Title: The Demons of 186
Author: homesweethomicide13
Rating: T for now, will change to M when the blood starts spurting.
Pairing: It follows the tale of Sweeney Todd, so you figure it out.
Warnings: Blood, death, the usual things involved with Mr Todd.
Disclaimer: I do not own Deltora Quest, nor do I own Sweeney Todd. Unfortunately.
Summary: The Deltora gang are snatched from their world and planted inside the bodies of those involved with Sweeney Todd. They must live out the legend of Sweeney Todd, with alterations. But one finds himself unable to distinguish himself from Mr Todd...
The Demons of 186
Book 1: The Demons Awaken
Prologue
The building was old, the windows grey and filthy. The place looked like it was going to fall apart any moment now. There was faded gold lettering above the door, peeling and chipped, but still somewhat readable.
Mrs Lovett's Meat Pies.
On a pane of glass directly above what could easily be the main entrance, three gold letters still remained, telling the world that this building was number 186. Not far from the corner on which the place stood, a street sign was poised in the air, hanging from a thin metal pole. Swinging in the light breeze, the words Fleet Street glared down at the miscreants that dawdled around on the walkways.
If one were to push open those main doors and walk into the shop beyond, the room would appear dusty, dirty and deserted. Spiders had collected in every corner, and all manner of insects crawled around on the floor and surfaces. A cracked plate remained on a table beside a tin tankard. Crumbs, stale and mouldy, stuck to the plate like lichens. Something what could have once been ale was glued to the bottom of the tankard, which was starting to rust.
Walking past these objects, one would find themselves facing an open hallway into another room, furnished with hideous chairs and singed wallpaper. A book remained on one chair, a slip of paper marking the page the reader had stopped at. Another door led to a small bedroom, and if one were to enter, they would see an unusual sight upon the bed: a woman, face pale and gaunt, eyes closed seemingly forever, lay upon the dirty sheets in a tattered black and white corset-dress.
But if one were to walk back into the shop once more, and out through a side entrance, one would find a flight of stairs. And if one were to walk up the rotting wooden steps – carefully, mind – one would find a door at the very top. Through the door was the upper level of the building, quite a small-sized room with a slanting roof and a huge window mounted into the slant. A broken mirror sat in one corner, and at the opposite end was a small cabinet that was home to a vanity mirror and various objects. But it was the scene in the middle of the room that would have brought fear and wonder into any who saw it.
A mad contraption of a chair sat amid a wash of blood, though strangely enough, a section behind the chair was clean of the red stains, though they circled around it. Though the chair itself was daunting, it was the man sprawled – lifeless, perhaps – upon it. He had dark, unruly hair, with a dashing white streak. He was dressed in a dirty white shirt and brown vest, with black and white pinstripe trousers. His boots were settled nicely against the crimson floor. His head was lowered to his chest, hiding most of his face.
But no one saw these strange sights, for no one dared enter the building below, or above. In fact, people crossed the street to avoid even walking past that cursed place. It was common knowledge, and still not a thing of the past, that dreadful things had happened there.
The demonic tale of Sweeney Todd and the devil baker Mrs Lovett was still fresh in the Londoners minds. It had been but a year since gentlemen had had their throats sliced open by the demon barber. It had been but a year since those gentlemen had been cut up and ground into meat pies.
It had been but a year since the remains of both barber and baker had been found in their dreadful bake house.
Sweeney Todd was dead, killed in the same method he had used to slaughter Mrs Lovett's 'meat'. The baker herself was burnt alive in her own oven. Many thought there was much justice in this. All were grateful that these demons were gone from their town.
How they would scream in terror to learn that those demons had returned.
Darkness. Endless, thick darkness. Cold.
What is this place? Where am I? Why am I here? Why is it that I cannot see or hear, or even speak? Why does the stink of death hang around this place?
A light, in the distance, growing larger as it nears. Blinding light.
"Mm…" A pale-faced man stirred, eyebrows tautening into a frown. He lifted his head and licked dry lips before opening clouded eyes. He lifted a hand to wipe at his eyes in order to clear them, and he felt rough material brush cold skin. Confused, he looked intently at his hand, wondering when and why he had put tattered fingerless gloves on his hands. Now that he thought about it, he was sitting upright, and he was uncomfortable. He shifted his body and his legs clanged against a firm, metal grate.
With cleared eyes, the man looked around him and shock crossed his face. This was not where he had lay down to rest. He was sat in a chair padded with crimson cushion, and spattered with a sticky substance that left dark brown marks on his skin. He moved his legs and found them to be encased in tight black trousers with tiny white stripes running their length. Heavy boots clunked upon the wooden floor.
The room was completely different to his bedroom – for starters, the roof was slanted, and beside him was the largest window he'd ever seen. In front of him, in a corner, was a shattered mirror. It was when he glanced at this mirror that something caught his eye. Standing up and ignoring his strange new attire, he strode to the mirror and stared into it. The man staring back was not what he was used to seeing.
The face was the same, as were the colour of his eyes, but there was a darkness in those eyes that he did not recognize. His skin was three shades lighter than normal, and he had dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was still unruly and raven black, but now he had a snowy streak gracing a spot above his left fringe. He was thinner, too. He'd lost his obvious strength from his shoulders and arms. He felt weak in such a slight frame.
Never say weak again whilst referring to my body.
He jumped a mile in the air at the cold voice. He looked around for its source, though he knew he would find no one. The voice hadn't come from a specific place. It had come from everywhere.
"Who are you?" He didn't know if he would get a response, or if he was just crazy, but it was worth a shot.
I could ask you the same question.
"If you don't know who I am, then you won't know why I'm here?" He had a ton of questions, and if this disembodied voice didn't have the answers, no one would.
Oh no, I know why you're here.
"You do? Please, enlighten me."
Not so fast. I want to know who you are first.
The man rolled his eyes, although he wasn't sure if the owner of the voice could see him or not.
"My name is Barda. But it is a common courtesy to give one's name before asking another's." The man replied, raising an eyebrow and putting one hand on his hip – ignoring how feminine it felt.
Maybe where you come from it is. But this is London, Barda. Courtesy is a rare thing in this area.
"London?" Barda had never heard of the place before. "Where the hell am I?" He could hear the voice sigh heavily.
London. It's a large town in England. Heard of that?
"Another island?" Barda questioned. It was strange, since he and his companions had destroyed the evil in Deltora, travellers had gone to explore the islands around its coasts, but he had never heard of a place called England before.
Oh I have so much work to do… Listen, Barda. I'll explain everything to you later, but you are here for a reason.
"Oh? Care to tell me that reason, Mr disembodied voice?"
Ha-ha. Looks like I got myself a funny guy. Now shut up and listen. Sixteen years ago, I was wronged by a Judge. He stole me from my family and tore us apart. Whilst I was slaving away in a prison for the rest of my life, he raped my wife and drove her to suicide, and then locked my daughter away. I escaped the prison after fifteen years, and returned here, hoping to find my wife and child waiting for me.
I did not find them waiting at all. I found out – from a woman I still loathe with all I have – that my wife has poisoned herself in an attempt to take her own life. My pretty daughter had been taken by the very Judge who sent me away, and he kept her in his home, isolated.
I was furious. With the help of that wretched woman, I started preparing myself for my revenge upon that Judge. You see, I am – was – a barber. A skilled barber, too. I was going to get the Judge to sit in that very chair you woke up in, and I was going to kill him with my beautiful razors.
Don't speak. Listen. He escaped my clutches the first time, and so I killed anyone who walked into my shop – providing they would not be missed. The bodies were then ground up into the meat pies that were sold downstairs. Hah. You look sickened. Trust me, it was all her idea. Still, I wasn't going to complain. I finally managed to kill the Judge. It's his blood that coats everything in this room. It's his blood that has caked itself onto your arms.
I suppose you want to know where I'm going with this. Well, I may have exacted my revenge, but shortly after, I was killed. I don't know what you believe in, but there certainly isn't Heaven or Hell where I am. Anyway, there's been some disturbance in the balance here. Somehow, a man has found his way to this time, and has seemingly reformed himself into that accursed Judge.
Naturally, I found out how this had happened and I copied the act, and hence you are here. If that Judge has returned, he will have found a way to get to me. You are to take my place. It seems as though my story is happening all over again. This time, we cannot allow anything to go wrong. Hence why I am still here. Unfortunately, that cursed woman will be back, too. You will live my story, but we will alter it to make it right. The way it should have been.
Barda, who had been silent for the whole story, finally spoke up.
"You mean, I'm to live your life? But… how? I mean… I'm not a barber! I know little of what happened to you, or anyone else involved. And I'm certainly not a killer!"
Don't be stupid. It will be me doing the killing. You will have my skills as a barber, although there won't be much shaving going on. You don't have a choice, either. You were the one who was chosen, and you cannot go back until things have been restored to the way they were. The Judge is supposed to be dead. Until he well and truly is, you cannot return to wherever you came from.
"But I have my own family to think of!" Barda protested. His mind wandered to his wife and children at home. Had he simply disappeared? Were they out looking for him, fearing the worst?
Then you had better get started quickly. The saying goes, the faster you start, the faster you finish. Go over to the vanity mirror. In front of it there should be a small wooden box. Open it.
Barda did as instructed, and found the wooden box. It was beautifully carved, though he doubted that the disembodied voice wanted him to admire the box. He opened it carefully and saw that several gleaming silver objects lay inside.
Pick one up.
He did so, turning it over in his hands. He recognized silver when he saw it. The intricate carving in the handle was beautiful, too. Without any further instructions from the voice, his fingers found a sliver that moved, and he swung it open, revealing a wickedly sharp straight razor.
That's it… admire them. From this moment, they are your friends.
Barda turned the blade so it reflected what little light came through the window. As he stared at the razor, a dark smile crossed his face.
"These are my friends…" He murmured. He picked up another, and with a slick grace that couldn't possibly be his own skill, the blade swung out and clicked into place perfectly. "…See how they glisten…" Though Barda couldn't see the barber who owned the voice, he could feel his daunting happiness as he murmured the lines of a song he'd never heard before.
See this one shine… how he smiles in the light…
"My friend… my faithful friend…" Barda turned and strode to the window, looking out over the streets of this place called London. It was a grey and dismal place, with ragged, dirty people littering the streets. Once more, words came to him instantly, though he'd never heard them. "There's a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and its morals aren't worth what a pig could spit and it goes by the name of London."
No place like London, aye?
"At the top of the hole sit a privileged few, making mock of the vermin in the lower zoo, turning beauty into filth and greed…"
I too have sailed the world and seen its wonders
"For the cruelty of men is as wondrous as Peru…"
But there's no place like…
"…London." Barda turned to look at the chair he'd woken up in.
You will not call yourself my full name, not until the opportune moment.
"Then, do tell me… what am I to be called?"
You will use Barda as your surname. For the name before it, you will use mine.
"So, what title does this demon go by?" Already Barda could feel a change within him. He glanced into the vanity mirror, and for the first time saw the owner of the voice. It was like looking at a twin, with a slight facial difference, and the eyes were a dark brown. But the clothes and the hair were practically identical. A dark smirk crossed the other's face.
Sweeney. For I am Sweeney Todd.
Author's Note: How do you like it so far? The idea came to me at the strangest of moments, but I have a lot planned for this story. Lots of twists and things. Make sure to tell me your thoughts on it, so I know I should keep posting! Just as a side note, although the characters are following the legend of Sweeney Todd, the story will not be exactly the same. As I said, lots of twists. - homesweethomicide13
