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She wasn’t quite sure where the end had begun. Had it been the disappearance of their deity, the loss of faith and belief? Had it been the fall of the factories, people moving to other lands in search of work. War had rained down upon them, plague took no prisoners, buildings fell, iron and steel rusted then the earthquake finished it off. It had been an explosion ... building for years then after, silence. It was hard to tell how long she had been laying there, days, weeks, months, decades. Sprawled among velvet, brocade and smashed bone china, half buried under plaster and a chandelier. She had thought that she would be stuck there forever, condemned and immobile, if everyone was gone, who would come looking? Who could possibly be alive or care that she was there. Even if they did find her, they would think her dead. Without the key her heart did not work, without her heart she would feel cold, immobile. They would take her and bury her and that would be the end. Or perhaps her insides would rust, that would be her only salvation.


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Cyrus had been gone when the end had come. With the disappearance of Industry, he had been lost for his purpose. There was no one to protect, no one to serve. His only hope to find purpose once more had been to search for his lord.

So search he did.

At first days passed, then weeks, then months. Before he knew it decades had slipped through his fingers, though it was all for naught. He never lost his belief or faith in his lord. Industry had to still be there amongst them. The will of his followers was too great. The need to create, to expand, it was almost innate.

He was not sure what drove him to return to Albion. He had heard of its annihilation. Though isn't that what one did when they were lost? They returned to the beginning with the hope that a new, previously unseen path would reveal itself to the lost. Regardless, return, he did. He walked slowly through the skeleton city, the only life left a few birds, though even they seemed desolate and lifeless as they watched him pick his way through the rubble. Slowly his feet led him to an old haunt. Industry had favoured the upscale brothel for the secrets that were spilled within its walls. Perhaps some secrets remained, he thought, breathing in the stale air.

Walking through the listless door hanging on by a single hinge, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness and destruction. The old building had been beautiful once. Glimmers of its finery still shone in the odd light. In an odd way, it was beautiful still, he thought as he let his bag slip from his shoulder to the floor with a thunk.


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She heard the building stir, the sound of heavy feet on rubble. She had wondered how she could hear, how she could see if her heart was a macine, if she had shut down how could it be posible to retain her senses.

Frustrated, she tried to call out, nothing, tried to move to do anything. Though ... what if they were hostile, what would they do with her then, a fallen doll, trapped within herself.


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Slowly, Cyrus began to search through the destroyed first floor of the brothel. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was certain he would know once he found it. His feet clonked across the floor, grit cracking under his weight. He had been looking up to the upstairs balcony when his foot connected with something solid. Looking down, he blinked. It was a leg. A very shapely, milky white, perfect leg. Frowning a bit, he followed it up and saw the tangle of velvets, red and pink. A flash of memory went through his mind and he moved quickly to remove the large bit of plaster and wood that had fallen across the perfect body of Elora. Tossing aside the debris as if it were nothing, he crouched down beside her. She was as perfect and ageless as the last time he had seen her, though her hair was a bit of a mess and dirt covered her flawless skin.

"Elora?" he whispered, his deep voice sounding loud in the silence. Carefully, he reached out his hand to touch her cheek. It was cold and her eyes remained blankly staring beyond him.


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Here it was, she thought as her leg was kicked. Destiny, sink or swim. Be buried, broken up for parts or saved. She had always enjoyed a bit of a gamble, though often the odds were stacked in her favor. Not anymore.

The ceiling was lifted from her and she saw the large feet of her saviour.
You know what they say about men with big feet. She thought to herself with a giggle. The voice she recognised. Industry's heavy. How could he be there? Maybe she was dreaming.

Help! Help! no sound came from her lips, no movement from her paralysed body. I'm in here!


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Cyrus breathed in deeply and glanced around for a moment. Spotting a couch with some bit of wall and décor across it, he rose to his full height and went to clear it. A few moments later, he returned to her and bent down to scoop her up into his large arms. She was stiff and heavy, more doll than she had ever appeared to be before. Still, he carried her as if she weighed nothing and he set her gently down on the chaise. Rising to his full height again, he studied her for a moment. Perhaps she had just run down, he thought. Trouble was, he couldn't quite remember how she worked.

"Why didn't you keep yourself wound up?" he asked her, reaching up to gently stroke his gotee as he continued to study her. "You'd be very disappointed in your current state," he smirked slightly. Her dress was disintegrating from his moving her and she just didn't look her usual polished self.


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If she could have rolled her eyes she might of.
I've lost my damn key haven't I. Otherwise I wold have kept myself wound wouldn't I? Oh yes, and there was the matter of half the ceiling on top of me.

She was sure she did look a mess, if she had been laying there for a very long time, dust, debris her clothes most likely moth eaten and worn.
I'm lucky I haven't been eaten by rats really. Rats, rabid dogs, cats. You're looking well though.


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Cyrus continued to watch her in silence for several long moment. Even in her disheveled state she was beautiful, he decided.
"I can't remember how to wind you up," he admitted after some time had passed. "I wish that I could. You could tell me what happened here. You could tell me what you remember before my lord disappeared on us," he said softly, sinking slowly onto the edge of the seat beside her. "You could... just talk to me. I miss having someone to talk to."

Reaching out, he gently smoothed some of her hair down and plucked a bit of plaster out of it.

"You really are a mess. Maybe I can find something to replace this old dress with," he mused, looking back over the ruins.


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If she could have smiled she would have done. She liked to smile and laugh, though now she was stuck.
You don't want to know what happened here. The death and the pain, watching everyone around you crumbling to nothing. Watching the city crumble to nothing.
Again, she would have smiled, maybe reached out to pat his hand, if she could have talked she would have talked his ear off. She liked to talk.
I don't mind being a mess really, I mean it's not like there's anyone around to impress, just the two of us.


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"Wait here," Cyrus said softly, rising to his feet and continuing through the building, his searching now holding a purpose. Finding an old chest, he managed to pry it open and was rewarded with a trove of silks, velvets, brocades, and jewels. Running his fingers over some of the materials, he picked one he thought was nice. It was a deep red and gold brocade dressing gown. The material felt sturdy to him and she always looked good in red. Pulling it out, he shook it a bit. It was still crumpled, but it would have to do.

Walking back over to her, he tossed the dressing gown over the back of another chair and then paused when he looked back down at her.

Oh right. She couldn't dress herself. Clearing his throat a little, he looked away in embarrassment. He said and did nothing for a long moment, then slowly began to nod to himself. Her gown was going to disintegrate away anyways and at least her nakedness would not need to last long if he were to put her in something else. Slowly he moved to sit beside her again.

"I am sorry about this Elora. Though desperate times and all," he said quietly and gently eased her onto her side so her back was facing him. With slightly clumsy fingers, he managed to get the laces on the dress undone and he pulled it apart. Hesitating again, he took another deep breath and kept her back towards him as he awkwardly began to pull the tattered cloth away from her. Tossing it aside once she was free of it, he realized she was filthy. Keeping her resting on her side, he went to retrieve the dressing gown and draped it over her.

"I will be right back. I will find some water to cleanse you," he declared, rising to his full height and glancing around once more.


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Elora watched him, as she couldn't do anything else. The gesture was sweet, getting her something more fitting than the rags she had on. He moved her with his large, clumsy hands and undressed her. His apology amused her. She'd certainly been undressed by worse.

It was actually quite fun having someone to do things for her, usually it was her waiting on other people, having to order them around and make sure they did things right.

If she could have she would have laughed at his next words.
Cleanse me, what are you a priest? She asked in her head.


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It took him a while, but he found a basin that had been filled with rain water. Bringing it back into the room he had left her in, he set about making a fire and heating it up. He wasn't sure if she could feel in her current state, but he didn't want to wash her with freezing cold water. It seemed cruel and unnecessary to him.

Once the water was warm enough, he produced some cloth from his bag and began to dip it in the basin, then lift the dressing gown to run it over her cold skin.

"I bet this feels much better," he said quietly as he rubbed away the years of dirt and grime. When he was finished with her back and arms, he took a deep breath and forced himself to work quickly over her front. He made sure he was gentle, but he did not linger in the task. Finishing her slender legs, he rinsed the cloth once more, then moved to her face. This he took great care and time in doing. Slowly he traced the cloth over the contours of her face, around her nose, over her plump lips. He moved the cloth around the delicate folds of her ears and down her elegant neck. She was a beautiful woman. He had always thought so. Once he was finished, he dropped the cloth into the basin and sat back.

"There. Now, let's get you clothed," he declared and lifted the gown. Shaking it out once more, he carefully slipped her arms through it and brought it closed over her chest by fastening the buttons. The buttons only went down to her hips, but he made sure to pull the voluminous material over her legs. "You are looking much better," he smiled softly, running his hand over her hair. Noticing its tangled state, he dug in his bag and produced a brush. Shifting to rest her head stiffly over his lap, he loosened her hair from its remaining bonds and began to brush it slowly and gently.


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She couldn't feel much, just the warmth of the cloth as it touched her. All sensations felt duller than they had before, as though she was watching rather than feeling.

She could not remember being touched so tenderly as when he washed the dirt from her skin. Tenderness and respect. Two things not usually present in the life of a sideshow and a whore. Even when she had become madame and was able to step away from earning her keep with her body she had never really had respect.

She watched his face as he washed her face and then dressed her, like the doll she was.
Thank you. That's what she would have said if she could have done. She might have touched his cheek tenderly if she could have to show that she meant that thank you from the bottom of her clockwork heart.

Now what?


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Now what indeed. Cyrus would have been amused to know that his thoughts mirrored her own. As he slowly ran the brush through her blond hair, he tried to think, to remember.

"There was a key. It fit in that hole over your heart, didn't it? I remember it now. It had jewels or something on it," he said softly. "I wonder where it is now." Falling silent, he finished with her hair and set the brush off to the side. The light outside was fading and the shadows around them were growing darker.

"I'll search for it tomorrow, okay? I promise, I will find it. In the meantime, let us get some sleep. You can sleep here," he said, easing out from her under and laying her back down on the chaise. "I'll tell you some stories from my travels. Would you like that?" he asked as he went to his bag once more and started to pull out his sleeping things.


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Yes, yes. I don't know what happened to it. It must have fallen out somewhen, somewhere.
She hoped that he could find it, if he could find it then she could actually have a conversation, they could try and put things back together.
Yes, I would love to hear about your travels. I have been trapped, watching the sun fade and rise countless times. Decades she imagined.