INFINITY + 1 Chapter 7

 

Infinity + 1 Chapter 7

London, 1605

The candle flickered, its wax pooling like molten gold over the desk. William Shakespeare dipped his quill, hesitated, then scratched the word onto the page:  

"Dragon."  

He leaned back, the ink glistening wet in the dim light. Outside, the London night was thick with the distant murmur of the Thames and the occasional drunken shout from the taverns. But in his rented chamber above Silver Street, there was only silence—and memory.  

"You're a fag, Will."  

That voice. Sharp, mocking, edged with laughter. Elizabeth's voice.  

He hadn't thought of her in months—not like this, not with the old ache. But tonight, with Lear twisting into something darker than he'd planned, she slithered back into his mind like one of the serpents from Antony and Cleopatra.  

---  

Ten years earlier.

The palace at Whitehall was stifling in summer, the air heavy with perfume and sweat. The Queen had summoned him—not for performance, not for flattery, but because, God help him, she liked him.  

"You write these grand speeches for kings," she said, sprawled in a chair like a lioness, her gown loose, her wig discarded somewhere. "But you're just a glover's son from Stratford."  

He grinned. "And you're just a Tudor bastard with good PR."  

She threw a grape at him. It missed.  

"You're a fag, Will."  

"And you're a dyke, Bess."  

She cackled—that unguarded, unfeminine laugh she only ever let out in private. "At least I don't write sonnets to pretty boys."  

"At least I don't collect portraits of myself like a tavern wench collecting sailors' pins."  

She kicked him under the table. Hard.  

---  

Now, in 1605, the memory stung. James was king—stiff, Scottish, obsessed with witches and flattery. No wit, no fire. Just doctrine.  

Will pressed his fingers to his temples. Why had he written "dragon"?  

Because Lear was old. Because Lear was furious. Because Lear, like Elizabeth, had once been untouchable—and now, like her, was dust and ghost stories.  

He could almost hear her: "Oh, very subtle, Will. Comparing me to a monster. Should I have your head for that?"  

He chuckled, despite himself.  

---  

A knock. Ben Jonson, drunk and swaying in the doorway. "You're muttering to yourself again."  

"Just working."  

Ben squinted at the page. "'Come not between the dragon and his wrath.' Christ, Will. Still hung up on her?"  

Will didn't answer.  

Ben sighed. "She's dead. James pays better."  

Will dipped his quill again. "That's not the point."  

---  

The candle burned low. Somewhere, far off, a church bell tolled.  

He wondered if Elizabeth's ghost ever wandered these streets, mocking the new king's frills, rolling her eyes at the sycophants who now ruled the stage.  

"Dragon," he whispered.  

Then, grinning, he added another line—just for her:  

"I would not be thy executioner;  

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee."  

A pause. Then, in the silence, he could swear he heard her laugh.  

---  

Will Shakespeare scrolled through his iPhone, thumb hovering over the latest news alert: "King James' New Advisor Sparks Backlash—Again." He sighed, tossing the phone onto his cluttered desk. The glow of his laptop illuminated half-finished lines of King Lear on the screen, the cursor blinking mockingly next to the word "dragon."  

Dragons.  

He snorted. Yeah, right. As if James would recognize a real dragon if it bit him in the ass.  

---  

Three Months Earlier. The Palace. A Private Performance.  

The King's Men had just finished Macbeth—toned down, of course, less "tyranny is bad" and more "hey, isn't Banquo's bloodline lucky?" James had loved it, clapping like a seal, his latest favorite, Robert Carr, smirking beside him.  

After, over whiskey (James loved Scotch now, because of course), Will had tried to be subtle.  

"That Carr's got a sharp tongue," he'd mused. "Reminds me of Iago."  

James had just laughed. "Oh, Robbie's loyal. Not like those snakes Elizabeth kept around."  

Will had swallowed his drink instead of his words.  

---  

Now, back in his flat, he glared at the script.  

"Come not between the dragon and his wrath."  

Was James the dragon? Or was he the fool walking into its jaws?  

His phone buzzed. A text from Ben:  

"Heard Carr's pushing for another tax cut for the nobles. While half London's starving. Sound familiar?"  

Will typed back: "Yeah. Act 1, Scene 1."  

---  

Whitehall, 1603

Elizabeth, dying but still sharp, had grabbed his wrist when he brought her the script for Richard II—the one they'd definitely never performed before Essex's rebellion.  

"Careful, Will. Kings don't like mirrors."  

"You did."  

"I was different." She'd coughed, waved a bony hand. "I knew the game."  

---  

James didn't know the game. Or he thought he'd already won.  

Will's fingers flew over the keyboard, rewriting Lear's rage into something uglier, truer:  

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is / To have a thankless favorite!"  

Not that James would get it.  

---  

The Next Morning. The Globe.  

Richard Burbage read the new lines over coffee. "Christ, Will. You want us arrested?"  

"No. I want someone to listen."  

Burbage shook his head. "He won't. He's too busy buying Carr jewelry."  

Will rubbed his temples. Maybe that was the real tragedy. Not that kings fell—but that they never saw it coming.  

---  

Final Draft. Opening Night.  

From the wings, Will watched James in the royal box, Carr whispering in his ear.  

When Lear howled "I am a man more sinned against than sinning," James didn't flinch.  

But Carr?  

Carr smiled.  

---  

Afterparty. The Tavern.  

Ben shoved a beer into Will's hand. "So? Think he got it?"  

Will downed the drink. "Nah. But the dragon will."  

Outside, thunder rolled. Somewhere, a kingdom trembled.  

---  

William Shakespeare tossed and turned in his bed, the down mattress lumpy beneath him. The candle had burned out hours ago, but sleep refused to come. The blank parchment on his desk seemed to mock him even in the darkness. King Lear was due to the players in a fortnight, and all he had was a single line:  

"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!"  

And then—nothing.  

With a groan, he kicked off the sheets. Dawn was still a grey promise beyond his window, but he couldn't lie there any longer. He pulled on his boots, threw a cloak over his nightshirt, and slipped into the cool, mist-laden streets of London.  

---  

The city was quiet at this hour. A few early risers—bakers, milkmaids, the occasional drunkard stumbling home—drifted through the fog like ghosts. Will walked without direction, letting his feet carry him. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and somewhere, a nightingale sang its last mournful notes before daybreak.  

The morning mist clung to London like a widow's veil as William Shakespeare stepped out of his lodgings, the weight of unwritten words pressing against his temples. The city was awake—horses clattering over cobblestones, vendors shouting prices, the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer—but it all felt hollow, like a play performed after the queen had left the room.  

Elizabeth would've hated this.  

The thought came unbidden. He shoved it away, but it stuck like a burr.  

---  

The bell above the door jingled as he entered. The shop smelled of cedar and spice, the shelves lined with jars of Virginia leaf.  

"Master Shakespeare!" The proprietor, a round-faced man with ink-stained fingers, beamed. "The usual?"  

Will nodded. "Aye. And something strong."  

The man chuckled, scooping dark strands into a pouch. "You look like you need it. Working on something new?"  

Will rubbed his thumb over the callus on his middle finger—the writer's bump, stained blue-black with dried ink. "Trying to."  

The tobacconist leaned in. "Is it true the king's commissioned a play?"  

Will dropped coins on the counter. "If he has, he'll hear it when everyone else does."  

The man's smile faltered. Will pocketed the tobacco and left.  

---  

A girl leaned against the wall near the apothecary, her bodice laced too tight, her smile too practiced. She couldn't have been more than sixteen.  

"A penny for your thoughts, master?" Her voice was light, but her eyes were old.  

Will exhaled through his nose. "Save your offers, lass. I've nothing worth selling today."  

She tilted her head. "You're that playwright, aren't you? The one who wrote about the fairy queen?"  

A pang shot through him. A Midsummer Night's Dream—Elizabeth had laughed herself breathless at that one. "You flatter me, Will," she'd said, eyes glittering. "But I'd have made a better Titania."  

He forced a smile. "Aye. That's me."  

The girl shrugged. "Shame. I'd have given you a free tumble for a sonnet."  

Will barked a laugh. "Next time."  

---  

He packed his pipe and struck flint to steel, the tobacco crackling to life. The smoke curled around him, a temporary shield against the world.  

London sprawled before him—the same streets, the same stink, the same clamor—but it wasn't hers anymore. James' men strutted in Spanish leather, their collars starched stiff as their manners. The plays were all prophecies and piety now, no wit, no bite.  

A shadow fell across him.  

"Master Shakespeare?" A young man, barely out of boyhood, clutched a dog-eared copy of Venus and Adonis. "I—I know it's bold, but might you sign it?"  

Will stared at the boy's ink-smudged fingers, then at his own. The irony wasn't lost on him: a hand stained with quill marks, yet empty of words.  

He took the book. "Your name?"  

"Thomas."  

Will scrawled his signature with a flourish. "To Thomas, who reads what I cannot write."  

The boy's eyes widened. "Thank you, sir! I—I want to be a poet, like you."  

Will handed back the book. "Then pray for better muses than mine."  

---  

The pipe burned low. The sun climbed higher.  

Somewhere, a king waited for a play. Somewhere, a ghost queen whispered in the rafters of an empty stage.  

Will stood, brushing ash from his doublet.  

The words would come.  

Or they wouldn't.  

Either way, the ink would flow.  

---  

He found himself at the edge of the Thames, where the water lapped lazily against the docks. A lone fisherman sat on the bank, his line cutting the mist like a needle through silk.  

"You're out early, Master Shakespeare," the man said without turning.  

Will started. "Do I know you?"  

The fisherman chuckled. "You know everyone and no one. That's why your words stick."  

Will frowned but said nothing. The man's face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, his voice oddly familiar, like a half-remembered dream.  

"You're stuck," the fisherman said. "The old king's got his claws in you, eh?"  

Will stiffened. "What do you know of kings?"  

The man reeled in his line, empty. "I know they're just men. And men—well, they're fools, most of them."  

A gust of wind tore through the mist, and for a moment, Will thought he saw something flicker in the man's eyes—something ancient and knowing. Then the fisherman stood, slinging his rod over his shoulder.  

"Tell you what," he said. "Walk with me a spell."  

---  

They followed the riverbank, the fog thickening around them. The fisherman spoke of nothing in particular—the price of eels, the new playhouse going up in Southwark, the way the stars seemed brighter when you were drunk. But beneath his words, Will sensed something else, a rhythm, a pattern, like the hidden meter of a sonnet.  

Then, without warning, the fisherman stopped. "Here."  

They stood before a crumbling stone bridge, its arches choked with ivy. Beneath it, the water swirled dark and restless.  

"Listen," the fisherman said.  

At first, Will heard nothing. Then—  

A voice.  

No, voices.  

Whispers, cries, laughter, all tangled together in the rush of the water. A woman's scream, a child's giggle, a king's roar—  

"Howl, howl, howl!"  

Will staggered back. "What sorcery is this?"  

The fisherman grinned. "No sorcery. Just stories. They sink into the water, see? The ones no one tells. The ones that get lost." He nudged Will with his elbow. "Yours'll end up here too, if you don't fish them out."  

---  

The sun broke over the horizon, scattering the mist. The bridge stood empty. The fisherman was gone.  

Will stood there, heart pounding. Then he turned and ran—back through the waking streets, back to his room, back to his desk.  

He seized his quill.  

The words came like a flood.  

"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!"  

And then—  

"You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout / Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!"  

He wrote until his hand cramped, until the candle burned low again.  

When he finally looked up, the room was dark.  

But the page was full.  

---  

Months later, at the first performance of King Lear, Will stood in the shadows, watching.  

As Lear raged against the storm, as the actors bellowed his words to the heavens, Will could've sworn he saw a figure at the back of the crowd—a fisherman, grinning.  

Then the crowd roared, the moment passed, and the man was gone.  

But the words remained.  

---  

He traced the inked letters with a trembling finger. The critic—some upstart Oxford boy who'd never written anything longer than a sermon—had dissected Lear with surgical precision, praising its "unrelenting bleakness" while casually declaring this period of Will's work "the inevitable decline of a genius who has stared too long into the abyss."  

A log collapsed in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Outside, a winter gale rattled the shutters of his Silver Street lodgings.  

Stared into the abyss? Will poured himself another cup of sack. I built a fucking theater in it.  

---  

The Knock at Midnight  

Three sharp raps at the door.  

"Christ's teeth—" Will stumbled over a pile of discarded manuscripts. Through the warped wood, he heard the unmistakable clink of armored gloves.  

Royal guards.  

The taller one didn't bother with pleasantries. "His Majesty requires your attendance."  

"At this hour?"  

"The king doesn't sleep," said the guard flatly. "Neither do his playwrights."  

---  

The palace corridors stretched like the veins of some stone leviathan. Every torch-lit portrait seemed to watch him—especially hers. Elizabeth's painted eyes followed him around a corner, her lips forever curled in that knowing half-smile.  

"You look like shit, Will."  

He could hear her voice as clearly as if she stood beside him. That particular blend of regal disdain and theatrical camp she reserved for private moments.  

"Tragic era? Please. You've been morose since you were twelve."  

Will touched the portrait frame. The gold leaf flaked under his fingers like dried tears.  

---  

James I sat hunched over a table littered with star charts, his velvet doublet straining across his shoulders. The air smelled of bergamot and the peculiar sourness of unwashed royalty.  

"Shakespeare!" The king waved a jeweled hand. "We've been reading your Macbeth again."  

Will bowed. "Your Majesty honors me."  

"Does he?" James didn't look up from his papers. "Three witches, a usurping king, madness—are you trying to tell us something?"  

The fire popped. Somewhere in the walls, a mouse scrabbled.  

Will chose his next words like a man crossing thin ice: "All art reflects life, Your Grace. Even when unintended."  

James finally met his eyes. "Our cousin Elizabeth never had this problem."  

The words landed like a dagger between the ribs.  

---  

Dawn stained the Thames the color of a fresh bruise. Will stopped on London Bridge, watching the water swallow the night's refuse.  

A beggar woman shuffled past, her shawl clutched tight. "Penny for your thoughts, master?"  

He turned. The face beneath the hood was young—too young—with Elizabeth's sharp cheekbones and mocking smile.  

Will recoiled. "You're not—"  

But when he blinked, she was just another starving girl.  

He pressed a whole shilling into her palm. "Buy bread. Not dreams."  

---  

Back in his chambers, Will stared at the half-finished script for Cymbeline. The ink had bled where his tears fell.  

Tragic era.  

He dipped his quill.  

The words came slow as a dying man's breath:  

"Golden lads and girls all must,  

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust..."  

Outside, the bells of St. Olave's began to toll. Somewhere beyond the window, London carried on—vulgar, vital, utterly indifferent to the man who'd given it voice.  

Will pressed his forehead to the desk.  

The quill snapped in his hand.

—-ATILA—-