Fandom: RPF - Historic
Written for: anotherusedpage in the Yuletide 2004 Challenge

Author's Notes: This is based partially on Young Will by Bruce Cook (I'd recommend that if your into Marlowe/Shakespeare. I only read it to prepare for this challenge but I'm really glad I picked it up at the bookstore. It's an excellent novel.)

Love All, Trust Few

By Vixen

Oh, what a wretched and wasteful day it had been for poor Will.

Trouble began early with the first blush of sunrise, wasting little daylight before disrupting what had hoped to be a routine yet productive work day. Snags and hitches spread into the following hours, marking the time with forgetful actors, one fuming director and a notice from the Queen's council.

When the council leader came into The Theater, Will halted in his acting. The rest of his unspoken line hung from his mouth loosely, though to be honest he did not quite remember it before the government official had entered the room. Saved by his arrival, Will let go a breath of relief as fellow players of Lord Strange's Men listened intently to the notice as it was read to them:

"All Theaters Herein London Shall Be Closed, On Order of Elizabeth I, Until The Good Protestant God Hath Saved Us From The Plague Which Threatens Our Fair City." With no further words spoken, the official rolled up his parchment and left, perhaps to avoid the squabbling which broke out the moment he had left.

With the theaters closed, the players would earn no money. Journeying to another town or village seemed like the best alternative though some in the company were reluctant to pick up and move. Lost in the chaos and frenzy of ideas flying about, Will found his thoughts returning home before his body could leave the theater.

Christopher Marlowe, friend and in recent months more than just that, would be waiting at their shared home for him, waiting for word on how the current play was proceeding. How would Will be able to tell him of this recent turn of events. It would mean goodbye for them, for Kit (as was Will's pet name for him) would be reluctant to leave London and would have other means of earning his living besides the theater, as he had gone to University while Will had not.

Then did James Burbage, the head of the troupe and owner of The Theater, chose to speak. A stern man with tired eyes and a sharp chin, his opinion quieted the rabble, "We have no choice but to follow the edict as received today, to do otherwise would be treason against our Queen. Our heads would be on the chopping block would that happen."

An involuntary shudder ran though him, palpable to the whole company. Consequences of such actions deemed as treasonous carried a heavy, mortal price in England. None would want to set against the monarchy, even for the sake of their job and theater.

"Therefore," Burbage continued, "I shall be moving on to Warwickshire, perhaps to Stratford to look for work there. I will set out on foot in three days time, whoever chooses to join me and remain in the company may do so."

The future of the company was set however much talk remained as the company finished their day's work and filed through the doors of the theater. Despite the threat of plague, the company laughed it off. Better to do that than to worry away what little time they had left in London. Though he joined in their conversation, Will could not be persuaded to join them for a drink at the local pub, the Duck and Dog.

If Marlowe had been available to accompany them and not overloaded with his latest work at home, Will might have joined the rest for a round of cheap ale, for his friend would already be there boasting about his latest project. Though Marlowe hated to associate with common actors, being a playwright and a class above them, he made an exception for Will and his company.

As it was, Will was content to hurry home to Marlowe tonight. There was the news to share with him and plans to be made. Until such things were settled Will's insides would continue to work themselves into knots and his mind would revolve in circle, debating with itself when no answer could be reached.

Torn between the company and his love, Will despised the turn fortune shown him, not knowing which he cared for more. Choosing between the two seemed an impossible task, one Will could not even bring himself to approach with a level head.

He wrapped the woolen cloak tighter over his dark brown doublet, barring out the cold of winter which threatened to overtake the city, himself included. Tramping through the muddy cobblestone streets of London, the smell of horse droppings and human refuge did nothing to sway his downcast spirits. What would happen to other theaters? The Swan, the Rose, the Fortune.. they were rivals but produced such great works the profession would be pained to lose them.

Muck clung to his boots, mud or worse but still Will trudged onward. Passing a few blocks, he began to come across a crowd of people. Grouping closer and closer, there could be only one cause for this outpouring of citizens which Will was finding harder and harder to push through. A public execution, probably for another treasonous Jesuit priest found preaching their religion in Elizabeth's domain.

A grumble lay buried deep in his throat as Will moved through the street, weaving in and out of tightly packed spectators. These kind of events were patriotic and purposively built up the pride of the country. Therefore, while his work and theater went empty in the following months these barbaric slaughters would proceed without hindrance. Still, he could not say a word against the practice lest his execution be ordered next.

The crowd thinned one block east of the public display, one block more and Will stood in front of the lodgings he shared with Marlowe. Eager to slough off the despair the day's events had caused deep within him, Will opened the main door of the complex and began the trip up the darkened stairs.

Narrow and uneven, the wooden stairs creaked under his weight. Though Kit earned his share of riches through his work as a playwright, most of the money he made went to liquor and gamboling. Little was left for rent after expenditures on that unrestrained lifestyle and the money they needed to buy food in the London marketplace. Will helped him out as much as he possibly could, contributing to the rent what little he had, but an actor's wages did not amount to much.

Nonetheless, despite the meager appearance of their living arrangements, it was something they could call their own. A place to write uninterrupted by the bustling world beneath their second story room, somewhere to share their lofty dreams with one another, and somewhere to keep warm with another in a double bed during the cold winter.

Will turned the lock, expecting to find Kit writing another one of his master epics. He would stop, smile up at his companion and all the trouble that day had wrought would seem to vanish as if it never existed in the first place. This, however, was not the scene Will found before his eyes once the door had opened.

Instead, Marlowe reclined in one of the wooden kitchen chairs, tilting back slightly with his booted feet resting on the table top. In his hands he clutched a manuscript of yellowed paper, reading what was written on it with a somber ironic smirk. As he pulled sheaf after sheaf of paper from the manuscript, he fed each of the sheets to the blazing fire behind him.

The light from the fire bounced around the room angrily, frightening Will but he managed to remember to close the door to keep prying eyes and ears out. About to ask his friend what Marlowe had read that was so contemptuous but fearing to what looked like his final breakdown, Will paused just long enough for his friend to cut off the silence with a bitter tongue.

"These are my words Will, this is my work." He stood, slamming the manuscript down on the table. It was in Will's own handwriting. The less experienced bard looked down at the work, half of it gone. Will knew there was little point in continuing the lie he had perpetrated for months. "You did but copy it. The Comedy of Errors indeed. The folio bares your name, is that not error enough."

"I have but.." Will peered up at Marlowe, still too guilty to look at the poet directly, "borrowed a few lines, a few verbs which you said yourself were not going to be put to use in your production. You would have thrown them out but I put them to better use, restyled them, made them into efforts which will earn money." As this speech tumbled out, Will found he stood taller against his detractor. "Have not poets of old reused other people's works before?"

"But to have used from me, Will." Marlowe's voice trailed off, the bitterness gone replaced with such a sadness that Will felt the full weight of his betrayal. "I, who have fed you and given you shelter." He would not even look at Will now, shaking his head dismissively. Preferring to face the fire, Marlowe watched as ashes of the manuscript cindered.

Nearing the other man, Will stood in silence beside him, not knowing what to say to excuse his behavior. Deep down he had known his flagrant theft was done not only for the money which it would earn, there were other reasons: jealous over the rival poet, desire to be a playwright of equal measure and need to make a name for himself. None of these things was sufficient to liberate the blame from himself.

A deep chasm divided the two as they stood shoulder to shoulder overlooking the flames which charred their relationship. There would be no coming back from this moment. When Will finally did speak, his words came out falteringly, "I never thought you would find out. Had I but known the pain it would have cause you.."

"I was a spy at Cambridge, Will.. trained to find out that which others are desperate to keep hidden." Marlowe shrugged his shoulders, then went to retrieve a box filled with odds and ends. Placing the container on the table, he opened the top and showed it to his roommate. Everything Will had brought with him to that small room upon moving in there was inside, packed away for easy removal. "But now the truth has come to light and I would like you out."

"What," Will joined him at the table, sifting through the objects wrapped up so neatly. Surely this could not be what he thought, surely there was a way to make it up to his love. Certain that this was the goodbye his heart dreaded, Will pleaded one last time, "Kit.. Please.."

"I have thought it over, Will." Marlowe stood steadfast, denying the effect Will's trembling voice had against his own emotions. Weary from the argument, he drifted to the only window in the room. His gaze shifting from the closed quarters out to the city below, Marlowe let out his clipped verdict, "I simply can not trust you."

"Can not trust me. Rather it should be those coxcombs you hang about with that you should be wary of. Do you honestly believe Kyd has your best interests on his mind. Or shall you just feed one another empty compliments raising each man's ego to the height of foolery?" Grabbing for the box of his things, Will wrapped his arms around its bottom and raised his voice indignantly. As a few items fell out in his frustration, he bent down to retrieve them. "In time you shall know who your true friends are, or were, since by then I shall be gone from your life as you so desire."

Marlowe shifted by the windowsill, about to call Will back or to add more fuel to their argument. It was too late, however, as Will had already left, slamming the door behind him. Bundled up with cloak and box of belongings, he scrambled down the hallway and down the murky steps.

Halfway down to the street, he collapsed in a fit of sobs. Sitting down upon the stairs, he clutched the only things he owned now, one small box of personal items. A few pieces of clothing, one book, half written works which he had hoped to sell to one of the theaters. Never had he wanted anything more, content with his lot as an actor and the promise of being a playwright. As long as Will had his Kit, that was all he required. Now though, he was without anything of value in the world.

Alone and tossed away, he would seek out James Burbage and rejoin the company on their way to neighboring towns. Rubbing his eyes with a gloved hand, Will committed himself to the journey to Warwickshire and then to wherever he could find work. Being thrown out, as so much rubbage, would not destroy him. Oh no, he would not be banished, instead Will would go to seek contentment, liberty and strive always to make a name for himself.

During the following months he made an effort to work diligently while traveling with Lord Strange's Men. By day he was an actor playing to the applause of aristocratic lords, by night he produced such works as The Taming of the Shrew, Richard III and Two Gentlemen of Verona. Each piece he published he did so in spite of Marlowe. Each manuscript he produced brought him greater success with which to cling to on those nights he lay alone. New lovers came and went, yet it was always that ghost, that shadow, which he aspired to prove himself.

When he could, Will kept up on the latest gossip of Marlowe's career but word was slow that winter. The last thing he had heard that winter was that Marlowe had retired to a small apartment with Thomas Kyd in which to finish writing a book of poems in lieu of being able to find work with the theaters still closed.

With no other information forthcoming, Will busied himself completing Love's Labour's Lost in the home of Duke of Southampton, Henry Wriothesley. As aristocratic connections went, this was by far one of the best. With any luck, he would have this production done by the end of the year and be paid handsomely for it by the Duke.

The feather pen he held so carefully poised in which to catch the next line of dialogue skipped over the page as he heard Marlowe's name in conversation. Sparing no time returning to his writing, Will looked over the line where his pen had faltered once hearing his old friend's name. "those that walk and wot not what they ar-" A small indentation where the pen had pieced the yellowed paper was left to mark the moment.

Though he desired to shut out the sound of the conversation, he could do nothing to stop from eavesdropping on the duke's gossip. Partly because the nobleman was speaking with Emilia Lanier, owner of a particular thick and loud Italian accent.

"Dead?" Her high-pitched laughter flooded in from the other room, causing Will to drop his pen. Rising to his feet, his curiosity drove him forward. Standing in the grand hallway, just an inch from being seen from the room the duke and Emilia occupied, Will listened with fear holding him motionless. "I had-a heard such stories concerning that-a man. His sudden absence from this world does not-a surprise me."

"Indeed," the duke answered, "An atheist in these days can amount to nothing but trouble. Christopher Marlowe's penchant for subversion and wanton lust for boys aside, his blasphemy will send him straight to the fires.. of a place I dare not mention in the presence of a lady."

Emilia giggled once more, pleasing the duke with her superficial love for him. She had a superficial love for everyone, it was her way. "Lady? You jokester."

Disbelief stunned Will's actions, he did not realize he was standing in the doorway until Emilia smiled over at him. Once she acknowledge him, he was forced to join the discussion. Taking a tentative step into the room, he bowed deeply toward the duke, hiding his own numbed displeasure.

"Come William," the duke replied to his polite gesture with more heartless talk of a man only a few days dead. "You shared acquaintances with Marlowe, did you not? What did you think of him?"

Will looked down upon his dark lady as she worked her arm through his, waiting for his affirmation of Marlowe's low character. Still stunned by the death he had only just heard about, Will managed to sputter out, "He was not exactly a gentleman when I held his acquaintance. He had his faults." That was mainly said in which to appease the duke, though it still held true. "A rough and tumble sort of fellow, still he was good to me. If only I had been so towards him."

After all the time they had shared together, this was the very first in which Will had a good word for his rival. At such an inopportune time as well, since his opinion went against the duke's own. The lady's long black hair swayed from shoulder to shoulder as she bent her head up towards him. Giving him a double look with enough dismay to cool his heart, she chided, "William?"

Ignoring her askance, Will unwrapped his arm from hers and took a few steps away from her disproving frown. Then, in a show of surprising forwardness, he reached out for his patron's hand. "Could you please fill me in on the details of Mr. Marlowes.." he grimaced at the woeful subject, "death? It has been so long since I've seen him. This is the first I'd heard of his passing."

The Earl of Southampton, upon seeing the grief etched upon Will's features, led the writer to a favorite chair of his that occupied the corner of the area rug. "I did not realize it so upset you, William." An awkward moment followed as the Earl apparently decided whether to disgrace his station and apologize to one of his lowers.

Moving on, he departed the news, "As it so happened, Marlowe and three of his colleagues did meet together at Mr. Bull's lodging house to discuss what can only be referred to as some rather dark dealings. During the first night there, as goes the coroner's report, there was some dispute over the payment of the night's bill. A scuffle ensued, during which Marlowe was stabbed with the knife of Ingram Frizer."

Will felt his hands knotting into fists, but he unclenched them careful not to display his need for revenge in the duke's home. There would be time enough for that when he was out of the duke's presence. "What happened to Frizer afterwards?"

"An official review was conducted while he remained in custody. After a few weeks, Queen Elizabeth herself did pardon him."

Will bit his lip, musing over the prospect the monarchy and Frizer had carefully planned this murder. Under the monarchy's authority it could be covered up with incredible ease. Nevertheless, Revenge was now out of the question, since the man was pardoned and protected by the monarchy. There was one more thing to see to however, "And Marlowe's body? Was it buried properly?"

"In some quaint cemetery in Deptford." The duke gave Will a knowing glance. The younger man had more to say and each knew what it would be. Time would be lost on his current play but grieving took more importance at the present time.

"May I take my leave to mourn my friend." Will blurted out as he stood, afraid the duke would not allow him to depart. "I'll only be gone but for a few days. A week at most."

The duke nodded, placing a gentle hand on Will's shoulder, "Go, seek your friend's remains. I pray you keep your heart safe during this journey. Many a man have been brought down by a friend's premature removal from this world."

Will bowed deeply, touched by the kindness shown to him and already forgiving the duke's careless gossip. Let those who would talk, they would never know the true Christopher Marlowe and for that he felt sorry for them. Aware Emilia was watching him, Will smiled at the leave of absence the duke had given him, "Thank you. I shall be back soon."

"William?" Parting his way through the room, he felt almost happy to be free of Emilia. Today would be the beginning of teaching her that she could not get everything she wanted in life. Nor could she wrap every man around her finger. At least not today, for the memory of another love was alive in Will's mind. As he left, he could still hear her annoyed calls, "William!"

Travel was slow in the spring when the winter snow melted, making mud of the roads. Locating the correct graveyard, and then gravesite, took almost twice as long. No one spoke of the incident in the small town of Deptford; no one wanted to risk the government's retaliation by gossiping about what Will knew in his heart had been more than just a simple murder. Days passed by and his search for where his love's body had been returned to the Earth continued.

One week later the search ended at St. Nicholas's Church. Somewhere within the church walls lay Marlowe's unmarked grave. Moving slowly over the hallowed ground, Will wondered where Kit had been placed, where his remains now were and if his soul received some blessed release. Resting on a stone bench, he idly recalled Marlowe's gift with words. "There we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals."

"And I will make thee beds of roses. With a thousand fragrant posies," A voice behind him answered with the following quatrain. Will twisted around so fast his body complained with the sudden motion. There Marlowe stood, still alive and breathing. With a wink, he finished the verse. "A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.. Happy to see you still know the words."

"Kit.." Will began, stumbling to his feet. "What.. you were dead."

"And still am, according to the local stories," he only shrugged. "Just stories though, Will. Just the same as we poets make up, fantasies to live by and such."

Inching closer, the truth began to sink in as Will pinched a bit of Marlowes skin, "By the lord, it really is you." A sob escaped his lips, happier though than any tears had been that week. Without hesitation, Will wrapped his arms around his old lover while his words began rambling out, "All this time I fought to make a name for myself, to spite you and to see myself the better man and all I truly wanted to see was your face again. I needed to explain, though no explanation is enough. I loved you so much.."

"And I you, Will," Marlowe accepted the embrace, but then broke away. At the sullen expression that stretched across the other man's lips, he added, "That's why I came here, at the risk of being found alive. I knew or at least hoped, even after all this time, you would see me off one last time." He clasped his hands behind him, kicking at a rock and continued, "You must still be prepared to say your goodbyes. I cannot stay in England, Will. I orchestrated this whole plan, my death and burial, to escape the ones who truly want me dead. If I were to stay with you, we'd both be in danger."

"Then let me accompany you on your journey." Will pleaded with his eyes, displaying the full weight of his emotions. "We could travel throughout the world together. I would come with you and be your love."

Marlowe nodded, knowing the words he had written. "And we would all the pleasures prove." Then, shaking his head he added, "No, Will. Your path leads back to London, as a master playwright. I've keep up on your career this past year. Glory awaits you, Will, and I will not distract you from it."

"But"

He placed one finger on Will's lips, silencing him for a kiss. The last they would share.

Together, for one last time only to be ripped apart by fate. It hardly seemed fair but the world was owed a poet that would reinvent the theater, one which would bring audiences to tears only to send them into fits of laughter moments later. And that poet, that genius, was William Shakespeare.

.FIN.