A/N: Oh goodness, this is my first fanfic ever to be submitted on . I've written a smattering of them in the past, though none I've ever been confident enough in to submit here. In fact, I'm quite nervous for this to be here as well, but it's something I've been debating on doing ever since I got started with it, and am happy to say that I've finally worked up the nerve. Don't be too hard on me. :) My interpretation of Mr. Todd deviates from the canon happenings somewhat, but you'll find out about that when it comes, I suppose.
:PROLOGUE:
Barker, Hope & Todd
Botany Bay, New South Wales, 1839
Thunder rumbled gutturally in the background. The cliff above the ocean was a foreign cut-off; and end at last. Barker stood a hundred paces from its edge. The landscape was a monotone grey, with bursts of desaturated blue from sloshing water and lightning eruptions above. Windy too. Each raindrop shot like a faerie cannon onto his skin; pummelling him with minuscule fists.
The dried blood on his face was beginning to run, once crusted and dark, now loose and free to trail through his unruly hair, and down his neck, soaking him as if the rain were fringed in dull carmine. He tilted his head back, and let the cannons fire down, hitting with snapping force. Punishment; Retribution for this streak of…but he dared not say it, dared not think it.
But it would all wash away soon. Yes, soon he would be far and away, back to his dear wife. This moment…he'd been dreaming of it for fourteen years. It was what kept him alive, really.
Was he still alive?
Barker had often contemplated the difference between being alive and being dead. The two seemed so easily interchangeable. He was dead…but still breathing, still seeing. And it was agony.
It was now or never, he concluded. Either he'd stay here; on the Island of the Damned, an oasis of displaced logic; where there were two paths for a man to travel: The road of death; twisted, foggy, saintly in its relief, yet frightening and silencing for a mind, or the road of Madness: convoluted, scattered, yet also relieving, where a man lets go of what makes him what he is, a human, to accept and fend for himself like an animal. Man devouring man.
Or he could fly away. He could see Lucy and Johanna in a little white boat, gazing up at him fondly…pale specks on an angry sea. Lucy. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. Yellow hair billowing. Curdling, in the tumultuous wind. Her face stressed and squinting in the rain. And infant Johanna. Fat cheeks and dulcet blue eyes hidden from view, as she recoiled against her mother's chest from the frightening weather.
It was over. His stride began quickly, racing through the penetrable water bars, bare echoes of the metal ones he'd had imprinted on his eyes all these years. He slowed in eventuality, staggering down to a trudge, at last able to peer over and see the direct view below. There were rocks, damnation, but he'd do it anyway. If he died, then all that could leave him now were his senses. Pain was unthinkable and impossible.
Falling; at such a length, he'd never felt before. Barker launched himself with such misery encapsulated, that he achieved grace.
Trumpets are sounding,
War steeds are bounding.
Stand to your arms and march on good order
England shall many a day,Tell of the bloody fray,
When the blue bonnets came over the border
Hitting sea. Soul upon soul. It burned his face, a slap from Poseidon, but once all rigidity and discomfort spread away, at once upon the water's contact, he found, in himself, escape. This murky grey hell, bubbling and careening so quickly past: It was salvation. The water blubbering and slopping in his ears, the rain's cruel pelts drowned quite literally into silence, it was what he'd been dreaming of all this time.
Soon Lucy will throw a line. Her boat, silken-sailed, will soothe the savage storm, and he will float home.
"Hope?" Said the Captain gruffly, in response to a skinny boy who'd clambered his way up to the hull, with boots too large.
"Captain! Sir, I believe—I believe I saw a man!" His eyes were wide, and he wore an unusual embroidered coat, most likely obtained at a discounted price from the Indian market.
"Well I should hope so. Err…Hope." The Captain paused at this, though he didn't laugh. "Wouldn't want my men to hide away from their duties." At this he chortled, belly jiggling, an ode to St. Nicholas.
"No, no, sir! A man! He's…I saw him!" Mr. Hope was frantic. "The cliffs there! The cliffs! He's fallen off." He gestured emphatically towards the edge of land, storm whipping his drab hair, plastering his thin face.
The Captain shuffled to view, clasping his hat in the wind and squinting at the indicated land. "Fallen, you say?"
"Sir! I'll-I'll cast a line. With your permission, Sir!" But he'd already bounded back down the steps and began unravelling the heavy rope.
The Captain, being inherently passive, even for a man of the sea, did nothing to either encourage or discourage the boy's course. Several other men came to his aid however, and a "Man overboard!" was hollered, though drowned considerably in the howling wind.
Anthony was at the head of the fray, grasping the line and hurling it over with all his might. He saw a dark head momentarily re-surface, but plunged down again just as quickly.
He froze mid-motion. Perhaps he was dead. It was too late. But it could not be. They'd arrived just in time. If only he'd see! The unfortunate man! His mind was a-race.
The other men shouted down, but for what seemed like an age, there was no responding action from below.
He could barely see, but it was there. Blurred and white, a sudden flash of light slammed through the surface down to him: the rope of his saviour. He reached arms out, in suspended animation, with all his strength against the water's flow, and felt a prickling substance. His grip was iron, and he tugged.
The response was immediate. He was pulled up with surprising strength and speed. Lucy's ethereal ways would remain, as always, a great mystery. But upon breaking out, and coughing up salty liquid, he saw the damp walls of a great vessel, rather than a modest white dingy. Craning his neck, hair weighing him down to aid the process, Barker witnessed not wife and child, but boys and men. Whitewashed faces that pulled him to Heaven with determined arms.
At last! Fortune was on their side! Mr. Hope grabbed eagerly the rope, and did his very best to heave and ho with the rest of them. The sea-felled man was clouded by dark hair and beard, and he clung to the rope with what Anthony assumed was relief.
Once he reached the top, he was grabbed round the middle and set on the floor in a soaking mess. Captain Morgan trundled down to greet the castaway, who lay half-naked and sickly, coughing up blood and water. He bent knee and examined the fellow. "Good work, lads. Let's hope the poor chap's not a prisoner. Lest we be tempted to throw him back in again." He spoke as if Barker was not even present.
Mr. Hope ran down below deck to retrieve blankets. On the way, he shoved his scantly dispersed treasures off his bunk to make room, and lit a lamp, before hurrying up again.
Barker felt number than possible. He heard voices, but they seemed as distant and muffled as if he were still underwater. Suddenly dryness enveloped him, and he was lifted off his feet by the same plethora of strong arms, led down a dark mouth, and into a room with rocking, soothing candlelight.
"Sir? You must be hungry." Said a young voice, chipper, yet soft.
Baker could barely turn his head, he shook so. He could hear, however, the soft clank of utensil and plate, and sure enough, a boy set a tray of hastily assembled food and drink at the foot of his bunk. "Thirsty too." The boy chuckled, though tone was not raised.
Many days passed. Barker spent most of his time alone below deck, bed-ridden, limbs unmoving. He didn't sleep much, nor did he speak, but he ate and drank. Leaving meat untouched, however. The same boy brought him his meals again and again, saying less and less with each visit.
Anthony wasn't getting a name out of him, evidently. Nor was he getting much else at all. But he felt responsible for his well-being, and as such, saw it as his duty to tend to him. The other sailors, including the captain, let him have his way, taking extra portions at mealtime, because, thought Anthony, he was a kind boy, and was doing good.
The sailors, however, felt no inclination to give any help themselves. They were simple, gruff and uneducated, differing immensely from Mr. Hope. The lad was a fool, they said, to join them in their voyages. But whenever asked, Anthony would always defend his position with a simple love for the sea. A love for travel.
Perhaps he'd been disowned, or orphaned. That was the most they could come up with, however plausible. What would an educated youth want with the trying efforts of a nautical occupation? He was young, too. Usually them tykes weren't forced to work at such a job until they were much older. He was, what, fifteen? Give or take.
It was on the last week of the month, and the second-last day before they reached Peru, that the unfortunate man below deck began speaking. Much to Anthony's surprise. He was beginning to think that the poor soul was dumbed, or perhaps shocked into dumbness due to fright. It was no secret what sort of terror went on in the colonies at Botany Bay, so it was most likely the latter. The ghastly white streak in his hair could not be forgotten either.
"Good-morning, Sir!" Said Mr. Hope, who had just awakened, himself, from a spare bunk in the corner. He sat up in his union suit, and watched Barker for a moment. Barker looked as if he'd been awake for hours, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together with propped elbows on knees, head bent.
"Sir, if you cannot say your name, could you at least write it down? Can you write, sir?" That was an idea. At once, the boy jumped up, sheet billowing, to scramble in his satchel for parchment.
"…Sweeney Todd."
Anthony stopped, and took a moment to let the husky voice sink in. "…S-Sweeney Todd, sir?" He stood up, but Mr. Todd would not look at him. "So…so you can speak, then?" But he felt slightly timid. "Well. Mr. Todd. I—"
"Where are we headed, Anthony?" 'Mr. Todd' finally spared the boy a glance, revealing a Cheapside accent.
"Peru, Mr. Todd."
"Peru…"
"Yes, but don't worry." He gained confidence, and smiled. "By next year we'll be returned to England."
Mr. Hope was kind enough not to question Mr. Todd's history. Indeed, he didn't ask him at all about why he'd been near the colony that fateful night. Mr. Todd was a stoic man, and, Anthony surmised, far too distressed to handle pestering.
Barker was getting used to being called Todd. The name was like a badge, and rightfully won. Charles Todd would forever remain neutral in his memory, but he could not forget their connection, particularly concerning their escape, and think of him...almost fondly.
Sweeney Bonnet was another matter entirely. He'd barely known him, but they'd shared a connection too, and he sympathized with him and his untimely death. This partial anonymity was partly why he chose it for his new Christian name. Bonnet had never divulged his history to the rest of his inmates, nor had he spoken much at all. In a way, Barker felt more comfortable as Sweeney Todd than he'd ever felt as Benjamin Barker. Perhaps it was all for the wrong reasons, but his moral compass had not been in tact since…perhaps since his escape.
The English Channel, 1840
He stood now, in front of a misted looking-glass, on the day of The Bountiful's venture from Plymouth to London. He'd not dared look at himself for all these months, fearing what he might see. Mirrors did not exist in this size back in the colony. He was forced to piece together his appearance through reflective substitutes. Water or metal. But now there he was. Much like a wild beast, or an unruly urchin of the streets. Unshaven and…what was that in his hair?
There was a straight razor, among other toiletries, wrapped in cloth on a small table in the latrine. Mr. Todd cherished the touch of cool metal on his calloused fingers, and spent God knows how many hours locked up and fiddling with it. Nothing could compare to the ones back home, but it seemed to centre his balance somewhat. Possibly his well being too. He emerged an hour later, clean-shaven and washed for the first time in many, many years. The captain signalled their arrival, and Mr. Hope called down to him.
Mr. Todd found his way on deck, dressed in spared clothing handed from one man or another, the wind blowing on his face. London loomed, in ghostly silence, and in ghostly black, with pinpricks of light here and there. He wanted to feel enthused, feel at home at last.
But all he could conjure was a lump in his throat, and a slow knit of the brow.
"Ah, I cannot believe that this is the place I've been the most anxious to see." Said Anthony cheerfully. "I would have said differently a few months ago." He chuckled.
Mr. Todd said nothing, only hit with a blast of something resembling nausea. And it wasn't from the rocking boat.
"It's as if...this is the first moment of my life." The young sailor went on, breathing in the chill night air, and sighing, "Where Machu Picchu was so ancient, London is so modern and alive. Familiar. I feel at home again."
No, thought Todd, this had to be the last moment. No in-betweens now. The last moment of a tortured existence. Salvation was near. Lucy was near. But even so, he felt no tremor of joy in his heart. No angelic chorus beating through his veins, as what he'd experienced in all his dreams, through all these years. No, there was something else that beat there now. Where his heart used to be.
Or…was it the first moment?
Firsts and lasts meant nothing now. It was only the future, the present, and the past. The future was so darkly hesitant to show the first moment of Sweeney Todd. So gleefully, however, did the past embrace the last moment of Benjamin Barker.