Chapter Text
LONDON, MARCH 1597.
“It won’t be long now.”
“At least he’s comfortable.”
More joined them, catching gasps in hands, eyes widening, skin paling.
“There are worse ways to go.”
Grimaces of pain sounded from those worse off. Several behind raised their hands.
“You’re telli—”
“No one permit you to speak.”
“Sorry, sorry My L—”
Sighs of frustration echoed from those no better than. Several behind tutted at again having been ignored.
“Everybody quiet.”
Linen clutching the scrawniest of bodies, the palest of skin awash with sweat, and up the figure rose, doused in white light. The commonality, they had all seen it. They had all recognised the intended signal: The End is nigh.
“I think this is it.”
“Ten shillings he stays.”
“…Deal.”
“I’d shake on it if I had hands, and you, Common Cave Prick, didn’t reek of rotting flesh.”
“Hey! Me smell good…or good as can.”
“As can be.” Correction.
“As can.” Ignored.
Shuffling of feet. Brushing of velvet. Clanging chains of gold and silver. Ruffs tighter than tight.
Up the figure rose, bloodshot eyes bouncing in their sockets, casting glances of confusion to those who dared to stare back. He struggled, unsure of who to address. Fortunately for him — “Oh, Good Heavens. Crawley, you’re back from—” “It’s Croydon. The Earl of— Bastard.” — remained there for mere moments, before his weakened body was absorbed by light, sucked upwards into the abyss.
Several groans and muttered insults.
“Lucky cow. Without a speck of blood.”
Several scoffs and drawn digits to wounds.
The head was dropped unceremoniously by the body. All chose to take no notice of the string of vile curses that erupted.
“And so we lose another Lord. Whatever is to happen to the grounds now?”
“Might the estate revert back to—”
From the ground, “No one permit one word out of you! Hush.”
Several sighs, and they began to slip away. Muttering idly as they walked, glided.
“Whoever purchases it is entitled to far more than the wreck this Lord left it in. Perhaps the next Chamberlain will aspire to rebuild something of it. And we shall have a proper house to haunt.”
“Or worse.”
From the ground, if he touched it it may have rattled with the booming voice, “IIIIAAAAANNNN!!”
“Sorry Sire…”
The head was gently pulled from the rubble, and hoisted under one bruised, likely long broken, arm.
***
Stood amongst the rubble and grime, Christopher Marlowe’s face fell. From his confined space that only seemed to shrink with time; he watched as far as the eye could see as London thrived around him. As in life, the town was riddled with anything and everything, the smog and soot stayed thick, the piles of dead always overflowed. Endless vermin scurried about, and those alive would continue about their daily business, some coughing and spluttering away, some throwing up in the streets. Others remained blissfully unaware of how they taunted those surrounding them with their life. The unfortunates went on, begging and gasping for air, for penance, anything for the way their limbs slowly would erode, or how they had lost themselves with that last downed pint.
For a man who did have such potential in life to change and conquer the world of the arts; it was stolen away from him without fail. His untimely end wasn’t even a fortunate one, he hadn’t gone out with a bang. More the screech of the metal, blades slicing into him, and choking on the fear of what was to come. Don’t take it out! - It won’t hurt if I do it quickly.
That being said, in retrospect, the death of his career couldn’t have been avoided. London had been conspiring to torture men like him. Ones with dreams, ones who put their craft on their line. Ones who had everything they had ever known cruelly stolen when they shut up shop, as The Disease spread and slaughtered Londoners in their thousands, as he had succumbed to playacting - in costumes most ridiculous and shaming - on the streets.
Although it had bought about great pain, deception and deceit in life: Marlowe had never missed writing till it was gone.
Perhaps if he had been a better friend, and hadn’t gotten so hung up over the debt, or lost within Catholic conspiracy after conspiracy, he may still have the luxury of putting quill to paper, and could still school the surrounding villages with his tales. Sure, The Disease was still there, but doors were opening again. They couldn’t afford to stay closed for eternity.
In his mere six or seven years, death had been rather slow. The world continued to move around him, London continued to carry on as though he and his work had never existed. His prolonged existence was cruel, as was their all. He only wished that he had lived to see the day the name Bill Shakespeare was up in candlelight on a stage of his very own. In his painfully prolonged existence, he had written countless, meaningless stints of verse and prose only hoping for the knowledge that somewhere out there Bill was still doing the same. The kid had gumption, and was favoured by the Queen after all. Something was bound to have worked out in his favour by now… right?
A timid hand to his shoulder snapped him from his daze; he drew a hand up to his stab wound on reflex, in the hopes to shield himself. Normally this wouldn’t phase him, nothing worse could happen. However today was not a well versed day; he willed his thoughts to stop.
Beside him stood a scrawny page boy or second in command. Marlowe was still unsure of how those titles worked, having never quite foreseen himself as property until, well, the Russians. He refused to see Ian that way, even though the other man’s body was marred, punctured, and bruised for life. Death. Whatever. Unfortunately or inexplicably, he had remained that way.
Ian said nothing, only offering a small, sympathetic smile. Moments later that same grating, booming voice demanded him, and Ian startled. His body trembled, and his breathing – if they indeed still did breathe — stuttered. Arguably Ian had gotten the last laugh when it came to his former employer The Earl of Craw—Croydon. Arguably Ian had been dealt a raw deal as, within years, he too was sentenced to an afterlife complete with his abuser, his tormenter who, understandably, hadn’t quite forgiven the younger man for… knocking his block off on that block, so to speak.
In Marlowe’s eyes that didn’t mean that Ian could be patronised in this life for his status, his by gone means to have food on the table, when they no longer could eat. His by gone means to have a roof over his head and a bed, when they no longer needed to sleep. Sleep, they still did, of sorts. Also, they notably were no longer so consumed by the thought of catching The Disease and dying horribly in a slow, agonising way because, well, they were already dead. Deader than dead. Not quite in Heaven, not quite in Hell either.
It still infuriated Marlowe somewhat, and he clutched his fists, more than ready to sock Croydon one, or shove his own sword into his chest… if he could find the earl’s chest, that is. Again, justice had been somewhat served there.
Lost in his torment meant that Marlowe missed that of The Livings who had wandered onto the site, as they tended to do so. It was a mostly free country – if you were white, upper class, Protestant with your full support to the monarchy and a keen tax payer, an avid wool trade supporter, and don’t wear fabrics and colours above your station, that is. Oh and, have no affiliation to any burned at the stake witches and/or Catholics, nor in cahoots with who’s head was just popped off. And would stop at nothing to wage war, sea battles against The Spanish scum…
Anywho. Their little lost piece of Earth was all situated in the centre of London – Southwark to be more precise. It wasn’t as though the castle was in walking distance however, plenty of important, reputable Lords and Ladies would pass by every now and then, and would bring a great excitement with them amongst he and his fellow dead people.
In today’s case however, the sting of the latest sucking off was still present. Marlowe couldn’t bring himself to smile, nor did he want to follow The Livings to the upcoming execution - another attempt to overthrow Bess foiled, huzzah - they were ever so loudly raving about.
With a sigh, he left his perch and staggered back to where the rest of them sat. Out in the open, spirits following that of those more fortunate than thee – as in, they didn’t have a weapon impaled in their chest by a bastard Spaniard King — and settled on the ground.
Marlowe had never understood when Bill, in one of his more drunken states, would wax lyrical about the green grass and open air of Stratford, until death. Never having seen grass for real in life – he finally understood. The little things, the insignificant things that were so taken for granted at the time were now the most precious. He would never see those familiar haunts again, would never walk into The Quill & Rapier in the hopes of getting absolutely bladdered. Nor would he invade the vegetable patch after having been turned. Nor would ever visit that pie stall…
Marlowe hadn’t thought much of it all then, but now it was all just gone, almost as quick as his own life was snatched from him.
He wasn’t quite in the mood to listen to their resident ‘ape’ talk of skinning a mammoth or wrestling a bear to death, and he wouldn’t be laughing when Croydon tried to scorn Ian and throw a chamber pot at him – at least, he presumed that’s what would have been thrown. They couldn’t interact with the material world, a fact that still annoyed Croydon greatly, not that there had ever been much on offer for Marlowe himself. The Earl still screamed in frustration. At first it was comical to witness when he eventually realised he couldn’t really harm Ian as just a severed head, bar the occasional bite, however he then realised that his words had to speak louder than his actions.
In many ways, Marlowe was almost thankful that there were plenty of The Disease spirits around – even if those who had been victims to The Black Death appeared to be at war with those who had lost their battle against The Bubonic Plague of his time. Marlowe huffed. It was The War of The Roses on his turf, and he was simply a spectator. He couldn’t pick a side, either.
Instead, Marlowe opted to watch on, thankful that it had become easier to block out the other Ghosts as death trudged on.