Hi! If you found this story, thanks for taking a look. Please give it a try!

I have searched and searched for some Sweeney/Erik slash, and let me tell you, there is none to be found, and I have no idea why. I think it's a great pairing, and I know that other people share my views, so I took it into my own hands to write my own.

I think that Erik and Sweeney would be perfect for each other, but that it would be quite the difficult pairing to pull off convincingly. I'm gonna do my best and see how this goes, I'll try to keep them in character, it may not always work, let me know what you're thinking. I'm going to want some feedback to see how to proceed, so there you are, now you're committed :)

I like to write funny stuff, but this going to be a serious fic! If you know anything about our musical murderers, you can guess that there are going to be angst and fluff overloads. I think I have some plot lined up, but we'll see. You never know with me.

This takes place after their respective stories, so there are spoilers. I use movie Erik with Kay Erik's past (the ultimate fangirl combination) and movie Sweeney.

The rating is for safety for now, but it will earn that M in later chapters, as any good slashfic should. And if you're looking for some action right up front, this isn't the fic for you. We've got feelings and emotions to deal with. (please read anyway though!)

And if you didn't already know, I own nothing! Nothing!

Enjoy!

A Dark and Vengeful God

DonLambert

"There was a barber and his wife

And she was beautiful

A foolish barber and his wife

She was his reason and his life

And she was beautiful

And she was virtuous

And he was…"

Of course Sweeney Todd had dropped that razor…and deep inside he knew why. He was to meet the same fate as his victims. There was nothing left for him but to welcome whatever lay waiting in that darkness that had taken everyone he had cared for. He could hear the boy behind him. He raised his chin, expectantly, longingly. And then, the clatter of silver on stone, and a series of hitching gasps. Toby ran from the bake house like a child possessed, taking the steps two at a time, and surely kept running through the streets of England for days. It seemed Toby, so young, could not exact the revenge that Sweeney Todd so deserved.

Fate truly was cruel.

He had been ready to die, wanted to die, begged, and yet he was the one who lived at the end of this bloody farce. He lived, but for what? To watch his daughter run off with a boy that had so long ago helped him. To find that the woman he had come to grudgingly trust had been lying to him from the start. To hold his wife's emaciated body in his arms, her once blonde hair caked with mud, staring at the blood seeping from that ugly gash in her neck. The woman he had loved and murdered. To be alone.

"…Naïve"

It was tears that dripped onto his Lucy's still face, as beautiful as ever in its ruin, in place of his blood.

He didn't know how long he sat there on the hard stone floor of the bake house, cradling his wife's small, light form in his arms, but the fire in the giant oven had long since burned out and enveloped him in darkness before he finally stood. Only a sliver of light remained from the door to the staircase that Toby must have left open. Moving very slowly, trancelike, he stepped over the three bodies to bend and pick up the razor that that infernal boy had left behind. His eyes rested on Turpin's corpse, the blood on his skin looking purple in the pale moonlight. Turpin. It had all been because of Judge Turpin, all of the pain and rage. And now that he was finally dead, Sweeney found that he was lost. He was quite blind, with no idea what to do next.

Slowly he lifted the razor, letting it flash tiredly, showing him his contorted, bloodstained reflection. He knew that just one swipe across his throat would end it all, like Toby was supposed to have done, and yet…something inexorable would not let him do it. He was broken, but he must go on.

He hated the boy, hated him utterly and completely for leaving him like this. He couldn't be truly blamed, of course; he was young, still so innocent, something in him, something that was in all properly sane little boys, wouldn't have let him commit murder like that. But Sweeney Todd didn't want to live like this, with the knowledge that he had killed his own wife, and truly never would even glimpse his daughter again. He knew that it was now himself that he would never forgive, that horrible plummeting in his stomach and constricting of his heart, when he had recognized that face on the stone to be his Lucy, that he would never forget. "Don't I know you, mister…"

And yet, he couldn't kill himself. He would have thought, after all he had been through, it would have been easy, but something that he couldn't identify made him fold his razor closed and slide it back into the holster on his belt. He knew that he could never stand to stay here at fleet street, and so he slowly made his way out of the bake house, closing the doors with a bang on a past the he knew would haunt him forever.

There was some reason that he must live, some reason out there, and so without looking back, he started to walk.

He let himself completely lose track of where he was going, turning down endless gray London streets, walking quickly, head down, for hours on end. Or perhaps only minutes, the way time blurred together so seamlessly. He was lucky that it was the dead of night, and that he didn't pass any police officers, because blood still covered his face, ran through his hair, and had soaked an entire sleeve of his white shirt. They would come for him eventually, of course, once it was discovered that the judge had gone missing. The police would stop at nothing to find out what had happened to that pious bastard and his little lap dog, and eventually the trail would lead to Mrs. Lovett's seller. Everything would be discovered, of course, their genius plan unraveled, and the barber's face would be on wanted posters all over the city of London. He found that he didn't care.

But the stares that people gave him as he stalked down the street, cowering from his bloodstained face, the normally brazen night life shrinking away from his demonic glares. People! He hated the lot of them; the whores clinging to the street lamps, the disheveled old men looking for an alley to crawl down, the carriage drivers yawning in exhaustion as they whipped their horses into a faster shuffle. Not one of them screamed when the saw him, but he so wished that they would. Confirmation that he was the monster he felt like. A miserable, guilty demon with no purpose but to leave.

Soon, without knowing it, he found himself at London's train yard, standing as close as possible to the tracks, listening to the rumbling of cargo trains snaking past in the moonlight. He could jump. Easily jump down in front of one of the shrieking trains and end it all. Would he? That strange sensation was there again, holding him back. But perhaps, if he stood here long enough, let the rumble of the passing freight trains shake him enough, he could do it…

And then there was singing.

"Anywhere you go, let me go too…"

The moment she had truly been his, he knew that he could never have kept her.

He loved her with all of his being, and he could never, ever, bear to see her unhappy. When they kissed, it was all over. That wretched, handsome boy. He knew Raoul would keep her safe, make her happy and normal. The pity, the grief in that kiss…he had to let her go. His Christine, his music, his angel. And the ring…she had come back to him, her poor phantom, her broken angel, to say goodbye…but he would not wear that ring around his neck like some totem, a constant reminder of his love and anguish…

And yet, he thought bitterly as he walked down the street, how could he be surprised? He had expected this, the moment he had heard her sing he had known that it would end in tragedy, for how else could such a passionate romance end for the creature that humanity had damned to the darkest crevices of the world? The mysterious composer who longs for acceptance, in his own tragic opera, a story fit for stages around the globe. He was never meant to know the utter sweetness of love given and love returned. He never had been truly happy, and he was now quite sure that he never would be.

And so he had left his lair that night, fleeing the opera house that he had so lovingly built, his shrine to music, without quite knowing where he would go. He only knew that he had to leave. He would move on again, to another place, another tragic chapter added to his haunted past…more looming memories that he wished he could forget.

He had been traveling for weeks now, on his own, and had made his way to England. There was no way he could have stayed in Paris, with memories threatening to overtake him on every street he walked and a warrant out for his arrest. They would never have caught him, of course, but nonetheless he had a feverish need to roam. He needed time to heal the wounds that his angel had left on his heart.

Maybe he would go back, eventually. Once they had rebuilt the opera house, once Christine had started her new life with Raoul in some countryside villa. What a life they would have, free of worry and ghosts. And Paris would rebuild, of course, he was sure of it. The fire hadn't completely desecrated the great theatre, and Paris would never let such a structure simply fade away. If there was anything Paris adored, it was music. His Paris, his beautiful France…

Erik found that he almost missed it already as he tread the grimy grey streets of London, thinking silently to himself, trying to find something for himself to do in the dull, sleepy city. He grew restless so easily if he didn't have something to focus his attention on… Perhaps the law would track him down eventually, but now that he had crossed the English channel, he seriously doubted it.

Soon his feet had taken him to the London train yard, he realized curiously. Perhaps he would listen to these grumbling machines make their own industrious music for a while, and try to sort out his thoughts. He walked slowly through the old yard, not paying particular attention to anything, and as he walked, he unconsciously began to sing, as he so often did. The Phantom had no idea that he wasn't alone in the train yard at this time of night until someone quite close to him turned at the sound of his murmered song. A surprisingly handsome someone with a wild tangle of black hair, someone covered in a red liquid that he himself knew quite well.

Sweeney had never heard such a voice before. He wasn't a particularly devoted music connoisseur, of any sort, but even he was affected by that indifferent, soft, heart-wrenchingly beautiful song that was coming from somewhere close behind him. Immediately all thoughts of trains or jumping were flushed from his mind as he turned, searching for the source of that otherworldly voice. He found standing next to him the man that would eventually change his life.

He was tall, incredibly elegant in the way that he held himself, and power emanated from him like a dark aura. He wore a black dress suit, long, velvet lined cloak, and over half of his face he wore a bright white mask, illuminated like a beacon by the moon that hung far above their heads. He had raven hair and was lithe and muscularly built, and the side of his face that wasn't shrouded by the mask was incredibly handsome.

Sweeney stared at this strange man, transfixed, and the figure seemed equally intent on him, dark, piercing eyes running intelligently over the barber.

Sweeney was shocked when the man said in his velvety voice, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, "You are covered in blood, monsieur." He had a heavy, but not unpleasant, French accent.

The barber's forehead creased, and the man cocked his head to the side curiously. It was as if he was just that, curious, instead of terrified or outraged at the site of a strange man soaked head to toe in blood.

When Todd didn't reply, he continued, "And seeing as though you are not injured, I can only assume it comes from another person, and therefore I can't help but wonder who you've killed."

Sweeney's eyes became very distant, and he stared without seeing at a spot over the new man's shoulder. After a long minute he whispered harshly, "My wife."

"Oh." He seemed both saddened and repulsed, as if he thought it had been on purpose that the barber had murdered his Lucy, as if he didn't want to think of such a thing.

Sweeney shook his head, bringing the world back into focus. "No, no…it was an accident, you see…I didn't know she lived. This blood, it's not hers…this is from revenge on the man that took me away from her all those years ago, who I thought had killed her…"

He wasn't sure why he was telling this strange man these things, the words just poured sadly from his mouth. It was clear that the cloaked figure didn't understand, but he didn't dwell on the issue. "I'm apologize, that sounds terrible…I won't make you continue…"

Sweeney got the odd feeling that he was being shown a compassion that this masked creature didn't often offer, and yet he was hit by a strong surety that the other man understood his pain. The barber suddenly felt incredibly unsure what about how to continue. His eyebrows furrowed together, "I…"

"I am the Phantom of the Opera," he said suddenly, courteously offering forward a gloved hand. "But, you can call me Erik."

"Sweeney Todd," the barber replied hesitantly, shaking the strong hand, "The Demon Barber of Fleet Street."

"I hope, monsieur Todd, that I wasn't disturbing you…I've been walking for along time, you see, and – "

Suddenly there was a shout from somewhere behind them, "Hey, tha's 'im! Tha's gotta be 'im! COME ON, THERE 'E IS!"

A/N: Review! Let me know what you think! The title is subject to change, I picked it rather quickly. We're using roman numerals for the chapter names because that makes it a serious story.