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A short one-shot. Flames will be eaten by Asmo. Danke bows
A Long NightAlone he sat in the dark. It was past midnight, mere hours before daybreak, and he slept not. Somewhere in the rooms beneath him Mrs. Lovett surely slumbered without so much as a dream. Todd found that his entire existence had become a nightmare, so it mattered little if he rested. The only break from the surreal cloud that surrounded him came when he opened the throats of the city men, felt their lives spilling out onto his callused hands. Once soft, they had been the hands of an artist rather than a butcher. The years had changed him.
Should someone call out 'Benjamin' in the streets he would not turn. He was consumed by him new identity, lived off it. If he could not kill, he could not breathe, could not eat. He would simply fade away, angry and not avenged. Bringing death slowly moved him closer to his intended goal.
Lately though, he felt less and less with each kill. If he didn't reach the judge soon he wouldn't be able to account for himself. He'd start with the pie maker, then the little whelp she took in...
No.
He slipped a hand inside his pocket and withdrew his razor, the silver hilt warmed slightly from the heat of his body. When he held his razors his thoughts ceased to wander to unbidden territory, focused on what he needed to consider instead.
The judge.
Todd had been in London two and a half months, and after the first mishap, had not seen the despicable man since. Had he not been holding his knife he might have blamed Lovett and the sea faring Anthony as well. He held the razor beneath his open hand, keeping it flush against his thigh like a child carefully catching an insect and keeping it subdued. If he were to be flicking the blade from its sheath he would be planning fervently. As it was he was seeking comfort from an old friend. Because he was comforted and looking for guidance, he had come to the realization that the entire situation was no one's fault but Judge Turpin's.
Back in the penal colonies, without his blades, he was also without effective reasoning. Oh, he hated, and dreamed, and prayed for just one chance... one chance at the judge, but he wasn't hinged as well as he was when with his razors. He blamed himself for all that had happened. Lucy, Johanna, gone because of his naitivity. By only his thirst for vengeance did he survive long enough to return to the embrace of his friends. And for that, at least, he was grateful.
Slowly he drew out the blade from its silver handle. In the light of the full moon he could see his pale face reflected against the razor. His lips were thin, drawn into a straight line and had little colour in them. High cheekbones, once rosy with life were now stark white. The only substantial colour on his face were the dark smudges that cupped his eyes. Drawn in by a morbid fascination he found himself staring into his sunken eyes. They disturbed him, the black orbs embodying his changes more fully than anything else about him.
Disappointed for a reason he couldn't quite place, he looked away. He was a monster, he knew, and if anything, he was stronger for it.
He stroked his fingers over the thin edge of the blade. It had been cleaned and sharpened hours prior, after a long day of work (only one man made it out of his web that time). He pressed his fingertips against the razor but felt no bite, no sting. His friends would never hurt him.
"Beautiful," he murmured. Beauty was painfully relative, yes, but nothing could compare to his razors. Nothing except perhaps his lost daughter.
He faltered, razor slipping from his grasp a little. Johanna. She'd gone missing, taken from his yet again and missing from her place at Turpin's estate. Love removed, he was desolate, crushed, destroyed, angered, and completely accepting of violence. His hand fisted around the handle of his knife, his teeth gritted until his gums tasted of blood. He refused to feel saddened, to feel remorse for his murders. It was all just a step towards his goal, an evening. That was all he was doing. Simply evening things out...
A creak behind him drew his attention, causing him to start. Turning, he saw that Lovett stood in the doorway, a single yellowed candle in hand. She stared at him, more surprised at being caught up in his room than finding him awake. In a way she suspected he never slept, never let down his guard. The last time he had he found himself on a filthy cramped boat heading towards Australia.
"Mr. Todd?" she questioned softly. He closed his eyes and turned back to the wall he'd been facing the past several hours.
"Mr. Todd?" Lovett tried a little louder. "What's wrong, Luv?"
"Get out," he said, dark and curt . It was silent a moment and he heard he finally leave, shutting the door behind her. Todd closed his razor reverently and sighed, putting it back in his pocket. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.