Work Text:
We built our castles in each other
out of splintered spine and blood.
We met in grief and
were held together by its mud.
~ I Named Us Grief , by Nikita Gill ~
"Oh, yes, there are things I can do with this fellow."
I woke first to these words, immortal words that would start a partnership that would only be second to the one I had with my Boswell.
I am not a man of sentiment; that certainly is a trait more fitting of my dear friend Watson, but facts are facts, and it would not become me to report anything less.
When he moves, I live .
He is one in a long line of actors, men who attempt to carry my likeness, my voice, my very being into life. And yet I have found myself lingering at the edges of these men's minds, men who set me aside once the curtains close. They try, honourably enough, but there is always that distance between us. It all ends the same way; they discard me like some article of clothing as soon as their contract ends. It is understandable; one does not want to be too entrenched in a character lest they lose themselves.
But this one… this one is different.
Oftentimes I am only aware of their world when they act or rehearse, and even then I remain at the periphery, seeing their world in blurred, uneven shapes that grow sharp for a moment and plunge back into insensate darkness the next.
With him, I feel… alive in the most literal sense of the word. I consume his waking days, his thoughts so strong I could have manifested myself if I were so capable. Yet I remain invisible but aware, feeling and smelling and hearing into his world by sheer force of his mind.
It is then that I saw this brilliant future, transformed from cobblestone streets to concrete, gas-lit lamps to glowing orbs, and the theatre for moving pictures. In his memories I saw the influence of many other beings such as I am, some of which I recognised and some I did not: Hamlet, Dracula, Dorian Grey, and a man with the peculiar name of Eynsford-Hill.
I stay nearby as he prepares for his role, reading over the script, experimenting with gestures and expressions in the privacy of his hotel room. I give him a little push when he falters, just enough for him to catch the meaning I am trying to send. It sometimes takes me a while to do so and for him to understand, but the man tries.
When it is time, people tend to him, transform him into myself; a process I also feel my own non-corporeal form change to match. It is not much different from the preparations of the actor in my time, if not more meticulous.
Then everything is set, the lights are lit, and for a sacred time we become as one.
My mind and soul and essence slots into his own as smoothly as a puzzle piece—I am he and he is I. He is ignorant of my presence, of course, but he accepts my intentions, shapes it into his own, and moves and speaks as I would have done. We fall in this intricate dance; the man and his shadow, the marionette and the puppetmaster.
Later, when we survey the results of our labour, it is nothing short of sublime.
But then the lights dim, the curtain falls, the suit folded and the makeup washed away, and it is in the darkness between the stage and the outside world that we separate.
It is similar to a suspension of solid in liquid—set aside for a time its individual pieces part, incompatible with each other and thus never completely meld together. He was mortal, a human with his own soul and mind, and I a mere idea sharpened and manipulated over a half-century.
But we cannot completely tear every part of ourselves from each other as well—too many parts of ourselves remain entangled, and it is enough for me to remain aware, to invisibly linger and watch him as he sleeps.
He is nothing like me. He is bright, artistic, overflowing with charisma and a zeal for life that he is unafraid to show. I have seen him serenade strangers, send a letter to himself for amusement, form sentimental connections to so many people that I cannot imagine doing so myself. Watson would love this man, I believe, if ever they would have the opportunity to meet.
And here is the disconnect. When he acts he must set aside almost all of who he is and enter into my character. It must be difficult for him to wear such a punishing disguise day after day, evidenced by the fact that he chases me away as soon as he can—he exchanges my sombre blacks for more colourful clothes, and some days he curses my name to the high heavens, though not enough to prevent him returning to the role.
They, and many others, were signs of deeper waters. I know that now. I pride myself in my deductive abilities, which I was still able to use even now; but I have been blind, and it took me far too long to see what was surely to come.
He was ill.
When we are one I can feel the desperate fluttering of a weakened heart and the subtle fatigue that threatens in the periphery of our consciousness. Latent. Waiting. But it is not the physical aspect that I am worried about, no—it was something far deeper than that.
I do not have the vocabulary to explain it. I am no doctor, and I believe that it is only one with such a specialised profession in the workings of the mind that can begin to understand. My dear Watson would have the term for it, I am sure. I can only state my observations, as my own profession demands, and I will leave the intricacies to the doctors of his time.
I know of my own restless, unstable mind, but I had initially assumed that my influence could not stretch so far as to create any permanent damage. It was a careless, fatal assumption.
It may be the gravest mistake I have ever committed.
I felt every little shift of his emotions, the euphoria of a high and the following crash that followed soon after, akin to my own dark moods.
And when he fell into one, so did I.
He adapted by cursing me and cutting his hair. I adapted… no. I did not adapt at all—only languished and attempted to shield him from my own guilt and despair with all the knowledge that the Tibetans had bestowed upon me.
But the damage has been done—all I could do was withdraw my own support in an attempt to prevent any more harm, even though that may mean diminishing his own ability to act. My dear Watson used to tell me that health is not to be risked for the Work. Now I understand his words.
At least he had help. He had his own Watson, his colleagues, his family, but I fear it is not enough—that it will never be enough.
And so it was. His health deteriorated, though his mind stayed as brilliant as ever, trapped in a body that would not obey him. I stayed distant, to both our detriment, I fear—and even now I wonder whether my proximity would have caused a catastrophe or averted it.
I was there, when it all ended. The days before were an ordeal stretched out too long, and it was a relief to both of us, knowing it was the end. Silent, peaceful. It was then that I remembered what these past years had made me forget for a season.
He was mortal, and I was not. And in his passing I was, once again, completely and truly alone.
It is his face that I prefer to take most times, when other writers take up their pen to write of me, and I often find that it is his face that they too see in their mind’s eye.
If I were Watson I would pen some wise remark or a solemn epithet that would encapsulate his life, but I am no poet or writer. But perhaps this will be enough; a statement of facts about one of the most remarkable men who ever had the privilege of taking my name.
A man of the name Jeremy Brett.
We loved each other with
love only immortals ever hope to share…
But I can’t question our circumstance,
so I will believe this to be love.
~ I Named Us Hope , by Zoë Elyse ~
