Title: And Patches Will I Get Unto These Cudgelled Scars

Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)

Summary: Before he became a Time Master.

Notes: When Rip Hunter described his past as being "a cutpurse from the age of five", my mind immediately went to a line from Shakespeare's HenryV (the Kenneth Branagh movie version to be precise) and after that I couldn't shake the idea that he was taken by the Time Masters from Shakespeare's time. In fact, that whole episode fascinated me and I really wanted to explore how an Elizabethean street urchin might evolve into the man we saw in the series. So let's take a look at the possibilities, shall we?

Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?
News have I, that my Nell is dead i' the spital
Of malady of France;
And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.
Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs
Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,
And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.
To England will I steal, and there I'll steal:
And patches will I get unto these cudgell'd scars,
And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.

(William Shakespeare - Henry V, Act 5, Scene 1)

Two days ago, he had nearly been caught lifting the purse of an old gentleman in the crowd that watched a hanging outside the Tower. He had thought the old fellow was the father of the man dangling from the gallows. Someone such as that should have been stricken by grief and should not have noticed light fingers reaching for his overladen purse.

The old man's grip on his wrist had been surprisingly strong, but life on the streets of London had taught the young thief to always keep his knife had been within easy reach. After stabbing out blindly, he had run as soon as he'd felt the fingers fall slack, and he had just kept running until he reached London Bridge.

Even though the crowds on the bridge itself always offered many opportunities to lift a purse, he knew that there would be no room to run, not even for one as small and nimble as himself, if he was caught again. So instead, he crossed the river as quickly as he could and made his way to the new theatre on the southern bank, hoping that people watching the entertainments would take little notice of any children underfoot.

In the two days since, he hadn't managed to gain any coin, but he did filch a couple of apples from a cart in the street. He hoped for better pickings this evening, as he heard a rousing chorus of cheers signal the end of the play and saw that many of those leaving the theatre were already staggering with their wine and ale.

His eye was drawn to an exotic pair, both lithe and lean rather than sleek and indulged, but looking about them with a curiosity which declared them to be strangers to the city. Such travellers were often less wary than those born to London and he thought he might have a chance with these two.

The man was tall and wore a brown cloth coat so long that it seemed to swirl about his ankles, but his step was sure and his gaze clearly searched for some place or person in particular. His companion was a truly exotic beauty – dark-skinned, with her black hair uncovered and tied high above her head, and her large dark eyes were mesmerising. Her dress was also strange for a woman. She wore trousers such that a man might wear and a short doublet of wine-coloured leather. She walked with confidence and grace, but stared at her surroundings with undisguised surprise and delight.

Taking all this in, he thought again and realised that they might not provide him the best opportunity for coin or food, after all. And yet something about them still drew him along in their wake.

From their discourse, it seemed that they too were following someone, a man called Shakespeare, and when they reached the lodging house which seemed to be their destination, the two strangers easily gained admittance. Despite their unusual attire, they carried themselves with the carefree ease of gentlefolk and none seemed to question them.

He sighed briefly, for he clearly could not follow inside. But even thus thwarted, he took of measure of his surroundings and reckoned that he might yet be able to lift a purse this night. Outside the lodging house was well lit. Several people still idled in the street and several more were passing by.

A few minutes later, a clearly prosperous but angry gentleman stormed his way up the stairs of the same lodging house and it seemed the best opportunity of the night. If that man left in the same temper with which he had entered, he might be somewhat careless with his purse and other trinkets.

However, Fortune proved unkind. When the man did reappear (still in a heightened passion), a woman from the lodging house immediately followed, laying hand upon his person and appearing to offer herself for the night. Although she was very beautiful and smiled at him most brightly, the man refused her and hurried away.

It seemed best to accept that tonight would be another night to fall asleep hungry and he still needed to find some small safe space to hide and sleep in. He was just about to leave and start looking when the wealthy gentleman abruptly returned to the street, not angry and determined as he had left, but staggering and strangely seeming to spew forth water.

Just as suddenly, the exotic strangers also reappeared, running down the steps from the lodging house. They managed to catch hold of the ailing gentleman as he collapsed to the street floor. Almost as soon as his hit the ground, they pronounced him dead and said that it was due to an imbalance of the humours.

That was a lie. That was so plainly a lie that surely none would believe it. There was nothing natural about this death. This was witchcraft. This was the Devil's work.

They were saying that someone must fetch the constable and the pretty woman, the one who accosted the gentleman earlier, came forth to say she would do so. No one else seemed to notice the vicious light in her eyes. He didn't understand how they could fail to see it.

He had to get away from there. Slowly and quietly, with a hand stretched behind him to feel his way, he stepped backwards, into the darkness of an alleyway. He kept his eyes fixed on those gathered in the street – kept his eyes fixed on her – until she suddenly turned her gaze towards him and smiled that burning bright smile. The look in her eyes was pure evil and a cold chill ran through him, his breath catching in his throat.

He swiftly turned on his heel and ran blindly down the alley, not needing to look back to know that he was being followed. His pursuer had a light enough tread, but he had managed to survive alone on the streets of London for more than two years now with nothing but his wits and the small knife in his hand to protect him.

He ran until his legs grew weak and his chest ached as he gasped for breath. His pursuer still followed behind. It seemed that just his speed and nimbleness of foot would not be enough to escape. He didn't know if he dared risk it all on pure stealth. But between some houses ahead, there seemed to be a deep but narrow gap and maybe he could still use his small size to his advantage. He himself might barely squeeze into it and certainly no one larger could have any hope of gaining entrance.

He tried to slide through sideways, tried to slow his breathing, tried not to make a sound and he thought he might have succeeded. He thought that maybe he was finally safe, when a hand suddenly reached in and gripped him hard by the hair. His knife was already close to hand. He wasn't stupid and immediately slashed upwards as fiercely as the small space would allow.

This time, his captor's grasp did not loosen at all. Instead, the fingers tightened and pulled. He felt some hair pulling free, but refused to cry out from the pain. He would gladly lose hair if it meant he still could escape, but it was not to be. He was slowly and inexorably drawn from his hiding place, still wildly swinging the knife.

He was surprised to see that it was not the witch-woman who had found him.

It was a man he had not seen before. Beardless, but not a youth. Not particularly tall or richly dressed, but his power and authority were obvious in his bearing. Blood from several fresh knife cuts dripped down his arm, but he paid no heed at all to that, as he finally released his hold.

The man retrieved something from his belt and held it out before him.

There was a burst of blue fire.

Then nothing.

—

Another note: Yes, I simply couldn't resist that quasi-crossover with The Shakespeare Code episode of Doctor Who