London Town is falling down, falling down, falling down
London Town is falling down my fair lady.

Since when has anyone called you a fair lady?

There were a few, yes. None that you were really close to. None that would follow you here.

You fell. Like London. Like the others, the ancient cities. The Fallen Cities. Which cities were they? Where have they gone? Why did they fall? Good questions, and not likely to be answered soon.

They will be. You've decided that. You've fallen into the everlasting night of the Neath, and although escape is possible, the world outside holds little for you now.

You fell from it, not entirely unwillingly, not entirely unmourned.

There are questions burning in you. You leave a world where you were a stranger and enter a world where you are not only a stranger but alien. This world is madness. This world is decay, but buzzing, humming with life.

This is humanity, you think. Buried. Fallen. Lost….

Why does nobody come here? Why can't anyone understand? You want to understand this place. This world. This night untarnished by morning. You want to understand yourself.

You've heard that citizens of the Neath often go mad, if they don't step carefully in the eternal night. You've heard that the most exquisite wisdom in the Neath is found in madness. Perhaps you're already a touch mad, and that's why you fell. You just want to understand this. You just want to see.

It's going to destroy you, isn't it? But you've heard that death is strangely slow-footed in the Neath… perhaps you stand half a chance, after all.

You came into the Bazaar. Jangling, humming with life. The pulse of it throbs at your skull. Bright lights, impossibly angled stalls, glittering colors. How can colors glitter? You're not sure. These do. Foods you've never seen before and which you think look positively lethal, sold in careless folds of newspaper. Gems like demoniac fire reflected in a madman's eyes, hidden, glinting out suddenly here or there. Curious figures and carvings of bone, ivory, wood, stone. Cages full of beetles that glow in the everlasting night, lighting their stall and a wide swath of pathway in front with a bizarre but cheery purple light. You stand over the beetles for some time. They're the first thing in the place that seems to welcome you.

You're alien in this place, and confused. You act wrong, you look wrong, and when you're accosted you shout at entirely the wrong people.

You're given a small room to yourself. The barred window looks down over an ancient buried sea the color of nothing. The lights of Fallen London glitter in the surrounding black.

You wear a striped suit, not quite new or your size but clean enough. You can't say as much for the prisoner's mask they've given you, which smells like it was last worn by a drunk who vomited a lot without bothering to take it off.

Well.

This won't get you anywhere, will it? You're calmer now. You believe you can blend in. But there isn't anyone to help you out of this place so you can have a second chance, is there? You'll just have to look out for yourself, to play a bit shady. You've noticed that a dirigible brings supplies to New Newgate, the place carved from the high rock where you now are, and that it passes directly below your window. How very, very convenient. Your resolve grows stronger, and you feel a taste of something akin to hope. Now if you could only get out…

A guard passes too close to your cell door, and you slip his truncheon out of his belt. He doesn't notice. You are shocked at your unrealized talent for pickpocketing, but it's not all unpleasant. It may be necessary. You'd prefer not—you do remember a few traces of sunshine, a few words of belief in good. You will stay true to the golden threads in your memory. Even here.

But you do realize, of course, that the rules are different down here. This is now your truncheon. If it's a truncheon. It's a swiss-army weapon, half claw hammer, one fourth ice pick, one fourth chopping implement. You think there are traces of blood caked into the head. You decide to clean it as soon as possible.

Whatever the thing is, it's sturdy. You chip one of the bars on your window free, wriggle through and sit on the ledge, kicking your manacled feet happily, looking down at the lights in the darkness. Cave drafts blow between your toes. You smell something like mushrooms. It's not the worst smell, really. You could get used to it. After some time you notice that one of the lights you've been admiring is moving towards you. The dirigible is coming. You wriggle back into your room and watch hungrily as it passes beneath you. No point in jumping too soon, it'd only take you to the supply docks and get you caught again. You smash your manacles with the truncheon and step back onto the ledge, heart hammering, manacles in one hand and truncheon in the other. The cave winds stir your hair. Finally you hear the quiet shushing sound of the dirigible's approach and hold your breath. It appears beneath you and you jump.

You are floating in the silent and lightless air of the Neath. You're committed now. You think of all you've left behind you. Gold-green sunlight on grass. Real wine. Proper animals that don't talk. Sanity, your university, the few admirers—none who loved you enough, whom you loved enough, but they were there, and you thank them silently for that. You've left your clothes and belongings, too, everything you had on you when you fell. They took them when you were given your prison uniform and you doubt you'll ever see them again. You think of the things you lost. Sturdy, comfortable clothes. A hair tie that glitters—you didn't pick it out, a friend gave it to you. One that you will miss. A pang touches your chest as you fall weightlessly through the dark. A single piece of gold, a watch with small etched animals standing guard beside each number. A folding knife from your dead uncle. Scuffed boots. Some threads of belongings, some bits of useless Surface currency. Nothing you'll really need, here in the darkness.

You land on the top of the dirigible and feel its smooth descent to the city of Fallen London.

You're coming back to this place, no longer an alien. You've committed yourself to the Neath. You're going to discover its secrets—or fall under its madness.

A/N: Go listen to A Chantar Mer by Angels of Venice. Partly because I listened to it while writing this and it seemed to fit, but mostly because it's an awesome song and everyone should hear it once.