Wow. I have reached a new low. I have now attacked even literature in my everlasting need to write fanfiction. I hope Charles Dickens doesn't come back from his grave to haunt me for screwing up the lovely characters he painstakingly developed.

(OMG, was that a subliminal disclaimer? Heck yes, me FTW!)

Anyway, I wrote this a while ago. When will I actually post something I write before 6+ months have passed? Ah, well.

World Enough and Time

by: TheLaughingstockOfPassersby

"It is time."

Dark eyes flashed open in surprise as a voice resonated through the air. Hands reached up to clasp angled cheekbones, fingers sliding delicately through disheveled strands of hair in wonder. There was an air of disbelief around the man previously known as Sydney Carton, as if he was lost in a sea of mist—whether figuratively or literally, or both, if one was to count the darkness around them that seemed to equate pure nothingness. He was a man lost to time, lost to eternity and quite certainly lost to himself.

Just as he was beginning to regain his bearings, or as much so as he could achieve while surrounded by illuminated abyss and lying prone before the judgment of an unknown entity, Sydney heard the rumbling voice again, calling and echoing through the strings of his heart and bringing humbled tears to his eyes.

"It is time," it repeated. And with each echo in the whispered dark, the broken man felt his senses returned to him in the form of wretched sobs. He purged the poisonous feelings inside him, the treachery and betrayal, the hopelessness and fear. All of these and more were released with soft sighs of breath and the distinct toll of a bell in the distance. The days of fear, of waiting in an uncertain future for a chance to make something of himself, all of these were returned to him unwillingly.

Even the hatred he had felt towards his own person, and the jealousy directed towards the man who had everything Sydney had wanted…even these had returned. It was as if he had been reborn, but not anew. He knew for a fact that his eyes were open, but the broken man could see nothing but swirling shadows and his own tainted soul before them. There was no room for light, nor love, there.

"Lucie…" he whispered piteously to himself, but even the sound of her name was foreign in this place. She did not belong here.

"It is time!" The voice boomed again. Sydney found himself wondering if it was he or God that he must answer to now, at this hour of judgment. But indeed, he found it did not matter. He had already faced the last and worst judgment a person could face—La Guillotine.

Sydney found his teeth clenching in anger, his hands following likewise as he raised his head to stare determinedly above him where the voice seemed to be loudest. "Do your worst," he stated, quite seriously, "I am sure I have met with it, and more. What is another sentence to me? I am resigned to live out my existence in penance."

This time the voice was almost inquisitive, "You have resigned yourself to penance? From what crime do you repent that was not of your own design?"

"Who, when given a choice, would choose to walk the path of retribution? I take my due. As for the other question…crimes are the making of those who commit them. If not penance, then how must I undo what is done?"

"What have you done that you require repentance for?" he was asked.

Sydney's reply was steadfast, "I made nothing of my life. I helped no person besides myself and scarcely that. I touched no one, and was loved by no one, and for that—wasting precious life—I must continue to repent."

There was a still, contemplative silence before the next question, "Your absolution is incomplete?"

This statement, more like an accusation, struck at Sydney like a thousand blows. Had he not absolved himself in his sacrifice? Had replacing the wretched Charles Darnay in that horrible cell not constituted his worth? It was all for Lucie…his beloved Lucie…she would surely remember him when she died, and would surely remember his death—so instrumental to her own happiness. Was he not now forgiven for his previous transgressions?

Sydney struggled himself with these questions. Perhaps in writing he had, now, done those things which he said he hadn't. But it didn't feel like enough. Time was a precious thing—so much good could be done! And what had he done with his? He had squandered it away, drinking and pining after another man's wife, hating himself all the while.

"It is not enough," he murmured, "I wasn't finished with my life! I wasn't finished with anything!"

"You chose your path." The tone was unrelenting, and the broken man railed fruitlessly against a truth he knew to be absolute. Racking his brains, he came up with the only answer that seemed to fit, that could do him justice:

"I wanted what was best for her."

"But what is best for you?"

Sydney threw himself upon the ground in despair, "I don't know! It doesn't matter, it's all over now."

He remained there, on the cold ground in the darkness for some time, until he was almost sure he'd been left and forgotten like so many times before. The cold seemed unearthly, sinking deep into his bones and making it so he was shivering more in cold than fear when he heard again, and louder:

"IT IS TIME."

In the middle of downtown New York, between two of the busiest streets, a ten-ton pebble seemed to slam down onto the figure of a young man as he was walking through Central Park, rendering him quite senseless and causing him to fall straight down onto the pavement as if someone had come from behind and tackled him.

"Whoa…" he muttered, clutching his head gingerly between his palms, "What just happened?" As his dark eyelashes blinked furiously, clearing his vision slightly from the dancing stars, the figures of two people could be seen leaning over him, faces alight with worry.

"Are you all right?" The woman closest to him asked. Her petite fingers had a vice grip on his arm, and her worry was almost palpable in her deep, ocean-blue eyes. The youth took a deep breath and began to sit up, mindful of the dizziness that sat upon him lest he lose balance and fall again. Upon getting a closer look at the angel beside him, he could see her honey-blonde curls falling to her shoulders and the smooth complexion of her face…and her eyes… Each distinct feature set him more into disorder that if he hadn't have been dizzy already he would have become so at the sight of her.

She was beautiful—more beautiful than any other creature he'd ever seen. So taken was he with her features that the stunned man could scarcely realize that he had yet to answer her pleas. The tears that began to well up in her eyes struck him back to reality, and he shot up from where he sat. The woman started a bit at that, and leaned back to abate her surprise.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as the man continued to get up until he was standing completely upright before her, she still half-kneeled on the ground. The young man reached a hand down to offer her assistance in righting herself, and she took his hand gracefully, still slightly taken aback by the events that had transpired.

He gave a small half-smile. "I'm perfectly alright, thank you very much." His voice held a hint of keen clarity that made her realize he meant every word he said, despite the sarcasm she was used to associating with his last four words. And as the young woman mulled over her thoughts, she dimly realized that the man opposite her seemed to be about to leave, to get back to the business he was undoubtedly attending to before he had fallen so unceremoniously, and she panicked.

"I-I'm Lucie!" she called out to his back.

He turned around slowly, eyes shining slightly. "Sydney," he murmured softly, almost reverently. "Do you…maybe want to come get a cup of coffee with me?" The words were soft and hesitant, as if he'd expected her to say no when she wanted nothing more than to accept his offer. He was a bit strange, this man, she decided.

Her blue eyes flashed to meet his from under her eyelashes, "I'd love to."