

"Javert," Valjean murmured, his chair scraping on the floor as he dragged it toward the bed. "You're awake. Good. I..."

"Jean," Javert smiled, "hush."

Valjean's silence effused contrite apology, at which Javert's smile widened. "Before you ask: yes, I'm alright, yes, I want to know what happened, and yes, I probably need help to sit up."

Valjean mirrored Javert's smile and took him by the shoulder, helping him to lean against the pillows. When the Inspector was situated, Valjean sat himself on the edge of the bed and looked fondly down at his friend.

"You gave us all a right scare, you know," he said with mock severity. "There we were, trying to distract the Loçolico from you, when all of a sudden Enjolras shouted. I got turned around just in time to watch you get halfway to skewered and then everything went white."

"You too? I thought that was just me."

"No," Valjean shook his head. "I didn't hear what happened until later myself, but when you hit Bifrons with the sword, the backlash of angelic energy vaporized every demonic entity in the vicinity and transported us here."

"Where is 'here', exactly?" Javert asked, though he felt he already knew the answer.

"Heaven, Javert," Valjean replied, taking the younger man's hand in his own. "You made it. We both did."

"How? Why am I not just... gone?"

"Divine Mercy."

"You don't know, do you?"

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, just enjoying each other's company. Golden light spilled through wide windows on the white sheets, and Javert felt his eyes closing with the comfortable warmth.

"So," he murmured, "what about the others? Are they alright?"

Valjean hummed. "Mmmm. The Les Amis are all just fine. A few cuts and bruises of course, but nothing the healers here couldn't fix. Gavroche is fine too. Lilith made a promise. She had to keep it, even if she didn't expect or want to."

"And Amali? I would have thought she'd be here, fussing."

Valjean's smile turned somewhat mischievous.

"Oh don't worry about her. She's in a meeting with the Council now. I'll be astonished if she doesn't return with stories of all seven Archangels kowtowing to her every whim. She's expecting them to offer her her immortality again at the very least."

"Good," Javert said, deeply pleased. "She certainly deserves it."

"She's going to turn them down," Valjean said matter-of-factly.

Javert's eyes flew open. "What?"

"She doesn't want it anymore," Valjean shrugged. "All of that responsibility all the time? No, when she left, she said she was planning to barter for her own soul or some such. I think she's taking what might be termed an angelic retirement."

"Huh."

"And then, of course, there's Michael." Valjean's grin took on a knowing quality at that one. "He acts all high and mighty of course, but I'm near to certain that he's asking Amali to dinner tonight. I caught him preening in an empty room earlier."

Again they lapsed into silence, though perhaps a slightly less comfortable one as Javert struggled with the last question he wanted to ask.

Eventually, looking anywhere but at Valjean, he said quietly, "I... am so sorry. About... That is to say I didn't... You got hurt. Because of me. But more than that, I was too much of an idiot to tell you I love you when it mattered. I'm sorry. If you want to leave... I... I understand perfectly."

Valjean squeezed Javert's fingers.

"You came. You came and got me. Do you know how much that means? I'm not leaving, Javert. You'll have to throw me out yourself."

"I'm afraid I can't do too much throwing right at the moment, what with being bedridden and all. You mean it? You'll stay?"

Javert met his gaze then shyly, and Valjean pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

"I wouldn't dream of going. Sleep, Javert. There will be time later to talk. We've an eternity before us in Paradise."

La Fin