1857. London.
A young man sits in the wings of the Rose Theatre, waiting with eager anticipation for the show to start.
People mill about him, distracting with their hushed rustlings and whispered conversations, but he ignores them. He's wrapped up in expectation, and he can hardly wait for the actors to come on stage, as he knows they soon will.
He's tried his hand at writing plays, and he's decent at it, but he knows his hasty scribblings are nothing like the show he's about to see. And so he waits, prepared to analyze what makes a play great in the hopes that maybe a sliver of the fame this prestigious playwright has can someday be his.
Christopher Marlowe. The name's been lingering in his mind for weeks, but this is the first time he's had an opportunity to see one of Marlowe's plays performed in a theatre. He wonders how someone so close to his own age could already have taken the world by storm with his witty dialogue and vivid characters.
And then the show begins, and he is entranced, leaning forward with breathless excitement as he soaks in every atom of this experience.
Little does he know that one day his own name will shine far brighter than that of any other playwright in history.
The play had ended long ago, the glitter of the jewels and costumes were gone, and the bright dialogue of the actors had faded out of the air. But still he sat in the deserted theatre, gazing at the now-empty stage and thinking about the glory that had just transposed before his eyes.
The other people around him had enjoyed the play, too, but they'd enjoyed it with a fleeting, shallow sort of happiness which had probably already disappeared as they once again became immersed in the mundanity of the world around them. Going to the theatre was to them nothing but a temporary entertainment, a way to spend excess some money and add some excitement to a quiet evening, and they did not think about the play after they'd left the theatre.
But he knew he could never forget, or return to everyday life unchanged. Theatre was more than a distraction to him: It was a lifestyle. The glimmer of magic he'd caught a glimpse of that night would never leave him, and he didn't want it to.
He now had one goal: To write something that could inspire others the way the show he'd just seen had inspired him.
He was thinking about this so intently that he didn't hear the man approaching until he was right in front of him.
Noticing the unexpected presence of someone else, he looked up and jumped, guiltily, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.
The approaching man laughed with his light brown eyes as well as with his mouth. He was young, and yet he looked as if he knew more about the world than many older people. His youth and experience gave an odd contrast to his face. Knowledge was written in the lines of his face, as well as in his eyes. This was someone who understood the world around him, and who knew how to communicate that knowledge to others.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he said, and his voice seemed oddly deep for his age and the youthful glow of his face. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"Oh, yes! It was wonderful." He stopped and blushed, not used to sharing his opinions so freely, and hoping he would not appear presumptuous.
The other man peered intently at him with a small smile on his face. "What's your name?"
"William. William Shakespeare."
The other man held out his hand confidently. "Christopher Marlowe. And I'm glad you liked my show."
William flushed and jumped to his feet. "Christopher Marlowe?" He said incredulously. "I . . . I love your work!"
Christopher laughed at his reaction, but not unkindly; rather, as if the two of them shared a secret joke. "Thank you. And please, call me Kit."
Shakespeare smiled. "Call me Will."
Later that night, the two young men found themselves seated across from each other at a rough wooden table in a local tavern, talking with flushed faces and bright eyes about poems and plays.
They were both there for different reasons.
William Shakespeare was there simply because he idolized Christopher Marlowe. He'd loved Marlowe's works even before Christopher had become a budding young author whose works everyone was talking about. The tentative writings William had clandestinely scribbled had been unconsciously written in the style of Marlowe, in an attempt to someday make others feel the things he'd felt while reading Marlowe's works. And now he couldn't believe he was face to face with the man he'd looked up to for so long. He'd always placed Marlowe on some unreachable pedestal, but now he'd become real, with warm eyes and a bright smile and a deep soul which shone through his spoken words as well as through the lines of his poetry.
Christopher Marlowe was there because he found William Shakespeare's adoration of him charming and flattering. What writer doesn't love his works being praised? Christopher had found himself caught up in a whirlwind of notoriety and fame over the past year which made his head spin and gave him the uncomfortable feeling that he was now writing for the people around him rather than for himself. He'd written his way into the spotlight, but once he was there, he found he did not like it as much as he thought he would. It distracted him from his true purpose of writing for himself. But all of the stuffy laudations of the rich could not compare to the wide-eyed fascination of the timid young man sitting across from him. Contained in the innocent light blue eyes of William Shakespeare were all of the reasons he'd started writing in the first place.
It was strange for Marlowe, hearing Shakespeare talking about his works with such familiarity. Most people who discussed his play did so with only a shallow understanding, the deepest parts going over their heads, which made Marlowe sigh with annoyance and resignation.
But William understood it all. He easily interpreted every nuance and theme that Christopher had poured into the deep lines of his work. He understood it and he felt it and this more than anything made Christopher Marlowe long to know William Shakespeare better.
He started with a simple, but loaded, question. "Do you write?"
William paused, not quite knowing how to answer. He struggled to put his feelings towards writing into words, because he'd never talked about it with anyone, and it was so personal to him.
Finally, he said, "I try. But it never turns out how I picture it in my head."
Christopher nodded. "Writing is mostly acceptance. Accepting that you'll never be able to write anything half as well as you want to, but also accepting that other people might find it good. You have to learn how to accept the praise, without completely disregarding the criticism. There's always a piece of truth in negativity. You just have to know where to look."
William wondered at the matter-of-fact way Christopher was talking about writing, and how he'd reduced something poetic into something routine. William had never known how to talk about writing; he simply wrote. But perhaps the most inspired bursts of creativity came from a place of organization. After all, Christopher certainly knew what he was talking about.
"Would you mind looking at some of my writings?" The words came out unbidden, out of his deep desire to have someone understand his soul, and then he shut his mouth and blushed at his boldness and hoped he hadn't been too forward.
Christopher smiled, that slow, wonderful smile of his that made its recipient feel everything was right with the world, and then he said, "Of course; I would love to. It's getting late. Shall we meet here again tomorrow?"
"Yes! Yes."
The two parted ways, both wearing lingering smiles on their faces.
Christopher Marlowe had realized at last that the true beauty of writing was not the fame and publicity, but rather the genuine pleasure of sharing your soul with someone who understood.
William Shakespeare sat at the same table in the tavern the next afternoon, glancing nervously at the papers lying in an orderly stack in front of him.
After he'd left the tavern the night before, he'd gone home and spent the night going through his writings; discarding some and wondering why he'd ever written them, choosing his favorite ones and copying them with his small but elegant handwriting onto blank pieces of paper. Looking on his writings with fresh eyes, he'd been surprised to find several poems and a few stories which he deemed good. He hoped Marlowe would feel the same.
He felt he was at a crossroads in his life. If Christopher Marlowe did not like his writings, he would simply throw them away and move on with life. But, if he liked them! That would complicate the matter more, because then William would never be free from the clutches of the words. The words hovered above him, ready either to become a stranger or become his master, and he was frightened but also ready to know which they would become.
And so he waited in eager anticipation for the man he'd looked up to for years to decide his future.
Christopher came hurrying in after William had been waiting for about ten minutes. "Sorry for being late," he said, sounding hassled. "Someone stopped me in the street to ask me an idiotic question about a line in one of my poems." He laughed apologetically. "The price of fame, I suppose."
William smiled his conservative close-lipped smile and mumbled shyly that he didn't mind waiting.
"So, let's see your writings," Christopher said directly, getting straight to the point as usual and unconsciously making his personality bolder to balance out Will's quietness.
William handed over the papers hesitantly, taking a deep breath. "I don't know if they're any good."
"Nonsense. If you write true, you write well."
Christopher took the papers and glanced at the one on the top, a short poem William had written about a year ago. William thought it was one of his best, and he was eager to see if he was correct.
Christopher's eyes scanned the page until he reached the end of the poem, and then they lingered at the bottom of the page for a few seconds until he looked at William's eager face and smiled.
"It's good." He paused, seeing William's face melt with relief, and then continued. "You've got this kind of naivety to your words which makes the reader see the world in a different light. And yet, it speaks of reality, too. A unique perspective on life."
"Thank you," William said, smiling, hardly daring to breathe at his good fortune. "Are there any ways to make it better?"
"Ah, excellent," Christopher said, nodding his approval. "A writer should always be looking for ways to improve. Writing loses its charm when one's reputation prohibits criticism."
He turned the paper towards Will and ran his finger across a line in the middle of the poem. "Here. If you change this line, switch up these two words and add a transition here, it'll make the rhythm flow more smoothly. See?"
And William did see it. He wondered how he ever could've not seen it, and how he could've written it a different way. Christopher's simple suggestion had changed the whole tone of his poem. His mediocre words had been transformed into something magical.
This pattern repeated itself. Christopher would read William's writings, proclaim them good, and then set about making precise edits which seemed simple but which had deep effects on the words. With only a few changes, Christopher added his personal touch to William's words and made them, in a way, his own.
"You have talent, Will," he said, after he'd finished reading and editing the last story. "You should try something bigger, stretch yourself a bit. Perhaps a play?"
"I . . . I don't know. Do you think I could?"
"Yes. You won't know your full abilities until you try writing something that makes you nervous."
William smiled. His confidence had been boosted by the matter-of-fact advice from the man sitting across the table, and he thought that maybe, just maybe he might be able to write a play.
"All right, I'll try. Will you help me?"
"Of course. I would love to."
And with that, William Shakespeare's fate was sealed. He would never be free of the words, and he would never be free of Christopher Marlowe's influence over them.
The next few months rushed by in a whirlwind of words. Slowly but surely the play came into being, an intricate work on Henry VI. William wrote, and then Christopher edited and changed and made better. Shakespeare bled onto the paper, and then Marlowe shaped his scribblings into something cohesive and even brilliant.
And then the play took London by storm. Everyone was talking about it. It was produced on stage, to endless praise and acclaim. Christopher Marlowe's name was long forgotten; now, everyone concerned themselves with the up-and-coming William Shakespeare. They loved his story, how he was a poor boy from a small town who'd never been properly educated. The rich loved nothing more than a rags-to-riches life to obsess over, and William Shakespeare became their newest infatuation.
But, oddly enough, Christopher Marlowe did not mind the threat of being forgotten and lost among the ever-ebbing tide of fame.
Because, for the first time since he'd originally started experimenting with words, his writing had a purpose. As soon as his own name had become famous, his writing had begun leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd found himself struggling to write with originality, caught up in the success of his previous works and wondering desperately if he could ever live up to them again. He began writing for his audience, and not for himself. The knowledge that other people were reading and discussing his works slanted his words and gave them a definite bias. He'd always been able to judge people and gauge their emotions with uncanny accuracy, and now, that talent led him to write only what he knew his audience would want to read. Writing became a chore, something he forced himself to do, rather than the rush of excitement it had once been.
And then William Shakespeare had come along and changed everything.
With his wide blue eyes and naive but charming words, he'd needed Marlowe in a way no one ever had before, and Christopher could not resist answering his silent plea for help. Marlowe breathed life into Shakespeare's words and changed them from an idea to a reality. Together, they'd created something truly enchanting, and the world around them responded with an outpouring of positivity.
Will, he knew, could never have his head turned by publicity. It simply wasn't in his nature. He was shy and levelheaded and appreciative of every second he spent in the spotlight. He looked at the world as if it were a gift and the words as if they were a blessing which might at any second be taken from him. His innocent outlook on the world would, Christopher hoped, keep him safe from the destructive dangers around him.
And so together, the two of them forged a new identity. The name Shakespeare was a cloak that both of them wore, a secret that only the two of them knew. It was exciting and fresh and both of them felt that they had everything they'd ever wanted.
And then everything fell apart.
It happened on a bright June day. Things had been going especially smoothly; Henry VI had had a successful run, and now they were working on adding a second part to the work.
Christopher Marlowe was writing in his room when William burst in unannounced. "What's this?" William Shakespeare hissed without introduction, holding the pages of the newspaper between his forefinger and thumb as if they were a dirty rag.
Having a good idea about what that newspaper said, Marlowe's heart was beating quickly with anxiety, but he faced his friend's accusatory words with a calm smile and a nonchalant tone. "I don't know, Will; people are always gossiping about something or another, and this time it just happened to be me."
But William would not be quelled so easily today. A new fierce light shone in his usually tranquil eyes, and he was breathing heavily. "Heresy? Atheism? These are serious words, Kit, and I don't think it's just gossip. You've been different lately, sneaking off and avoiding your work and meeting with these dangerous people. 'Free-Thinkers,' what does that even mean?"
Christopher felt himself at a distinct disadvantage, and he didn't like where this conversation was headed, so he drew himself up and took the offensive position with the cutting, cold tone which he could perform so icily. "I don't have to tell you where I've been or whom I've been with. You don't own me. You— "
William cut him off. "Is it true?"
"I . . . Yes." Christopher knew he had lost, and so he gave up the act, dropping his eyes to the ground. He had never felt so uncomfortable around William before, and he did not like the feeling.
"Kit . . ." The fire had gone out of William, and now he was just as defeated as his friend. He squared his shoulders and spoke resolutely. "You have to stop this madness. It's not too late. You can issue a formal apology, make the Church see you've changed . . ." He trailed off, running out of ideas.
Christopher looked directly at William, recovering his dignity and taking the high ground again. "I can't help what I believe, and I will not lie about it."
"You don't believe in God?" William's tone was incredulous.
"No." He shrugged. "Everything I have, I've earned for myself. No one helped me."
William flushed, sensing the double meaning behind Christopher's words. "I didn't ask you to help me, but now . . ." His voice broke. "I need you. I can't do this on my own."
Christopher sighed. "I'm sorry, Will." He felt keenly the inadequacy of his words, but there was nothing else to say.
William gazed at him for a long moment, and then turned and left the room. Christopher sat there alone for a long time, thinking.
"I need you." The three simple words, spoken in William Shakespeare's quiet and emotive voice, echoed through Christopher Marlowe's mind for many days.
He knew he was in trouble. The Church hated him, the Queen hated him. His outspoken opinions were catching up with him at last. His beliefs went against the culture, and he knew he could not outrun his dangerous enemies forever.
And so, the plan began to take shape in his mind.
He would fake his death. The idea came to him suddenly, and once it was there, he knew he would do it. He'd always had a flair for the dramatic, and now, it enabled him to conceive a cunning plan.
It involved the Free-Thinkers. For William had been right, Christopher had been hanging around with some ill-reputed individuals. They met at a tavern every week to discuss radical ideas such as atheism and anarchy. He'd started attending these meetings simply to gain appreciate for other worldviews, but as he met and talked with the other men, he realized that he was more than interested in those perspectives: He'd begun to believe them. God and the Queen lost their positions of authority and became a laughingstock to him.
And the Church did not like it. Once people had caught on to what was happening at the meetings, the Free-Thinkers been forced to stop gathering at the tavern, and now met privately within the secrecy of one of the member's homes. But even that, they knew, could not last forever.
Christopher Marlowe's reputation was stained irreparably, and so there was nothing for him to do but die. Or, rather, pretend to die.
He told his friends his plan at their next clandestine meeting. They thought it a marvelous idea, a final State-defying act which would give him and their whole group the final laugh.
His plan was simple. He and a few members of the Free-Thinkers would meet at the tavern and draw attention to themselves, before engaging in a brawl which would lead to blows. His friend would draw his knife and pretend to stab him. Then the world would perceive him dead, and he could continue writing.
He was confident it would work. It had to. Now, all that was left was to tell Will.
"You're . . . What?"
"Faking my death." He smiled, and then turned serious, knowing that he'd need to use sound logic to convince William of his plan's merit. "Think about it. I can't make amends with the Church for the things I've said, and I'm not going to, so this is the best way."
William laughed. "It's crazy."
He may have scoffed at the plan outwardly, but inwardly William was feeling a definite sense of relief. Maybe, just maybe, it would work, and then Christopher would be able to write for him forever.
Christopher sensed William's true feelings and smiled. "Well, we'll know tomorrow if it's crazy or not. At any rate, I have nothing to lose."
And the next afternoon found Christopher Marlowe at the tavern, awaiting the arrival of his friends and co-conspirators so that they could begin putting the plan into action.
The other members of the Free-Thinkers trickled in slowly, and one took a seat at the other end of the tavern, pretending to not be a part of the group.
They began chatting animatedly, about God and the Queen and everyone in between, and soon they caught glares from the other people at the tavern.
This was the cue for the man sitting apart to walk over and begin causing a ruckus.
"I know what you are," he said loudly. "You're those bloody Free-Thinkers, the ones who hate the Queen."
"Yeah, so what if we are?"
They had everyone's attention now. All eyes were intently on them, the people being able to sniff a conflict about to happen.
As planned, the words quickly turned to blows. Christopher was struck firmly on the jaw, and he punched back, hard, so as to be believable. It was an all-out brawl.
Then, the knife came out with a flash of silver, and Christopher was on the ground.
Hearing the commotion, the tavern owner came out from behind the bar and looked down in shock. "He's dead!"
Christopher kept his face blank, but smiled internally. It had worked.
A man sits in a quiet room, writing. The words are coming to him easily, and his pen scribbles furiously to keep up with the rapid pace of his mind. He's been writing ceaselessly for the past several days, because he has nothing else to do. And he wouldn't want to do anything else.
You see, most people think he's dead.
But he doesn't mind this. Actually, he's enjoying the unusual feeling of being out of the public eye. To him, the unexamined life is most worth living. His peace of mind gives a tranquil tone to the words he's writing, even though the story he's telling is anything but calm.
It's about feuding families and star-crossed lovers. He wonders if it'll ever become a famous play. But then, it doesn't really matter, because his name won't be attached to the words. In fact, no one will ever know he wrote them. Their success is ultimately meaningless to him.
But if he does his job well, William Shakespeare will be remembered as the greatest playwright in history.
He smiles. The words flow freely, and the story shapes itself before his eyes. He has a purpose again.