no_sin_but: ((don't you) forget about me)
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.
no_sin_but: (Default)
this is london, 1603. outside it, on the road with the crowds even early in the morning.

it isn't pretty.

Marlowe glances over at Mary Anne, thoughtfully.

"Think you can hold your seat in there?" He asks, gesturing with his head towards the English capital.
no_sin_but: (now now my dear)
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?"
no_sin_but: (bzuh?)
Marlowe and Mary Anne, a.k.a Nicholas and Mariane Skeres, step out of Milliways into a muddy village street. Behind them is a tavern, and the swinging sign might be wordless, but it still makes it very clear what the tavern is called.

Marlowe has spent a lot of time at the Hanged Man, and so he just continues as if he'd been in there all along.

It's late afternoon, and warm, and Marlowe swears softly.

Last time he'd been in his world, it'd had been dark and late October.
no_sin_but: (blank verse)
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."
no_sin_but: (profile of a poetspymurderer)
Stairs are not...let us try this again.

Where would you prefer to collapse, your room or the road? For a stairway is really a road, and this one has heavy traffic, but...

But you do not choose when, you do not choose where, you do not choose who triggers it.

This is why Marlowe is sitting at on the landing of one of the stairs on one of the floors, head against the wall and eye closed. One leg drawn up, the other foot resting on the second stair down; he could just be thinking.

People's knuckles aren't normally so white when they do that, though.
no_sin_but: (blank verse)
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.
no_sin_but: (bzuh?)
Marlowe stands in the living room, hands in his pockets and studying the ceiling. If he listens, he can hear Aife (or rather, Alisa) and Sascha talking and plotting. Alisa Vladimirevna is too much, really.

Mary Anne?
no_sin_but: (blank verse)
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.
no_sin_but: (blank verse)
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.”
no_sin_but: (know thyself)
It is 2am, and Marlowe is asleep. Not by much, and it's a restless, edgy sleep, but he is asleep. Not quite dreaming, at least nothing he'd really remember.

He's asleep, and it's too easy to remember how hard it is to sleep when you can't hear someone else's breathing.
no_sin_but: (know thyself)
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.
no_sin_but: (Cool Cool Cat Called Marlowe)
Marlowe had been going to have a shower, because being clean was never, ever going to get old, but that than that dizziness had struck and he'd sat down, sharply, head in his hands, so when he turns into a cat, that's where his clothes are.

Yes, a cat. Long-haired, four-pawed, and he isn't sure which is worse - the tail, or the fact that he has both eyes. His balance is off.

Very, very off.

Give him sometime, and he'll be scratching at the door. Oh, yes, he will. For now, he's just going to sit there and feel very, very off-balance.

Not to mention very, very confused.
no_sin_but: (a poet for our times)
Read more... )
no_sin_but: (Default)
this is a placeholder, as mun is multitasking.

marlowe is in his room, lying on his bed, reading.

1984, in fact. He's about to the bit about the governments being evil and changing who they are fighting to keep the population under its boot.

read, kit, read.
no_sin_but: (round-faced Kit)
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.
no_sin_but: (old and cold as the Thames)
After this:

Marlowe's room is pretty much like most of the others, really. A table and chair, bathroom (with the door shut), double-bed. Perhaps a few more books then most, and perhaps those books are a little more worn and filled with notes, but it is pretty much just a basic room.

Marlowe himself is still asleep, tangled up in the sheets with one arm flung over his eyes...

Well.

Eye and eyepatch.
Page generated Oct. 18th, 2017 02:30 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios