Chapter Text
The great golden doors open slowly, their higher reaches lost in the formless mist. Beyond them, the Hall of Akashic Records stretches out into infinity, bathed in a sourceless white light. The Hall has been known by many names, through many lifetimes. It has been called Nature's Memory, the Cosmic Mind, the Collective Unconscious. It is a compendium of all the souls that ever lived, a record of their lives and deeds. Each soul is born, and lives, and dies anew -- and with each birth the sum of all the incarnations gone before infuses the soul with new potential, new promise.
The Hall of Akashic Records transcends time and space. It is without boundaries, outside religion and human experience.
It is not real.
It just is.
Alabaster plinths rise above the swirling mist in serried ranks, marching through archways carved of moonlight. On each plinth lies a Book. Each Book represents a soul, presently incarnate, wrapped in a thin, silvery glow. They all look alike to the casual glance, but here and there among the ranks, subtle colour plays through the glow in hues of gold, and red and green.
In this place and time, seven souls concern us. Of these, one glows with the steady burn of gold - an old soul, veteran of uncounted past lives. Another gleams with the green of young leaves, psychic potential apparent to those with eyes to see. And one shines with a rare sapphire light, the youngest of the Seven, its pristine pages yet untouched by word or deed.
The pages turn. A new chapter begins...
~~~~~
The year 1569 in the reign of Elizabeth I, by the grace of God, Queen of England...
The pouring rain turned the streets and lanes of London into foul rivers of mud. People dived for cover under convenient eaves, huddled in doorways or filled churches with unlooked-for congregations. The vast, accumulated filth of the capital became a swamp, threatening to suck down anyone foolish enough to venture out on it.
Sean Hastings wrapped his cloak closer and quickened his stride, the sodden feather of his cap flicking droplets into his eyes at every step. He did not want to be late for this meeting---not after John's heavy hints about a surprise in store for all of them. His heart beat faster in anticipation, for the Company, his surrogate family, had finally found a new patron. 'Lord Osborne's Men' - the name rolled easily off the tongue - was in business again.
The tavern loomed out of the murky night, its battered sign swaying wildly in the wind. The Queen's Arms' was good, as taverns go; the ale was unwatered, the food was filling, if uninspired, and the innkeeper was a friend. Sean pushed through the door, shoved from behind by a gust of wind and rain. The flickering firelight threw a lurid glow over the faces turned to him and a chorus of welcome rose from the crowd. He returned the greeting with a smile as he made his way to the back of the room.
"Sean! Well met!" John McAllen, book holder and manager of the troupe, rose from his bench to clap him on the shoulder. The merry blue eyes smiled into his and the lanky body quivered with suppressed excitement. "Ho, innkeeper," he called over his shoulder. "A flagon of your ale for my friend, if you please."
Sean seated himself at the table and looked inquiringly at his fellow players. Dominick Merriman, his sandy eyebrows raised, shrugged in response. "T'would do you no good to ask. I already have. He's as close as an oyster with this news." The grey eyes twinkled merrily. "Let him have his way. We will find out soon enough."
"Aye, John's as full as a tick in springtime." William Scot, his brown hair on end and his doublet askew, chimed in laughingly. "If I poke him, will he burst?"
"Enough!" the book holder hissed in annoyance. "I will ease your curiosity if you will but cease to plague me!"
"Wait." Sean dug a penny from his purse and exchanged it for a tankard of ale. "My thanks, Jeremy." The inkeep nodded and returned to the bar. "Go on, John."
"Our patron, Lord Osborne, is a generous man with a true love of our art." The book holder paused for a sip of ale. "We perform in the courtyard of this very tavern - even now, he sends for wood and canvas to build us a stout stage and space enough for an audience of fifty. Martyn is working on a play to start the season with, something light and easy to digest."
With one accord, their eyes shifted to the near corner of the room.
"In truth, he be working hard indeed!" Will smirked, but without malice.
Martyn Sonne and Owen Archer, the last two members of the company, shared a table in that shadowed space. Paper and inkpot littered the tabletop, but Thalia, muse of comedy, had flown, and Erato of love poetry had taken her place. Martyn's hand was hidden from view, but there was no mistaking, from Owen's swollen lips and lidded eyes, what that hand was about. They were oblivious to the rest of the world.
Sean looked away and sighed. He envied the love that the two shared. He knew that his soft brown eyes and well set-up body drew women to him like iron to a lodestone; he had sampled their charms often in his five-and-twenty years, but his heart had been touched by none of them.
He stirred restlessly on the hard bench. A feeling had been growing in his mind all day, a niggling itch, a vague foreshadowing. He did not know what to make of it - what his Irish granny had called 'the sight' came and went without due warning. Sean shook his head dismissively and bent his attention on John.
"- And here's a problem," John continued. "So much has Owen grown in the last year that he can no longer take all the female parts. We need another apprentice, for Martyn means to write meatier plays and..." He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes on the far door, and leapt to his feet, raising a hand.
The rain had abated not a whit, and the gust that blew through the room set the firelight dancing. The hooded figure in the doorway paused uncertainly before espying John's beckoning arm and making his way toward them.
"And - I have found one." John drew the newcomer forward. "Lads, give good evening to Edward Woodrose. Ned's father is one of Lord Osborne's tenants and our patron has commended him to me. He has no love for the soil and has been with strolling players some two years, so that he is not come new to the craft. Ned's all of eighteen and will be living with Mistress Kate my sister, and myself 'til he can fend for himself. What sayest thou?"
The young man cast his hood back and stood there, smiling shyly. In the ensuing silence, someone gasped. He was of middling height, slender of form, and clad in a simple brown jerkin and scarlet hose. Short black hair framed a beardless face, strands curling damply on ivory skin, and thick lashes shaded eyes that reflected the golden lamplight in pools of celestial blue. As he looked from one to another of the company, the tip of a pink tongue darted out to dampen the full red lips nervously. In short, Edward Woodrose was beautiful - with a purity of line that an artist might envy.
Will Scot broke the silence with a cackle of glee. "God's blood!" the irrepressible fellow laughed, leaping up to throw his arm around the lad's shoulders. "John! You have outdone yourself once more. Thou hast reached up to heaven to draw a dark angel into our midst! Come, Master Woodrose - meet the members of the Company - for family we will be to you from this day after."
In the bustle that followed, no one noticed Sean's unusual silence. As he had met Edward's eyes, the tickle of awareness at the back of his mind had flowered forth in a psychic shout of recognition. Visions tumbled through his mind, images both carnal and erotic, and he saw Edward's face wreathed in tongues of scarlet flame.
The room felt hot and close, and beads of sweat gathered upon his brow. He stared at Edward, his mouth dry.
"I have gone mad," he whispered.