no_sin_but

The streets are full of people who had come to pay their last respects to the only monarch most of them had ever known. Watching from windows, doorways, the streets and gutters and it's crowded.

(the queen is dead)

Marlowe keeps his hand tight around Mary Anne's, so tight that the wedding ring on his finger digs in, but it's that kind of crowd. Let go, and let go forever.

(and the bells are tolling)

He leads her over to a wall, the wall of an inn and helps her up onto the barrels before joining her. One hand holding into the sign to the left of him for balance, the other hook around her waist and keeping her close.

(the queen is dead)

"'Right?" He asks her, voice loud in her ear but it's the only way to hear over the press of people and the church bells.

The first night had been spent out in the open, but tonight Marlowe has found the pair a tavern. Quiet, out of the way, not well-to-do but hardly the worst place he has slept in.

Of course, that is the problem.

Marlowe leans against the doorway, watching Mary Anne (Mariane) with an amused twinkle in his eye.

"So, my dear. Which side of the bed do you want?"

Welcome to Romeo and Juliet, of the New Burbage Theatre Festival.

It is back stage.

Sarah thinks the Iguana that broke the ex-director's back may be back in the building. Patrick can't find his FUCKING tights. Cyril is telling stories about the time he played Mercutio when it was just a tent, and the pigeon flew in right in the middle of Queen Mab, and attacked Benvolio. Maria is on the warpath about god knows what. One of the giant silver balls has made its way back stage, and is rolling in one of the too-narrow hallways. One of the ladies in waiting has shown up in a red bra by mistake, and is in tears because it's visible through her costume, and she doesn't know if she can find a new one in time.

Jerry grabs Darren the minute he arrives through the door.

"Darren! This is important. There may be, um, barbed wire in the entrances, depending on whether Geoffrey..."

Sarah screams. Then goes bright red.

"Sorry, just a sock. Sorry."

Jerry pushes on.

"...it was MacBeth, you see, and Henry wasn't doing it..."

Darren breathes deeply through his nose.

"Jerry, I assure you, Geoffrey's attempts at guerilla theatre have been successfully dismantled. All entrances and exits are fully available. Just... watch out for nails."

Jerry nods and walks off, and Darren looks over his shoulder at Kit.

"Well. Welcome to my play."

Marlowe grins at him. "Thank you, my dear man."

Marlowe is not, and has never been, a continuous writer. He's too full of energy for that, too quick and hurried with that impossible perfectionistic streak. Instead, he writes in episodes of fevered inspiration countered by episodes of staring and thinking.

Tonight, he is in the latter.

He is sitting in his chair, leaning it back with his leg braced against the table to keep from toppling. Hands linked behind his head, eye bright and sharp and far away.

On the table, there are papers. His play, scattered here there and everywhere, and Darren's letters.

And if you were to enter Marlowe's room today, the fact that it is occupied may not be at first clear. Papers on the desk, yes. Books everywhere, some open and others bookmarked, yes. Bed made neatly, yes.

But occupied?

This is because Marlowe is on the ground, back against the wall and (ink-stained) hands pressed together against his mouth as if he is praying.

He isn't, of course.

He is, however, staring out into space with his eye slightly narrowed and very obviously not seeing anything in the room.

I want to write plays like you, Master Marlowe, William Shakespeare had once said. Marlowe had replied, then do it.

What?

Do it. Don’t tell me about it. Don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it. Do it.

Where do I start?

With a quill, a pot of ink and a sheet of paper.

Fourteen years later, with a quill, a pot of ink and a sheet of paper, Marlowe takes his own advice. He doesn’t think about it, or rather he doesn’t let himself. He had thought too long before, turned all that brilliant creative fire on himself until it had soured to poison, and he didn’t need Mary fucking Anne to tell him that he had been a coward.

So he writes.

It is that simple.

It is nowhere near that simple.

He had forgotten how much he hated it; the way the piece would possess him, torment him, be there on waking and sleeping and in his dreams. He had forgotten the pacing, quick and restless and well past midnight into dawn of pace, pace, what’s that fucking word and just because it felt too damn good that he had stop, had to pull himself back else the words would consume him forever.

He had forgotten how much he loved it; the way the ideas would run through his head, bang bang bang bang until he could see every person and hear every word, the feeling of his mind and self being too large for his body, he had to walk, run, tap his foot to keep moving while his pen flew across the page – to be still would be to die, and only sometimes did he mean that metaphorically.

And so he writes. He writes as one cutting a wound to draw the poison out, he writes to purge himself of his self-loathing and disgust and sheer loneliness. He writes as one taking a drug he had long since sworn off, and dear god is writing a drug; ecstasy, ambrosia to make him live forever in a single moment.

A king, nameless and homeless. Exiled, stripped of his memory and told to walk forever, but did he do it to himself?

Marlowe doesn’t know.

A place, a tavern with characters from above, below, abroad. Dark in the woods and a clear stage with hints and small lights there and there. Everyone has a story, it just might not be their own.

Everyone has a story…payment? Their journey, their quest, and everyone knows the rules but him. A drunk, a dandy with clothes of yesterday, the cook with a dimpled smile, a queen who has no country, no followers, no robes or crown

(and too blue eyes, my Lady)

and she knows him though he doesn’t remember her. It’s in the way they argue and fight and she says, what is your story, what is your story.

Marlowe writes for the sheer joy of creation, even if this moment the possession has him on the floor, back against the wall and fingers against his mouth as if he is praying. No one has names, so it isn't that, but the words sometimes escape him. That line didn’t work, shorten it, change it, rearrange and god damn Shakespeare in his head the last time they talked.

After tomorrow, Kit Marlowe, the playwright, is dead. I only hope Kit Marlowe, the man, can survive.

I understand why you have to go…but you must come back one day-

Kit Marlowe can never come back.

Christopher Marlowe smiles faintly, although there is no one to see it. “But you must come one day…Ah, yes, William. You always were right in the end.”

Marlowe had been intending on having a shower when he changed into a cat, and now things have changed.

He's in the bath. Thinking and soaking and oh, it feels good to be back.

Even if he will miss having two eyes.

Marlowe has been many things, but one of the things that people forget is scholar. Student. Oh, yes, the boy wrote plays, but he was Kit Marlowe. He brawled, he snarked, he twisted people around with nothing but words until they believed in no God, he, hell, he even teamed up with another poet to kill a man on record.

But Marlowe, reading? Having a genuine love for words and text and the scent of leather and paper? People forget about that.

For a while, so did he.

Now he's free to indulge, and indulging he is; lying on the bed, eyes and mind intent on nothing but the page in front of him.