DISCLAIMER: Sweeney's razors are red, Pirelli's suit is blue, I don't own Sweeney Todd, so please don't sue.
Vampires Will Never Hurt You
Prologue:
They Come In Pairs
The city of London was a dark place.
Full of beggars, prostitutes, drug addicts and corrupt officials, the city seemed permanently seeped in darkness, affecting everyone who had the misfortune, or pleasure, to live in it. The line between dark and light was thin, every inhabitant teetering on the edge of good and evil, subconsciously knowing they could be swallowed up any second by either side.
The populace had their police, their laws, their death sentences; in the hope they would protect themselves. For years, decades, centuries, the hunt for the dark proceeded slowly, enabling the light grow and bloom. The dark always returned, but the beings of light believed that the law and the grace of God would protect them. It was common knowledge that light was good, and dark was evil.
Maybe a thousand years ago, but who are we to say that maybe it's the other way around?
--xXx--
London - July 1849
The moon shone bright over an endless city.
The diurnal habitants were settling in for the night, tired after another day of war. Their unconscious war between good and evil, one that never ended. One side might dominate, but it could switch faster then a thought.
It was funny how they didn't realize there was bloodshed going on inside them, as the angel and demon fought for governance of the soul.
He stood in the center of St. Dunstan's market, staring up at the ebony-dark sky.
It had taken eons for the night to fall here, and he was impatient, even when time was all he had. He wasn't afraid of the sun, as some would have it, but he loved the night, the darkness - not the sunlight. He loved his son, his disciple of shadows - not the day-walkers. He loved the Osiris, the Lord of the Underworld, his master, his he who bestowed of gifts, the balance between good and evil.
He despised London, compared to his home country of Kemet compared to everywhere else in the world. The only high point of the greasy city might be that it was always cloudy, weakening the sun. But the people were rude, miserable rats, who seemed to revel in their own dirt and shit, who were only happy when making others miserable, who -
"Alms, alms, for a miserable woman!"
- seemed to like interrupting people when they were thinking.
He turned, annoyed, towards the hag, whose only purpose in life seemed to be incessantly tapping his shoulders. "If you'd be most kind, ma'am, would you please take your business elsewhere?" He smiled, laying on the charm. He didn't have time for this; he had to watch for his son. "I have nothing you'd be interested in."
"But if you'd call me your sweetheart, I'd maybe then sing you a song!" She cackled, shoving herself against him. "We'll sail the world t'gether, mister, we'll go jig-jig, a little-"
"Off, I said, to the devil with you!" He growled, baring his teeth and shoving her into the crowd. She smelt of garbage and arsenic and cockiness, but mostly just cock. It made him sick to look at her. She hissed and strode off, yowling about how the city was on fire and other bloody nonsense.
We'll sail the world together.
The line stuck in his head, bouncing off the sides of his skull. He had seen more of the world then the crone or any other human could hope to boast of. Ever-rainy London, ever-sunny Kemet, ever-foggy Romania, ever-snowy Hudson's Bay, he had definitely sailed the world and beheld its wonders.
London - a city that he knew well, whose history was long and flowing, attracting everything from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens and Mary Shelly, King Henry VIII to Queen Victoria, the plague to the Great Fire.
No matter how colourful the history was, he still was a proud citizen of Kemet, a mere servant under Ramses, he and his son gifted by Osiris and Sokar and Amun-Ra. England, nor the rest of the world could never compare to the dry, magnificent beauty of Memphis, Giza, or Abu Simbel.
He waited for his son in the crowded market, the stench of sweat and human excrement almost overpowering his sensitive nose. He could have hid in a side alley, shrouded in shadows, but he wanted to see the people.
They swarmed about him, selling, bartering, and gossiping, their excitement and fear arousing him. They had no qualms about banging and tackling each other, but no one had touched him. A few women, like the hag, had gestured flirtatiously and attempted to seduce him, but all were held off by his menacing, yet charming, glare. The sky held most of his focus, and eventually the crowd got tired of his cold shoulder.
The dark, beautiful sky. His true lover.
He heard them whispering; how short he was, how still he stood, how dark his hair was, the pallor, olive tone of his skin. It was almost pathetic, really, their fear of him. But not unfounded. He was small - not child-like - just unusually short. An illusion, a disguise, to make him seem innocent and appealing.
All the better to hunt you with, my dears.
"Stryker."
He turned to the sound of his name. The speaker was sticking his head around the corner of a stall, frightened of stepping out into the open. Stryker walked calmly towards him, his son, slightly ashamed of his skittishness. The sun couldn't hurt him, the people couldn't hurt him - he had no reason to be afraid.
"You certainly took your time, Granite," Stryker chastised, "Thought you went to visit Isis on the way over here."
Granite looked guiltily to the cobble-stoned ground, kicking at the grime, "I was awestruck by the beauty of the Jewel Tower. Have you noticed how the top, the point, reminds you of Cheops and Kemet?"
Stryker's face instantly softened; how could he remain angry when his son was just homesick? The memories of home, his wife, his king gnawed constantly on his heart. He had to take care not let his whole heart be consumed, or there would be no point in the world anymore. "I understand. Did you find anything?"
Granite smiled. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it, Father. When I found the pair, I thought they were one of His fledglings, they are so bloodthirsty."
"Are they human or His?" Stryker snapped, grabbing Granite by the shoulders. "Is it possible to teach them?"
"I smelt their hearts. Their blood. They are human." Granite replied, "They are citizens of the Dark, but they have Light in them, too. One, a male, is a killer, slitting the throats of anyone unfortunate enough to come in. But he's doing it in revenge because his wife was killed or something.
"And the woman, she disposes of the bodies, by baking them into pies, no less, she cooks for him, she cleans for him, she does everything for him, because she adores him. He feels nothing, but she would rip out her own heart, if he wished it."
"She doesn't sound like the right person for us." Stryker cut in, interested. A revenge-driven killer, so much like himself, would be a tremendous asset to their cause. "Sounds too much like a follower, someone who would slow us down."
"You need to see her." Granite insisted, pushing Stryker away, "Then you'll understand."
Granite stepped deeper into the alley, the shadows swallowing him up. He had always been better at hiding then Stryker, but Stryker could track a raven at night while blindfolded.
He followed Granite's scent, running through the alleys and back paths. It was long and winding, like a drunken asp, that ran up past the Thames -
The Nile.
- and past the Parliament Buildings -
Thebes.
- and went up around the Jewel Tower, which, like Granite observed, reminded him of -
The Great Pyramid.
- monuments in Kemet.
Stryker slid slowly to a stop in Fleet Street, where Granite's trail ended abruptly. He saw a silhouette waving from the roof of 184, and easily spanned the distance between them, knowing only Granite
"St. Dunstan's is only a couple blocks that way," Stryker complained, leaning over the edge of the roof, "We could have been here much quicker if you hadn't led me all over London."
"Thought you needed to re-familiarize yourself with the city, old man," Granite laughed, "We're going to be here for a while."
Stryker sighed. "I don't need your impudence, Granite," he whispered, scanning the street, "it is unbecoming."
Granite ignored him, and pointed across the street, to number 186. It was on a corner, with a small courtyard attached. Smoke belched out of the chimney, blood-tainted smoke that burned Stryker's nose, branded his brain.
An oversized slanted window allowed him to see into a small, almost empty room, with only a mirror, a trunk, and a chair. There were scarlet bloodstains all over the floor and chair, giving the entire room an aura of malevolence.
It was definitely the home of a killer.
"Where are they, Granite?" Stryker hissed, backing away from the edge. "Where is your wonder pair?"
He tilted his head towards the lower level, where three shadows were tumbling and moving about each other. A woman, milky pale with wild auburn hair, seemed to be pleading with a man whose face the shadows obscured. He seemed to be ignoring her, transfixed by a shining razor; he embraced it with his hands and his eyes. There was a boy, nursing a cup of gin - Stryker could smell it from here - and was firmly ignoring the other two.
The man was angry, and he stormed out of the building and up the stairs. He amazed Stryker: his ferocity, his anger at the world. He was pale, as if the only light that had the privilege of brushing his skin was moonlight. And his hair…
His inky black hair with an imposing white steak.
Stryker knew of one other person, a legend, whose appearance, whose stature, matched this man's.
"Sokar," he breathed. "my Lord."
"Exactly." Granite whispered. "He is Death personified."
"He is perfect."
Stryker stared awestruck at the man. The Sokar clone. The carbon copy of the bringer of darkness, clone of the man who caused him and Granite to be standing here today, was not forty feet away.
"Don't you recognize the woman, Father?" Granite cut in, interrupting Stryker's silent worship. "She holds herself like the Hidden Ones did, like-"
"Amaunet."
The Queen of the World.
Granite nodded, "Yes, see, she is important. Her and the man. But not the boy, he is worthless."
He winced as Stryker's hand slashed across his face. "He is not worthless!" Stryker roared, slapping Granite again, "No one is worthless! If he was, he wouldn't be alive! HE WOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN ALIVE!"
A wave of regret instantly washed over Stryker as he watched his son, his flesh and his blood, recoil. Stryker's fear of death and triviality always got the better of him, reducing him to a slavering, quivering creature bound to life by only the thin threads of trepidation.
Granite rubbed his face, feeling the edges of the wounds start to close as they struggled to repair themselves, "I've never gotten used to that," he laughed, wiping his hand on his sleeve.
"The outbursts or the wounds?" Stryker aske amazed at the happy attitude Granite was always able to show. He wished he could be that happy.
Granite shook his head and pointed back to the building, "Well, the boy isn't relevant to our plans. But don't you think the two would work?"
"Yes," Stryker muttered, "they are perfect. They already have the dark hearts and bloodthirsty nature of our kind, and they come in a pair. They are the recruits Night needs to defeat the Usurper."
"And I know how to get to them." Granite sneered, tapping his hand against the roof they were standing on, "You see, the woman in the building we're standing on moved out, her name was Mooney or something, and it's up for rent, and they both love to drink…"
"Like us."
"Exactly. Anyway, I was thinking we could…"
Stryker grinned as his son explained his plan, a plan of alcohol, blood, murder and seduction. "You take after your mother, boy."
"I know," Granite laughed, "you tell me all the time. But, I do believe we need to acquire some money?"
"That's easy enough." Stryker replied, jumping off the roof. "We need to hunt."
"Let's go, then!" Granite hollered, laughing while he followed his father into the endless night.
The dark, beautiful night.
--xXx--
Sweeney Todd stared out of the window angrily. He had stormed upstairs after Mrs. Lovett - the infernal, talkative shrew - had made some idiotic remark about the inane boy's welfare. He couldn't care less; if anything happened to the boy, it was her own fault for taking him in.
Or your own fault for killing his master.
He shuddered, trying to shake off the voice that had been dogging him for weeks. His conscious, his guilt anthropomorphizing, a ghost of one of his victims, a small remnant of Benjamin; it could have been anything.
Letting himself stew in his own anger and misery, he closed his eyes, picturing himself beating Mrs. Lovett repeatedly with her own bloody rolling pin. Or the dismembered arm of her beloved brat, whatever worked.
"HE NEVER WOULD HAVE BEEN ALIVE!"
He jumped and hit his head on the low, slanted glass. Cursing under his breath, he held his head and glared outside, trying to spot the shouter who startled him.
The night seemed ominous, pressing against the window, obscuring everything more then three inches away from Sweeney. The moon and stars were hidden, reminding him of the horrible nights in Botany Bay, where seeing the light meant death. They had only let the prisoners who were about to be executed outside at night.
He glowered out into the darkness, not noticing the passing of time, waiting for any form of movement. He stood watching the world throughout the night and well into the morning. Never moving, utterly fixated on the street outside. Sweeney roused from his trance only when Eleanor came in with his breakfast, gushing about some trivial thing. Again.
Staring out the window all night? Are you sure you're okay? What have you become, Ben?
"Not Ben," he growled, "Sweeney Todd. And he will have his revenge."
"That's nice, dearie," Eleanor replied, mistakenly thinking he was talking to her, "Now, I don't 'ave any free time 'til Sunday, so 'ow about I 'elp you clean up this room. An utter mess, this is."
He didn't reply, but only turned back to his window, arguing with his inner voice until an unlucky customer came in, so Sweeney could drown the voice out with the blood of the innocent.
Well, that's not gonna happen for quite a few hours, isn't it?
"Shut up."
"Y'shouldn't talk to yourself, love, that's the first sign of insanity."
--xXx--
A.N: Who are the mysterious Stryker and Granite? Why are they stalking our beloved psycho almost-couple? Who is the Usurper? Why were there so many Egyptian references? Why does Sweeney keep talking to himself? Tune in next time to find out! And what are Sweeney and Eleanor being for Halloween? I can tell you that: Eleanor's being Julia Child - the French Chef - and Sweeney's trying to decide between Wolverine, Freddy Kruger and Edward Scissorhands.
Yeah, it's Halloween. And this is the beginning of what I've been working on all summer. Whoo. I'm bloody exhausted. I was up all last night watching cheesy horror movies. And The Nightmare Before Christmas - that's an awesome movie. Don't really feel like writing that much today, so I'm going to go watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show now.
Reviews are sleep, candy and Frank-n-Furter all rolled into one.
Live long and prosper.
Nights.