Plender Commons

Plender Commons was a long, narrow, mostly uninteresting, fog-darkened street that managed to just ever so slightly evade the heart of London. The great metropolis of ominous, smoke-blackened towers that pierced the sky had many of these small, unnoticed streets hidden in its depths. However, despite its seclusion, Plender Commons still bustled with activity. From above, the constant hum of engines from the airships that wove their way between the iron citadels rained down upon the street. Women – ladies, to use a more appropriate term – sailed up and down the length of the boulevard, confident in their supremacy and dressed in luxurious colourful corset-dresses. Almost all of their faces were made up of layers of white powder that made their faces pale and ghoulish. They all covered their heads with some sort of oversized bonnet which usually in turn held an oversized exotic feather and decorations. Men dressed in all kinds of forms and colours of suit seemed to outnumber the female wayfarers, however. Most seemed to be businessmen and for the most part they brushed past the women on their way to important meetings and business occasions. Their faces were stoic and gruff; beaten down by the daily routine of office life. Many of the men also wore headwear; it seemed almost no-one in the street was without some form of hat. Unlike the women and their lavish bonnets, the men wore simple black top or bowler hats. There was not much to say for what appeared to be the richer types, but there was even less to say for the wretched poor. There was a share of scruffier, poorer types in the street: urchins and beggars who stuck close to the edges of the pavement where the buildings cast them in shadow; unacknowledged by the public who seemed to pass by so closely.

I sat at an expertly-polished wooden table next to a window that filtered in a warm, orange light from the avenue outside, which was dimly lit by gas lamps despite it being only half past eight o'clock in the morning. I watched the crowd go by outside the window with a sort of vague interest in their petty lives. On my table, alongside my plate of untouched eggs and unbroken toast were a knife, fork and pistol. The knife and fork shined in comparison to the dull iron, blocky framed point-seventy-eight inch calibre revolver. I sat cross-legged, holding a that morning's newspaper above my lap yet not actually reading what drivel the writers of the Circadian Post had to drool out. My interests were otherwise engaged to a young lady sitting in a teashop on the opposite side of the street.

She too had taken a seat by the window and was busy watching the crowd pass on by below us. She seemed at odds with many of the other ladies that graced Plender Commons with their presence; dressed rather scrappily and boyishly by comparison. The long window allowed me to observe that she wore only a pair of shorts; the type that would be supplied to soldiers: a stale green article that had been cut short so as not to even reach her knees; a stark contrast to the full-length dresses of her peers. Instead of a formal corset she wore some kind of oversized stringy cardigan over a rough-spun white shirt; instead of a bonnet on her head were a pair of grubby, thick-rimmed goggles – the type of eyewear a pilot might wear. She sat at her table with only a cup of what I could only guess at the contents of – most likely tea. The only other objects on the table were the saucer the cup sat upon and a small leather bound notebook with a pen strapped to the side with a strip of cloth. The girl seemed to take no notice of the book – ignoring it's being there as she did every morning. Her sombre mood seemed only to enhance my certainty of her innate natural beauty. The slight sadness in her almost blank, unwavering expression brought a certain neutrality to her features that would not normally be seen. When she conversed with people she smiled with a smile so enchanting one could not help but smile in return it seemed. She captured the attention of the waiters and waitresses who served her each morning without giving any indication of noticing she did so.
Instead of doing anything meaningful, she had continually stirred her drink since it arrived, staring blankly out of the window. Eventually she slowed her stirring, and let the creamy bubbles on top swirl around the cup for few seconds before lifting the saucer and knocking back almost the entirety of its contents.

Almost twenty minutes passed, and at precisely quarter-past nine, as predicted, she looked at her hand watch; a small, gold, fragile thing with a chain rather than a leather strap and prepared to leave. Before she had lowered her arm, I had uncrossed my legs and had started my preparations for leaving. Having reducing my breakfast to crumbs on the plate in the time I had spent watching the girl, I leaned back in my chair and reached into my top pocket and pulled out my own timepiece – which hung from a dull-bronze chain attached to the inside of my waistcoat. I did not dare open the pocket-watch, and instead stood looking at it for a few moments before placing it back in my pocket and standing up. I picked up my coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it onto my shoulders before clasping my hand around the grip of the weapon that lay on my table. I opened the double-breasted coat and slotted the pistol into the mouth of a holster strapped to me under my waistcoat; at the same time, I reached into my right pocket and pulled out a couple shillings, tossed them onto the table and quickly made my way to the door. By the time I had passed through the threshold into the sombre, gloomy street, she had already left the cafe opposite and was just slipping into the crowd as I exited the tearoom. I watched her as she made her way into the crowd – keeping track of her by eying her long, exposed hair upon which the thick-rimmed goggles were so precariously perched. She was one of the few in the street that did not wear a hat, making her stand out amongst the sea of black bowlers and bonnets.

My mark made her way through the crowd like a fish through water – gliding effortlessly between members of the throng. I watched her move majestically through the swarm for as long as I could before I began to fear that I would lose her in the mass of people. I quickly moved along the pavement, avoiding the majority of the crowd who stuck to the centre of the street. I was not anxious about being so close to the peasantry; they knew who I was and knew not to try anything for fear of their very lives. I hopped up onto the steps of a large terrace house that stretched along the street for a good twenty yards. The extra height allowed me to see the tops of the heads of the members of the crowd and it took me a few moments to relocate the girl. Avoiding a couple inquisitive gazes from onlookers, I made my way into the crowd; heading in what I thought was the direction I had to take to catch up with her. As I gently pushed my way forwards, I reached into my coat pocket to check my timepiece was still in my possession. The gold station-watch remained closed as I caught sight of my mark, yet I held it in my grip firmly. I quickened my pace – not by so much that I would be taken for someone performing some inauspicious act such as thievery. That particular crime was rife in London, and had been since I could first remember – in the lower levels, pickpockets and shoplifters would often take the goods and then simply disappear into a crowd such as the one we stood in. Briefly, I wondered if at that very moment there was a crook walking behind me or even next to me, but I quickly dismissed the thought in aid of concentrating on my goal.
I drew closer to the girl, and as I did so, I ran my thumb over the surface of the face of my timepiece. The protective plate that covered the glass had been rubbed smooth over the years – destroying the intricate engraving it had once been blessed with. I was only a few bodies behind my mark, now; so close I could almost literally reach out and tap her shoulder. Instead, I waited. We were approaching the waterfront, now – I could sense the difference in temperature; taste the not-so-pleasant scent of the River Thames. I'd managed to make my way past an oaf of a man in an inexpensive suit that stood between me and the girl, leaving only two rather elderly gentlemen – one of which walked with a cane. I easily made my way past them and before I realized I was walking only a few paces behind the girl.

I looked at her to make sure I had followed the right one, then down at my pocket watch. It was most certainly the right girl – even from behind, where her face was hidden she was instantly recognizable. Forgoing her outright attractiveness which was a challenge to behold amongst the crowd and ignoring her starkly different, fetching sense of dress – two rare attributes in these times, it seemed – one could tell it was her simply by way of aura. I was not normally one to believe in such superstitious nonsense, but if I were to be convinced of the existence of an aura, it was with her that one could do so.
For a few moments I considered what I was about to do, but then did it anyway before I complicated my mind with further consideration on the matter. My free hand sprung from its limp position and grasped hers tightly. In the split second after grabbing her hand, as she started to snap her head back to look at me, I pressed my thumb against the release button at the top of my pocket watch. The lid swung open and the bustle of the street and hum of airships overhead suddenly disappeared completely from the airwaves. The crowd had stopped dead in their tracks – frozen in motion as if a terrible cold had instantly swept over them.

I trembled to speak – muttering some inane gibberish for a second before I could muster my words. The girl was gaped at me in shock, now and I loosed my grip on her delicate hand. As we stared at one another I was reminded of her beauty. It seemed all the more poignant now in the final few minutes of her life.

"Eliza..." I said, looking her in the eye, "Forgive me...I am sorry..."

My apology seemed to confuse the girl even further, but instead of responding to me she slowly turned her head, looking at the unmoving crowd. The world around our small, shielded bastion where the passage of time was allowed to behave as it should was suspended in an invisible ice, it seemed. It could have been a trick of the mind, but one could even sense a subtle change in the palette used to paint the street – the entire scene outside our sphere seemed to be bereft of all colour but a very faint – almost unnoticeable – icy blue. The expressions of the members of the deluge of people were held perfectly in time; their actions were frozen – the lifting of feet; the bustling of bags and cases; even the puff of smoke from a pipe. Even the airships that cruised over us at great heights were slowed further from their already snail-paced speeds to a complete halt – the rotors of their mighty engines stopped in motion. There was complete silence – not even a faint whisper of wind. Words that had left the mouths of the people around us were hanging in the air – invisible. One could not tell they were there if not for the open lips that had spoken them.

Eliza returned her gaze to me, her eyes full of questions. Understandably, she could not resist breaking the silence she had created herself.
"Who are you...?" she inquired, "What's happening? How do you know my name?"
She had disregarded my request, but I had been prepared for such an occasion.
I could not help my quavering voice as I spoke to her "It…it matters not." I said.
Her expression turned to a sort of anger – yet it was obscured and suppressed by the wonder of the situation she found herself in. I hastened to remedy her troubled mind,
"You do not know me. I am not from this place and I do not belong here." I glanced at the crowd for a moment to distract myself from my nervousness, "I...however, know you."
"How...?"
"In another time, in another place...we were...associates." I dared not speak of our true relation for fear of further confusion, despite the unrelenting urge to utter the term that truly described us.
Instead, I settled for an alternative, "We were companions...travellers on a long voyage; a voyage unlike most common folk could even contemplate."
I hesitated and drew a breath before I felt I could continue, "No...I make like it was trivial; you and I...we shared things no-one but us understood. We...were not just companions or friends; we were more than that – more than anything. We were love-..."
I broke off – unable to say what I wished – and I took a hold of her small hands again – she was too stunned to resist. For a few moments I hesitated before I leant in close enough to feel her warm, rapturous breath on my cheeks; close enough to catch the scent of angels. Her beautiful, deep dark green eyes pulled me in further still – it was as if I were in a trance. I was unable to stop myself. Like I had been when I first saw her all those years ago, I was in awe of her beauty. I knew she did not at present feel as I did towards her, but one day in a future that would imminently be destroyed, she would. I carefully leaned forwards, closed my eyes for a moment and, pressing my forehead against hers, I thought about the times that would never be. As soon as I opened my eyes, I was met again with her entrancing, radiant eyes. Our gazes remained locked as if we stared into the very recesses of one another's hearts. The intimacy between us then was comparable to even the most sordid acts, but it destroyed me completely.

I continued to look into her eyes until I could no longer, then I moved my head to the side, placed it alongside her soft cheek and admitted as softly as I could whisper in her ear "I...have never loved another. Not as intensely as I so dearly cherish you."
And I kissed her. I brought my head back around to look at her again, held her hands tighter and bought my lips to hers. I could not and cannot describe the bliss of our final embrace. Suffice to say, I felt at peace – assured that what happened now my conscience could bear.

After our lips had parted, I slowly stepped away, "I am sorry, Eliza. My love."
I felt tears form in the corners of my eyes as I reached into my coat and settled my hand upon the grip of my pistol, "I am so very sorry."