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“Harm you, damn you, I want to run howling through the world with you like a pack of wild dogs.” - KIT, PART TWO, Born With Teeth (Adams, Liz Duffy 2022)
…
They meet in the back room of the old pub. That’s the setting we are familiar with. Dark wood, stained and sticky with decades-worth of booze and bodies coating its surface and a couple of misfit playwrights reaching out into the beating heart of the world, seeking for a piece of it to feed the masses. For personal pleasure of the act of weaving poetry onto paper, meeting beautiful people and dancing life away. For the release, the diligence, or earning that eye of a patron with deep pockets. Oh, how they make their mark.
Let us take another turn. Look to another lifetime or world where they remain their promised roles of legendary writers of the stage, however, some things are a little…strange here. You see, one is a vampire, the other a werewolf. Neither know of this when they meet. How fun will this be?
…
“I would like to say, if I may. It’s, um, it’s an honour to work with you.”
An excited puppy meeting a masterful artist of language. Seemingly the same age, but one more known and beloved in these current times. Marlowe prances about as if wearing a cloak stitched with his skillfully written sentences in a showy, “yes, I did that” sort of manner. Shakespeare breathes passion and mirth into his work, although he tends to hold it dearly against his ribcage, the heart flutters like it is a pretty parrot trapped in a birdcage. Pride and danger oozes out from the first man, he knows it fully. The other cares where he treads, cautious albeit potentially clueless at times.
Caught in a trap, it closes around the foot of the scrambling animal.
He is fascinated, utterly fascinated by this specimen as if he is an undetermined particle under a microscope. It is his intent to dig, tear into his soul and scour it for any scraps to fling to his boss. It is a cruel, cruel world after all. Only, this is something peculiar about this one. This one, this one man and his secret he wants for himself.
How to provoke the sleeping beast within him.
…
Oh, how they dance and spin, and prance and trim their every word. ‘Round and ‘round, Marlowe attempts to dizzy his collaborator as if to see whether claws spring out. This performance draws out in the entirety of each of their encounters, the actor is drawing tired of the mad idol, kicking at his pedestal to meet his gleaming eye. Somebody untouchable to the chains of the law, however, yielding to the caress of the bosom. So tempting, so devious as the spider watches the fly towards her web. Will is nervous over how hypnotic his contemporary is, as well as how strange the other smells. The man is able to tell that there is something peculiar there, his enhanced capabilities allows him this knowledge. It is unfortunate he lacks the practice for his condition is rather recent.
Kit is aware that there is more than what meets his eyes. No man ever remains that tight-lipped nor tense in his presence. He is all too masterful in his unraveling of even the most high-strung of souls until they are nothing but a bundle of yarn for the crown to pull further apart. Shakespeare is intriguing, endearing to him. Beneath the bravado, perhaps the warm candle glow of the fellow poet is starting to unravel him. If only he is a knowing, willing sacrifice to the slaughter then this game would be more enjoyable. Kit’s undead heart pounds in his ears and he must know what this colleague would spill if he cuts deeper and bears his fangs to the blood.
…
Will is struck, Kit’s head butting his own. The man growls in return, eyes turning to amber for just a second before he moves to grab his belongings, all while exclaiming at the other in a fervent holler.
“You may enjoy pointless brawls but - no, that is it!” He spits out, standing by the door.
Kit, meanwhile, holds up his hands in surrender, taking note of the animalistic fury fighting to escape Will. A back and forth is parsed between the two, tone changing when Shakespeare feels his nose start to bleed. A vampire tastes the sweet copper lingering in the air, it takes utmost strength not to lick up the scent like a snake with its forked tongue. Canines threaten to pierce its owner’s gums and shred them into grotesque tatters.
“And oh-! You damned fool, I can’t get blood on this, it's my only decent shirt!”
A handkerchief is quickly thrown his way, Marlowe discreetly tries to smother the scent by blocking his powerful nostrils with his hand as he turns away from the frantic playwright. Swallowing his appetite, he jumps back into the fray and is pleased by the reactions he pulls out of his companion. In their verbal boardgame, the perfect piece falls back into Kit’s place. In all his exuberance and cunning, he speaks of Shakespeare’s wife.
A flash of fury sends a fist colliding into Kit’s face. The other hisses and crows in triumph, fangs on full display. He readies for another assault to come his way, reveling in the fire. Shakespeare staggers backward at the display, he is aware of his own monstrous form sneaking away from him and sharpening his teeth and nails. Robert Cecil’s precious linen falls onto the floor is a sad, little lump. They stare at one another, awaiting for the next strike to befall one or the other. It will never land, as they realized after a few awkward moments. Marlowe purses his lips, pouting at the lack of violence.
“Oh, damn, are we done? A married man should have more stamina…especially in the face of a ferocious beast such as I!” He sounds almost proud as he says the last part.
“As a matter of fact I do love her…however-! Not the point now! What manner of beast do you claim to be?” Will sputters
Flashing his pearly white canines, a grin cuts across his cherubic cheeks. There is a now glow emanating from his obsidian eyes as if magma is chopping through the glassy material. His leg jumps up onto a chair, its wood creaks at the force, and he strikes a dazzling pose. He reveals his true nature.
“I am a vampire.”
The statement lingers heavily in the air. Will is unsure whether to flee or pounce, he freezes in his hesitance. None of this helps as he itches under the pull of the full moon. His hands are a chimera of sorts, ashy fur just coating his flesh with the nails dark and deadly. He struggles to bring his teeth neatly together, gnashing them painfully all the same.
“Whatever that is. Explain yourself if you are capable of such simple tasks,” bold is the request.
Kit’s whole presentation dissolves into one of astonishment, sliding over the chair only to collapse into it. The backing, he hugs as he gapes at the hardly concealed werewolf before him. A laugh then erupts from deep within his belly, slamming into the walls of that tight room. Will grimaces at the sound.
“Whatever that is. Whatever that is. Wow. You really are something else, poor Willy Shakespeare. I mean wow. You mean to tell me you don’t know what a vampire is? Really? Are you that naive?”
Frustrated, Shakespeare shuffles slightly and stifles the growls that build in his throat. He reluctantly nods his head all while setting a seething glare onto his contemporary. Marlowe rolls his eyes and proceeds to then fly up from his seat, throwing the chair into the wall with a deafening crash as it broke in several pieces. A flex of his sheer power, unwavering to the possibility that the noise is heard from passersby. Perhaps they do not wish to engage for fear that they shall be caught up in a hurricane that will drown them in its murky floodwaters. Will falls to his knees, covers his ears at the explosion which beats against his sensitive hearing.
“Bastard! What was that for?” He grits out.
Kit saunters toward him, crouches to his level. Will looks up when the ringing in his head subsides, however, he can feel himself coming undone and that horrifies him. This terror is unable to be shielded from the spy who analyzes his warring spirit. Said person now softens his gaze, offering a hand to him.
“You’re like me…at least,” Kit looks at Will's wolfish features, “sort of.”
Shakespeare shifts his gaze toward the broken chair, no normal person would be able to splinter hard wood like his partner just did. This revelation causes unease to coil in the nervous writer’s stomach. The truth is out and the swinging, dankropes of an old gallows pop into his tortuous imagination.
“Hah! Nay, I wouldn’t give you up for that,” Kit replies to his thoughts.
“Wha-?” Will startles.
Marlowe tells him of his nature and ability to read minds if he focuses hard enough, studious and invasive enough to scour the tomes of a person’s life story. It explains much more than Will ever wishes he ever learned and makes him feel utterly naked under a microscope, an ant caught under a sparkling magnifying glass. This was a predator who seeks blood, squeezing out even an empty wineskin. Shakespeare ignores the miniscule flicker of guilt breaking through Kit’s cracking mask, taking his hand to stand back up.
“A werewolf,” a whispered admission.
In response, a smirk.
“Ah, does Anne know of this?”
Right back to this topic it would appear. Will is immensely displeased by the whole development of this evening. He sighs through his nose, the bruise has already healed.
“No, she doesn’t…It’s sort of a recent affliction of mine.”
Kit hums under his breath.
“But you love her?”
“There are different kinds of love.”
“Oh, yes I know,” Kit says and proceeds to list the many settings where one could fuck.
For just a few minutes, they banter as if pushing the monstrous elephant in the room to the corner for the time being. It cannot be denied how astounded Kit is with how lost Will is when it comes to certain hard truths. One is more protected, albeit with ghastly barbs and murmured lies, than the other, a hopeful dreamer. That protection can be granted if one is sly enough to slither around the roots of the tree without toppling it. However, there is one thing Marlowe finds to be more agonizing than all else and it is depriving him of his sharp tongue. Will comments on the fact.
“You’re the romantic, aren’t you? Don’t you get it?”
Seduce the reed, and it will bend to the winds of the wildfire.
“Is there anything you won’t try?”
Will is offended at how gullible Marlowe thinks of him because there is simply no way that this slick, promiscuous vampire could ever truly love somebody, especially not some scrappy poet from the countryside who also happens to be a werewolf fighting the growing pull of the moon. Marlowe, seemingly wounded by his reaction, goes to leave, possibly to hunt for a drink.
“All right, have it your way.”
Shakespeare cannot allow that. He loses the fight, transforming into the massive wolf, and shoves him into the table with a resounding thud. Black claws dig into his fancy shirt and grazes perfect, dark skin. Will is essentially straddling him beneath his beastly form. Kit is completely mesmerized, eyes absolutely glowing. Jet black meeting gold.
The vampire touches the wild, silver, and chestnut brown fur at his throat, moving his hand to the muzzle. Marlowe drinks in the sight of his companion’s gorgeous transformation, a dutiful student of the craft becomes an unruly version of himself that he cannot help but fall for him even more. Will is wordless in this form, his animalistic eyes display a torrent of affection and aggravations. Kit pulls a muddied thought from his rugged mind. The man learns of his desire, decides to settle for reaching up and placing a kiss on the side of his face. It is a much softer display than either ever anticipated occurring on this night.
Still, Shakespeare releases his hold, and leaps off the table. One could see the destruction of his clothing, the boots he tears off with his mouth. There are waves of something akin to shame or embarrassment drifting off of him. He poses a figure that one would argue belongs in the depths of the haunting, expansive forests, however, his uncomfortable human mannerisms flow out like a cask stabbed.
Well… That didn’t prove anything either way.
He experimentally sends a message through his thoughts.
“Oh, did you think it would?” Kit replies out loud, confirming its effectiveness.
Still, he stares after the practically pacing werewolf, the way the candlelight glows either makes him appear vicious as the dark forests of fairytales or lovely as a sunny, springtime rainstorm, the dichotomy is delightful to Kit. He also wonders whether the other is aware of his tail swishing about, this part he finds mildly amusing.
If you’d stopped me it would have proved you were playing me, or trying to.
Will pauses his restless body. Kit quirks a brow.
“But I didn’t stop you.”
No, but that proves nothing. You might be strangely, unaccountably sincere in your affection-
The vampire lays down more firmly on the table, focusing on woodgrain.
“You really don’t give yourself enough credit,” he murmurs.
Such a wonderful moment for Will to stoke the fire.
Or you might be what I already knew you for…an opportunistic slut.
A flash of metal, Kit is already up and towering above him atop the table before he can blink, infuriated with irises glistening with violent intent. The blade is on full display and poised.
“You say you’re not a fighting man and you absolutely dare me to draw metal! Christ’s bleeding holes, do you take me for a man without feelings, for a small petty man, a man for hire, for a worm, for a snake, for a low crawling thing, for a cheap whore, for a cheap anything?” Heavy is the accusation, heavy is the hurt buried within his undead spirit.
Never, God knows you’ll cost me dear enough.
“I am Jove’s messenger, swift god of eloquence-”
And treachery, don’t forget treachery.
His tail sways from side to side.
“I am a vampire, cursed and bloodthirsty! I am Mercury, scourge of God; defy me and be sorry!”
Will’s pointed ears draw back.
I’m already sorry.
Marlowe launches himself into the air and in one swift move, lands gracefully, right in front of Shakespeare’s nose. He smirks, blowing a kiss, and turns away from his friend, caught in bewilderment.
“Liar; you love it.”
I never know where I am with you. His thoughts sound as if the breath is being knocked out of them. Mercury, I can well believe it, mercurial and mad.
“Look. You wished to kiss me,” Kit points out.
Yes.
“Shame that didn’t happen… Look at you,” Kit says, a toothy smile lights up his face.
I wish you wouldn’t.
“Come now, don’t be like that! You’re quite the sight if I do say so…” Marlowe is genuinely obsessed, absolutely willing to quash his slighted pride for a moment to ogle.
Shakespeare blinks owlishly, as owlishly a werewolf’s eyes can get, at the other’s lazed, fanged smile and half-lidded gaze. A schoolyard crush between two monsters of men, two brilliant minds who selected the strange, glorious stage of a crappy back room of a stinking old public house to bare their truths. Truths that slip through a net crafted to inevitably break under the pressure of heat and force. The earth itself knows this strength, bestowing its great unknowns and nature’s magic to weave into the depths of mankind. Magma beneath the skin. In a police state, hidden in the mess of jungle known as London, names known to those who seek them out, their natures breathe in the shadows of backrooms and alleyways.
Lust is easier than the arduous labor of love, silently they both still yearn and reach for the pull of that invisible ribbon connecting their spirits in hopes that they could still converge, embracing every bite and grip.
“Well, one thing we know about you is, you are not an opportunistic slut. You are sincerity itself. You couldn’t tell a lie to save your soul.”
You might be surprised…well, except for the obvious omission of what I am.
“That intent. That intent of a kiss was the truth.”
Even as an immense wolf, he sputters and shakes his head as he would in his human form. He paces and tries to deny the truth from Marlowe when it is so very clearly evident.
“You leapt upon me like a starving man…or hound on a haunch of beef.”
Hanging his head in shame and guilt, he sends an apology that makes the other huff in disbelief, especially as a canine whimper unknowingly slips out. Kit pats his head, he finds him awfully adorable in whatever shape he is in. It takes all his energy to not dote on him as if he were any old dog on the street corner.
Right. I shouldn’t have. I forget myself. I am so sorry.
Kit all but rolls his eyes, knowing that Will wants him as he wants him. However, not as strongly as he craves his presence. They are not average in their love and passions, the ground becomes level between them. A confession of wellbeing on the tips of their tongues, but one cannot utter a recognizable syllable to the other.
It is difficult to scrape these thoughts and impulses…
“You do well enough…”
They continue on to share a tender conversation on religion and all its thorns, the ineffability of the universe, and their places in this revolting, beautiful world. Their exchange falls more kindred than perhaps in other timelines, twin flames dancing. Steam from the future machine loses its vigor, heavy is the water that follows. Both fall into their own honeyed ensnarement and relish each other’s company despite the fervent desire to draw boundaries with watch towers. Biting reminders, the weight of the blade in his sheath feels like lead.
Act Three Scene Two. Do we have time in case you decide to drag me off to my death?
“Where is it?”
Really?
Will mourns the loss of his human form, he is unable to act out the scene as he wishes to. A chaotic storm fills his mind as he attempts to follow Kit’s reading of Suffolk and whisper Margaret’s lines. Its effect is felt regardless. Marlowe imagines a chasm, his feet at its edge, and battles off the breeze that wants him to undone. His colleague should not have such sway. Is it possible that a tear builds in the corner of his eye?
I can’t help loving them. That’s what Shakespeare says. All of them.
The sentiment is moving, the vision wondrous.
“You lose your heart to the wrong character…,” Kit eventually starts at some point, it comes from deep within the core.
The sun will be rising in just a few short hours, so Marlowe knows he will have to run in order to beat the assault of the merciless sun. Kit and Will lean into each other tiredly, sitting with the knowledge that their nature yearns for a place unnamed. In a fruitless endeavour, both try to recruit one another into another way of being. Sublime and reckless pursuits. Mundanity and a warm hearth. A secret werewolf and vampire. Young writers, trapped in fates already carved out for them. Although both are beasts of a kind, they survive in different manners.
A farewell is in order. Warnings cast out. Shadows conceal their figures, one and then two gone out into the night. Papers drawn up, soundlessly delivered to the werewolf’s lodgings.
There is a wooden chair left behind, splintered and purposely forgotten, in the public house.
…
We all know what happens on the evening of the 30th of May in the year 1593. A dispute in another pub, this one in Deptford, leads to the demise of one Kit Marlowe. Fellow members of the spy ring gathered there, and then somebody under Raleigh sent his knife, plunging into Kit’s right eye. Frizer is pardoned for his crime. In this version, he was sent to purposely end his life after Shakespeare gave into Raleigh’s line of questioning, telling him that his companion was going to spill his occult secrets. Luckily, he was able to keep concealed the supernatural identities. No wooden stakes are unleashed in Deptford.
Will doubts Kit’s survival, mourning him on his travels back to Stratford. The poet struggles to write a single letter, many occasions he watches the ink dry out completely. Mockery. He regrets his short time with the infuriating creature, yearning to actually wrap his arms around his neck and meet his lips in his. Anne observes his unnerving behavioral changes, not uttering a word on it just in case it passes soon. She does not know what brings it on.
On the next full moon, Will goes for a long walk. Making his way far, far away from town until his feet throbs within his ragged shoes. His own body burning to let the wolf be unleashed. Regrettably, he despises his affliction and as he takes in the silver glow at the tops of trees and grasses, he feels utterly alone in it. How fortunate is it that a presence sidles in from behind the oak trees. He growls, it is a guttural and genuinely intimidating sound for the normal person to hear. A singular eye glimmers in the darkness, until a simply dressed figure of a man emerges with a glittering smile.
“Hello, darling. Did you miss me?”
Needless to say, Shakespeare did miss him. They finally get that kiss. In nature, all that is true is permitted to simply exist. All their messiness and monstrosity belong utterly to this world. All their talent, vision, their mark on the paper shall live eternal through other people's retellings. However, now Will and Kit are home and there may as well be heaven in the flesh.