A Time and Place for Us

The Other Side of the Tragedy

Sweeney stared concerned at Nellie's unmoving form lying on the bed. Pale, frail, but still breathing. And for a man who not that long ago would have gladly been her cause of death, he was more than relieved.

When he woke up in the bakehouse and realised no time had passed in his original—now current— timeline, he feared it would not be the same. That once the glee of finding her alive and well ebbed away, the resentment would grow back into his heart like poisonous ivy preventing him from moving on with her; that his feelings for the Baker had only really bloomed towards her younger self. While both versions of Nellie shared their vivacity, strength and another myriad of qualities Sweeney had reluctantly grown to love, young Nellie Lovett had not lied to him.

She had not culminated the killing of what was left of Benjamin Barker's soul—perhaps not directly but by omission, by encouraging his murderous impulses and supporting his vengeful quest, to the point he was too blinded by hate and bloodthirst that he unceremoniously slit the throat of the woman whose image had anchored him to life for the agonising fifteen years he spent in Botany Bay. Whom he did not even recognise. No, if anything, young Eleanor Lovett was only a martyr, so unlike her older counterpart. Young Nellie was hurt by him time and again as he kept making what he now saw was the wrong choice, to the point that she almost died in childbirth as he cowardly ran away and let her deal with a very unstable Lucy.

At the same time, Sweeney had to admit that going back in time had proved to him that he and Lucy were not as well suited as he'd always believed. That in his desperation to keep himself alive he'd idealised her to the point of giving her almost deity-like qualities and making her the paragon of all good and virtuous. And while she'd been a good partner to Benjamin's naïve and proper demeanour, the demon barber needed a different partner to share his life with. A woman who could be just as amoral as he was, who felt everything just as strongly. Sweeney Todd and Eleanor Lovett were simply bound to be together, and that was something he had to accept.

Furthermore, he acknowledged than in this timeline, the Lucy he returned to was no longer the wife he once loved and cherished. If the events in his former timeline held any validity in this one, she'd began losing her mind way before she took the poison, right after he was arrested, and he had no blame in that. Only Turpin, who was now reduced to ashes at the bottom of that blasted bakehouse oven. Coupled with the effects of the arsenic, the damage on his wife's gentle psyche was irreversible. And Sweeney, who'd always believed death would be a relief, had allowed her to find the peace she'd been seeking ever since she tried to poison herself.

It'd been difficult to accept this and part of him would always feel guilty for being the one who carried the deed. If only he'd recognised her, he now realised he would have liked to tenderly hold her one last time, to tell her he loved her and thank her for the memories of the beautiful years she gave Benjamin. The thrill of the first love, his beloved daughter, the illusion to keep him alive as he planned his return to her... but at the end of the day, he'd still would have slit her throat. It was quick, painless, cathartic. The beggar woman who pranced around Fleet Street screaming about the devil and whatnot was no longer living, merely existing in this cruel world, just like him. He'd released her.

Avenging Lucy was the main reason he kept himself alive once he found out his dream of having his perfect family awaiting his return would never be a reality. But it was not the only one; there was also Eleanor. The things he learnt about her in the other timeline did nothing but confirm his belief that he was indeed in love with the woman, that he'd fallen for her even before he killed the Judge, when they were nothing but partners in crime during the day and the most ardent of lovers at night. Few words of real meaning were shared between them back then, but it was in the little details, he supposed. Nature—or the Watcher—was wise, pulling him to her like the moth to a flame even before they had a proper conversation baring their all to one another.