A/N—It's been called to my attention by some readers that Will Shakespeare suffers a lot—death, poison, etc. So I've written something a little brighter.
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Michael Scott owns this. Not me.
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willshakespeare-immortalbard
DON'T BELIEVE WE'VE HAD THE PLEASURE
The empty theater rang with echoes. It vibrated with the deep timbres of his voice, the Egyptian lilt resounding through the vast space, running up the chairs and disappearing into the heavy shadows.
Palamedes breathed deeply, taking in the heady scent that was the London theater: make-up, paper, various perfumes and pomades, cleaners, and a myriad of other smells.
He loved acting: loved standing on the stage, reciting the lines, performing the actions. Even if there was no one to watch. It gave him a sense of home, acting out Shakespeare. The Bard's lines were as immortal as Palamedes, and it was in the Bard's words that Palamedes found a way to escape the ever changing world. Shakespeare was solid. Immovable. Unchanging. Forever the same.
As the echoes of his voice faded, the melancholy tones dying, another, brighter sound filled the air.
The happy clap of applause replaced the words.
"Bravo!" A sharp, precise voice cried. "Bravo! Encore!"
Palamedes scanned the seats, searching for his audience.
Way in the back, half-standing on a velvet seat, was a man.
He was small—slight, really—with hair that reached his shoulders, though the top of his head was bald. Large, black framed glasses obscured the rest of his face, making it indiscernible in the gloom.
The man hopped off the seat and walked up the aisle until he stood by the stage. He was short enough that all Palamedes could see of him was a pair of washed out eyes, enormous behind the lenses of his glasses. With a grunt, the man hoisted himself up onto the stage. While he dusted himself off, Palamedes took a closer look at him.
He was dressed in ragged pants, dirty boots, and a tatty sweater that had threads coming loose. He had a wispy mustache, and a long pointed nose. His smile revealed bad teeth.
"I thank you for the performance," he said, once he had wiped away the nonexistent dust from his filthy clothing.
Palamedes nodded. "You're quite welcome."
"This isn't the first time I've listened to you," the man continued. "I've been listening to you for months now." His grin became one of embarrassment. "I forgot myself this evening. You delivered the lines with astonishing power. Shakespeare never sounded so good."
"Shakespeare's my specialty," Palamedes told him.
The man's smile widened. "Really?"
"Yes."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Suddenly, extending a hand, his visitor said, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure." For a moment, Palamedes felt himself transported back to the days of Shakespeare, when people still spoke like that.
Taking the hand, he said, "Palamedes."
"The Saracen Knight?" The man's thin eyebrows arched. His pale eyes twinkled, and a trace of lemon scented the air, betraying him.
An Awakened humani. Probably an immortal.
"Aye," Palamedes said, tipping his head in acknowledgement. The smell of cloves mingled with that of lemon, turning the air Mediterranean.
"William Shakespeare."
The laugh that followed made it clear to Palamedes that his shock has been apparent. And amusing.
"I didn't know that I was performing for the Bard of London," Palamedes managed.
"You were," Shakespeare confirmed. "And you've already heard my verdict."
"High praise, as I see now."
Shakespeare's smile faded slightly, and he pressed his lips together. It made him look more like the man Palamedes had seen on countless volumes of plays.
"Not to high as it may have been once. You receive the praise of a rag picker, Sir Knight, and no more."
"But it is the praise of a rag picker that is none other than William Shakespeare."
Shakespeare nodded, accepting the statement.
"But," he said, smiling again, and sitting on the floor of the stage, "I believe that I came up here to request an encore."