NaNo failure, part 2 of 2.
VI.
Kit doesn’t trust many people to read through his work. Even the fair copies don’t get seen by anyone except those who need them. Too many people is too much discussion, and with this play it’s far too risky to let people come to their own conclusions. So Will reads it, because he knows already, and it doesn’t matter if he picks up on things that really happened- which he does, of course.
“This bit where Mephistophiles provides the fire- can you do that?” He asks one night, squinting in the flickering light from tallow candles. Suddenly the light flares, still flickering but stronger and, somehow, warmer than before. When Will looks up from the papers, Kit is standing above him, face lit from below by the flames seemingly erupting from his cupped hands.
“Does this answer your question?” Kit smirks, looking even more sinister than usual. Now that he makes enough money to do so, he often dresses all in black, as he has done today; it almost appears as if he formed out of the shadows themselves. Black velvet and unexplained fires are things that Will already associates with Kit, but now they’re forever linked and burned- hopefully not literally- into his brain.
Will has suspected for some time that the demon Mephistophiles has more than a little of Kit in him, maybe even more so than John Faustus does. Yes, the scholar is the one who goes out of his way to sin. Yes, he is the one who questions theology and causes trouble. These things are the aspects of Kit that everyone knows- Marlowe the fighter, the smart-arse, the man who brags of his (technically illegal) conquests in taverns. But Mephistophiles... that’s something altogether different. He has powers beyond those normal men can imagine, and lost connections with the divine that he regrets despite all his words to the contrary. The conflicts in his nature are something that only Kit could bring to the stage, because only Kit goes through them every day- Will can even remember specific conversations where Kit has insisted that he leaves before he’s corrupted any further.
And Will.. ah. Will refuses to listen. Perhaps there is more than just Christopher Marlowe in these characters.
The light goes out, leaving Will’s face cool as Kit extinguishes his flames. He speaks quietly.
“You’ve noticed, then.”
“That you and I are in your play? Of course. I’m nothing if not observant, Christopher.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“...No. I think I might be more offended if you’d used me as the clown rather than the scholar.”
“I see. Did you not see yourself in anyone else? You lead so many different lives, Will- I can see it, because I do the same. Can’t you see it in the play as well?”
Will shakes his head. “I’m just a humble player with ideas above my station. Perhaps there are so many lives in my head already that I can’t spot any more.”
“Mephistophiles, William. He’s you as much as me.”
“But-”
“No, listen. You see here, where he uses that fire as I did? It’s power, Will, and you have it even if it doesn’t look the same. Your words ring so true, they’re like magic all on their own.”
“And what of his bond with Faustus?”
“Ah, well. You tell me. What is it you see in that? Is there anything familiar there at all?”
Will reads quickly, eyes flickering over the pages.
“...The marriage scene. The one with the demon wife. We spoke of that too.”
It was altered, of course, but he saw it nonetheless. The night that Kit returned from Canterbury, ranting about his parents’ insistence that he marry. They’d argued over the merits of marriage, and Kit had asked how often they would see each other if he had a Kentish wife, exposing his jealousy over sharing Will with Anne. “Speak not of marriage,” Will had said, and here it was in black and white, coming from the mouth of a demon.
“Kit, this is love, isn’t it? The-”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t finished. You don’t know whether I was asking about them or us.”
“Doesn’t matter. The answer is the same- for me, at least. I’d like to think there’s enough of Mephistophiles in you that I’m right in what I’ve done.”
Will nods. “Aye, you are.”
“So you-?” Kit visibly relaxes. “Thank Christ for that.”
“It’s not like you to say things like this- least of all the bit where you thanked Christ.”
They both laugh. “No, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Well, except the bit about the Messiah- but then, if that’s what he was, all that stuff with John was probably true as well, so I doubt he’d mind how I feel about this.” He shrugs. “About you.”
Will gives him an amused look. “Well, you’re the divinity scholar. Between your fancy university learning and this terribly pretentious play of yours, I should hope you know your stuff by now when it comes to the goings-on in heaven and hell.”
“Not a fucking chance,” Kit cackles. “I’m going straight to the fiery inferno for this and we both know it.” He nudges WIll with an elbow. “Just thought I might like some decent company and a nice view if I’m going to burn for all eternity. I saw you and thought you’d do nicely as a partner in sin.”
“And you were right about that. I didn’t take as much corrupting as you’d thought, though, did I? If anything, Kit, I think I might have improved you a little by accident with the bit of me that wasn’t yet damned.”
Kit studies him very carefully, then snatches the top sheet of paper and studies the lines there too.
“You need to stop being right so often. You’re going to ruin my reputation.”
VII.
“...So why exactly do you write all this shite about the continent?”
“People like it,” said Will. “They think it’s exotic, especially all that Mediterranean business. Anyway, you write about it too.”
“Yeah, but that’s different, I’ve actually been.”
“Getting kicked out of the Netherlands after three weeks and being banned from returning doesn’t really count, Kit.”
Kit’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “How dare you. I think you’ll find I was there for an entire month before they found out about the dodgy coins.”
VIII.
He finishes his play, and they put it on at the Rose. Everyone he knows who isn’t in it bothers him for a cheap seat so they can watch in comfort for once, and he agrees with everyone just so he can tell them they’ll need the seat so they don’t end up embarrassing themselves. It’s just that scary, or so he tells them- and he’s not far off. Even Will, who read the thing before anyone else and knows exactly what’s coming, even he nearly wets himself when Hell itself opens up at the back of the stage and John Faustus gets dragged in.
And afterwards, in the Mermaid (as usual), players and writers and total strangers come up to him asking how they did it. But the problem is, he’s buzzing even more than he would be with any other play- these people don’t know what it means- and he starts to lose patience. He was never the type to sit quietly and tolerate endless questions, not without wanting to stir people up and make them really think- and so that’s exactly what he does. He needs to get rid of this energy; it’s making him twitchy and even more prone to lose his temper. Might as well put it all together, he thinks, and he gets what he thinks is a rather marvellous idea.
Kit stands with a flourish, showing the player that never was and the fire-and-brimstone preacher he had no intention of ever being.
“Alright, peasants, shut the fuck up. The time for speculation is over. I hate to ruin everyone’s night, but unfortunately I know exactly how those stage effects were created.” He smiles, showing slightly too many teeth, and they look ever-so-slightly pointier than they ought to- pure coincidence, but given his general tendency towards the feline it’s a little unnerving for the others. “Now, I believe some of you were interested in how one might go about recreating some of those tricks? For that’s all they are, gentlemen, whatever you might think of me outside of these four walls.”
Everyone is staring, and in all honesty, he likes it. Perhaps he should’ve taken the route of being a player rather than a writer, but no matter. He continues; he’s gone this far, after all, he can’t possibly let this captive audience down.
“As you can see, gents, it’s nothing but illusion. Just as you can use mirrors to create a ghost, there are ways to bring fire to the stage, if only you’re subtle and use the right mix of ingredients. You needn’t go so dangerous as gunpowder. Watch- I’ve got nothing you can see in my hands, but I can assure you it’s there.” He moves a hand swiftly, and there’s the slightest pause before people begin to realise that there’s fire in the palm of his hand. They don’t need to know how real it is, of course, so he simply blows it out and performs the fanciest bow he can.
“Like I say, nothing but tricks.” He sees a nearby drinker muttering into his mug of ale and glaring. For anyone else, this would be a worry, even without the abuse of certain talents, but for Kit Marlowe this is an opportunity to make someone else look foolish and there’s no way he can resist that temptation (or, indeed, any other that might pass his way).
“Alright mate, is there a problem?”
“Witchcraft,” says the stranger. “We all know about these plays of yours, what you do with all them words. Now you’re flaunting it in public. It’s disgusting.”
Kit pouts. “Sir, you wound me. I would never even presume to have such great and terrible gifts. All I’ve done is a bit of conjuring. Look.” He smirks, and in a mockery of the trick people do for children at Christmas, pulls a piece of paper from behind the man’s ear. He feigns surprise, unfolds it, and displays it to nearby drinkers.
It simply says, “Fuck off.”
IX.
Somehow, Walsingham always sent for him when he was hungover. It’s like the man knew exactly what he was up to, and was trying to make his life as difficult as possible. Mind you, knowing Walsingham, he really did know exactly what he was up to. Sadly,. that means Kit still can’t wriggle his way out of this spying business, because the man at the top has too much dirt on him. He doesn’t like being on this end of it, but what can you do? It was going to come back and bite him in the arse one day, at least with Walsingham he gets a bit of cash out of all this hassle.
So here he sits, squinting through one eye and trying not to swear out loud while the spymaster drones on about some supposed plot or other. He’s got better things to do, like sleeping through most of the day, but oh no, Francis Walsingham likes to know all his friends in low places are doing their jobs, and he likes to hear it from them first thing in the morning. Bastard.
“Look, Frank. Frankie. Do I really need to know all this? Surely, the more you tell me the more I can give away, hmm? And we both know what a mouthy little shit I can be. Just the basics, yeah? Then I can get on with important things like actually doing the job you’ve asked me to do.”
Walsingham frowned. “Mr Marlowe, I do not expect you to speak to your elders and betters in such an informal manner, whatever your usual tone might be with your peers.”
“My apologies. I’ll try again. Get on with this shit, Sir Frankie.”
“Hmmph.” Walsingham glared. “Luckily it’s a simple task this time, Mr Marlowe. In light of your requests to spend less time out of the country- which are understandable, given your other ambitions and your need to provide for your siblings- all I require of you this time is that you pass these papers along.” He pushed a packet across the table. “Robert Poley needs them. You’ll find him in the usual sort of places, I expect. Make sure he gets them within the week.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.” Kit tucked the papers away and stood up. “If that’s everything?”
“We require no more of you for the moment, Mr Marlowe. You may leave if you wish.”
“Right. Yeah. Er, see you later then.”
Kit trotted out of the room, winking at one of the guards on his way through the door. Luckily for everyone else in Walsingham’s office, he hadn’t spotted the document lying on the desk that came complete with the signature ‘Tamburlaine’.
X.
On the morning of the 30th of May, Kit wakes up with a slight hangover and the sun in his eyes; but everything is fine, because he also has Will in his bed, looking endearingly scruffy with his hair all over the place and ink stains all over his hands. He’s quite happy to stay here forever, but there are jobs to be done and Will still has poems to finish while the theatres are closed.
And Kit has people to see that he’d rather not see, in places he’d rather not visit.
Still, he’ll be back tonight, and he’s fairly sure that today he can finally get out of all this spying business. Supposedly there’s no important business today, and if Poley’s bringing idiots like Frizer and Skeres with him, he was probably being honest about that. They might have intentions of roughing him up a bit, but quite frankly he’s prepared to defend himself with whatever he’s got today, even magic. After all, it’s not like anyone would believe them if they said anything. WHo would they tell, anyway? He’s got enough friends in high places to get out of pretty much anything. Alright, so he has to keep reporting to the Privy Council, but if they wanted him gone he’d have been on the scaffold days ago. They love a good celebrity execution, and having Kit Marlowe on the end of a rope for heresy would be about as entertaining as you can get with these things.
But they haven’t done anything, and that Tamburlaine nonsense clearly wasn’t written in his handwriting, so he’s got nothing to worry about. Probably. So he rolls over, smacking Will with a pillow, and crawls out of bed.
“Wake up, pisshead.”
Will simply grunts. “No. Too early. Fuck off.”
“Such language, William. I thought you were full of beautiful verse on all God’s creation, not filth like that.”
“Ugh, whatever. Why have you woken me up?”
Kit pouts. “Wanted to let you know where I’d be today. You know, just in case I- just in case. Anyway, it’s off to see the Privy Council, and then I’ve got to go and meet Poley and his scabby mates at some pub in Deptford. Well, that or someone’s house, I dunno. They’re a bit sketchy about it all, as bloody usual. Anyway, I’ll be back soon after dark, I think, if not before.”
“Right.” Will sits up, suddenly much more awake and looking a lot more concerned than Kit had hoped. “And now that you’ve mentioned pretty much everything I’m not supposed to know about you, I’ve got to sit around all day worrying about it. Thanks.”
Kit perches on the side of the bed. “Will, don’t. I’d rather you knew this time. I’m-” He lowers his voice. “I’m getting out of it today. All that business for the Walsinghams, I mean. I’ll use... you know... if I have to.”
“What happens if you just don’t go?”
“...I can’t just not go. Even if I go in there, set the place alight and run like mad, I still have to turn up. They’ve got me by the balls, Will, just look at all this trouble with the Privy Council.” He smiles, a little too brightly, and it looks odd on a face that’s not used to smiling at all. “It’s fine though. I’ll be fine. They’re a pretty thick bunch for people who supposedly uncovered a plot. I can probably take all three of them if I don’t hold anything back. Then when I get back we can go for a pint and forget all about it.”
“But people will come looking for you in the Mermaid. They know to find you in there- it’s the first place they’ll go, especially if you’ve just-”
“Then we won’t go to the fucking Mermaid, will we?” he snaps. “We’ll go somewhere a bit more upmarket than that dive; Lord knows nobody will expect us in any of the places where they actually wash the tankards, not with your reputation for ‘thriftiness’.” He pauses, sighs, and carries on, a little more gently. “Look, just... just write today. Once you start, you’ll get lost in it like you always do, and I’ll be back before you’ve even noticed the time passing by. I might have a black eye and a fat lip, but I'll be back, you know I will.”
Just saying it out loud makes him feel more positive. He will get out of this, because he always does- and this time he’s going to actually use the talents he’s been keeping hidden. He can do this, for sure, and he will- because this time, there’s a lot more at risk and a lot more he’s going to use to claw his way out of this hole. He gets up, pulling on last night’s clothes, making vague attempts to tame his hair before giving it up as a bad job. As he sits on the edge of the bed to tug on his boots, he feels an arm sliding around his waist and turns for one last kiss before he leaves.
“Do have a shave today, William. People will know if I keep turning up to these things with stubble rash- now, I don’t care about that, but we both know how easily you blush, and I don’t want you getting me into even more trouble.” He smirks, Will grumbles and flops back into bed, and Kit pulls his collar a little higher as he walks towards the door.
“I’ll see you later then? Be in the Black Horse at seven. You’re paying.”
And with that, he’s gone- strutting out of the door and down the street with even more of the usual arrogance he reserves for all those strangers. Not so much as a goodbye- as always- but you don’t need to worry about things like that with Kit. He might be a troublemaker, and he’s shifty as hell, but if you can get him to be honest with you, he’s a man you can rely on.
At least, Will hopes so.