Meckett - Mark Anatomy with Prayer Books
A little thing written instead of revising for my Latin exam.
Title: To Mark Anatomy with Prayer Books
Pairing: implied (kind of) Meckett
Rating: pg-13 (light)
Summary: When I was a boy I used to cut down bodies from gallows.
'Anatomy asks not only how and what we can know about bodies, but what is the essential nature of the body, and how we are to understand the relationship between the body and the identity it in some manner houses.' - Valerie Traub Gendering Morality in Early Modern Anatomies.
~
When I was a boy I used to cut down bodies from gallows. A boy of no more than nine, perhaps a bit under. Regardless, young. And the body that night was fresh, a few hours old and as yet unsoiled.
'Lucky they didn't do the bugger fer treason,' was the last I had heard as I was pushed out the door into rain and inky darkness of cobbles and allies and houses melting into one another. The voices were muffled after the door had closed and I knew well enough that there would be food for a body. Such was my understanding of life.
The scaffold was easy enough to find and the rain drowned out the creaks of wood and rope rubbing against each other. My dreams were full of this. Of rope and wood and dead weights becoming deader in my arms as I dragged limp forms through streets. My dreams were full of sounds, tastes, smells, sights of this. This before me. The applause of the crowd, the murmur of names I couldn't wrap my tongue around. Sir, sir what is a kidney? What is a vertebrae? Do I have one? What are tendons? Does everyone bleed like this? Even the king? Why do you want the bodies so fresh? Why don't you want traitors?
'I do the cuttin',' sir had replied. My first Sir, in a list of a good few. 'And people pay to see the body intact. Not with stomach severed and diaphragm bust. Go on boy, find me a body. See to it. Bring a shovel if you have to.'
The sound of something heavy hitting wood filled my ears and made my chest ache so I knew what my dreams were to be that night. I think I might have shivered. My hands were numb and I ignored that it was bad practice, that. Letting bodies fall willie nillie, but I was young and alone and too small to do otherwise. And sir said it didn't matter much anyhow, said that it let him see post-mortum bruising which was of grave interest to him.
'Maybe useful one day, to know what it looks like. Regard it well, boy. You're in the right business to make it matter.'
I had wanted to ask 'what business is that?' but thought better of it for sir had had some whiskey in him and I valued my hide.
The body wasn't too large and easy enough to pull through the allies. I didn't mind the piles of refuse much, if anything he probably deserved to be dragged through it. Though he was dead so it really didn't matter much, did it? Shame, that.
The deader was something like handsome. Sir just called them 'John' or 'Jane' or 'Slut' depending. He said he could tell which ones were which and I never asked how he knew but I had seen the pictures he drew so I had a general understanding of what sir got up to when I was a'bed or sent out or just not around.
The dead man had ashen-pale skin and a neck mottled with bruises. A bit of bile dripped down from lip to chin, trailing just-there along the neck into remnants of his neckcloth. I was to strip and wash the body - getting everything shiny for tomorrow. Make sure you mind your work, boy. I would duly nod and tell sir that he could trust me.
'I know,' he looked at me queerly. 'You're a little fucker and you'll come to no good but for all that, I know you'll do well by me.'
I had wanted to say that I had no reason to do bad by him but instead nodded again and filled a bucket with water and rolled up my sleeves, pushing hair out of my face.
A name was needed for the deader. I decided this as I realised that he looked like he was sleeping and it was kind of nice. And he was quiet and would listen. Being dead. There weren't many people I got on with so I made due with corpses.
'You look like a lord,' I informed him as I undid his boots. They'd sell for a pretty bit of coinage. His stockings were made of silk. 'Maybe you were one. Did you anger the king? Are you a papist?'
His feet were small, pale, and soft. Breeches were next - a dark blue almost black colour. It made him seem even more pale than he was. My hands were grubby, caked with dirt and blood and skin and lord knows what else. He was a bit of a horseman, I could tell. Smelled like it, legs looked the part too, and there was something about him that told me he would be damn graceful on a horse. Shirttails were soon pushed up and waistcoat undone.
'I've always wanted to meet a lord. I see them when sir does his shows. He's very smart, sir is. He's a doctor and he's going to take you apart tomorrow to show people what we look like inside. He says I've got potential 'cause I'm good with a knife. But I can't be a doctor. I'm not smart enough, but I'll help sir. He's plenty smart for both of us. And you? You might have been smart.'
Soap was added to water and I was wondering if I should clean him top down or bottom up. The deader had a round face, black hair that was starting to curl as it dried. Peeling open his eyes I found them grey and rolled so reds and white were more prevalent than anything else. They might have been cold, when he was alive, but now they were nothing. I liked nothing-eyes, they never looked cruelly at me. Or worse, kindly.
'But obviously you weren't smart enough if you got caught. Were you fucking someone?' The silence of the room seemed to disagree so I shrugged. 'You need a name. Sir says you look like a papist. You've got a sly look. A mean and hungry look, as sir says. He's got his learnings as that's from Shakespeare. I've never read Shakespeare but I want to. Sir is teaching me my letters. He says I'll be able to read it one day. I think he's talking all bull and having me up for a lark, but that's all right. I think I'll call you Lord Beckett. Sir says Thomas Beckett was the worst pope-worshiper around, even if he was a saint.'
I began cleaning his hands wondering why they were so soft. Had the man never been outside? Had he never touched anything other than satin and silk and quills and parchment and ink? Had all he ever done was sleep in large beds and dip his fingers into spices and teas? And it was sudden, my anger. My anger at this man who had the same things in his body as I did in mine and why should he wear silk stockings when I couldn't find bread? I had a body same enough as his, though perhaps less delicate, less handsome, less trained and beautiful. But as such - sir said we all had vertebrae and chest plates and stomachs and pelvic bones and an entire jumble of other things.
'I'm sorry to say Lord Beckett that I hate you. But I don't envy you. You're going to be flayed open and picked apart layer by layer. Sir will have his hands in your chest and his prick up your arse. Everyone will watch him pull you to pieces like a pig. I will laugh because you are dead even though you are rich and I am alive even though I am poor. Fate likes me more, methinks, even if you are the better man. Were the better man.'
Sir said to stop talking to dead people when he came to check on me. I said that they kept mum enough so it was all right. And sir, the deader had manicured nails, was he a lord? Sir shrugged and said it didn't matter now did it? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
I was a man when sir was a hung. He just laughed on the scaffold, told London to fuck herself, and said that if anyone needed it - his body was in fine shape. Pick it to pieces by all means. Please, be my guest.
'You worked for him, didn't you?' It was asked behind me and the crowd smelled like bodies, bodies, the press of sweat and dirt and grime, and the voice asking smelled something peculiar but I couldn't place it. I was looking for it when sir breathed his last breath and was sir no more.
'As a boy,' I found the voice and the grey eyes and round face it belonged to. Hair was black and curling in afternoon sun.
'I've got a proposition for you - '
'Your name.'
'Sorry?'
'What's your name?'
He smiled something delicate and said - why don't you guess? You'll probably get it right, after all. Come find me in company offices.
A card was handed to me - manicured nails and silk stockings and something like anger forming in my gut even though it had been years since I'd felt anything at all.
'I'll come if you give me your name.'
His smile turned vicious as he twisted around to walk away, shrugging and all I could think was no - no - no - no -
'You can call me Lord Beckett, if you'd like. Ashes to ashes, Mr. Mercer, dust to dust.'
Title: To Mark Anatomy with Prayer Books
Pairing: implied (kind of) Meckett
Rating: pg-13 (light)
Summary: When I was a boy I used to cut down bodies from gallows.
'Anatomy asks not only how and what we can know about bodies, but what is the essential nature of the body, and how we are to understand the relationship between the body and the identity it in some manner houses.' - Valerie Traub Gendering Morality in Early Modern Anatomies.
~
When I was a boy I used to cut down bodies from gallows. A boy of no more than nine, perhaps a bit under. Regardless, young. And the body that night was fresh, a few hours old and as yet unsoiled.
'Lucky they didn't do the bugger fer treason,' was the last I had heard as I was pushed out the door into rain and inky darkness of cobbles and allies and houses melting into one another. The voices were muffled after the door had closed and I knew well enough that there would be food for a body. Such was my understanding of life.
The scaffold was easy enough to find and the rain drowned out the creaks of wood and rope rubbing against each other. My dreams were full of this. Of rope and wood and dead weights becoming deader in my arms as I dragged limp forms through streets. My dreams were full of sounds, tastes, smells, sights of this. This before me. The applause of the crowd, the murmur of names I couldn't wrap my tongue around. Sir, sir what is a kidney? What is a vertebrae? Do I have one? What are tendons? Does everyone bleed like this? Even the king? Why do you want the bodies so fresh? Why don't you want traitors?
'I do the cuttin',' sir had replied. My first Sir, in a list of a good few. 'And people pay to see the body intact. Not with stomach severed and diaphragm bust. Go on boy, find me a body. See to it. Bring a shovel if you have to.'
The sound of something heavy hitting wood filled my ears and made my chest ache so I knew what my dreams were to be that night. I think I might have shivered. My hands were numb and I ignored that it was bad practice, that. Letting bodies fall willie nillie, but I was young and alone and too small to do otherwise. And sir said it didn't matter much anyhow, said that it let him see post-mortum bruising which was of grave interest to him.
'Maybe useful one day, to know what it looks like. Regard it well, boy. You're in the right business to make it matter.'
I had wanted to ask 'what business is that?' but thought better of it for sir had had some whiskey in him and I valued my hide.
The body wasn't too large and easy enough to pull through the allies. I didn't mind the piles of refuse much, if anything he probably deserved to be dragged through it. Though he was dead so it really didn't matter much, did it? Shame, that.
The deader was something like handsome. Sir just called them 'John' or 'Jane' or 'Slut' depending. He said he could tell which ones were which and I never asked how he knew but I had seen the pictures he drew so I had a general understanding of what sir got up to when I was a'bed or sent out or just not around.
The dead man had ashen-pale skin and a neck mottled with bruises. A bit of bile dripped down from lip to chin, trailing just-there along the neck into remnants of his neckcloth. I was to strip and wash the body - getting everything shiny for tomorrow. Make sure you mind your work, boy. I would duly nod and tell sir that he could trust me.
'I know,' he looked at me queerly. 'You're a little fucker and you'll come to no good but for all that, I know you'll do well by me.'
I had wanted to say that I had no reason to do bad by him but instead nodded again and filled a bucket with water and rolled up my sleeves, pushing hair out of my face.
A name was needed for the deader. I decided this as I realised that he looked like he was sleeping and it was kind of nice. And he was quiet and would listen. Being dead. There weren't many people I got on with so I made due with corpses.
'You look like a lord,' I informed him as I undid his boots. They'd sell for a pretty bit of coinage. His stockings were made of silk. 'Maybe you were one. Did you anger the king? Are you a papist?'
His feet were small, pale, and soft. Breeches were next - a dark blue almost black colour. It made him seem even more pale than he was. My hands were grubby, caked with dirt and blood and skin and lord knows what else. He was a bit of a horseman, I could tell. Smelled like it, legs looked the part too, and there was something about him that told me he would be damn graceful on a horse. Shirttails were soon pushed up and waistcoat undone.
'I've always wanted to meet a lord. I see them when sir does his shows. He's very smart, sir is. He's a doctor and he's going to take you apart tomorrow to show people what we look like inside. He says I've got potential 'cause I'm good with a knife. But I can't be a doctor. I'm not smart enough, but I'll help sir. He's plenty smart for both of us. And you? You might have been smart.'
Soap was added to water and I was wondering if I should clean him top down or bottom up. The deader had a round face, black hair that was starting to curl as it dried. Peeling open his eyes I found them grey and rolled so reds and white were more prevalent than anything else. They might have been cold, when he was alive, but now they were nothing. I liked nothing-eyes, they never looked cruelly at me. Or worse, kindly.
'But obviously you weren't smart enough if you got caught. Were you fucking someone?' The silence of the room seemed to disagree so I shrugged. 'You need a name. Sir says you look like a papist. You've got a sly look. A mean and hungry look, as sir says. He's got his learnings as that's from Shakespeare. I've never read Shakespeare but I want to. Sir is teaching me my letters. He says I'll be able to read it one day. I think he's talking all bull and having me up for a lark, but that's all right. I think I'll call you Lord Beckett. Sir says Thomas Beckett was the worst pope-worshiper around, even if he was a saint.'
I began cleaning his hands wondering why they were so soft. Had the man never been outside? Had he never touched anything other than satin and silk and quills and parchment and ink? Had all he ever done was sleep in large beds and dip his fingers into spices and teas? And it was sudden, my anger. My anger at this man who had the same things in his body as I did in mine and why should he wear silk stockings when I couldn't find bread? I had a body same enough as his, though perhaps less delicate, less handsome, less trained and beautiful. But as such - sir said we all had vertebrae and chest plates and stomachs and pelvic bones and an entire jumble of other things.
'I'm sorry to say Lord Beckett that I hate you. But I don't envy you. You're going to be flayed open and picked apart layer by layer. Sir will have his hands in your chest and his prick up your arse. Everyone will watch him pull you to pieces like a pig. I will laugh because you are dead even though you are rich and I am alive even though I am poor. Fate likes me more, methinks, even if you are the better man. Were the better man.'
Sir said to stop talking to dead people when he came to check on me. I said that they kept mum enough so it was all right. And sir, the deader had manicured nails, was he a lord? Sir shrugged and said it didn't matter now did it? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
I was a man when sir was a hung. He just laughed on the scaffold, told London to fuck herself, and said that if anyone needed it - his body was in fine shape. Pick it to pieces by all means. Please, be my guest.
'You worked for him, didn't you?' It was asked behind me and the crowd smelled like bodies, bodies, the press of sweat and dirt and grime, and the voice asking smelled something peculiar but I couldn't place it. I was looking for it when sir breathed his last breath and was sir no more.
'As a boy,' I found the voice and the grey eyes and round face it belonged to. Hair was black and curling in afternoon sun.
'I've got a proposition for you - '
'Your name.'
'Sorry?'
'What's your name?'
He smiled something delicate and said - why don't you guess? You'll probably get it right, after all. Come find me in company offices.
A card was handed to me - manicured nails and silk stockings and something like anger forming in my gut even though it had been years since I'd felt anything at all.
'I'll come if you give me your name.'
His smile turned vicious as he twisted around to walk away, shrugging and all I could think was no - no - no - no -
'You can call me Lord Beckett, if you'd like. Ashes to ashes, Mr. Mercer, dust to dust.'