Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. – James Baldwin
xxx
"Mister – Mister Todd?" Eleanor slurred, half-stirring from unconsciousness. She shifted her head towards him, eyes smeary with sleep and opiates as they attempted to seek him out. "What're you doing?"
"Hush. Go back to sleep."
"'M'not – " Her words were interrupted by a choked moan and her left arm, which he'd gingerly touched, thrashed away from him.
He winced and fought against the alien emotion threatening to engulf him as he fumbled to pour more laudanum into the cup beside her nightstand. "Here – drink this." He parted her lips and tipped the drug down. The laudanum wouldn't heal her, but it would at least numb the pain. If pain as deep as hers could be numbed, that was – and he wasn't entirely sure it could.
She had been within the fires for the minutest fraction of a second possible – which he supposed was some sort of dark blessing from the fates that so reveled in tormenting them – but by no standards did that mean she hadn't sustained any injuries. The burns ran all along her left side, an unruly motif of splotches, from her forehead to her feet. Some were only a faint pink, others were shriveled and blackened. They disfigured almost exactly half her body – as though she were truly Queen Hel ruling over her dead souls.
"I need to clean the blood off you and then wrap your injuries," he told her as she sagged back into the cot.
"Why," she murmured, eyes fixed on some indistinct point around his left ear.
"To help you."
She gave his ear a slow smile. "I think I'm past help, Mr. T."
Noticing that her right hand was snaking towards the burn on her left shoulder – she kept trying to scratch at her singes – he grabbed it and pushed her fingers back against the mattress. "Stop that. You'll be fine."
"Alright," she agreed dreamily. "But I don't see why you can't clean the blood off yourself first."
"Because I'm getting it off you first. Now be quiet."
He again took her left arm in his grasp, dipped a cloth into the bucket of water sitting on the floor, and dabbed at a smear of Turpin's blood. It would have been better to clean her off earlier, when they first returned to Is – sitting in dried blood for so long probably wasn't the best idea – but he knew that she wouldn't have been able to tolerate the pain of fabric brushing against her burns before a dose of the laudanum had settled into her system and numbed the injuries.
Eleanor flinched several times as he worked, but didn't pull away. Methodically, slowly, he cleaned off the judge's blood, then swabbed at each of her wounds.
Whatever he might say aloud to her, he didn't know if she'd be fine. Found it hard to believe she could ever be fine again. Some of her burns ran nearly to the bone. True, they were dead, and thus could sustain no real injuries, but if he knew and she knew that these burns were of the sort that, typically, one might never recover from . . .
This is your fault. You could have arrived sooner. You could have saved her.
But Lucy . . .
His fingers slipped from her skin. He still could not believe he had found his wife in the afterlife. Could not believe that, after so many years of missing and longing and needing her, he had left her behind. His heart ached from it even now, but not in the way that it should. It ached not because he regretted leaving her – but because he didn't regret it. Because he knew he damn well should regret it.
But what you told her is true. You aren't the person she loves. You're not that man anymore.
Then who was he?
Eleanor cried out when his fingers ghosted over a withered burn upon her left cheekbone. He soothed her as he put another swallow of laudanum into her mouth, murmuring, "Drink it. It's okay. Drink it. It'll help."
She choked down the liquid, eyeing him, and he couldn't tell if she saw him there or not. He nudged her back down into a prostrate position on the cot.
"'S'strange, isn't it?" she asked in a slow tone, after a pause.
"What is?" he said distractedly, putting a hand against her perspiring forehead before peeling off her blanket, revealing her bare body. He averted his eyes from her form – not for her nudity, but for how each and every one of her singes was now exposed to him.
"Mmm. Maybe strange is the wrong word. Ironic, perhaps. How you've gone from throwing me into fire to saving me from it." A detached smile stretched across her lips as she cuddled her head further into her pillow. "Funny, ain't it?"
No. It wasn't.
"Not that you really saved me," she continued in that same lax tone, each syllable disturbingly prolonged. "I saved myself, y'know. You didn't pull me out of those fires – I did that all on my own. No damsel-in-distress nonsense for me. Not that I don't appreciate you arriving, love. And not that I think I did it all myself neither. I certainly never cut Turpin's throat. I mean, no doubt he would've gone after me again if you hadn't slaughtered the hell outta him. Wonder where he's gone off to now, anyway."
"He's gone," said Sweeney. "His soul was extinguished."
"How d'you come to know that?" she questioned. "Could've easily been a passageway to hell, them fires. Not like there was a sign or nothing."
"I . . . I've known about the fires since shortly after arriving here. I made a bargain with Officer Reyna Lovett. She only managed to get me out of my room by promising to destroy my spirit through those fires if I tried to exist on Is for two Earth years."
He had intended never to tell her this. Had intended for her to never found out about how deep his initial inability to really live after death ran, nor of his eventual weakness for failing to complete the bargain, his weakness in succumbing to the desire to live a life he did not deserve, just as the human race he once despised all desired.
And yet . . . as the words fell from his mouth, he did not regret their departure.
Eleanor only blinked once at this revelation. "But we've been dead longer than two Earth years . . . Toby was sixteen last I saw him – might even be seventeen by now – and we died when he was fourteen . . ."
"Yes," said Sweeney.
"So you decided not to complete this little bargain a year or so ago. You chose to keep living." Any other circle, this realization would have accompanied her giving him an overjoyed kiss upon the cheek, or a tight embrace, or at the very least a radiant smile. Today, neither her tone of voice nor her expression changed in the least.
"Existing," he responded in a mumble.
Her chin tilted slightly to the right. "Why'd you choose to go on existing?"
He made no reply.
"Well, can't say I much care where Turpin is, anyhow," Eleanor went on, as though they had never shifted topics, "so long as he's gone."
He couldn't have agreed more. Because, at last, Sweeney Todd was free.
That didn't explain why his heart felt so heavy.
Her hand drifted towards one of her burns again; he captured it between his palms before she could begin to scratch. "It were awful in those fires. All these demons dancing around me and pulling me towards hell. Think it was towards hell, at least. Felt like hell."
She sounded so calm as she spoke of it – too calm. It unnerved him.
"You were in there less than a second," he muttered.
"Oh, was it really?" From her casual inflection, one might have thought she was questioning when tea-time was. "Seemed to last an eternity."
There's so much red clouding his vision it's a miracle he can see the tip of his nose, nevermind several feet ahead to where the judge is tussling with his she-devil in front of a fire that is a size unlike any he's ever seen before.
And it's even more of a miracle that he can pry his jaws apart far enough to snarl, "Let go of her."
The judge sees him. Shows his teeth in a carnal grin. "Impeccable timing as always, barber."
The judge shoves her into the fires.
A hideous creature rises from hibernation within his chest – a creature that feels nothing but rage and pain and the lust of revenge – a creature that, somehow, also feels terror. Feels it now to the point where it's intolerable. To the point where he's out of his senses with fear.
He leaps towards her but – and he has no idea how it's possible, how she's done it – she's already freed herself from the flames and is tumbling face-first to the ground – he moves to help her up but the judge is lunging towards her, grabbing her blistered arms to throw her to the flames again –
And rage dominates the tormented creature, propelling the barber to hurtle instead at the judge, his hand plunging into his pocket to retrieve his fettling knife. His fingers close around the handle, his arm snaps out, and then the blade is at the judge's throat.
The judge's blood is just as beautiful as he remembers, but it's not enough, not nearly enough – he needs to see more of it – he needs the blood to run in streams on the ground – he needs to wring the life out of this bastard bit by bit, sparing him no bit of mercy, no bit of agony –
He grabs the judge by the collar of his robes and hauls him away from the baker. The judge gurgles and grapples at the unrelenting grip in feeble protest, but this is paid no mind as again and again the blade slashes into his skin – a slit ear to ear, a stab at the jugular, a twisting wrench just above the collar bone, a slice through the throbbing left vein, an upward thrust at the hollow of the throat, another puncture to the jugular – silver and red staining eyes in a bloodied rain storm –
And as he at last shoves the judge into the fires and watches his soul perish within the pyre, a sense of relief that he's never known floods over him.
It's over.
("and life is for the alive")
He stayed in Eleanor's room the remainder of the circle, spooning more laudanum into her mouth each time she began to whimper and wince from renewed pain, reapplying her bandages when they began to smell, sitting on her cot and watching her sleep to make sure her condition did not worsen.
She refused to eat anything that he gave her. He stole into her shop for a loaf of bread and tried to feed it to her, but she just sealed her lips and shook her head. He was too afraid of her choking on solid things to persist in the matter. She did, at least, let him ladle water into her mouth.
At one point, her limbs began to twitch and jerk in her sleep.
"Eleanor? Eleanor. Eleanor." He took her unburned shoulder and gave her a light shake.
Her eyes flew open and locked on his, revealing pupils magnified nearly enough to swallow their irises. She sat up. "Sweeney . . . why're you . . ." One hand curled into the fabric of his clothes as the other – the bandaged one – grazed his cheek, then clutched his robes' collar. He tried not to flinch. "So warm . . . you shouldn't be in here . . . you're not used to this . . ."
He had no idea what she was talking about – nor, he decided, did it matter. "Hush. Everything's fine."
She shook her head, clinging to him all the more when he attempted to prise her hands away from his robes. "No – it's too much for you . . . you should get out of here . . ." She drew in a hissing breath through her teeth and arched her back, pulling him tighter against her even as she whispered, "Please, love – get out." She pressed her face into his shoulder and whimpered.
In a desperate, confused attempt to assuage her, he massaged one hand over her back in slow circles, using his other hand to push away the hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. "I'm not going to leave, pet."
Her face shifted against his chest as she shook her head. "You've got to – you've got to – don't want the fire to get you . . ."
"Eleanor – " he spoke with new urgency " – there is no fire."
She let out a gasping sob, twisting the material of his robes between her fingers. "Get out now, love, please – I can manage it – I know how to – oh – " her body spasmed against him " – but you – you don't know fire as I do – "
Sweating, swallowing a rising knot of anxiety, Sweeney reached for the bottle of laudanum. He didn't know if her delusion was caused by her pain or by the drug – didn't know if he was about to make this better or worse – but he did not know what more to do. Did not know what more he could do.
He eased her away from him enough to put the flagon to her lips, not even bothering with pouring the contents into a separate cup.
"Here – this'll help, love, drink this – "
Even in the midst of her hallucination, she was able to recognize the drug – and, though she'd become very willing to drink it as of late, twisted her head away from it. "No. Won't take it. Don't want to be dependent on it."
"Eleanor – "
"No."
"Take it and I'll leave the fire," he promised, hating himself.
Her lips separated at once. He tipped the liquid into her mouth.
She seemed to forget his promise to leave – which he was thankful for, as he hadn't planned on going anywhere – for she again pressed her face into his shoulder, body trembling. Careful not to brush against her wounds, he wrapped his arms around her.
"It hurts so much," she breathed. "I can get used to it, but I can never be numb to it, no matter how many times . . . fire shouldn't hurt the Devil's wife this much . . . but it's so hot . . ."
"Shh. You'll be okay."
Her trembles began to decrease, her body relaxing. So the drug could still ease her pain. Good.
"You should go to sleep, Eleanor."
"It still burns . . ." Her whisper was choked, breath catching on the words. His mind jolted with the realization that strong-willed Nellie Lovett was crying into his shoulder.
He resumed rubbing his hand over her back. "It's okay." She made a noise between a laugh and a snort. "It's okay," he repeated. "It's okay. You're okay."
Maybe if he echoed those words enough, they could both believe them. They certainly had enough experience deluding themselves.
In the daylight, it's easy to pretend. The light shines through the window panes, illuminates the room, sparkles on glass. Creates a glare in everyone's eyes. Washes out reality.
At night, there's no blaze of light to hide behind. At night, he can't pretend hurting these others will bring his wife back.
That's not to say he doesn't wish it otherwise. That's not to say he doesn't try.
She pretends in the daylight too. Smiles, laughs, spins about. Beams at everyone she sees. Shines like a beacon.
Tries to pretend it's not a lie. Tries to hide from him that her pillows are wet with tears.
She pretends to not be miserable and he pretends to not be human.
In the daylight, they pretend each other's façade is real.
In the end, they can't fool each other.
In the night, they have each other.
But that had not been enough to save either of them.
Eleanor's muscles rippled against his form in a spasm. Flooded by emotions he did not know how to name, did not like, and did not know how to control, Sweeney closed his eyes and pressed his face to the top of her head, burrowing in her hair. Without knowing where the words came from, he began to sing:
"Nothing's gonna harm you . . . not while I'm around . . ."
He felt her head twist against his shoulder, a momentary protest to his words . . . but then she relaxed against him, still shaking with sobs, but silent.
Deluding yourself always hurt afterwards. But not during.
("no time like the present, eh?")
xxx
"Are you sure about this purchase, sir?"
Sweeney's jaws clenched.
The shopkeeper, clearly noticing this, prattled on, "I'll sell it to you, of course, if you like – it's only just . . . well, I can't help but notice the people who come into my shop, sir. And you've bought four bottles of laudanum over the past eleven circles. This'll be your fifth. That's a lot, sir. I know isn't my business what my customers buy – "
"No," Sweeney snarled, "it isn't."
The man bowed his head. "Yes, sir. Very sorry." He accepted Sweeney's talent without another word.
Irate, Sweeney stalked through the wall, reappeared outside of Eleanor's room, and withdrew the key. He could have kept her room unlocked so as to simply walk through the wall to her room, of course, but he'd be damned if someone were to wander into her room and discover what'd happened to her. He'd managed to heed off all the souls who'd come to call so far – Eloise, Anatoly, Albert and Reyna Lovett, Lorraine, Griselda Mooney (why she'd come, he hadn't a clue, seeing as the pair did not get along), and a score of souls whose names he did not know – by feeding them a story of how she'd just been overworking herself and had come down with a horrid fever.
Which, really, wasn't a lie. As though her body was convinced she truly was trapped in flames, perspiration more often than not covered her like a second skin.
Her struggles for air tore at his ears the instant her door cracked open. Pushing the door wider revealed that she was half-sitting up, one leg thrown over the side of the bed, hair undone and sticking to her face, sheets twisted and clutched to her chest. He closed the door and rushed towards her.
"Eleanor. Eleanor. Look at me. Eleanor."
"It burns – " she gasped out.
By now, he was used to this behavior. It was part of the routine. Though that didn't make it any easier to witness.
"Here." He sat on the side of her bed and opened the new bottle of laudanum. "Drink this."
She moaned, eyes wide and lost as they stared at nothing and everything that he could not see. "It's everywhere – "
"Drink it, Eleanor. Drink it down. Yes – come on, swallow. Good."
She gagged down three mouthfuls of laudanum before falling backwards onto the mattress, blanket pulled up to her chin, fingers trembling as they held tight to the fabric. He pushed her curls off her moist forehead, one by one, and wiped away the film of sweat.
So focused on placing all his attention upon this simple task and not letting his mind stray, he didn't immediately notice that she was crying. His fingers dropped the cloth and moved from her forehead to her cheeks when he did, swabbing at the droplets. "Shh, Eleanor – "
She pushed his hand away, turning her head sideways as though ashamed of her tears. "Sorry –don't mean to – be always bawling like a babe," she said in-between sobbing breaths. "But don't you pay attention, love – don't mind me crying. I mean – we're dead, we can't – know reality anyhow . . . senses, tangible things – it's all gone . . ." She sniffled and drew the blanket closer to her chin, closing her eyes as two more drops dribbled from her eyelids. "These tears aren't even real."
He reached out for her again, wiping away the fresh tears. He ignored her attempts to push his hand away this time, keeping his fingers against her cheek until she opened her eyes and looked at him. "But the pain is."
He did not desire to delude her or himself today.
She closed her eyes again, the movement agonizingly slow as though it hurt to look at him, but one of her hands unhooked from her blanket and closed over his fingers resting against her cheek.
It took a few points, but at last she was asleep again. He used the opportunity to change her dressings, a process he'd discovered was far easier with her unconscious and not twitching every so often away from his touch.
Four bottles of laudanum over the past eleven circles . . .
He knew. Knew before the shopkeeper had mentioned it. Knew it all too fucking well.
Shouldn't she be improving by now? He was by no means a medical expert, but as a barber, there had every so often been a customer too cheap to pay for a physician who'd shown up on his doorstep. And, kind, willing soul that Benjamin Barker was, he always took them in. So he'd had to familiarize himself with basic medical treatments. But nothing ever as serious as this.
Her shifts in temperament and pain level followed a strict cycle, he'd learned quickly; thinking about her mood in factual terms rather than emotional ones was the only way he could function. The pain was the worst when she had no laudanum in her body, and when the pain was the worst, so too were the delusions. She would thrash and twist and moan, usually convinced she was trapped in fire. Sometimes she was convinced he was trapped in fire too. Upon he spooning another dose of the drug between her lips, she would gradually calm down, soon settling into a mellow state where the world could have been collapsing around her head and all she would have done was peer around with mild interest. But eventually the apathy would fade and the delusions would return, and then the whole vicious cycle would be repeated all over again.
Some of the burns, at least, seemed to be getting better. The fainter ones were nearly gone, several blisters scabbing over. The deeper ones showed no change. He supposed that was better than their worsening, but it did little to reassure him.
But if this was all a hallucination anyway, then what did it matter? Could he perhaps will it to be something different? Or perhaps she could will it to be different?
"Imagination, reality. Does it really make a difference, Ben? We're together again."
He closed his eyes. No. He had sworn to himself he would think on Lucy no longer. She would be much happier living out the rest of her eternity without him. She didn't love the man he was now – and he didn't know anymore how to be the man she loved. It was over. He'd settled the matter.
But . . .
But every circle since he'd found out that she was simply an afterlife away, his mind had strayed towards her. Repeatedly. Endlessly. She was his darling – his wife – his life . . . surely if he went back to her . . . surely with time she could grow to love this new man –
Is that what you want?
Yes. God, yes. Of course it was what he wanted.
But . . .
"She's gone, my love."
Sweeney jolted and his eyes shot to Eleanor. She looked back at him indolently from where she lay sprawled on the cot, perspiring and tangled in sheets, but perfectly relaxed. He glanced at the clock. Four chords had gone by since he'd come back from the shop to buy laudanum. He kept losing track of time's passage in her room, just as he used to when he lived, gazing out his shop window, dissipating into nothing but thoughts and recollections . . .
The drug had coursed through her system now. This, too, he had become accustomed to. She would now spend the next few chords in a peaceful state where nothing could bother her. In some ways, this was worse than when she slipped into the hallucinations. At least then she could still express emotion. At least then she still seemed alive.
("so let's keep living it")
"Mr. T?" she murmured. "Did you hear what I said? She's gone."
He gave her a blank stare.
"I'm talking about Lucy, love. You were mumbling aloud to yourself about her. Something about finding her again. I know you still go looking for her every circle, but you must know it isn't possible to find her."
He shook his head. Broke his gaze away from hers. "But it is, Eleanor."
"Love, you know as well as I do – even better, probably – that she's in some other afterlife – "
"I know. But I found her."
And suddenly he found himself babbling like he never had before – babble that was as long-winded and jumbled and frantic as the baker in her moments of distress – telling her everything: from the pull around his middle that led him to her, to the hollowed tree that had transported him to a land of clouds, to finding Lucy, to being given a chance to have everything he ever wanted, to letting it all go . . .
He didn't know why he was talking so – what was compelling his mouth to work like this – what was driving him to confide all of this to his devil. But he could not stop until he had finished.
Eleanor normally was just as animated a listener as she was a talker – eyes widening, eyebrows lifting, mouth gasping, head shaking, grinning, laughing, interrupting – yet as he spoke, her nonchalance did not so much as flicker. On occasion a vestige of an emotion would flash across her face, as though in a former life she had once known what it meant to feel, but it would be gone nearly as soon as it came.
When he finished, she stared at him for a solid three points before opening her mouth. "Love, I don't know how to tell you this, but that was all an illusion."
The anger surged through his veins – from reflex rather than emotion. "Mrs. Lovett, like it or not, Lucy is real – "
"Let me finish," she said. He clenched his hands, nails digging into flesh, but sealed his jaws. "Know those white clouds you were wondering about? Those're called the mists. When you wander into them, they pull you into fantasies that seem as real as any reality – fantasies of what you want most." She tilted her head. "Though since you seem to've left yours behind all on your own – something I certainly never could've managed – I guess it wasn't really what you wanted."
His head was shaking back and forth, a slow metronome to her dawdling speech, a silent protest.
"You think I'm lying to you again," she intoned without expression. "I don't blame you. I probably would too."
"I didn't wander into the white clouds," he muttered. "The tree took me there."
Only in the afterlife could he make that declaration without being laughed at.
Eleanor pursed her lips. "Huh. So you think the tree took you to heaven or something?"
"Or something," he echoed, fingers twitching.
She considered this. "Hmm. Then I don't know, love. I guess she is real. Well, as real as you and me, at least." Her bandaged hand reached out and gently batted one of his fists in a clumsy caress. "But you've got to let her have her peace now, Sweeney. That's all she ever wanted."
He stared at her, struck. Of course. Lucy was in a different afterlife than he because her purpose was different. In attempting to kill herself nearly two decades ago, she had sought peace, tranquility, the ability to watch safe behind a window without being the victim of further cruel actions . . . and she had finally be blessed with her desire for a solitude of serenity.
It was once what he had desired too . . . but no longer. He did not yet fully understand why he was on Is – what characteristic or intent had landed him here – but it was a purpose Sweeney Todd did not share with Benjamin Barker's wife.
"Yet you left Lucy behind," said Eleanor. Her eyes traced over the crevices and lines of his face as though she wished to imprint a map of his features into her mind. "You left her – you chose to come find – "
He cut her off: "How do you know about those mists that create realistic fantasies, anyway?"
If she hadn't been addled by opium, she never would have latched onto his change in subject. As it was, she jumped conversation topics as easily as sifting sand between her fingers. "Got caught in 'em once. When I was drifting back and forth between the nethers and Earth."
He wasn't sure he wanted the answer, but couldn't help asking, "And where – where did the mists take you? What did you see?"
She laughed under her breath, her eyes unfocused and yet focused – too focused – on his. "Fool. Don't you already know what I saw? Don't you get it yet?" She paused. "I saw you."
Sweeney reached for the inner pocket of his robes where he kept one of his fettling knives, found it to be empty, and settled instead for fiddling with her bed sheets.
Sighing, Eleanor stretched her arms above her head and then burrowed them beneath her blankets. "You and me, by the sea, just like I always wanted." Her lips frowned. "Although I don't think I want that anymore. Maybe them mists show what we think we most want, rather than what we really want. Or maybe that's the same thing. Raises all sorts of questions about destiny and free will and what-have-you."
He continued to murder the fabric of her sheets between his fingers.
"Anyway," she went on breezily, "that pull 'round your waist that you felt? Been meaning to tell you 'bout that . . . 'cause I've felt it too, when I've gone looking for you. And when you went looking for me, I had all these . . . these weights in my stomach, like a ton of rocks. So I went and talked to Barsid 'bout it . . ."
She told him about a concept called sempers: a connection shared between two souls that manifested in unusual forms, such as these invisible tugging ropes. He thought it sounded like a good deal of nonsense, and made no attempts to disguise his skeptical countenance. He did, however, welcome the change in subject.
"I find it all hard a bit hard to believe too," Eleanor went on. "But – well, 's'not like stranger things haven't happened here."
He managed to unhinge his jaws for the first time in what must have been at least a solid chord. "You've known all this for some time. Why are you telling me now?"
She frowned at the wall. "Don't really know why I didn't tell you sooner. Guess I figured you'd take it badly – that you'd get mad for me claiming you cared 'bout me enough to share one of these semper things. I didn't want to face having my dreams made reality and then crumbling to ashes again."
He had to stop asking her questions. The opium made her too honest. She was telling him things she never would have normally. Things he did not want to hear.
Her eyes fixed on his, commanding a surprising amount of attention for a mind so muddled by opiates. "But I'm tired of lying."
xxx
"Eat it."
"'M not hungry," she grumbled into her pillow.
He knew no longer how long it had been since she received her burns. He knew no longer how many bottles of laudanum she'd drunk.
He knew only that she daily ate less than a sparrow. He knew only that her burns were healing, but slowly, far too slowly for recovery. He knew, whatever the odds, that he had to somehow keep her alive in her death. He knew only what mattered.
"You need to eat, Eleanor."
"Why? 'S'not like I can starve to death."
Hooking the blankets into his fists, he yanked the material out of her grip and down her body, then put one hand on her back and the other beneath her neck to guide her into an upright position. He placed her with her back leaning against the wall. She peered at him with the wide, lackluster eyes of a china doll.
"Eleanor," he said with forced calm, "you've hardly eaten at all for the past several weeks, and all you've choked down over the last three circles is a hunk of bread. You need to eat something."
Her lips puckered in the finishing touch for the doll. "Why's it matter so much to you?"
Tell her.
"Eleanor," he warned instead.
"No, really," she persisted, heedless to the tension in his muscles and the silent threat in his eyes, mired as she was in delirium. "Why's it matter to you? You took such relish out of killing me – watching me scream and suffer . . . you'd think it'd be just as enjoyable seeing me in horrid pain the second time 'round. Maybe even better. Certainly seemed that way when you got Turpin again."
His vision was fogging with red. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted to create a wound. To watch it bleed. But he did not want to hurt her and this fact enraged him further.
Just tell her. Admit that you're weak, admit that you –
– no –
For he had realized something while trapped in this timeless circle. Perhaps realized was the wrong term; some part of him had already known, even before he'd spent so many chords trying to heal her, even before he had hauled her back from the netherlands, even before the foreign emotion of fear engulfed him as he watched the fires' greedy hands grasp her body. . . .
Perhaps the more appropriate wording would be that, while trapped in this timeless timeline with her, he had been forced to acknowledge something: something that reviled him, something that he loathed. Something that he could not control or battle against any longer.
Something that he was not yet able to say aloud.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, only reopening them when he had remastered himself.
"Just eat it," he told her. It was not a plea – Sweeney Todd did not plead for anything. But it was not a demand either. So he was surprised when – her apathetic eyes not gleaming with life for even an instant – she picked up the bread he'd set on her nightstand and took a small bite.
xxx
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she babbled, clutching at the collar of his robes and staring up at him with such intensity that gravity must have departed and he was now all that tethered her to the ground.
"It's okay," a bewildered Sweeney replied. Her hallucinations were often piercing and painful, but they usually consisted of her being trapped in fire, and he did not know how to handle this one. He attempted to cradle her head against his chest, but she refused the gesture, unwilling to break eye contact.
"No – no, it's not okay, it's damn well not okay – " her breathing hitched and her eyes moistened but she seemed determined to continue speaking " – Sweeney – I'm so sorry – "
"Shh, Eleanor – "
" – I never meant – only tried to – dammit, was only doing what I thought was right – "
His stomach plummeted. He knew now what she spoke of.
" – but that's no excuse – it's no excuse, and I know it's no excuse – " Perhaps gravity had returned, or perhaps she did not want him to see her tears: she now pressed against him and hid her face in his chest. "But I never meant to hurt you – thought hiding the truth would be better – I thought you'd be happier, not knowing that Lucy was alive in that sort of state – and that was my only goal, Sweeney, that's the only reason I lied, I just wanted to make you happy . . ."
Her voice, strained with tears, broke, and she continued on a hoarse cry, "Fuck, Nellie, don't try and kid yourself – that's not the only reason. It were a partly selfish thing too. I'm not proud of it, but there you have it – and it's only human, being selfish and selfless at the same time, isn't it? It's only human. . . . I didn't think any woman who wasn't willing to wait for you – anyone who gave up on you – deserved to have you . . . but me – me – I'd always been there, always been waiting . . ."
His skin was damp from her tears.
"But it was for you, my love," she whispered into his shoulder. "It was always for you – all of it . . . always . . ."
The stream of her words trickled away. It took him a moment to realize she had fallen asleep. He attempted to extract her limbs from his body and lay her down on the bed, but this soon proved an impossible task: she'd wound herself around him too tightly, her hands gripping the front of his robes, her legs curled around his waist. Resigning himself to the fact that he would not be able to remove her from him without waking her, Sweeney scooted along the bed until he was able to lean against the wall and closed his eyes.
xxx
"I wasn't just raving earlier."
Stirring from that strange place between consciousness and sleep, Sweeney looked down to find Eleanor still wrapped about him, eyes staring up at him with no trace of delirium.
She swallowed. "Really – it wasn't just me being trapped in my hallucinations and just going on and on . . . well, I mean, I was going on and on, and I was hallucinating . . . but I meant what I said. I really am sorry."
"I know," said Sweeney.
Tell her.
"It was wrong," she mumbled. She sounded ashamed, but her gaze on his did not waver. "It was wrong, what I did, and I know that. If I'd known that it would hurt you more to not know that Lucy lived, I never would've lied . . ."
Tell her. Tell her.
"I know it doesn't make a difference now, three or four Earth years later. I know it can't change anything. I just wanted you to know that. And I swear that if I could do it all over again and do it differently this time, I would – in a heartbeat."
Tell her, damn you.
"I – I'm sorry too."
"For what?" she asked.
Why must he spell it out? Wasn't an apology enough? She should already know what it meant – all the many things it encompassed – all the things he couldn't say.
He studied her bed sheets with narrowed eyes. "You don't deserve to be here."
Silence. He cut his gaze to her. Her lips were parted but she did not seem about to say anything. Those had not the words his damned subconscious kept nagging him to say, but perhaps they were the most fitting words to say at present.
Besides . . . he meant them.
"Thank you," she finally murmured.
He winced. Only Eleanor Lovett would find a declaration from her murderer that he was sorry about killing her a reason to give thanks.
"And, well, let's be frank, love," she continued, her formerly soft tone becoming brassy. "You should be sorry."
He glared. Was it not enough that he had apologized? Did she now have to rub salt into the wounds even further?
"Well, it's true," said Eleanor indignantly, not put off in the slightest by his glower. "Good bloody grief, you've been owing me God knows how many apologies for God knows how long – might as well make sure you're good and sorry while I've got you in this mood. But I s'pose now we're even."
He didn't see how it could ever be called even. He'd shoved the woman into an oven, for Christ's sake. But he supposed he should not complain.
"What's dead is dead," he muttered.
She smiled and began tracing his collar bone with an absent finger. "Mmm. Yes, that's right." Sobering, her finger stilled and her smiled faded, and she looked up at him with wide, serious eyes. "But really, Sweeney – thank you for . . . saying that. About me not deserving to be here."
He nodded once, focusing his gaze on her bed sheets.
"To be honest though . . ." She resumed the tracing of his collar bone. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Not if this is where you are."
Sweeney was incredulous. Did she not understand the meaning of the word dead?
"You're mad," he informed her.
She grinned and sighed and shook her head all at once. "No. Just in love." Her mouth creased into a frown. "Or maybe that's the same thing."
Frowning, itching for a change in subject, he peered above her head at her clock. Quarter to magenta. He didn't know what circle he'd last changed her bandages, but the clock had read purple last time he'd done so, so it had been well over twenty-four chords ago. Changing her dressing was far easier when she was asleep, but he could not let several circles expire without her wrappings being refreshed.
He extracted her limbs from his body and laid her on the bed. Bucket in hand, he stepped through the wall to the room with the Is well, retrieved water, and returned to her room.
Seating himself on the edge of her cot, he leaned over and began to unwrap the cloths serving as bandages, beginning with the ones at her head and working downward –
He did not make it to downward before his limbs became paralyzed.
For the first time in this maddening timeless timeline, her burns were healing.
By no definition could they be labeled healed. Her skin was still far from normal. But where the flesh of her face had once been enshrined by withered, charcoaled patches now lay patches of a different sort: patches that were wrinkled and reddened and glossy, like the skin of a newborn babe.
"What is it?" Eleanor asked him, anxiety tingeing her voice as her eyes swept over his ashen face. "What's wrong?"
In answer, he took her left hand between both his palms, unwrapped its bandages, and showed her: where once there had only been the suggestion of skin, so melted to the bone sinews could hardly be seen, her entire hand was now bright pink and fresh.
Her lips quivered at the sight. She lifted her eyes to his and her mouth pulled into the smallest of smiles. He looked back at her and gingerly pressed his lips to the new flesh upon her knuckles.
A/N: Reviews are love, my dear readers. And, seeing as this fic is slowly drawing to a close (believe you me, I'm just as excited and confused and upset by the inevitable end as well!), the love needs to be spread now more than ever while it still can!
Anonymous review replies:
Emma: Ah, I understand what you're saying now. Seeing as I've finished writing DIFTA and just have my edits to do now, I probably don't time space to incorporate that into this fic, but that's a fantastic idea (and you're totally welcome to write your own fic using such an idea =]). Thanks for reviewing, love.
Lady Musket: Almost choked? Dear me, on what, darling? I certainly never intended for my fic to need a choking hazard sign! xD
Well, as you have now learned from this chapter, Lucy was indeed real. I mean, as real as Sweeney and Nellie, at any , thanks for leaving a review, love, and please don't choke again!
InsertNameHere: Well, I'm glad that I managed to create such an emotional read for you! Thank you for R-&-R-ing, m'dear!
Guest: Let's hope you've regained your powers of speech by now, hmm? ;] Thanks for R-&-R-ing, love.
Lauren: well, aren't you a sweetheart! Thank you. Believe you me, if I *could* publish this, I would have tried. But, alas, copyrights stand in my way. I don't honestly mind too much, though; writing the story I care about, and then sharing it with people who also care about it, are really the most important aspects of writing fiction for me! And no, the story is certainly not complete yet! We've got, oh, I don't know how to do math . . . five or six chapters left, I believe. =) Anyway, thanks for R-&-R-ing.
P.S. Thank you for also reading It Will Not Last The Night and Burgundy Velvet. I can't reply to you on those fics, since they're already finished, but I did want to let you know that I really enjoyed getting some reviews for those ol' stories! =)
