Warning: Character death.
The year 1578 of the Elizabethan Age.
T'was a summer night in London-Town, and the air was still and hot. The Thames had slowed to a
trickle, and the mudflats revealed, shed noisome gases that wafted upward to join the miasma
hanging above the Capital. In that part of the City called Cheapside, piles of stinking refuse
littered the cobbled lanes, populated by points of beady light that shone malevolently in the dark.
In one of the many lodgings that lined the streets, two lovers lay, their nude bodies lit by
candlelight. They moved in the ancient dance of love and sex, beautiful in each other's eyes,
oblivious to the world beyond.
He buried his shaft deep within his lover's welcoming heat with a groan, shuddering as he fought
against release. He gazed down on the exquisite face, on the parted lips and the blue eyes
heavy with passion, and was undone; and le petit Mort folded them in rushing wings and lifted
them to ecstasy.
"I swear, my love - I heard the angels sing," Sean said with a smile as he reached out to snuff
the candle carefully.
Ned curled into his side, already half-asleep. "Mayhap they did," he replied softly.
~~~~~
Sean woke with a gasp from an evil dream of fire. His body ran with sweat and the room was
suffocatingly hot. Hotter still was the familiar weight against his naked back and he turned
swiftly, his heart in his mouth. Ned's breath whistled through chapped lips and his skin burned
against Sean's hand. Bile rose in Sean's throat as he felt the tell-tale swelling beneath the
delicate jaw - and he went mad. His despairing cry cut through the quiet dawn like a harbinger
of doom, and in the half-deserted streets below, passers-by made signs of warding and
quickened their dragging steps.
Plague.
The scourge was abroad in the great City of London. The Queen and her court had removed to
Windsor Castle, and She had ordered the gates of the City sealed, in a vain attempt to spare the
countryside. The taverns and alehouses were closed and public assembly was outlawed - and
still the people died. London had become a charnel-house - and the burial pits were filling
rapidly.
~~~~~
John McAllen had offered the sanctuary of his home when the pestilence struck, for none of the
Company would leave the City if their fellows stayed. For most of them, the Company was the
only family they had. Mistress Kate had some skill with herbs, and the mixtures she concocted
eased the fever in some small measure. She was dead now, and John had followed soon after;
their bodies gone to feed the pits. Will Scot had taken an ague in the early summer and his
weakened body was no match for the plague demon - he too had succumbed. The loss of the
brother of his heart had taken Dominick hard, and for a time they had feared that he would
follow. Of the troupe, only he, Sean and Owen were still hale, though they clung to sanity with
uncertain grasp - for both Ned and Martyn were failing fast.
Sean rose from the makeshift hearthside and looked round the tiny garret room. None knew of
its existence save themselves, now that John and Kate were gone. On the street door below, the
plague mark lingered scarlet on the faded wood, but to casual eyes, the house was empty. Will's
shrouded body lay against the far wall, and his eyes avoided it. Dominick sat at the table, his
head in his hands, sunk in a stupor of exhaustion. They had slept but little in the days gone
past, and the strain was beginning to tell. Sean's eyes came to rest on Owen, and his heart
clenched in helpless pity. The lad knelt at Martyn's side, his shoulders bowed in silent grief,
dipping water from a bowl to bathe his lover's fevered body with soothing hands. Martyn
moaned in delirium and convulsed, throwing Owen back, and Sean hastened to hold the
thrashing body down.
"T'will not be long now." he said sadly, when Martyn had finally quieted. "Rest you awhile, lad,
and Dominick will keep the watch."
Owen kissed his lover's lips and his tears fell softly on the still face. "Thou shall not go alone."
he whispered, and his words echoed with resolve.
Sean turned away wearily and moved toward the pallet nearest the hearth. Ned stared up at
him, face as pale as the linen on which he lay. The glazed blue eyes blinked slowly and the
cracked lips moved. "Love --" he whispered. "I thirst." Sean spooned a little watered wine into
the parched mouth and smiled tenderly at his beloved. "You will be well, Ned; I promise thee.
Wait but a while, and you will see." He laid himself down beside the boy and gathered the
wasted body gently into his arms. Then he closed his eyes, and the flames that he had seen
when first they met, no longer seemed a threat, but a promise of deliverance.
Dominick raised his head from his arms and stared at the two in amazement. The certainty he
had heard in Sean's voice filled him with a deep unease.
The hot hours crawled by, and Sean started from his sleep. Ned drowsed quietly in his arms,
hardly seeming to breathe, and he wondered dazedly what it was that had roused him. He felt
the familiar touch of his curséd gift and his breath caught sharply. He laid Ned down, rose
unsteadily to his feet and staggered as the visions crashed down upon him. Flames and pain
and screaming were his world entire, and sweat poured down his rigid body as he fought the
panic down. When he could move again, he crossed to the shuttered window and peered out
through a crack at the street below. He rested his head on the wood for a moment as a tremor
shook him; then he turned back to the room and his mind had a clarity it had not held in days.
"Dominick," he said casually. "We are nearing the last of our store of herbs. Prithee, go thou to
Master Thomas the apothecary and purchase enough for our needs. You know what not to say."
He tossed his purse to his friend and turned to Owen. "Wilt thou go with him and see what
provender you can find? I shall see to our supper. Go quickly now."
He saw them through the hidden trapdoor in the floor and waited until they were well away. They
would pass through hidden ways and emerge onto one of the alleyways that laced the
close-packed neighbourhood. Then he closed and barred the door and moved to pull Martyn's
pallet to the middle of the room. The playwright's skin was grey in hue and his breath laboured
in his chest. He then did the same with Ned's bedding and sat beside him, stroking his hair,
speaking softly of a future that now would never come. After a time, he raised his head and
sniffed deeply. The stink of smoke and nameless things caught at his throat and he rose to his
feet and peered through the crack in the boards.
Cheapside was in flames. Men ran down the narrow street bearing torches, and more made a
ring around, shouting with hoarse voices for all hale occupants to leave. They were burning out
the pestilence on the Queen's orders. Sean saw Owen and Dominick race down the street
toward him, saw them fight to get through the crowd, and heard Owen scream his lover's name.
Oaken cudgels rose and fell and the screams ceased.
"I am sorry, Owen," he whispered, and, finally, the tears came.
The roof was beginning to smoulder, and the tears dried on his face. Martyn was past caring,
and Sean stroked his friend's face in farewell. Then he lifted Ned into his arms and kissed him
deeply, tenderly. Lips that once were soft and sweet were now dry and bitter with Sean's tears.
Ned arched against him, coughing as the smoke tore at his lungs and his eyes flew open, clear
and very blue. The innocent gaze was a benediction and Sean smiled through his tears.
Yea, my love, the angels sang for thee.
Glowing embers began to drift from above and Sean saw Ned's eyes widen at the sight above
him, and then glaze over. He bent over him and pressed the dark head to his heart in futile
protection. Sean felt Ned's gasping breath caress his skin; then the thin body shuddered once,
then twice, and stilled forever. The last thing he saw before the searing agony took him, was the
look of ineffable peace on Edward's face, young again and beautiful as he had been, a lifetime
ago. And the last emotion he felt, was a transcendent joy.
Fare thee well, my own. We shall meet anon.
~~~~~
The Gods weep.
In the Hall of Akashic Records, four plinths stand empty in the curling mist. On one of them, a
sapphire afterimage lingers in the mind's eye. Of the three Books that remain, one glows green,
shot through with angry light. The last words on the page flicker sullenly, and then go out. A
boon is owed this Soul. The space glows with sudden light, and on the plinths, new Books
appear.
The Hall endures.
~~~~~
The year 1578 of the Elizabethan Age.
T'was a summer night in London-Town, and the air was still and hot. The Thames had slowed to a
trickle, and the mudflats revealed, shed noisome gases that wafted upward to join the miasma
hanging above the Capital. In that part of the City called Cheapside, piles of stinking refuse
littered the cobbled lanes, populated by points of beady light that shone malevolently in the dark.
In one of the many lodgings that lined the streets, two lovers lay, their nude bodies lit by
candlelight. They moved in the ancient dance of love and sex, beautiful in each other's eyes,
oblivious to the world beyond.
He buried his shaft deep within his lover's welcoming heat with a groan, shuddering as he fought
against release. He gazed down on the exquisite face, on the parted lips and the blue eyes
heavy with passion, and was undone; and le petit Mort folded them in rushing wings and lifted
them to ecstasy.
"I swear, my love - I heard the angels sing," Sean said with a smile as he reached out to snuff
the candle carefully.
Ned curled into his side, already half-asleep. "Mayhap they did," he replied softly.
~~~~~
Sean woke with a gasp from an evil dream of fire. His body ran with sweat and the room was
suffocatingly hot. Hotter still was the familiar weight against his naked back and he turned
swiftly, his heart in his mouth. Ned's breath whistled through chapped lips and his skin burned
against Sean's hand. Bile rose in Sean's throat as he felt the tell-tale swelling beneath the
delicate jaw - and he went mad. His despairing cry cut through the quiet dawn like a harbinger
of doom, and in the half-deserted streets below, passers-by made signs of warding and
quickened their dragging steps.
Plague.
The scourge was abroad in the great City of London. The Queen and her court had removed to
Windsor Castle, and She had ordered the gates of the City sealed, in a vain attempt to spare the
countryside. The taverns and alehouses were closed and public assembly was outlawed - and
still the people died. London had become a charnel-house - and the burial pits were filling
rapidly.
~~~~~
John McAllen had offered the sanctuary of his home when the pestilence struck, for none of the
Company would leave the City if their fellows stayed. For most of them, the Company was the
only family they had. Mistress Kate had some skill with herbs, and the mixtures she concocted
eased the fever in some small measure. She was dead now, and John had followed soon after;
their bodies gone to feed the pits. Will Scot had taken an ague in the early summer and his
weakened body was no match for the plague demon - he too had succumbed. The loss of the
brother of his heart had taken Dominick hard, and for a time they had feared that he would
follow. Of the troupe, only he, Sean and Owen were still hale, though they clung to sanity with
uncertain grasp - for both Ned and Martyn were failing fast.
Sean rose from the makeshift hearthside and looked round the tiny garret room. None knew of
its existence save themselves, now that John and Kate were gone. On the street door below, the
plague mark lingered scarlet on the faded wood, but to casual eyes, the house was empty. Will's
shrouded body lay against the far wall, and his eyes avoided it. Dominick sat at the table, his
head in his hands, sunk in a stupor of exhaustion. They had slept but little in the days gone
past, and the strain was beginning to tell. Sean's eyes came to rest on Owen, and his heart
clenched in helpless pity. The lad knelt at Martyn's side, his shoulders bowed in silent grief,
dipping water from a bowl to bathe his lover's fevered body with soothing hands. Martyn
moaned in delirium and convulsed, throwing Owen back, and Sean hastened to hold the
thrashing body down.
"T'will not be long now." he said sadly, when Martyn had finally quieted. "Rest you awhile, lad,
and Dominick will keep the watch."
Owen kissed his lover's lips and his tears fell softly on the still face. "Thou shall not go alone."
he whispered, and his words echoed with resolve.
Sean turned away wearily and moved toward the pallet nearest the hearth. Ned stared up at
him, face as pale as the linen on which he lay. The glazed blue eyes blinked slowly and the
cracked lips moved. "Love --" he whispered. "I thirst." Sean spooned a little watered wine into
the parched mouth and smiled tenderly at his beloved. "You will be well, Ned; I promise thee.
Wait but a while, and you will see." He laid himself down beside the boy and gathered the
wasted body gently into his arms. Then he closed his eyes, and the flames that he had seen
when first they met, no longer seemed a threat, but a promise of deliverance.
Dominick raised his head from his arms and stared at the two in amazement. The certainty he
had heard in Sean's voice filled him with a deep unease.
The hot hours crawled by, and Sean started from his sleep. Ned drowsed quietly in his arms,
hardly seeming to breathe, and he wondered dazedly what it was that had roused him. He felt
the familiar touch of his curséd gift and his breath caught sharply. He laid Ned down, rose
unsteadily to his feet and staggered as the visions crashed down upon him. Flames and pain
and screaming were his world entire, and sweat poured down his rigid body as he fought the
panic down. When he could move again, he crossed to the shuttered window and peered out
through a crack at the street below. He rested his head on the wood for a moment as a tremor
shook him; then he turned back to the room and his mind had a clarity it had not held in days.
"Dominick," he said casually. "We are nearing the last of our store of herbs. Prithee, go thou to
Master Thomas the apothecary and purchase enough for our needs. You know what not to say."
He tossed his purse to his friend and turned to Owen. "Wilt thou go with him and see what
provender you can find? I shall see to our supper. Go quickly now."
He saw them through the hidden trapdoor in the floor and waited until they were well away. They
would pass through hidden ways and emerge onto one of the alleyways that laced the
close-packed neighbourhood. Then he closed and barred the door and moved to pull Martyn's
pallet to the middle of the room. The playwright's skin was grey in hue and his breath laboured
in his chest. He then did the same with Ned's bedding and sat beside him, stroking his hair,
speaking softly of a future that now would never come. After a time, he raised his head and
sniffed deeply. The stink of smoke and nameless things caught at his throat and he rose to his
feet and peered through the crack in the boards.
Cheapside was in flames. Men ran down the narrow street bearing torches, and more made a
ring around, shouting with hoarse voices for all hale occupants to leave. They were burning out
the pestilence on the Queen's orders. Sean saw Owen and Dominick race down the street
toward him, saw them fight to get through the crowd, and heard Owen scream his lover's name.
Oaken cudgels rose and fell and the screams ceased.
"I am sorry, Owen," he whispered, and, finally, the tears came.
The roof was beginning to smoulder, and the tears dried on his face. Martyn was past caring,
and Sean stroked his friend's face in farewell. Then he lifted Ned into his arms and kissed him
deeply, tenderly. Lips that once were soft and sweet were now dry and bitter with Sean's tears.
Ned arched against him, coughing as the smoke tore at his lungs and his eyes flew open, clear
and very blue. The innocent gaze was a benediction and Sean smiled through his tears.
Yea, my love, the angels sang for thee.
Glowing embers began to drift from above and Sean saw Ned's eyes widen at the sight above
him, and then glaze over. He bent over him and pressed the dark head to his heart in futile
protection. Sean felt Ned's gasping breath caress his skin; then the thin body shuddered once,
then twice, and stilled forever. The last thing he saw before the searing agony took him, was the
look of ineffable peace on Edward's face, young again and beautiful as he had been, a lifetime
ago. And the last emotion he felt, was a transcendent joy.
Fare thee well, my own. We shall meet anon.
~~~~~
The Gods weep.
In the Hall of Akashic Records, four plinths stand empty in the curling mist. On one of them, a
sapphire afterimage lingers in the mind's eye. Of the three Books that remain, one glows green,
shot through with angry light. The last words on the page flicker sullenly, and then go out. A
boon is owed this Soul. The space glows with sudden light, and on the plinths, new Books
appear.
The Hall endures.
~~~~~
