It is with great excitement that I make the long-overdue announcement that my fic is no longer alone! That's right, someone else likewise said “hey, this thing has fandom potential; let's interact with it like a fandom,” and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I hereby direct you all to The Boarshead Cryptid, by Sage_Mage.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
“After the events of the Boarshead Brawl [2024 season], Marlowe takes it upon himself to revisit his old haunt of the Boarshead Inn (now the Boarshead Nature Preserve) to gain inspiration for his latest play and perhaps observe its sole occupant: Artie Fixer. His plans soon go awry, as things do upon Mount Hope Shire, and he may have bitten off more than he can chew with this one…”
The details in this fic make me so happy. There's plenty to be appreciated by the attentive fan, and it all serves purpose besides detail for the sake of – for lack of a better term – pure fanservice.
I actually had the delightful privilege of a lengthy in-person conversation with Sage_Mage on the penultimate (I think) day of the 2024 season, in which we discussed Faire and fandom; and I can confidently say that they are a lovely human. That's not really relevant to the post, it's just a cool thing that happened.
This fic was brought to mine attention two-thirds of the way through this past September; and while I read it at the time, I never got around to shouting excitedly about it on here as I ought have done. For that, I apologize. But now that I AM shouting excitedly about it, you should all go read it! It's a long enough read to feel you have read something, but not so long a read as to require setting aside a block of time – unlike some people (me), Sage_Mage's wit hath soul (brevity). Pls go read it, and pls comment on it. Comments are very encouraging to authors.
have you read the latest fanfiction in the PARF fandom?
My brain isn't braining well enough right now to translate or encapsulate the screaming, squeeing, and handflapping I'm currently doing. I have not, in fact, read it yet, and did not know until now that it had been posted! I'm gonna try to read it tonight, but no promises. I will probably shout excitedly about it on the other PARF-fan platforms on Monday. Thank you so much! My fic is no longer alone!
Today’s post only exists because I like to keep parf-fan content consistent across platforms. Please enjoy this photo of my cat that I added to the Facebook post about the Faire fic to attract the algorithm. I’m also going to link the fic again here, because I frankly find it hard to believe that only two (2) followers on this platform were at all excited about the existence of PARF fic on ao3.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
One year ago, Rob Condas posted in celebration of Shakespeare’s birthday. A year later, I finally finished writing the fic that post (and comments thereupon) inspired. This is the first Faire fic I’ve ever finished, and would reeeealllly like some feedback on it, please. In addition to the ao3 link, the text of the fic is below the read-more.
Title: The More, the Marrier
Words: 6,705
Chapters: 1/1
Pairings: Horace Tanningrove & William Shakespeare, Horace Tanningrove / John Hopfield
Warnings: drunkenness, drunken shenanigans, canon-typical implied/referenced dubious consent (very mild though, if you were okay with the bender subsubsubplot of Myths and Legends 2019, you should be okay here)
Summary:
"Happy Birthday Shakespeare ❤️ I hope you and Horace are painting the town tonight" –Rob
"Oh, if you thought Horace and Shakespeare went hard in the summer and fall of 1558, just WAIT till you see what they'll do for Will's birthday" –Michael
Having relocated the previous autumn when the R and J play was picked up by a producer in London, Will now celebrates his natal day by returning to visit his hometown of Mount Hope. Much of the first day of this visit is, of course, spent in the company of Horace Tanningrove. As the two become progressively drunker, they engage in shenanigans of sundry disaster variations. In the morning, both are hellaciously hungover, and the night is a blur, at best.
Opening notes:
This fic is dedicated in equal measure to Rob Condas and Michael Stahler, with thanks to the same for inspiring it through a Facebook post and comments on said post, respectively. And, obviously, for partially creating and fully rendering such lovable and memorable characters, with such an exquisite dynamic and rapport. The admiration I hold for you defies description.
Thanks to kaythehawk for the title, for proofreading and feedback, and for lowkey holding my hand through the posting process; and to my mom for assistance in devising phrases and combating lethologica.
To anybody unfamiliar with the 2019 season of the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire: First, what series of events in you life led you to this fic? Second, you are quite welcome to read it, but you will undoubtedly be quite confused on many points.
This is a fanwork created out of love and admiration for the source material and those who brought it about. Characters and setting belong to Zeno Creative Group PRF Productions.
The More, the Marrier
April 24th , mid-morning:
Will cracked an eyelid and his skull promptly split. Though he hastily undid the first, the second diminished but slightly. He cast about for words to describe it. “Uuhhhurrgh,” he eventually settled upon.
His eloquent critique was answered in kind from nearby, and Will decided that his desire for information would lend him the fortitude to bear the suffering. He opened his eyes – both this time, and all the way – albeit slowly. Only one of them appeared to work, but he filed that away as a problem for later. Instead, he took in his surroundings. Locks and bars and but the tiniest of windows. Wooden benches, pallets of straw. On some of the straw —
“Horace?” Will's voice rasped like a file, and it occurred to him that he was very thirsty.
Horace opened his eyes, promptly shut them, and said. “Prithee, extinguish the sun. Temporarily.”
“Would that I could, friend.”
Horace gave eyesight another try, amid much blurring and face-rubbing. At length, he got enough of a handle on it to look over to Will. “That garland is most becoming on thee,” he said. “Quite a jaunty angle.”
Will put a hand to his head and, feeling rapidly-wilting blossoms, found the cause of his partial blindness in the form of a flower-crown that had slipped over one eye. He gingerly adjusted it. “Thou lookst not o'er shabby in thine,” he observed.
Horace reached up and likewise discovered a ring of flowers encircling his brow, though his had not slipped. He considered it, then left it as it was.
Having solved the mystery of the halved eyesight, Will turned his intellect toward discerning their surroundings. In a moment, he'd concocted an ingenious scheme to that end. “Where thinkst thou we are?” he asked.
Horace, who'd been looking around despite the excruciating pain in his head and how damn bright the world was, answered, “I should fain think we be in the jailhouse.”
“The jailhouse? Nay!”
“Aye, there's bars and everything.”
A voice blared from out of eyeshot at a volume surely far higher necessary. “Well reasoned, master Tanningrove. I should consider thee for the position of deputy with detective brilliance like that.”
Horace, who'd pressed his hands to his ears and yet could hear every decibel with painful clarity, said, “Oh, well, that's very kind of thee, Sheriff Perry, but I fear I should find such work dreadfully boring.”
“It was a jest. I was makin' fun of thee.”
“Oh.”
By now, Will and Horace had both gotten themselves turned so as to see the sheriff standing near what was, upon slight inspection, the door to their cell.
“Good morrow, Sheriff!” said Will in as perky a voice as he could muster, for surely manners were paramount in such a situation as they found themselves.
“It is a good morrow, indeed,” agreed the sheriff. “It is not so good a morrow as it might have been if thou hadst not managed to lock the deputy in a cell and toss the key down a well, but it is a good morrow nonetheless.”
Will paled. “We erm, we stole the keys?”
“Aye, but Douglas had the spare set, so all was well. Of course, he insisted I release him a day or so early in exchange, but that is no great matter.”
“Oh.”
A silence followed, perhaps awkward for those who kept track of such things. At length, Will asked, “So, erm, are we locked in here for stealing from law enforcement?”
“Nay, nay, nah, thou are in 'ere for public drunkenness, possible debauchery, and general annoyance.”
“Ah.”
“But I be letting thee out now.”
“Oh! 'Tis generous of thee.”
Horace chimed in. “Be there a– a fine, or aught?”
The sheriff mucked about with his keys in an overly-loud manner. “Well,” he said, “if there were a fine, then it could be considered paid had young Will here had several pieces of jewelry upon his person last e'entide which have since vanished for reasons indiscernible.
Both men were interrupted in parsing that statement by the cell door swinging open with a din surely worthy of Typhon stirring beneath Mount Aetna. Horace clamped his eyes shut, his hands over his ears once more, grinding his teeth in spite of himself. At length, he managed to comprehend the words “...and thank thee so much for that glorious surprise thou didst leave stuffed in my seat cushion. There is nothing I like better when sitting down after locking up troublemakers at dawn than to find that I have crushed a mess of grapes of questionable freshness, and that the sour-yet-unfermented juice of said grapes is rapidly soaking my trousers. Truly appreciated that.”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” said Horace, glancing at Will. “That would likely have been, I am sure, mine idea.”
“It was mine.” interjected Will abruptly and vehemently – far too vehement for a muddled and hungover mind to be sure of.
Sheriff Perry gestured them out of the cell. As they struggled to their feet, he said, “I shall perceive it as Horace's idea nonetheless, for if it were, then I would consider it pardoned on account of him later turning himself in.”
Horace stared.
Will, whose headache was exacerbated somewhat less by the light and noise that Horace's, took his friend by the elbow and guided him from the cell. The touch on his arm caused Horace to look down, whereupon he realized he was in his shirtsleeves.
“Sheriff, I shudder to ask, but did I come here thus? or is my doublet somewhere hereabout?”
“Oh, aye!” answered the sheriff, clearly remembering. “I put it in the chimney, at thy request.”
Horace stared, this time with his mouth slightly agape, before finding words. “Where on Earth for would I ask such a thing of thee?”
The sheriff was messing about in the chimney. “You grinned and said 'This will confuse me so much on the morrow'.” He removed his arm from the chimney. “It would seem that drunk Horace doth enjoy playing pranks upon sober Horace.”
Horace caught the rather dusty doublet the sheriff tossed him. “That....explaineth so very much.” He gave the doublet a shake, instantly regretted the jolt to his headache, and shrugged into it regardless.
They had just made it outside the jailhouse and were dealing with the assault of the sunlight upon their very beings when Sheriff Perry stuck his head out the door and called after them. “Oh, Miles stopped by earlier. He asked me to tell thee that he'd done a little research and learned that the thing you hired him for is, in fact, entirely legal, and will thus cost double if thou art still interested.”
* * *
April 23 rd :
Memory was delicate and uncooperative, skittering out of reach like Tantalus's fruit if approached directly. A blur of celebration, an echo of good company, a haze of extensive alcohol. Quite likely they had begun sometime after midday, celebrating Will's visit home from London. Day had turned to evening, and as evening wore on, their revelry had perhaps bordered on debauchery, and they were presumably cast from whichever alehouse they'd been ensconced in. Now past wisdom, they had undoubtedly raided the Tanningrove winecellar. As evening faded into night, they had roamed the streets with no real goal besides pleasant existence and mutual company.
This was the state in which they found themselves investigating little sounds from the secondary structure of the forge.
Will gave a small gasp. “Is this true love? I finally found it after all these years.” A dusty grey kitten rubbed its face into his hand. “I would die for thee!” He picked the cat up and scratched its cheek. It gave a disconcerted squeal as it left the ground, but began purring once Will cradled it. “Horace, look!”
Horace's eyes widened and he reached out to pet the kitten, who seemed quite pleased with the additional attention. “Hath it a name?”
Will thought for a moment before saying, “Honeybee, for 'tis buzzing.”
“Mayhap Honey for short?”
“Aye.”
More meowing rose from near their feet. “There yet are more!” cried Will, as he passed Honey to Horace and knelt back down. This time, he reached toward a vaguely striped brown cat, who regarded him with ambivalence before allowing itself to be petted. “By Christ's calluses, I would bloody die for thee.”
Horace, whose shoulder was being kneaded by Honey, said, “That one doth look like a Priscilla.”
Will nodded, then winced as Priscilla lightly bit him. “Priscilla the Scylla,” he amended.
Horace frowned, thinking. “That, that's the whirlpool? The one Odsendus – Osdysa – the Odd guy went near?”
Will struggled with thought and word. “Mayhap? There were six heads.”
“But Priscilla hath one head only.”
“Aye, but she bites. Scylla did to chomp sailors.” He deposited the indifferent cat in Horace's arms with the first, and knelt again, holding his hand out to the final kitten. The final kitten – curled into a shape reminiscent of a turkey leg, and Will instantly named it accordingly – reacted not at all, so he tentatively placed his hand on the fluff's head. It let out a small squeak. Will's eyes were large and shining, his face aglow. “Thou art my muse,” he proclaimed. “I– I would live for thee.”
Horace repositioned Honey to allow for Priscilla climbing his shoulder. “Thou should write that down,” he muttered. “Such a declaration of love I ne'er have heard.”
Will did not seem to hear him. A look of pain was passing over his face. He looked up suddenly at Horace and said in a choked tone, “We cannot leave them here! This place be dustful and lonesome and– and there be sharplisome things about! What if one were to stab itself?”
Horace nodded gravely. “'Twould make the tragedy of Indigo's Investigations seem as unto a children's pageant by comparison.”
“We must save them!” Will stood swiftly, garnering a startled yowl from Legg. Horace was adjusting Honey and Priscilla. “As soon as I open the door, we run and we do not stop until we reach your home.”
“Aye.” Horace steeled himself. Will unlatched the little gate, or tried to. Either he could not open it one-handed, or it was twisting and writhing so as to sabotage his problem-solving. Or because he was drunk, he was vaguely aware of that as a possibility.
At length, he turned to Horace in defeat. “'Tis no use,” he declared. “We shall have to climb over the counter. Prithee, hold Legg.” He deposited the jet fluff in Horace's arms with the others before setting himself on the counter and swinging his legs over. Horace passed him the kittens, then hopped over in kind.
“Where are we running?” asked Will, as he handed Honey and Priscilla back to Horace.
“My house, I thought thou did say.”
“I said that?” asked Will. “I be quite clever, I suppose.”
“Thou hast thy moments.”
Yet scarce had they gone a dozen steps when they felt themselves joined by an unmistakable Presence. Almost without intending to, they slowed their steps to a standstill, and were at length able to make out the form of a cat darker than the blackened steel of an anvil. This cat that was not a cat looked upon them and spoke in human tongue.
“Inebriated mortals. Seek thou not to abduct these young ones. They yet are but kittens – babes, to thee – and are not yet ready to leave the care of my familiars at the forge.”
Will's voice was tremblesome and broken, yet he spoke. “But.... But there are sharp things there.”
If a cat could facepalm – and indeed, who is to say that a cat sìth cannot? – this one would've. “The humans of the forge make it their business to foster my mundane brethren until they may be taken in by ordinary humans as any other cat. Rest assured that their area is safe for them.”
The Being stepped closer. “Return the younglings to the forge, and I give you assurance that when the time comes, my familiars shall consider thee for their adoption. Otherwise,” and now the Being began to grow, “risk my wrath upon thee. Know that I can restore the dead to life; what thinkst thou, then, I can do to the living?”
Will stood mute in fear and anguish, but Horace had wit or sense slightly more. Holding all three kittens, he bowed respectfully to the cat sìth, then hastily retraced his steps to the forge, where the gate sprang open before him. He deposited the small fluffs as near their initial positions as he could gauge, then hastened back to his friend. The felinesque Presence dissipated as he returned, as did the force of terror holding Will.
* * *
April 24th , mid-morning:
The assault of the sun troubled Horace greatly, and he kept his eyes as closed as possible. The surrounding din was likewise torment. He stumbled somewhat over a chicken he couldn't see.
Will absently steadied him, but his focus was on the chicken. “That chicken hath a five upon its back,” he observed.
“How wondrous for it,” said Horace glumly, his eyes still mostly shut. Will's attention returned to his friend, and he realized that Horace was suffering from the light and noise even more than himself. On sudden inspiration, he reached up and adjusted Horace's flower-crown so it partially obscured his eyes.
Both men took one look at the Hellhill and decided that a longer walk would not be amiss. The streets were shadier and quieter along the Grove and Glen in any case.
After a while, Horace broke the silence. “What, precisely, was all that about, then?”
“Well, it would appear that we both got incredibly drunken last e'entide.”
“Clearly, but I was thinking more of that convoluted speech the sheriff gave about vanishing jewelry.”
A voice rang from somewhat off the street. “I'd be less worried about the sheriff and more worried about Bernadette Albright. She be on the warpath.”
Will and Horace turned to see Eskarina Nutter lounging against a tree. Will frowned slightly. “Wherefore?”
“Oh, something about getting married several times over without consulting her even once.”
“Will and I got married?” Horace asked.
Eskarina stopped propping up the tree and began ambling over to them. “Not to each other, at least by my witness. You may well have done, but I didn't officiate it. Here.”
Horace and Will looked blankly at the small proffered bottles.
“Meadowsweet, woundwort, elfin thyme, and roseroot, boiled in nettle tea. Unless thou would prefer to retain the sensation of thy skulls splitting.”
Will took both bottles with thanks and handed one to Horace.
Eskarina continued. “I also recommend hefty quantities of boiled water. I'd eat something as well, were I thee.” The wise woman started off.
“Hold a mome', who did we wed, then?”
Eskarina called back, “Oh, thou wilt run into them soon enough,” and was gone.
They stood a moment, then Horace spoke. “Will?”
“Aye?”
“Wherefore do we still do this on thy natal day?”
“In truth, friend, I know not.”
* * *
April 23rd , nighttime:
Will sobbed into Horace's shoulder as Horace patted his back.
“I shall never see Honey and Priscilla and Legg again. My only loves, and they are gone.”
Horace cast about for comfort words. What were those? He thought there there was supposed to be good for something, but he passed it by. It's alright to cry? He was fairly sure Will already knew that. I know not what thou art going through, yet I am here for thee? But he did know, though to a lesser extent, it seemed, and it was obvious that he was there for Will.
Giving comfort words up as a bad job, he sought instead for cheering words. “Will,” he said, “I promise to spend the rest of the night, if need be, in finding thee a pet.”
Will sniffed. “Really?”
“Aye, verily!”
Will considered for a moment, then his face crumpled anew. “'Twill be of no use, we cannot replace Honey and Priscilla and Legg.”
“Nay, we shall not be replacing them,” Horace insisted, talking with his hands despite being in the midst of a hug. “We shall be seeking thee an additional companion, one to keep thee company until Honey and Priscilla and Legg might join thee.”
Will gave this some thought, eventually straightening up and looking Horace in the face. “Thou meanst it?”
“Aye, of course!”
Will's face split into a grin. “Oh, Horace, thou art the truest of friends!” he cried out as he hugged him again. After drawing away, he said, “Now, where are we to search for such a companion?”
Horace reflected, then his face lit up. “I believe I've an idea.”
* * *
April 24th , mid-morning:
They had hoped to make it quietly back to the Tanningrove homestead to at least recover, if not piece together what they might of the night before, but they hadn't gone more than a few paces before Douglas Johnson trotted up.
“Morrow to thee,” he called. “Much obliged for springing me a few days early like that. Shan't have to miss the next guild meeting now.”
Horace, still making faces over the less-than-savory taste of Eskarina's hangover antidote, said in a degree off from sarcasm, “Oh, aye, glad we could help.”
Douglas peered at Will for a moment. “You, er, I'm guessing that you don't remember. To be expected, I suppose. Well, you were clearly drunk at the time, so I don't think it would count anyway, I, er, I bid thee good day.” He hurried off.
“What on Earth?” began Will.
“I do believe you may have married Douglas last night,” said Horace.
Will was silent for a moment. “Ah.” he said at last. “Well, that is to say, I mean, I'm sure he's right, it likely counts not. I'm going to.... ” He gestured vaguely to continue walking.
* * *
April 23rd , nighttime:
Within an enclosure lay many small white hillocks. As they climbed the wall, Will took in the sight and murmured, “Who hath been unhooking the clouds without my permission to put them in the pasture in the guise of snow?”
Horace laughed. “Nay, good Will, these be not snow, but the fluffiest earthbound of God's creatures: Sheep!”
Will gazed upon the critters, then strode over to one and tentatively petted it. His face lit up. “'Tis the softest thing I e'er have touched!”
Horace grinned. “Unhooked clouds indeed.”
Will buried his face in the sheep, which gave a small bleat. “'Tis so fluffsome I believe I shall perish!” He tore himself away and darted to another sheep. “But thou art also so fluffsome as to beget my death!” Then another. “And thee! They're all.... How am I to decide?”
“Which one hath the best name?”
Will deliberated, then shook his head, blinked at the unexpected dizziness, and stopped. “I cannot discern their names here. We must take them to better lighting that I may see them more clearly.”
Horace thought for a moment. “The village lantern, perhaps?”
“Aye, that's it! We shall take them to the lantern.”
Horace nudged a sheep experimentally. It gave a bit of a bleat, and eventually began moving. Between the two of them, they managed to direct the three sheep to the gate, which they had completely missed on their way in and were, after some fumbling, able to open. Once all were through and the gate closed, they set about clumsily herding the sheep to the village proper.
After some time, Horace remarked, “Ought we have some means of telling them apart until we get there?”
Will thought a moment, then said, “We shall number them.” He drew from his pouch a bottle of ink. Using his fingers, for quills are hardly suited to write on wool unwoven, he rather unsteadily traced a '1' on the back of the first sheep he'd seen. He stood for a moment, apparently lost in thought. Horace eventually nudged him, and Will started and returned to his task, daubing a '3' and a '4' on the backs of the other sheep. Wiping his hand on the side of sheep number four, he resealed the bottle with some difficulty and replaced it in his pouch.
They successfully guided the sheep some distance more, within the village itself, before the animals spotted a flowerbed laden with green things fit for grazing. There they stopped and there they chomped, and neither Will nor Horace had the heart to move them on.
Will sighed and announced that he clearly was not meant to have so fluffsome a companion.
Horace was not deterred. “We shall take a few moments to collect ourselves,” he said, opening a bottle and passing it to Will, “then we shall set out once more. I've a notion near as fluffy and perhaps more interesting than sheep.”
***************
“Young Will, thou didst tell me there was a fire in the square.”
“Aye, mistress O'Bales, 'tis just there!”
“William, that be a lantern.”
“I– what?”
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “A lantern, Will. One of the village lanterns, what be lit all night? that folk might find their way despite the darkness?”
“....Oh. But there's burning.”
“I be goin' back to bed now.” She turned to leave.
A call sounded from across the square. “Will, I got them! It'll be sour grapes for th— good Lord, the square's aflame!”
Emily blinked, then dashed the contents of her bucket upon the miscreants before her. “I bid thee good night, good masters.”
***************
Horace wasn't overly sure that stopping in the stables was wise, not with Will pining after an animal companion as he was. Even in his state of dubious clarity, Horace had the wit to know that stealing a horse was foolish, with dangerous consequences, even for them, even drunk. But Will had insisted, and did not thus far appear in imminent peril of emotional distress. He was petting a dappled grey belonging to goodness knows whom, telling it that it was such a good horse, such a beautiful horsey, so smooth and wonderful, yes you are.
The beast Horace had sought to pet unequivocally wanted nothing to do with him, so he cast about for something with which to occupy himself. A saddle and assorted tack hung on the door to the stall before him, and he began idly examining it. He accidentally unhooked it after a moment, spent several minutes investigating how he'd done such a thing, and sought to hang it back up. But it refused to hang, or perhaps he lacked the necessary dexterity. Needing somewhere else to leave it, he unhooked a different set of tack, and placed the first where the second had been. Then he stared in confusion at this new mess of leather and buckles unexpectedly in his hands. What was to be done but shift a third to make room for this one? Yet even then, he was still left with a rogue saddle.
By the time Will had finished cooing over the grey, every set of tack in the stable had changed position, and Horace still stared at a set stubbornly in his hands. Fortunately, Will was better able to convince it to settle onto the remaining hook, and they left the stable in perfect order, so far as they could tell.
* * *
April 24th , mid-late morning:
Amy Cooper was looking with mild curiosity at a pig with the number '3' on its back rooting around a flowerbed when she caught sight of the bearers of the flower-crowns. Instantly, she marched up to them, and, pausing only for breath, launched into speech.
“In O'Malley's last e'entide, the both of thee did sort of say vaguely marriage-type vows at me. That is, I think they were marriage-ish. They were somewhat difficult to understand. The words were intelligible enough, but they had not much substance in the strung-togetherness of them. Thou,” and here she gestured to Horace, “did proclaim me the most creative practical-thinker, least ineloquent non-wordsmith, and most enthusiastic non-changeling thou e'er did meet; and Will here did declare of me that he could not wish for a better verbal-sparring partner with whom to maintain an unmalicious bitter rivalry, which at any rate I can agree with. I am here to clarify that unsolicited vows do not a wedding make, and that I be willing to pretend none of it happened.”
“Oh. We, erm—”
“Most well, never happened. I shall be on my way, I've some new square prototypes to build.” She turned and sped off steadily, leaving Will and Horace both some lesser version of gobsmacked.
“Well,” said Horace after a time. “At least we paid her sincere compliments.”
* * *
April 23rd , nighttime:
“Where are we bound?”
“Wherefore ought I know? I be following thee?”
“Thou art?”
“Aye, thou did speak of a new idea since the sheep and chickens and rats did not work out.”
“I.... I was following thee. I must have forgot.”
There was a silence as they pondered the implications of this, then—
“Then I believe we are lost.”
Will thought on that, and said, “Then we shall have to use our wits and become unlost. We are both intelligent enough folk, are we not?”
“Decidedly,” replied Horace.
Will began to pace. “There be no buildings, nor firelight; thus we must be outside the village proper a good bit.”
“Indeed.”
“There be trees all about us. Mayhap we strayed into the forest?”
Horace considered this, then shook his head, frowned, and quickly stopped. “Nay, for look, the sky be too visible. The trees be not near enough one another.”
“Ohhhhhh.”
“What, what's the thing where there's trees and they're tame and orderly and they grow things and someone looks after them?” Horace spoke with his hands, waggling his fingers as though he could grasp the truant term from the air.
Will mulled it over for some time, then said, “Orchid.”
“Aye, that's it! We must be in an orchid.”
Will thought some more, then moved toward one of the trees, and promptly slipped and fell.
Horace did not immediately see where he had gone. “Will? Will! Where art thou?”
“Merely fallen, but I have the answer. The ground be covered in apples. We be in an apple orchid.”
Horace considered that, then remarked, “Agnes's land be not far from some of mine own. I could more easily get my bearings there.” He held out a hand, and Will hoisted himself up.
“Let us skirt the fence until we find a path.”
They walked for several minutes, working their way toward what they hoped was a fence. The wind rattled the budding branches above their heads and close by their faces. At length, Horace said, “Will, it be thy natal day, aye?”
“Aye.”
“And thy natal day be in April.”
“Last that I did to make note.”
“Most well. But the last I did to note, apples grow not in these early months. Nor should they remain on the ground unrotted through all the winter.”
“Yet what I slipped upon was certes an apple, and as fresh and finely-formed as any e'er I saw.”
They slowly turned and looked back into the shadows of the orchard. The full moon cast twisted echoes of the branches, warping the ground into an unknowable writhing latticework. Suddenly, a sharp giggling cry pierced the air, and a glint as though of fangs caught their eyes from the foot of the tree under which Will had fallen. Both men started, calling out in alarm, then turned and fled as swift as their staggering steps might take them.
***************
“I hardly realized cows were so morose.”
“Moo.”
“See what I mean? Didst thou hear what she said, Will? She believes life is pointless.”
Will was across the field a way, in a different pasture entirely. “This one over here is despondent, but only because she cannot be with the love of her life. It's so sad, Horace, it's like R and J but worse.”
“Moo.”
“That is what I say, friend, 'tis not fair.”
By this time, Horace had joined Will, which included tripping over a fence. “What be her name?”
Will thought a moment. “This one be Ariadne. Her love, to whom you were just speaking,” he gestured, “is Meredith.”
Horace considered the prospect. “Were we to unite them, Meredith would stop being so morose.”
“We shall! 'Tis what they deserve.”
The two stumbled to the fence, where they puzzled over the ingeniously-constructed beams. It took at least ten minutes to divine how the beams connected and how to remove a few. These they tossed to the side, along the rest of the fence.
“Go, Ariadne!” Will called triumphantly. “Go meet thy love!”
Ariadne considered him, then turned around and continued sleeping.
Will nodded understandingly. “She wants her beauty sleep first, of course.”
“But once she's slept, she will join Meredith?”
“Of course. And A and M shall be united, and 'twill be most beauteous.”
“Moo,” said Meredith.
“Thou hast the right of it.”
* * *
April 24th , mid-late morning:
They did not cross paths with Theresa Ratchet until they'd passed by most of the shops and into the more residential area. She sat outside her little hut, the spic-and-spanness of which juxtaposed almost harshly with her appearance, repairing a trap. When she caught sight of the bedraggled duo, she smiled broadly and waved, calling out, “Good morrow to thee, good masters! And twice o'er to thee, Will!”
Will returned the wave. “God save, Theresa. I don't suppose I married thee last night, by any chance?”
Theresa's smile, if possible, widened. Several more gaps showed. “Aye, that thou did, good sir!”
“Ah,” he said, barely fazed at this point. “Sorry about that.”
Theresa waved it off. “Nay, 'tis most well. 'Tweren't more than vows, for thou wert clearly – what be that modern phrase? – drunk off thine arse.”
Will made to respond, but Horace hustled him along. “Best not hang about long enough for her to notice that we sprang some of her traps,” he muttered.
“Oh! Aye, not that I recall doing such a thing, nor indeed see how thou could recall it; but aye.” In a loud voice, he added, “Well, if there's no harm done, we shall be on our way. Eskarina suggested something called 'hydration'? We be on our way to try it out. Anon!”
The ratcatcher gave another wave and returned her attention to her traps.
* * *
April 23rd , nighttime:
After much struggle, Horace succeeded in undoing the shutters of his storeroom window, and he and Will climbed in. Climbed is a generous term, of course, for it was more akin to stumbling and staggering and even falling; but the point is, they made it through the window.
After some more fumbling, Horace declared, “The lamp hath vanished.”
Will, who was admittedly less familiar with the room, but had spent enough time there to have at least a working knowledge of it, added, “I believe the door hath moved, as well.”
“First my keys and now this.” Horace felt the walls. “Why is there so much dust? And what are these, chisels?”
Will snapped his fingers. “I have it! We be in the wrong building.”
Horace pondered this for a long moment. At last, he replied. “That....would rather explain wherefore none of my keys fit the door.”
Will's eyes had by now adjusted somewhat, and by the light of the moon shining through the casement, he managed to find a lamp. Several attempts with flint and steel later, they had it burning. Its light revealed shelves covered in tools, dust, rock fragments, and half-formed figures. Horace stared long an hard at a mallet before finally declaring, “I fancy we be in Millicent Goodenstone's workshop.”
Will did not seem to hear him. His eyes, wide and shining once more, rested on an unshaped stone somewhat smaller than his fist, which the lamplight had caught. He drew near it almost unconsciously.
“... had best leave a note and withdraw the way we arrived,” Horace was saying. “What're you....”
Will slowly touched the rock, then picked it up. “This.... This is it,” he whispered reverently. “My new companion, to tend mine heart until Honey and Priscilla and Legg may join me.” He gently caressed the stone. “What thinkst thou of Petra? Obvious, I know, yet it suits them.”
Horace had by this time joined him. “Petra the pet rock,” he said experimentally. “Know you, I believe that suits them delightfully.”
Will broke into a delighted grin. “We've done it! You did it! You found me the perfect pet!” And threw his arms once more around Horace, who gasped in pain when Petra whacked him in the side.
***************
“What in God's name dost thou think thou art doing!??!!!” The bellow awoke Horace with a start. In the pale light of barely-dawn, he could make out the form of Rosalind Anne Uxbridge towering over him, clutching a rake and quivering with rage.
“Knowst thou how long I have spent caring for these blossoms? The ones thou seemst to have mistaken for a mattress?”
Horace looked about and began to piece things together. He'd clearly passed out in a flowerbed, one of Rosalind's many prized patches. He cast about for Will but saw him not. “Where, what hast thou done with Will?” he asked.
“Change not the subject!”
The gravity of the situation downed on Horace. He was without ally in the midst of a garden he'd ruined, with naught betwixt him and the gardener's fury save his own wit. And just that moment, he felt he hadn't an ounce of wit to his name.
He struggled to his feet, desperately playing for time. “Now, erm, see here Rosalind, er, this is clearly a– a mistake of some sort, and if thou will but give me a mome', or several, I can explain myself and the context of this whole affair most succinctly. Or somewhat succinctly. I do not feel overly succinct at this particular moment. What must be understood...” He was standing, he'd more or less gotten his bearings, and he'd pieced together a plan. Without warning, he shot off, ducking the blow of the rake, and ran as fast as his shaking legs would carry him to the jailhouse, where he pounded the door, yelling, “Sheriff! I must report an incident of public drunkenness, accidental trespassing, and general bad behavior!”
* * *
April 24th , late morning:
At long last, Horace and Will made it to the Tanningrove homestead. Jack was out front, ostensibly weeding the small vegetable garden, but more probably waiting for them to put in an appearance. Sure enough, when he saw them approaching, he looked at his father and simply said “Why.” before turning and leaving, weeding abandoned.
Well, it was a reasonable enough reaction to their understanding of how the boy's father had spent his night. They made no move to stay his departure, instead continuing into the blessed dimness of the indoors.
At a table in the parlor sat John Hopfield, a cup of something in front of him. Upon hearing their entry, he looked up, and then beamed.
Horace stopped in his tracks. The color drained from his face.
“Oh.” he said.
Will looked from Horace to John several times, his mouth slightly agape, his sodden-but-drying mind working furiously. Finally, it clicked. “Oh my God,” he said quietly.
“Hello, Horace!” Had he not been sitting, John would've been bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Horace swallowed nervously and suddenly wished he had a hat to twist about in his hands. “Did– that is– erm, good morrow John. I.... ” And now his face was flushed as red as any of his wines.
John's face fell almost imperceptibly, but in a manner more resigned than disappointed. “You don't remember.”
“Erm, quite frankly no, I do not; but I can see it plain enough now, for all my fogged mind.” His hands, desperate to fidget, found their way to his flower-crown and began idly shredding a bloom.
John nodded. “Well, I know not that Eskarina's officiation be technically binding, so.... ” He trailed off.
“That's, erm.” Horace fiddled with the petals he'd pulled from his crown, seven in all. “That's probably for the best, I suppose.”
“Aye.”
There was a long silence. Will looked from John to Horace to the door, torn between fascination and social discomfort at the scene unfolding before him.
Horace shifted his weight. “I mean, it isn't that I'm strictly opposed to the notion, per se,” he semi burst out at length. “I'm not. But, I mean, I wasn't planning on it. At least not yet.”
Now even John was fidgeting, tracing the edge of the cup in front of him. “We– there wasn't, erm, that is — it weren't binding in the eyes of anyone, if thou takest my meaning,” he said awkwardly, blushing. “Thou wert clearly drunk, of course there wouldn't be....”
Horace took some time to process that. “I don't think I would have thought there was, had I known of this before now and thus had time to consider the possibility,” he said at length, now idly crumpling the petals in his hands, “yet I thank thee for, er, for clarifying it.”
Another silence, possibly even more awkward than the first, hovered between them. Making up his mind, Will carefully asked, “Horace, doest thou want me here just now?”
Horace started, reminded of his friend's presence. “Quite possibly not.”
“Most well.” Will nodded despite his splitting skull and turned immediately for the door. “I shall meet back up with thee perhaps around suppertime, then? To piece together, erm,” he glanced at John, “what remains to piece together.”
Horace waved vaguely in confirmation as Will hastened out the door, then looked back at John, still crumpling petals.
After a beat, John said, “As far as piecing together thine evening goeth, there be one or two other things thou likely ought to hear. In fact, I think mayhap thou had best sit for this.”
Several expressions crossed Horace's face, most notably steely resignation and dread. He slowly pulled a stool over and lowered himself onto it. “Yes?”
“When we, erm.... When thou didst marry me, thou also did to marry Stella.”
Horace relaxed. “I was honestly expecting far worse.”
“And then Sherry was jealous, so Stella and I married her after you left.”
Horace's face remained unchanged but for the widening of his eyes and his color draining once more. “Oh God.”
John spoke again, this time more hastily. “And, well, thou knowst well what Sherry be like, and while I suppose I technically know not for certain, I think she mayhap be taking it seriously.”
“Oh God.”
“Indeed.”
Horace passed his hands over his eyes and remained thus a long silent moment, cobbling together words that would suffice. At last, a long, deliberate breath. “John, 'tis clear that we must needs discuss some things. I am like to be obliged to put my part through writing so as to hone my meaning.”
John gave a brief tender smile at that.
Horace removed his head from his hands and stood, slowly and carefully. “I swear I am not avoiding thee, and shall face this anon; but now I am going to find something to eat, and I am going to drink some cleaned water, and I am going to bed, for I be in no fit state just now to cope with much of anything, least of all our, erm, situation.”
***************
Will had so often trod the path from the Tanningrove homestead back to his own house – more accurately simply his parents house, now that he'd moved to London – that his feet steered him thus without conscious thought. When he did finally notice, he pressed on, for he truly needed sustenance 'ere he did aught else. Still, he reflected, he had best make his meal quick, for he had another matter to attend to as soon as he might; though he was yet uncertain whether he looked to it in apprehension, or in anticipation.
He glanced down at his wrist and the initials freshly written thereon. He hadn't even known the noble was in the area. He would've expected him to still be in Hunsdon this time of year.
End notes:
(.....The More the Marrier geddit like 'marry'?)
Thanks so friggin' much for reading! This, the first PARF fic I ever finished, was incredibly difficult to write. Not only was it a different style and tone to anything I've ever written before, but I began it after not writing anything (beyond journaling and approximately five textposts) for six months. Thus, my first draft was the shittiest shitty first draft I e'er have made, the writing clunky and ill-fitting and excruciatingly slow. There's a reason it took me a year.
Please, please, please leave a comment! A line you really liked, a weak phrase, a character voice I absolutely nailed, typos and other corrections, something you found funny. Reactions, impressions. I cannot become a better writer without feedback. At least leave kudos if you enjoyed it.
I'll be recording a podfic of this work over the next who-knows-how-many days, and will link it here when it's done. Please note that I have zero notion of a timeline for that project.
In the meantime, notes on the content of this fic.
Much of the style and tone of this piece was inspired by the Storytime: Voltron is (Basically) a Disaster series by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle. The scene with the forge kittens was based line-for-line on Basically Under Arrest (Part 1).
I have never been drunk or hungover, nor witnessed the same firsthand for any extended time. This is based on other media representations of drunkenness.
The astute reader will notice that I mingle more modern methods of speech with the more Elizabethan dialogue. This was intended to mimic the manner in which the actors do exactly that, particularly in interactions.
The notion of Sheriff Perry taking valuables from an arrested Will was derived from streetwork in week one, in which a rumor went around that the sheriff was taking money from his prisoners. The wording of the rumor was ambiguous, and could've meant either stealing or accepting bribes.
Will abruptly and ardently claiming credit for pranking the sheriff was inspired by Trial and Dunke closing weekend, when Will flung himself enthusiastically at punishment in Horace's stead. I like the idea of Will recklessly throwing himself in potential harm's way for people he cares about, particularly for things of low consequence that everybody treats as though they are serious.
The idea of someone's drunk self pranking their sober self came from a Text From Last Night I have saved somewhere on my external hard-drive and cannot currently be bothered to find.
Streetwork on closing day indicated that the R and J play had been picked up by a producer in London, and that Will would be relocating there shortly.
To be clear, yes, I know the difference between Scylla (six heads, monch monch) and Charybdis (whoosh whoosh, motherfucker). Horace and Will are drunk.
For folk not present at PARF 2017, the cat sìth is explained in this Myths and Legends Finale.
I am neither herbalist nor doctor. I decided on Eskarina's hangover antidote by googling “herbal hangover remedy” or something like that, and selected some plants that I think would've been available in England at the time. I know not if they can be safely mixed, nor even if they would taste foul if they were. I also cannot vouch for their effectiveness.
You will note that I spelled the fire brigade's name as “Emily O'Bales” although it is spelled as “Emily O. Bales” in the program. I altered the spelling thus because I frequently heard her referred to as “mistress O'Bales”, but cannot recall ever hearing he called “mistress Bales”. If the cast made a mistake, I fear it was made to such an extent as to eclipse the technically-correct version.
Are village lanterns a thing? I've heard the term and it makes sense as a thing, so I went with it.
The notion of our Amy Cooper building square barrels came from an episode of QuaranTeatime in which it was mentioned that Amy was expanding her trade into crate-making. She would totally call them square barrels, though.
Speaking of QuaranTeatime. Numbered animals with one creature less than the highest number were brought up in a QuaranTeatime episode as something that was happening in Mount Hope. However, I had planned it into the story before they brought it up.
To be clear, yes, I know the difference between 'orchard' and 'orchid', as you will gather if you note that I spelled it correctly the one time it was in narration and not speech. Will and Horace are drunk.
If you never heard the tale of the wereapple, I'm sorry, idk how to help you.
Horace and Will are in no danger of being mistaken for burglars or anything when they break into Millicent Goodenstone's studio. Streetwork on closing day revealed that Millie was going to travel to Bath to further train and become a real master stonecarver, so this particular home would have been unoccupied at the time.
I am confident that I captured the voices of almost all the characters herein. The exception is Rosalind Anne Uxbridge, whose voice I had great trouble summoning to my mind. I hope I did her justice, and apologize profusely if I did not.
“...it weren't binding in the eyes of anyone, if thou takest my meaning”. The meaning here, of course, is, “It wasn't binding in the eyes of the law because we didn't go through the proper channels, and it wasn't binding in the eyes of God because we didn't fuck.” (The notion that marriage must involve genital muckery in order to be recognized by the Divine is, of course, rubbish, but the idea was prevalent at the time.)
A note on Tanninghop. I both do and do not ship it. If I may be allowed to quote one of my posts: “Whether deliberately or incidentally, the actors subtly play the dynamic [between Horace and John] just a little bit differently every day. Some days, they are as they appear in the plot’s basic premise: two individuals caught in baseless inherited hatred. But sometimes, it seems they were childhood friends before becoming caught in that inherited hatred. Some days, they are exes, the animosity between them potentially beginning with their breakup. A few times, it has seemed that the feud began with the two of them over some petty squabble in like third grade, and merely expanded from there. Once or twice, they inherited the hatred, but each harbors a repressed attraction to the other. Occasionally, they’ve even been secret lovers in the midst of the feud. Watching their interaction has become my favorite part of Queen’s Court, and I always look forward to divining what their exact relationship is on any given day.” Historically, I have always been trash for a unified canon, a specific continuity (or as much of one as is possible in repeated improvised interactive theatre). But in 2019, I fell deeply in love with the kaleidoscope of subtle differences in day-to-day dynamics. Not just in love with each individual dynamic, but in love with the kaleidoscope as a whole, and with the very notion of that kaleidoscope. I thus have no set headcanon about their relationship through which I interpret their story: I have a dozen. That being said, John and Horace are totally in romantic-love in this fic. However, this fic is not canon to my interpretation.
