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Chapter Text

Hamlet sighed and rolled poor Yorick's skull in his palm. How was it that a rotted chunk of bone had the ability to bring back so many fond memories? For a prince of Denmark, Yorick had been Hamlet's only childhood friend. The jester had entertained young Hamlet many times with nothing more than his words, his expressions, and a bucket of water. And now here he was, another skull scattered among the dirt. Now is he surely knocking the dead souls' pates, Hamlet mused, the thought making him smile.

All things come to dust. It was a fact Hamlet had known, but not completely comprehended, even before leaving Wittenberg. After all the events that had transpired since, he thought he'd have greater understanding of it. But now, seeing Yorick's bones littered among those of poor cobblers and wealthy land owners, Hamlet finally understood. It wasn't just the body that decomposed into dust, but honor and wealth and even love as well. Death was truly final. What did it matter how good a man's morals were, or how beauteous a woman made herself to be? According to the gravedigger, all it took was eight or nine years for a man like Alexander the Great to turn into a man like…him.

"Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away," Hamlet muttered aloud. "O, that that earth which kept the world in awe should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!"

Horatio opened his mouth to comment, when suddenly Hamlet spotted a group of people coming towards them.

"But soft, but soft awhile!" He whispered, pulling himself and his friend behind a patch of hydrangeas. "Here comes the King, the Queen, the courtiers."

Indeed, that was who the group appeared to be. They were slowly walking along the side of the church, all dressed in black with their necks bent, as if in sadness. Four men carried a wooden casket above them, its wood uncharacteristically misshapen and the lid missing.

Hamlet's narrowed his eyes. "Who is this they follow?" he murmured, "And with such maimed rites?" It appeared to be a funeral procession, but most events involving royalty, even events as mournful as this, involved enormous presentations of wealth and regality. More than just a Doctor of Divinity and a dirt grave. A shameful death, perhaps?

"This doth betoken the corse they follow did with desp'rate hand fordo its own life," Hamlet whispered to Horatio. "'Twas of some estate."

His friend didn't reply. As the king and his entourage approached, Hamlet pushed aside his musings and pulled Horatio with him behind a bush. "Crouch we awhile and mark."

The grave digger, meanwhile, had forgotten their presence, and continued to dig and sing under his breath.

One of the richly-adorned men detached himself from the group to stand beside the Doctor of Divinity. "What ceremony else?" The man asked him.

Hamlet's eyes widened. "That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark." He ignored his friends shushing movements.

Horatio sat back on his heels and blew out a silent puff of air. Both Hamlet and he had been away from Denmark for quite some time. Who knew who could be that casket? If it proved to be someone who'd been dear to the prince, Horatio had to be read to keep Hamlet from launching himself at the procession like a mad man. The loyal friend tried to see who was missing from the group, but too many wore indiscernible black hoods.

"What ceremony else?" Laertes repeated.

The Doctor adjusted the collar of his black robe as if it was stifling him. "Her obsequies have been as far enlarged as we have warranty," he answered. "Her death was doubtful and, but that great command o'ersways the order, she should be in ground unsanctified been lodged till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her."

Laertes opened his mouth to interrupt with anger, but the priest silenced him with a raised hand. "Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants, her maiden strewments, and the bringing home of bell and burial."

Hamlet stared at his hands, as if the wrinkles on his palms held the answers to his problems. Laertes had always seemed like a scholar to him. A bit rash at times, but a good and intelligent man at heart. Who could have died for Laertes to become this estranged? Hamlet could only think of Polonius, Laertes' father, but that funeral should have taken place months ago. And Polonius hadn't been a woman, unless Hamlet had changed more than just the old man's blood content and breathing patterns.

"Must there no more be done?" Laertes growled.

The Doctor of Divinity shook his head sadly. Though he was a holy man, taught that all victims of self-sacrifice were to be ostracized from church yards, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for the woman. She was obviously loved very much by this man, so what could have prompted such a beautiful woman to take her own life? But his musings would not help to put the anxious man beside him at ease. "No more be done," he concluded. He gestured to the freshly dug grave, which the gravedigger was standing beside like a proud parent. "We should profane the service of the dead to sing a requiem and such rest to her as to peace-parted souls."

Laertes nodded to the holy man, and then to the procession behind him. At his signal the men carried the casket towards the hole. The gravedigger, sensing that his work was done, hoisted his shovel on his shoulder and went on his way, whistling a tune and tossing Yorick's skull up and down, up and down. The rest of the procession took their places, the king and queen at the foot of the grave, Laertes on the side, and the priest at the head.

"Lay her in the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!" Laertes lifted his eyes from the coffin and openly glared at the Doctor. "I tell thee, churlish priest, a minist'ring angel shall my sister be when thou liest howling."

Hamlet felt his heart freeze and the blood drain from his face. "What, the fair Ophelia?" He breathed, and he scrambled to his knees to attempt to see for himself. Horatio finally managed to hold him back with an arm around his friend's shoulders, but not before the prince caught a glimpse of what lay in the open casket. The breath in his lungs vanished unused as he saw that it was indeed Ophelia being lowered into the earth, and not some other maid.

The queen wiped her eyes absently and went to stand on the other side of the grave. "Sweets to the sweet, farewell!" She said as she bent down to scatter flowers over Ophelia's body. "I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave."

Horatio glanced at his friend worriedly, but there were no emotional explosions yet. Yet the man sitting next to him didn't look like the friend he had come to know and, yes, even love. This Hamlet was as lifeless as the corpses beneath their feet, staring at the funeral with features as cold as stone. Horatio would have almost preferred a breakdown.

The group stood around the fateful hole in silence for a few moments, before Laertes broke the still ness with a voice that sounded like a snarl. "O, treble woe fall ten times on that cursèd head whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense deprived thee of!"

Figuring that the nobleman's words were their signal, the work men started to move towards the hole with their shovels, but Laertes stopped them with a raised palm. "Hold off the earth awhile, till I have caught her once more in mind arms."

In Horatio's mind, jumping into his sister's grave was the worst thing Laertes could have done. The minute the man's feet touched the newly exposed ground Hamlet came to life. He was like a beast gone made, struggling against Horatio's grasp and practically snarling as Laertes picked up his sister's corpse. But they're embrace was anything but beautiful or poignant, not with Ophelia's arms flopping around like dead fish. The display was so full of raw desperation that the Doctor of Divinity turned deathly pale, and even the king and queen looked away.

"Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead," Laertes said tonelessly, but loud enough it seemed he was cursing the earth itself. Hamlet continued to struggle in his friend's grip as the nobleman's words fanned the flames of his rage. "Till of this flat a mountain you have made t' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head of blue Olympus."

Hamlet finally managed to free himself from Horatio's grasp, and he burst from the bushes fully prepared to save Ophelia from defilement. It was the least he could do for the woman he'd…no, he had no right to say that word. Not after all he'd done to her.

His rage returned to him and Hamlet shouted, "What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wand'ring stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane!"

Queen Gertrude gasped and covered her mouth in astonishment, and the priest muttered holy words and crossed himself. If anyone had been paying attention to him, they would have seen King Claudius turn deathly pale, as if he was seeing his own death before him. But Laertes was only stunned for half a moment, before his face became red and purple from barely-suppressed loathing. He laid Ophelia back in her grave and turned to Hamlet, shouting, "The devil take thy soul!"

Hamlet paused halfway to the rave, his chest heaving. A false smile played on his lips as he cheekily replied, "Thou pray'st not well." Then, like two opposing storms, they charged one another and clashed near the foot of Ophelia's grave.

The prince might have had the element of surprise, but Laertes had the desperation of a man fighting to avenge two souls instead of one. He dodged Hamlet's first swing, and then skipped all pretense of foreplay and instead went straight for his enemy's throat.

Hamlet let out a strangled gasp as the other man's arm hooked around his neck and railed his fists against Laertes. "I prithee take thy fingers from my throat, for though I am no splentitive and rash, yet have I in me something dangerous, which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand."

He grinned as one of his blows struck Laertes squarely on the jaw, and used the reprieve to drive his ankle into his rival's knee and twist out of his hold. Then they were at each other again, arms locked in a wrestling match for Ophelia's love and honor.

All the while, the surrounding mourners cried out in shock and fear. The king turned to his men and ordered, "Pluck them asunder."

"Hamlet! Hamlet!" Queen Gertrude screamed.

The men in black advanced on the grappling men and reached for them both, crying, "Gentleman!"

Seeing that his lord was in danger of being arrested (and maybe being deported, again), Horatio overcame his initial hesitations and jumped out from behind the bushes. "Good my lord, be quiet," he hissed, pulling Hamlet away from Laertes before the king's men could get their hands on his friend.

The two men were finally separated, Laertes and the king's men on one side of Ophelia's grave, and Hamlet and Horatio on the other. The king kept himself and his wife on the edge of the proceedings, next to the still-praying Doctor of Divinity.

In the back of his mind, Hamlet knew that his actions were borderline unseemly, especially for a prince, but he was beyond caring. All it took was one glance…Ophelia. Was it strange that he was surprised to see that Laertes' words were true? She looked so peaceful, as if she were sleeping. Perhaps sudden grief was to blame for making him think such childish thoughts, but his sadness also made a new kind of determination settle within him.

Before Laertes or anyone else present could speak, Hamlet growled, "Why, I will fight with him upon this theme until my eyelids no longer wag!"

"O my son, what theme?" The queen asked desperately.

"I loved Ophelia!" Hamlet shouted. And that was the problem wasn't it? A maiden such as Ophelia deserved those words at all hours of the day, in the present tense, and a man who was not afraid to say them. But Hamlet knew that he was not that man. He lied, used those closest to him, and held vengeful murder in his soul. And he'd told her so, on that fateful day that felt like a lifetime ago. The words, "Get thee to a nunnery!", rang in his ears and made him wince.

She'd chosen to protect her father that day, and why shouldn't she? He'd pushed her away in a time when his addled brain could have used her comfort the most. And then he'd confused her with mixed signals of his love for her…what an ass he was! Was it too self-righteous of him to wonder if he was the reason she took her life? If he had been braver, or more honorable, with his love for her, would she have killed herself? As it was, Ophelia had died too soon. She would never know that although his core was blackened by revenge, his heart had always belonged to her.

He swallowed down the first of his sobs and locked eyes with Laertes. "Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum," Hamlet told him. "What wilt thou do for her?"

"O, he is mad, Laertes!" King Claudius hissed.

"For love of God, forbear him," Queen Gertrude said quickly, but it was unclear whether she was talking to her husband or Laertes.

Mad, was he? Not so near made enough to kill my kin, Hamlet thought, but he didn't voice his bitter thoughts. His quarrel was with Laertes. His mother's, and even his uncle's, judgment would come later.

Hamlet turned back to Laertes and drew himself to his full height (or as best he could while being restrained by Horatio). "'Swounds, show me what thou't do," he barked. "Woo't weep, woo't fight, woo't fast, woo't tear thyself, woo't drink up eisel, eat a crocodile? I'll do 't." His lips curled into a sneer. "Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I!"

With a violent heave, Hamlet broke free of his friend's hold and sunk to his knees beside Ophelia's grave. Everyone around him took a collective gasp and Laertes' face was as red as a furnace, all of them assuming that he intended to be the second person to leap into her grave. But, while part of Hamlet yearned to do just that, he couldn't bring himself to do so. She looked so out of place among the dirt and bones, pale and white, with a body that lay askew from when Laertes had held her. Even the scattered flowers looked more wilted in the muddy hole.

All men and women might be condemned to disintegrate into dirt and dust, but Ophelia did not belong under the earth. Not yet. Hamlet growled, "And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw millions of earth on us, till our ground, singing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart."

He wasn't sure when the tears began, but as he pulled Ophelia's empty hand on his lap he saw a drop fall onto her thumb. "Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou."

The graveyard was as silent as the pale skulls below their feet. Laertes had escaped his captors as well, and now stood opposite Hamlet. One man kneeling and in tears, the other standing and looking at the man opposite him with more respect than before, both loving Ophelia. It was strangely poetic, in a way.

Queen Gertrude cleared her throat in an attempt to clear the awkwardness in the air. "This is mere madness," she began, but with those words, Hamlet shut his ears to her. His mother, the last family he had left, had called her only son crazy. A strange world it was when a parent wouldn't even believe their own child.

Hamlet let her voice melt into a white haze and clutched Ophelia's hand like a lifeline. He laid her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes, losing himself in the slow, steady pulse beneath her skin.

He froze.

No…it couldn't be. "Stay awhile! Hold thy tongue!" Hamlet shouted abruptly, and he felt every pair of eyes swing towards him. It didn't matter, nothing else mattered, not if he had heard correctly. He put his ear to Ophelia's wrist and held his breath, waiting…

There.

"She lives," he whispered in astonishment. Then, to Laertes, louder, "My lord, she yet lives!"

The man standing across from him stared with eyes as wide as twin moons. "Is't possible?"

Hamlet placed a chaste kiss to Ophelia's palm. "Tis faint, yet her pulse rings like yonder bells." He stepped further into the hold that was no longer a grave and put his arms under the maiden's shoulders. "Help me, Laertes, lord, brother and kin; four arms will make to pull her from Death's grip."

"And a foot as well, I'll gladly help thee," he replied, nodding. Then in one fluid motion he climbed into the grave and hooked his arms around her legs. Together the two men carried Ophelia out of the hole and laid her body on the weed-infested grass above them.

The king and queen were shouting over everyone else, demanding to know why Ophelia was being treated so roughly, but Hamlet left Laertes to explain to them what was happening. The prince only had eyes for his love. Of course, it would be a much better reunion if his love would wake up. Though her pulse continued to pound along her neck the maiden showed no signs of stirring.

"Ophelia," he whispered, "your lord has returned home." Naturally, she didn't reply.

"How came'st she to die?" Hamlet asked the group around him, who were still staring at him in confusion.

After a quick glance at the Doctor of Divinity, Laertes kneeled next to him. "Drown'd, prince, 'neath willows. They say she left singing."

Drowned? Hamlet clenched his eyes shut at the image his imagination presented him with. He wondered if her singing meant that she had been happy in the end, as if perhaps water was her natural realm.

But, yes, of course! A drowned man could still be saved, since departed souls do not travel as swiftly to Death's kingdom on muddy, bloody brooks. He'd learned much about the dangers of drowning, and how to revive someone, from the crew of the ship that had been ordered to take him to London. With skills he never had a chance to put into practice, Hamlet quickly set Ophelia down on the ground so she was on her back, and used his palms to pump against her chest. Laertes made indiscernible sounds of protest, but Hamlet's growl silenced him. Utmost focus was needed.

That didn't stop Laertes from almost knocking him over when Hamlet covered Ophelia's lips with his own in order to give oxygen to her lungs.

Breathe, he thought, the word repeating through his head in time with the pressure from his hands. Breathe, Ophelia!

And suddenly, on the fifth resuscitation attempt, she did.

Chapter Text

It wasn't until Ophelia was lying on a proper bed that things finally started to calm down. After they'd brought her to the palace infirmary and the royal doctor had confirmed her health, the men in black brought Ophelia to her bedroom and left to give the royal family some peace. The Doctor of Divinity quit the room as well, muttering something about needing a drink as he shut the door.

Claudius, Gertrude, Horatio, Laertes, and Hamlet remained. The king and queen hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed, and Horatio stood behind the prince with a stiff back, not ready to let his friend out of his sight. It seemed only Hamlet and Laertes were willing to sit at Ophelia's bedside.

Hamlet, who had hardly relinquished control of Ophelia's right hand, glanced at the other people in the room and grimaced. A thick tension had settled among them, out of place in a bedroom decorated like a young girl's room and lit by late afternoon sun. If someone decided to break it this might all end in a shouting match. That was to be expected, of course. They'd just discovered that the young woman before them was actually alive; Hamlet was the only one here who hadn't wasted his breath grieving in the days prior. It was a lot to take in.

Still, Hamlet would have much preferred it if they would give him some alone time with Ophelia, just so he could gather his thoughts without anyone watching. He'd returned to Denmark ready to finish what he'd started, then Ophelia was dead, and then she was alive. Was he supposed to be happy that she could finally hear his true feelings? Remorse over how she had taken her life, and how that might as well have been his fault? Guilt over what he'd put Laertes through? Or dread, because now Ophelia would be present for what his father had tasked him to do?

Laertes held Ophelia's left hand and occasionally glanced from Ophelia to Hamlet, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Hamlet had no way of knowing it, but his declaration of love to Ophelia, and the whole "resurrecting from the grave" bit, was giving Laertes pause. He couldn't forgive the other man for his father's murder, but now Ophelia was alive. That fact alone changed everything. Already Laertes could feel his strong opinions begin to waver.

The two men had almost forgotten there were other people in the room, until King Claudius coughed politely. "I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him."

Horatio nodded without looking at Claudius, his true obedience lying in Hamlet rather than the king. Hamlet couldn't blame his uncle for wanting some space; Ophelia was still as white as a ghost, looking very much dead despite her pulse. And it did not escape the prince's notice that Claudius had been more twitchy than usual ever since Hamlet's return.

Laertes shook himself out of his thoughtful stupor long enough to stand and escort the king and queen to the door. (Hamlet certainly wasn't going to do it.) But as the trio left, the prince turned and nodded to his friend, indicating that he should go, too. Horatio nodded deeply to him, and then left without another word.

As soon as Queen Gertrude stepped into the hallway, all of the adrenaline and pent-up emotions left her in a heavy sigh. She whisked herself to her bedroom, trembling from exhaustion and mumbling something about taking a long nap.

Claudius, however, closed the bedroom door quickly, leaving him and Laertes in the hallway. Afternoon light shined through the sparse windows and bounced off of the stone floors and gilded columns. All was silent, as if the whole castle of Denmark was holding its breath.

"Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech. We'll put the matter to the present push," the king muttered fiercely, his eyes swinging like frenzied pendulums. "This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; till then in patience our preceding be."

Laertes was confused for moment, before he remembered. Of course; he had sworn to Claudius that Hamlet would die at the tip of his sword. How could he have forgotten something that had consumed his entire being so easily? But the answer was as clear as day: Ophelia. Who could thing about killing while she still drew breath?

And now, Hamlet had said those three words. He'd seemed apologetic. Somehow, there was hope for a future for all of their blackened souls.

King Claudius bid him good day and left to find his wife, his heavy black coat standing out against the beams of light that slashed across the stone floor. But before reentering her room, Laertes hesitated outside Ophelia's door and tried to gather some semblance of strength from its cool wood. His sister was his top priority now, not the prince. And yet he couldn't ignore his father's murderer, either. From the rational part of his mind, the forgiving portion, Laertes had many questions only Hamlet could answer. One conversation, he promised himself. One chance to talk one-on-one, man-to-man, and then he would decide what to do from there.

With a deep breath, Laertes opened the door.

*/*/*/*

Hamlet breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the latch click closed. Leave Laertes and his uncle to their plotting, he thought. All that mattered now was Ophelia.

He looked down upon his beloved's face and felt his limbs sag in exhaustion. In his mind, it had taken too long for the funeral procession to turn around, Ophelia's body carried in the coffin because there had been no other option. They scarcely believed what had happened right in front of their eyes, anyway. Only when the royal physician confirmed Hamlet's words did the rest of the mourners bow their heads in stunned, but thankful, prayer. And then came the formalities of it all: the physician insisting on doing a whole health scan, the workers grumbling about the extra work as they shuffled Ophelia's body from her grave, to the infirmary, and finally to her bedroom, the queen saying "God be praised" much too often for Hamlet's liking. Why couldn't they all just leave him and Ophelia in peace? He was grateful that everyone eventually did drift off to their respective quarters, but there would be no getting rid of Ophelia's brother. Laertes would return soon, and then, well…there were many heavy words that needed to be said between him and the nobleman.

Ophelia coughed and twitched slightly, but it was nothing for him to be excited over. Apparently all half-conscious patients did that while in their state of deep sleep. She'd been dead this morning…at the thought Hamlet held her hand just a little bit tighter. Ophelia might be breathing, but she was resting on the border between the world of the living and heaven. She could still die at a moment's notice.

If only she would wake up…

Hamlet flicked his eyes to the door to make sure it was shut, and then rested his forehead against the palm of her lukewarm hand in fervent prayer. "Ophelia," he whispered. "Please, wake up." His breath caught. "Come back…" The words "to me" died in his throat. He hadn't the right to say such intimate words. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.

There was so much more he needed to say, so many words that would hold greater meaning if she was awake. What magic words could heal her? Would God listen to his prayers, even after all he'd thought and done? There was not enough time on this earth, never enough, and if it was in God's power to grant he'd beg for more. Or at least for a second chance.

Laertes reentered the room as silent as he could, out of respect for Ophelia and her condition. He had expected much the same image as before, though the side of him that still despised Hamlet pictured the prince in the process of ravishing his unconscious sister. But somehow, the reality surprised him more. Ophelia was still lying on the bed, but Hamlet was clutching her hand to his face, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. His lips were moving, but if his whispers held any voice behind them Laertes couldn't hear them.

Well, the noble man thought. This certainly changed a few things.

He stepped further into the room, his heel cuffing against the rug. Hamlet visibly flinched and quickly set Ophelia's hand back on the bedcovers, the sacred moment lost. Laertes took note of the fact that the prince did not release her from his grasp, instead using his other hand to hastily wipe away his tears.

Laertes, being a gentleman, did not comment on the other man's display of raw emotion. "How does she fare?"

"Well, though methinks she blinked," Hamlet replied. His original wariness returned as the man who was essentially his rival sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. When Laertes took Ophelia's other hand in his own, Hamlet imagined that to an observer they must look like mirror images of each other.

They sat in silence for some time, neither knowing what to say. Or rather, what to say first. Behind Laertes the curtains billowed in the breeze from the open windows. The sound of a clock chiming in another room could be heard, but neither men seemed willing to distract themselves by counting the chimes.

When Ophelia's eyelids twitched again, Hamlet spoke. "Hear you, sir, what is the reason that you use me thus?" He asked. "I loved you ever."

Laertes had to have heard him, but he didn't answer. At the other man's silence, Hamlet turned his gaze back to Ophelia. "But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, the cat will mew, and dog will have his day."

That finally drew Laertes' attention. He dismissed the last sentence as the ramblings of a part-time madman, but the first segment was something he could not ignore. "It matters as money does to a man," he said with a bitter edge to his voice. "Ophelia is belov'd of us both. We should not quarrel, not while she can't hear."

Hamlet nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Then, "How fares mine uncle?"

Laertes shrugged. "As well as he should."

"And my mother?"

"Well; as fair as ever, though distress hath lined her face these past nights. But now you walk upon Denmark again. Methinks she might smile once more."

"For me?" Hamlet scoffed. "Not until I am my father's visage. Methinks Ophelia will make her sing."

Laertes appeared confused at his remark, but to Hamlet it made perfect sense. What had been his mother's first action at Ophelia's funeral but to lament that the maid would never be her daughter? Not to mention, the last time Queen Gertrude had seen him he'd been a shouting, deranged, murderous madman. She probably wouldn't be particularly receptive to him at the moment.

In a soft voice, Hamlet attempted to delve deeper into the other man's thoughts. "And how fare'st you, noble Laertes?"

The other man shifted in his chair. "I'll praise your name when Ophelia wakes," he muttered, effectively cutting off that topic of conversation. Once again, they let silence overtake them.

Hamlet wasn't sure how much time had passed before Laertes blatantly said, "You killed my father."

The prince, who was rubbing Ophelia's hand, paused mid-stroke. He didn't see any reason to deny the fact. "Yes," he replied.

A pause. And then, "Feel you no remorse?"

Hamlet could hear the rising anger in Laertes' voice, a tone as familiar to him as death. He'd used the same infliction himself. It was not so long ago that his father had been murdered, and he'd been the one cursing everyone he'd deemed responsible. Even Ophelia had experienced the taste of his vengeance, despite her being blameless. But Hamlet judged this to be the wrong time to tell Laertes of these facts, and continued to be apologetic. "My grief and guilt are not to be talked of. Believe me, Laertes; I stay silent not because my soul is of tarnished lead, but that my sorrow cannot be expressed more than you and I have bled already. Polonius was a good man." Ignoring the times he spied on me, Hamlet added silently. "Forgive me. I mistook your father for Claudius."

Laertes had also stopped rubbing each of Ophelia's fingers, and stared at Hamlet with a bewildered, but softened, gaze. "What gave you cause to slay the king?"

"How strange." Hamlet flashed him a grin. "I have oft asked myself that same question."

Either men might have spoke further, but suddenly Ophelia's head started to roll side to side. A small groan came from her lips, and her eyes clenched shut. She was finally waking up!

Laertes leaned forward in eager anticipation, but Hamlet remained clutching the maid's hand and moved no closer. Fear overtook his earlier confidence. What if she saw his face and only remembered how cruel he had been all those days ago? What if she forgave him? He'd heard his mother mention something about Ophelia being in a state of madness in the days before her death. What if her brain was still out of joint with the rest of the world? What if she didn't remember him? Which would hurt worse, to be hated or forgotten? What if?! The questions paralyzed Hamlet until he could look at nothing but his love's hand.

Ophelia muttered something unintelligible, and the prince could see fear flicker in Laertes' eyes. The other man had no wish to see his sister live out her second chance at life in a state of madness. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. "Ophelia," he said. "Dear sister, can you hear?"

The woman slowly opened her eyes, but even from Hamlet's angle he could see her face change to confusion. "Laertes," she breathed. "Brother. I'm sorry…I drown'd. Are you with me in heaven? Or some hell?"

Laertes smiled shyly and shook his head, willing away the small tears that formed in his eyes. "No, sister, neither. You can breathe again. You yet live, thanks to the prince Hamlet here." The man glanced over at Hamlet, and the prince was swallowed by Laertes' enormous gratitude. It was forgiveness. Hamlet might have killed Polonius, but if it wasn't for him, Laertes would be weeping at Ophelia's grave. Who knows what desperate acts Laertes might have committed then? But they didn't matter as much now. Yes, Polonius was dead, that much could not be erased. But Hamlet and Laertes met eyes in a new light, both beginning to wonder about the future. Ophelia was alive! Anything was possible!

However, as another furrowed brow appeared across Ophelia's beautiful face, Hamlet was reminded that the future would be severely dimmed if even one of his fears came true.

"Hamlet?" Ophelia murmured. Even the way she said his name made his heart hammer in his chest.

He felt her hand move in his grip, as if she'd attempted to move it and was surprised to find it stuck. On instinct Hamlet held it tighter, but the time for holding back out of fear was over. With a deep breath, Hamlet watched as Ophelia turned her head, and they met eyes for the first time in many (too many) days.

"Hello, Ophelia," Hamlet breathed. His love didn't seem to be breathing. "It's me, Hamlet."

He didn't even twitch, for fear that if he did the movement would startle her and she'd take her hand back. Laertes was worried as well; he'd just toyed with the idea that he and the prince could be friends, and that wouldn't be very possible if Ophelia wasn't back to her old self. But Hamlet was the only one of the two who knew of the falling out he'd had with her, so only he was worried about that becoming an issue.

Everything rested on Ophelia, and what she, and her brain, would decide to remember.

Chapter Text

The next day…

"Hamlet?" Horatio called lightly, his knuckles tapping the hard wood of the door as he entered Ophelia's bedroom. There he found the man in question sitting next to Ophelia, still bedridden but as lovely as ever. They were clutching their sides, laughing like children at what the other had said. Horatio smiled. Of course his lord would be here. A day had hardly gone by and the prince had yet to leave the lady's side for longer than a few moments, to the point of eating his supper in his lap. Indeed, if it wasn't for Horatio's skill at persuasion, and some well-placed threats, Hamlet might have insisted on sleeping in Ophelia's bed.

The prince wiped his eyes with one hand and met Ophelia's gaze, and Horatio amended his earlier thought. More alike to lovers than two children, he mused. In the previous years, before King Hamlet died, Horatio had been the one Hamlet crawled to when the prince was at a loss as to what to do with women. At the time, most of his yearnings and passions had pointed to Ophelia; was the same true now?

There was a part of Horatio that winced at the thought of the pair becoming something more, an unfamiliar side of him that twitched with jealousy. But he smothered the feeling and shook his head, reminding himself of why he came to seek the prince out.

Horatio closed the door behind him as he entered the room, the click catching the room's occupants' attentions. "Horatio!" Hamlet greeted, a cheerful grin taking up the lower half of his face. "Good friend! Join us!"

He nodded, and then dragged a wooden chair next to Hamlet and sat down. For some reason he felt the irrational need to be physically closer to the prince than Ophelia was. "My thanks." He nodded politely to the lady in the bed in front of him. "Ophelia. How do you fare?"

She reciprocated his nod and smiled warmly. Irrational feelings aside, it really was a good thing Ophelia had survived her attempted drowning. Her smile lit up whatever room she happened to be in. "Well. The prince was just helping me wake up."

Horatio frowned. "Should not someone be helping you to sleep?"

"Sweet friend, for shame. Hath she not slept enough?" Hamlet asked. He met his friend's eyes with a frown, but quickly turned to Ophelia's to make sure he was not being intrusive. Satisfied with the answer he found in her irises, the pair smiled shyly and Hamlet squeezed her hand.

Horatio coughed slightly and tried not to glare at the not-so-guilty pair. "Your forgiveness, Ophelia. I was wrong. Your judgment should decide my health, not mine."

Ophelia laughed, the sound echoing around him room like bells. "You are forgiven, sir. Now, what brings you?"

"Indeed." Hamlet turned to him. "This early, I'd thought you'd be out cutting heads off some most beautiful blooms." He raised both eyebrows and winked suggestively. It was a game they'd often played—before the murder of Hamlet's father took away the prince's joviality.

Horatio chuckled, but he shook his head. "No, my lord. 'Tis wonder at your escape that I do come to seek you out."

"Escape?" Ophelia asked, frowning.

Hamlet's brow furrowed, before realization dawned and the smile returned once more. "Ah! You mean from England and my exile!"

"Exile?!" Ophelia's gasped and she moved, her arms and legs scrambling on the bed so she could stand. Her eyes turned wild and frenzied, and her breath started coming out in heaving starts and stops. But less than a second later Hamlet was out of his chair and sitting facing her, his hands running up and down Ophelia's arms as he made shushing noises and murmured "It's alright, you're safe" over and over again. She ran her eyes around the room frantically, as if looking for an escape, but then her eyes focused on Hamlet again and she stilled. Instead of bolting, Ophelia let the prince settle her back against the wooden headboard. Just like that the moment was over, and Hamlet settled back in his chair with a barely-suppressed sigh.

In a brief glimpse of truth Horatio saw what Hamlet's constant presence had kept hidden: the lady Ophelia was not fully healed. Something was still wrong with her mind, a hidden madness that could appear at any moment, especially if she became stressed or scared. Now Horatio looked behind Hamlet's smiles and saw what the prince had concealed so well: dark lines beneath his eyes, and a slight stubble on his jaw from lack of a razor. His hair was disheveled, and the shirt and trousers he wore were simple and undignified, as if he'd dressed in a hurry. How long had Hamlet been in this room, really? He might have agreed to not sleep in Ophelia's bed, but that didn't mean he'd gone to his own bed, either. Horatio had no idea what state the lady had been in yesterday when she'd woken up. Had Hamlet been by her side the whole time, keeping her company with his words and his presence? Had he been the only barrier between polite conversation and the ramblings of a mad woman?

Horatio was suddenly angry. Where was Laertes? Why should the prince be the only one brave and kind enough to sit by Ophelia's side and keep her from breaking apart?

Hamlet must have seen Horatio's irritation flash in his eyes, because the prince was quick to change the topic. "So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other;-you do remember all the circumstance?"

"Remember it, my lord!" Horatio scoffed. How could he forget? He'd only spent many sleepless nights, close to tears, thinking about how his lord could be faring and if he was even still alive.

Ophelia leaned forward slightly. "Remember what?"

Hamlet bit his lip, the first sign up uncertainty Horatio had seen from the prince in days, if not weeks. "I killed Polonius, your dear father. The king sent me to England for my crimes; by some luck I escaped. All this you know."

She nodded, the dreamy look back on her face. "Yes, I know that. How did it come to pass?"

Horatio raised an eyebrow at them both. Why was Ophelia so accepting of her father's murder? An event that might have marked the beginning of Ophelia's madness all those days ago was now a topic that could be easily brushed aside. Perhaps they had a chance to talk and come to terms with the event last night? He made a mental note to question Hamlet further later and nodded at the prince to continue his tale.

"Friends, in my heart there was a kind of fighting, that would not let me sleep; methought I lay worse than the mutines in the bilboes." Hamlet's eyes turned distant. "Rashly, and praised be rashness for it, let us know, our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, when our deep plots do pall: and that should learn us there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,-"

Horatio rolled his eyes. Hamlet had probably been born long-winded. "That is most certain," he chimed in, drawing the prince out of his revere.

Hamlet blinked and looked back at him, a light grin on his face at being caught in the midst of his ramblings. "Up from my cabin," he began again, his tone betraying the sense of wonder he felt even now, "my sea-gown scarft about me, in the dark groped I to find out them: had my desire; finger'd their packet; and, in fine, withdrew to mine own room again: making so bold, my fears forgetting manners, to unseal their grand commission; where I found, Horatio,-o royal knavery!—an exact command,-larded with many several sorts of reasons, importing Denmark's health, and England's too, with, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life,-that, on the supervise, no leisure bated, no, not to stay the grinding of the axe, my head should be struck off."

"Is't possible?" Horatio breathed, his heart clenching in shock. Struck off with an axe? How dare they! Those orders…horrible! Who could be terrible enough to make a man deliver his own death sentence unknowingly?

Ophelia started twitching in terror, and Horatio didn't blame her, but Hamlet's hand was in hers before she could move. He squeezed her palm and gently tugged until the lady's eyes were once again on his. Only when she'd visibly relaxed did he continue his tale, though he never relinquished his grip.

"Here's the commission," Hamlet said, pulling a piece of thick parchment from his pocket with his free hand and handing it to Horatio. The paper was brittle from the salt water and the wind's teeth in his fingers. "Read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?"

Horatio tucked the letter into his breast pocket and nodded. "I beseech you."

"Being thus be-netted round with villainies,-ere I could make a prologue to my brains, they had begun to play,-I sat me down…" The prince shifted his buttocks on his chair for emphasis. This elicited a light giggle from Ophelia, but Horatio noticed how her eyes were more distant than ever. Somewhere along the line she'd lost interest in the conversation, even if her hand did not lose her grip on Hamlet's. "Devised a new commission; wrote it fair:-I once did hold it, as our statists do, a baseness to write fair, and labour'd much how to forget that learning; but, sir, now it did me yeoman's service:-wilt thou know the effect of what I wrote?"

"Ay, my good lord," Horatio answered on a good-natured sigh. Will there ever be a day when Hamlet would stop being the born-actor he was and just finish what he started?

The prince grinned like an imp as he recalled this part of the story. "An earnest conjuration from the king,-as England was his faithful tributary; as love between them like the palm might flourish; as peace should still her wheaten garland wear, and stand a comma 'tween their amities; and many such-like As-es of great charge,-that, on the view and knowing of these contents, without debatement further, more or less, he should the bearers put to sudden death, not shriving-time allow'd."

Put to death? Horatio frowned. That was a bit harsh, wasn't it? He ignored that revelation for now and instead asked the logical questions. "How was this seal'd?"

"Why, even in that was heaven ordinant." His hands came alive, illustrating his words with movement."I had my father's signet in my purse, which was the model of that Danish seal; folded the writ up in the form of th'other; subscribed it, gave't th'impression; placed it safely, the changeling never known. Now, the next day was our sea-flight; and what to this was sequent thou know'st already."

Horatio nodded, ignoring the fact that Ophelia was so far gone she didn't even protest about not knowing something. Was it possible to fall asleep with one's eyes open? "So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't."

Hamlet chuckled at some private joke. "Why, man, they did make love to this employment; they are not near my conscience; their defeat does by their own insinuation grow: 'tis dangerous when the baser nature comes between the pass and fell incensed points of mighty opposites."

Now Horatio was truly perturbed. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were two of Hamlet's closest friends, perhaps his only other friends besides Horatio himself. True, those two men had been part of the reason for Hamlet's eviction from Denmark, but was a "kill the messenger" letter really necessary? He could have simply escaped and be done with them. The Hamlet Horatio remembered from years ago would never kill without just cause. Perhaps something had changed him on that journey, in more ways than one.

But as with the other moments of Hamlet's questionable mental state, Horatio directed his questions towards a more impartial topic. If he still desired the answers to those questions, Horatio hoped he'd find some moment to ask them. "Why, what a king is this!"

"Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon,-he that hath kill'd my king, and whored my mother; popt in between th'election and my hopes; thrown out his angle or my proper life, and with such cozenage,-is't not perfect conscience to quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd to let this canker of our nature come in further evil?"

"It must be shortly known to him from England what is the issue of the business there," Horatio murmured, resting his head on his fist. In a way, these recent events were indeed ironic, but as Hamlet's friend is what his job to caution the prince against sudden or unnecessary violence.

"It will be short: the interim is mine; and a man's life's no more than to say 'one.'" Hamlet shook his head."But I am very sorry, good Horatio, that to Laertes I forgot myself; for, by the image of my cause, I see the portraiture of his: I'll court his favours: but, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me into a towering passion."

"'Tis most strange. Do I affect Hamlet thus?" A voice interrupted. All three pairs of eyes turned to see Laertes enter Ophelia's bedroom, unhurried but no more kept in his appearance and manor than the prince. The bottom of his eyes seemed to drag above his cheekbones.

Hamlet broke into another smile, this one more out of relief than uncontrollable joy. "Good Laertes, brother and friend. Welcome."

"You hail me as a king would to a lord," the man answered. He walked to the other side of Ophelia's bed listlessly, as if the movement was becoming a routine. By the way he fell into the chair waiting for him, Horatio wondered if it already had. "Since when has the blade in my late father been brought out to shine like golden doubloons?"

Horatio tensed and prepared to rise to his lord's aid, but Hamlet chuckled as if was nothing more than a harmless jest. "Since your late father returned it hither," Hamlet shot back. "Methinks the devil had no need for gifts."

"Nor angels neither." Laertes rubbed a hand down his face, scrubbing away any lingering traces of mirth. He looked to Ophelia. "Your health, dear sister?"

The lady looked down at him with a sparkle in her eyes that wasn't there before. "If there be gold enough on this round ball for me at the conclusion of those words, I should sit on my mound and touch white clouds."

"Justly, she answers so!" Hamlet said, grinning at her like the love-struck fool he was. Then he turned to Laertes and asked, "Have you talked with mine uncle?"

"No, my good lord, he only wishes for you."

"Then I'll none," Hamlet answered, his voice clipped. He turned back to his love without another word.

Horatio rolled his eyes at the prince's response. At least some things were bound to hold true. "Is anything the matter, Laertes?" He asked, hoping to God that it wouldn't require him dragging his lord anywhere. He wasn't particularly strong.

Laertes shrugged, and though his eyes were for Ophelia as well he had the courtesy to give Horatio some amount of attention. "Only that the king inquires after the ill-fated voyage of Prince Hamlet." He raised an eyebrow at the prince opposite him. "The wind whispers of pirates on the sea."

"More like ill-fated rats than pirates be," Hamlet murmured. Then he firmly shook his head, stood up, and gave Laertes his most charming grin. "Shall we walk out, and Horatio, too?" He lowered his voice and, glancing at Ophelia, added, "I feel there be more news to come to light."

"And in the sun, burn'd," Laertes replied, nodding like he was making a solemn promise.

Though he had no idea what was going on, Horatio didn't think it wise trust Ophelia's brother with the prince alone. He stood with the other man and said, "We will go with thee."

The three men turned to go, but then they heard a soft voice say, "No…"

Horatio turned, but kept his distance at the foot of the bed while Hamlet went back to stand next to Ophelia. He was surprised when Laertes joined him there, and did not go to his sister's side.

"Fear not, fair Ophelia. Take thy rest," Hamlet whispered in a voice sewn with silk threads. One hand lowered the lady's outstretched arm, and the other lightly caressed her cheek.

Laertes stiffened, but made no move to interfere. Horatio added it to his growing list of things to find out at a later time.

With a few more soothing words and touches, Ophelia consented to lying back down in her bed. Just before leaving, the prince uttered a phrase that confused Horatio: "Remember, you are forever your own."

Smiled, and her eye slid shut. Hamlet set her hand down beside her and joined the men, his grin returning faster than the glint in his eyes did. He left the room first, followed by Laertes, and Horatio taking up the rear.

As soon as Hamlet left Ophelia's bedroom, his eyes narrowed. "Be swift; afore she wakes we'll exchange tongues."

The two men began their small argument mere feet from the door, making no move to "take a walk" as Hamlet had first suggested. Horatio rolled his eyes at his lord's newfound love for secrecy, but as was becoming customary, did not comment on it.

Just before he closed the door to the lady's bedroom, Horatio took one last look at Ophelia. She looked so peaceful, already asleep on her bed, beautiful despite the paleness that still ringed her once-rosy cheeks. But her eyes were still muted and dull, occasionally sparkling with life before becoming shrouded in fog once more. Ophelia was alive, yes, but Horatio couldn't find himself to be glad for this news. Her eyes, her life and soul, were still asleep. It was as if she had never truly woken up.

Chapter Text

The minute the door clicked shut, Laertes rounded on Hamlet. "How doth she fair?" He hissed, as if worried his sickly sister would hear. "Tell me in manner most frank."

"Hold thy flapping; fie, you'll teach Icarus." The prince flashed a grin. "Iaso will see to her ills. Have faith – I've ne'er seen a drown'd woman so light."

Despite his lack of knowledge on the topic, Horatio felt his shoulders sag in relief. If his closest friend could be so calm, surely Ophelia was out of danger.

Then Hamlet's face darkened. "Tis in her mind that I see darkness now. Have you not seen't? That fog…" An unreadable emotion passed through his eyes and he blinked hard. "That curse'ed fog."

He stared hard at Laertes, and suddenly he was the spitting image of King Hamlet, the former: sharp eyes, determined jaw, unforgiving tone, and all. "How long hath she been so lost? Tell me all."

And so, in emotional starts and stops, Laertes told Hamlet everything. The aftermath of Polonius' death, Ophelia's apparent madness, her obsession with flowers, to the moment Queen Gertrude brought news of her being found face down in a brook. "The rest, you know," he concluded sadly, before brightening slightly. "Yet now my words mean naught. My sister lives; what a most bless'ed day."

Hamlet smiled slightly and nodded in acknowledgement, but he remained troubled. "But wherefore? How was Ophelia lost, from us, from nature, from even herself?"

"We know not," the young lord confessed, "for she fell without a trace. The moon retained its orb from craze'd to death."

"I know not what to make of her madness," Horatio murmured. "Death made apparent."

"Then is life forgot? Nay, Horatio, say it is not so." Hamlet snapped, stress sharpening his tongue to unwelcome points. His mind was a whirlwind. If Ophelia's madness had no known source, they had no way of knowing if there was a problem they should be addressing. He, Laertes, and Horatio could be facing something they had no way of curing.

He shook away childhood memories, stories he'd heard about people who'd lost their wits somehow and were locked up far away, never to be seen again. Hamlet refused to even consider such an ending for his love. "I know not if her state can be buried," he said, "but I shall try, and you both shall witness. I will carry our Ophelia home…" He stared at the door (through it, to Ophelia in her bed) with eyes of iron resolve. "Or else shall our madness perish as one."

Neither man doubted his word.

*/*/*/*

They continued to speak of Ophelia's condition, but it soon became clear that they couldn't proceed until she was well enough to function on her own. Laertes, having his own matters to attend to (matters that had fallen to him since his father's death), eventually bid his farewells, promising to come for Hamlet at midnight. It seemed they took turns watching over her, acting as Ophelia's most loyal guardians. Horatio reminded himself to ask if he might take part, if only so the lords would get as good a rest as their charge.

With Laertes gone, Hamlet made to open the wooden door, but Horatio quickly turned him towards the kitchens. "I refuse to be stuffed like a roast pig," Hamlet grumbled, but he submitted without resistance. His lanky frame and rumbling stomach betrayed him too easily.

Burning with curiosity, Horatio let only a few moments pass before he spoke. "Call Laertes a brother? Confidant? Friend? And Ophelia, lover most dear? What hath occurred here to cause such a change? When last we spoke you were most distracted."

"When last we spoke…" Hamlet gave a guilty smile and tapped his temple with his finger. "'Twas knife and madness here."

Horatio laughed coldly. "Ay, and it seems the devil hath arrived. Wilt thou forsake your friends so easily? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern…" He shook his head sadly. "The poor souls."

Hamlet's eyes turned hard and cold. "Men of little depth are no friends of mine. They took my uncle's words and writ them down, ne'er to be erased. They became like him, and, should they appear here, I'd spit on them."

"And what am I, your tilted, Danish fool?" Horatio had to stop, forcing the prince to do the same and face him head on. "Shall I wait upon you and Laertes? Shall I come and go at your leisure, my—"

"No, no!" At least he had the grace to look ashamed. "Nay, Horatio, forbear it. My distraction hath overtaken me; how dare I let my strife come between us! Forgive me, good friend, my Horatio. Let me speak a word and I will tell you all that past twixst me and Laertes, and Ophelia, too, this past evening."

He stared deep into Hamlet's eyes, searching for some hint of foul play, but finally nodded when he found none. "Then do tell all," Horatio said, sitting down on a nearby felted bench. "Your stomach shall keep time."

Hamlet smiled gratefully and joined him on the bench, eager to share yet another story. "First I say how Ophelia awoke. In a daze she looked about, unseeing; she did know Laertes but little else. Then my name reaches her ears, cries, 'Hamlet!', and rushes to my arms quick, shaking so; her warm tears made such marks on my doublet. Laertes, as confused as I, sat dumb and we calmed her with prayers of gratitude. From her we gleaned that she thought I had died! She wept to see me thus, in case I had."

"Was she in heaven?" Horatio asked softly. "Or in Hell?"

The prince stared into his clasped hands, his haunted eyes and clenched jaw barely visible. "Never ask," he whispered.

A shiver went up Horatio's spine at the thought. Had they asked her that question? Had they gotten an answer, and found it too terrifying to bring up again? Or worse, had she been in neither? Perhaps a purgatory especially horrible for those who had taken their own life?

He was almost glad when Hamlet shook himself out from his stupor and forced the conversation onwards. "But as you see, that passed quickly enough. As she breathes, so does Laertes' relief; with her awake we shook hands as brothers. In his eyes, distrust died, as it should be; sense, in all manners, returned for us both. I breathe easy now, though I know not why."

Horatio smiled at that comment, knowing what the reason was for that even if Hamlet refused to admit it. "She lives; we are all grateful for such grace."

A soft smile danced across the prince's face, and he nodded. Suddenly he looked like a little boy again, shy at the mention of his lady love and as bold and daring as a young solider off to war. Somewhere along the way, Horatio mused, thoughts replaced action. He briefly wondered when that transition had taken place, and why he hadn't noticed it as fully before. Or perhaps it was always there, simmering below the surface, just waiting for a murder-in-the-family kind of catalyst to bring it to light.

"Why not her father's name spark such…harsh moods?" Horatio prompted.

Hamlet raised his eyebrows and blew out a puff of air before replying. "Do prepare yourself for some amazement. Laertes and myself did wonder thus, and wouldst thou believe but her father, noble Polonius, hath been death's cause! All through both their lives, his hands can be found. A tighter fist wounds on her as one leaves: her brother, Laertes, you remember, left for Paris, followed by a shadow – his father's, as he discovered one night. Left with no one, Ophelia panics; tis no wonder she rejected me thus, and protected her father from my rage. My confusion, turned on her and all else…" He grinned. "A wonder you all can look at me still."

"That thought has oft crossed my mind, many times," Horatio muttered, and they both chuckled. "But how camst her to forsake her own life?"

"Tragically, as it would seem by her words. In a rare state of sanity and awe, she revealed, both to us and herself, that her father's death struck her most strangely. A northern seagull in a southern wood could not have been as lost as she was then. She said little else of the matter, then, or, as could be, she dared not think on it, but the very fact of her speech is this: she is at peace with her father's murder, and, as it is so, with me and her kin."

"She must have met him in another life to exchange words of sorrow and forgiveness." Horatio frowned. "Yet no cause for her distracted state now?"

Hamlet sighed, nodded, and ran his hand through his hair. He didn't seem to notice (or mind) when it came away stained, the marks of long, harsh travel not yet cleansed by a proper bath. "She wakes with starts and stops, gasping for air in a manner most disturbed and fearful. That is why Laertes and I take rounds: if we do not sooth her cries, no one will."

At that moment, a man turned the corner ahead of them and Hamlet, ever one for secrecy, said nothing more. A courtier, clearly, and their least favorite of Claudius' courtiers at that. Osric prided himself on his ability to uphold several codes of honor, to the point of obsession. It was oh so easy for two clever, trickster-minded, like themselves, to goad him into a temper – Osric wasn't known as the "angry yellow squash" for nothing.

"Peace; who comes here?" Horatio muttered. "Enter young Osric, a courtier." He heard Hamlet stifle a laugh behind his hand at his friend's mischievous tone.

Oblivious as always, Osric stepped in front of them and clapped his heels together. In unison both Hamlet and Horatio stood to match him, clapped their own heels together and stood as straight as a rod, maybe straighter.

There was that faint tinge of yellow in his cheeks they'd both come to know so well. With great stiffness, Osric reported, "Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark."

"I humbly thank you, sir," Hamlet replied, ever formal. He turned to Horatio. "Dost know this water-fly?"

Without missing a beat, he said, "No, my good lord."

"Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him." That's my lord prince, practiced as ever, Horatio thought as he worked on keeping his own smile hidden. "He hath much land, and fertile: let be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess: 'tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt."

"Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure," Osric began again, his fists shaking at his sides, "I should impart a thing to you from his majesty."

Hamlet nodded deeply, the tips of his hair intentionally brushing against the courtier's nose. "I will receive it with all diligence of spirit." He nodded at the other man's hat, a ridiculous cap that matched his emerald green coat and had a long feather sticking out the top. Horatio had the uncanny urge to pull at it. "Put your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head."

Perhaps Osric could have refused – it might have been better in the long run. But some code of honor probably told him that he shouldn't refuse anything from a noble of such high standing. He pulled off his cap (the feather bobbed up and down so very, very much) and said, "I thank your lordship, 'tis very hot."

"No, believe me, 'tis very cold." He leaned closer to Horatio, and he, catching on to his lord's game, followed suite. "The wind is northerly."

The courtier flexed his fingers around the brim of his cap and he swiftly replied, "It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed."

"Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion."

"Exceedingly, my lord," Osric parroted back through gritted teeth. Horatio, tired of standing straight for so long (how ever did this man do it?), began pacing behind the fellow. Hamlet followed the action as smoothly as if they had planned this in advance, trapping the poor courtier in his own standards. "It is very sultry, as't were, I cannot tell how," the courtier continued, still attempting to do his duty."But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you—"

"I beseech you, remember." Hamlet barked, impatience turning his tone harsh.

"My lord, his majesty commended…" He paused to take a hearty breath. "That you attend him in his rooms."

Hamlet raised an eyebrow at him. "Is't all?"

"Yes, my lord." Osric clicked his heels once more and lifted his proud, tiny, hairless chin high, his cap gripped with white-knuckles by his side. Horatio tried not to stare too hard at the back of the courtier's outfit, which seemed to be tied so close to his body it was a wonder the fabric had not melded into his skin.

He paused for a moment, the better to fix the poor man with a hard stare, before Hamlet shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "Better to eat now then be choked later. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will."

"I commend my duty to your lordship," the courtier replied, though it looked like it pained him greatly to say so.

"Yours, yours," Hamlet mumbled, waving him away. With yet another click of the heels, Osric put his hat back on his head, swiveled, and walked away, not even pausing to give Horatio enough time to move out of the way. The minute he had turned the corner, both men broke down in laughter, leaning forward and gripping their sides with the weight of their mirth. Oh, it was good to laugh again! Horatio couldn't remember the last time they had acted like boys again. It was freeing, in a way, and he quietly promised himself that he would never let his lord go this long without a proper laugh again.

"He does well to commend it himself," Hamlet said, wiping his eyes with his finger. "There are no tongues else for's turn."

"This lapwig runs away with the shell on his head!"

"He did comply with his dug before he sucked it," the prince added, and such a comment sent them into youthful giggles once more.

Moments later, sitting on the felted bench once more, the courtier's words struck home. "It must be shortly known to him from England what is the issue of the business there," Horatio said.

Hamlet nodded, but shrugged away the worry nonetheless. "It will be short: the interim is mine; and a man's life's no more than to say One. And, as he speaks down, so will I to him. There is more in this head than twixst his legs."

Before Horatio could react to such a shrewd insult, or even attempt to comprehend the prince's words, Hamlet jumped up from the bench and gave him a mock salute. "Wish me time, err I seek seconds to pass! And eat, or we'll starve at the lord's table."

And with a final wave, his lord was gone, whistling a tune as he turned a corner and disappeared further into the castle. Horatio sighed – he'd eat, alright. But as he started on the path towards the kitchens, he could feel himself already planning a way to save some for the Danish prince.

Chapter Text

If Hamlet could have walked slower, he would have. But he actually did have something important to tell his uncle, and it was rather time sensitive – an approaching army with an aggressive, trigger-happy, high-standing commander fell under that category, right? As such he too-soon found himself outside the doors to his uncle's quarters. They were large, broad things, made of dark wood and the sweat of a highly-paid craftsman. Hamlet should know; these used to be his father's rooms, and his father's doors. The quarters of a king, he mused. When had he seen the inside of these doors last? He must have been too young to remember it.

The memory, or lack thereof, strengthened his resolve. Claudius was not the rightful ruler, this was certain. And although killing had lost much of its appeal since Ophelia's revival, this false king deserved to be taken down, somehow. Hamlet just had to figure out how.

Ophelia did not deserve to live out her second chance of life under the rule of a licentious tyrant.

Taking a deep breath, he swung open both doors at once. It did not cross his mind that mere days ago, the Hamlet of then would never have had the courage to do what he was doing now.

If Hamlet had to describe the interior of his uncle's quarters, he would call them wholly unremarkable. Not because they were drab or empty, but because they were so rich and splendid in appearance that it was impossible to remember everything inside upon leaving. An enormous, four-posted bed in the corner, gilded with gold and expensive wood? A closet no doubt filled with heavy garments of the utmost quality? Stone walls garnished with elegant banners and colorful tapestries? A mirror decorated with the carved faces of the great Danish kings of old? With such a display of wealth, the man standing in the middle of the room seemed entirely unnecessary.

"Good morrow, dear uncle," Hamlet proclaimed, casually stepping further into the room. "The king, the king! He sends for his dogs and they bring him cats." He grinned and tilted his chin in thought. "Though methinks you may need them. Here there be rats—and not all of them reside behind walls."

Claudius continued to stare at him without flinching. After a few moments of drawn-out silence, he asked, "Did the king receive you well?"

"Which king, king?"

"The English king."

"English?" Hamlet scoffed. "Never trust them."

His uncle clasped his hands behind his back – a side effect of his effort to maintain his patience, no doubt. "Did he receive you?"

"No, sir. The scoundrel."

"Where is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?"

"There."

For the first time (as far as Hamlet could tell) Claudius blinked. Lines of frustration grew deeper on his balding forehead. "Where?" He grunted.

Without fully realizing it, Hamlet began walking around the room, staying downwind of his irritated uncle. He stared at tapestries and furniture, all in an effort to buy him some time, and test the waters of his uncle's mind. This wasn't a social call, Hamlet had known that the minute Osric came towards him; this was an interrogation.

"With the king," Hamlet replied. "The English king." He shrugged. "Methinks."

"Wherefore," Claudius ground out through clenched teeth, "did they leave you?"

With an even tone, Hamlet looked right at his uncle and answered, "The noose got them."

Before Claudius could formulate an incredulous reply to that statement, Hamlet continued. "But all this is no matter; your letter? No doubt received by the king of England. Your cohorts? Gone, never to trouble us. As for myself, pirates, and two sore feet – here I stand, humble, at your gracious feet." He twirled on his foot and walked towards the other side of the room. "And yet there be more for your ears to hear – a Norwegian army marches with spears and swords to knock down the walls of Poland. But beware of Fortinbras of Norway, who hath not lost his ire against us."

"You deceive me, a trick!" Claudius cried, stepping forward until his was practically nose to nose with his nephew.

Hamlet stood his ground. "Nay, my uncle. And as surely as the wind blows northwards he will not leave these lands without quarrel."

They stared at one another, and then Claudius turned away, his neck and shoulders as stiff as wooden beams. Hamlet felt the slightest bit of sympathy for the man, an emotion that greatly surprised him, but how could he not? Rightful or not, Claudius was the king, and he hadn't exactly had a peaceful ruling these past few weeks. But now an army would be marching through and he could do little else besides give them safe passage and pray it didn't all go to shite.

But what if he could do more?

"If I could be the bringer of good news, I would be happy with myself for once," Hamlet said. He stepped forward. "But all is not lost! Ride out to meet him! Display the might of Denmark for all to see. He shall decide which course is nobler: ride to Poland, or limp back to Norway."

His uncle stood stock still, facing away from him. Then, slowly, Claudius turned around. He stared at Hamlet with an unreadable expression, a dense mixture of anxiousness, anger, and surprise.

"If what you say be true…" Claudius said. "Then hie you hence. As of today, you are a prisoner – guards!"

At his call two burly guardsmen marched through the door behind Hamlet. "Yes, my lord?" They said in unison.

"Gentlemen, confine Hamlet to these grounds, to be watched at all hours of the day. I ride to meet Norway on our own land, with an army fit to make them tremble behind. Go! Sound the battle cry of Denmark."

"We obey," the guard on Hamlet's right intoned, before grabbing the prince roughly be the shoulder and leading him out of the king's quarters.

Even with guards flanking him on either side, Hamlet found it in himself to smile. Confined to the castle! What joy! He could have all the time in the world to help Ophelia heal. And with Claudius away, Denmark might actually be fun again.

As they turned a corner, he did a little skip. He would enjoy this break from acting deranged. And if his uncle died in battle, well, wouldn't that just be the strangest coincidence?

Chapter Text

News of Fortinbras and his army's impending arrival spread through the castle faster than that man could travel. By noon of the following day the servants and soldiers were abuzz with preparation, swarming to and fro in an effort to have all the necessary provisions ready by the following day. King Claudius' orders were very clear: the army of Denmark was to march as soon as possible. What was uncertain (and what made Hamlet giggle like a church girl) was whether or not there'd be a battle at all.

But, of course, that meant that another certain bit of news was also common knowledge.

"A prisoner?!" Hortaio shouted for the third time. His pacing once again drew him near his prince and away again. "You? The prince of Denmark…why, your dear father just rolled thrice over."

Hamlet tried not to rolls his eyes as Hortaio walked by again, leaning against a wall so he wouldn't be in the way of his friend's distracted state. They were in Hamlet's rooms, stuck there until the army was away so he couldn't interfere. Horatio suddenly swung around to face him. "And your dear mother, the queen? Go to her—"

"I shall not trouble her, Horatio," Hamlet replied, smacking his teeth with each word. He grinned wickedly and winked. "Now does she ride my uncle to glory, saving him from hard distractions."

"Dear God," his friend moaned, finally giving up to settle himself on a nearby bench. "We are lost."

The prince walked to Horatio and patted the troubled man's head. "Nay, my friend. Some…" He looked up at his door, which, in a distant, spiritual way, led to Ophelia's door. "May be found."

There was a brief pause upon hearing his lord's tone, then Horatio lifted his head and grinned, his expression changing from upset to coy in a matter of heartbeats. "You think on her?"

"Think? Nay, I dote on her." Hamlet stumbled backwards and collapsed onto his plush bed, his sigh reverberating throughout the room. "Her face brightens my harsh nightmares of late—starry-eyed she saves me from my own demons; mourning doves cannot sing if she be sad, thus do I attend her many a night to please her, as a servant to a lord." He lifted his head and stared at his friend, confusion writ across his face. "Methinks I wish to serve her, forever."

Horatio smiled softly. "My lord, you have already served her thus; your presence, alarming as it may be, hath soothed her in ways none can comprehend." An unreadable expression crossed his face. "It takes a strong heart to serve forever."

"Speak you from experience?"

Due to his position on the bed, Hamlet missed his friend's longing glance in his direction. "Aye, my lord."

They sat in silence for a moment, both contemplating different people. Then the prince proclaimed, "I do think I'm in love her."

Without hesitation, Horatio replied, "I know."

*/*/*/*

The king left the following day as ordered, with only a brief gathering of lords and ladies to see him and his army off. Ophelia didn't attend, as her revival still provoked much suspicion from the rest of the nobles, but there was no such excuse for her brother and the returned prince of Denmark. Hamlet fought the whole time his servants dressed him, until a sharp smack from Horatio reduced him to grumbling and complaining. Only the promise of a castle void of guards and his uncle kept him in check.

All the same, he did look the part. Horatio caught Hamlet looking at himself in the mirror more than once, admiring the way his deep red cape and doublet hugged his rather slim figure.

At the king's sendoff, Queen Gertrude kissed her husband on the cheek and wished him well. Hamlet settled on shaking hands with his uncle, while Laertes and Horatio bowed in turn. It was a rather long and tedious affair – the soldiers' horses were stamping their hooves and snorting at each other, fresh from the stables and ready to ride. The dust from their hooves hung over the armored soldiers like a cloud. It didn't help that it was particularly hot that day; Horatio wished tradition didn't force him to wear so many layers. Lord knows how his lord was coping.

As if he could sense his friend's thoughts, Hamlet glanced at Horatio and mimicked the panting face of a dog. They laughed silently, a tiny moment of joviality, while Queen Gertrude glared and Laertes attempted to ignore. As the prince turned forwards once more, Horatio tried his best not to stare at Hamlet's backside. A difficult thing to resist, really – his black trousers were well-tailored. Very…tight.

Finally the formalities concluded, and the king mounted his black steed and made for the gate. They stood in a line with the other nobles and waved at his retreating back, the procession of horses and men taking nearly as long as the initial ceremony, until at last the outer court was empty once more.

Unsurprisingly, Hamlet turned on his heel and left as soon as the nobles began muttering amongst themselves. Horatio watched his lord practically skip away, singing under his breath, "I'm off to see my lady love on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day; I'm off to see my lady love on Christmas Day in the mor-ning…"

Chapter Text

"HAMLET." A pause. "HAMLET!"

The prince's eyes flew open and he lurched forward in his bed, before falling back into the covers when he wasn't met with any resistance. He was in his room, alone. The sun was streaming through his window, and outside he could hear the distant sounds of the kitchen. But…there had been a voice in his dream. Someone had been shouting for him, but he couldn't reach them. He could've sworn it'd sounded like—

"Good morrow, my lord prince! How do you fair?"

Hamlet jumped and glared at Sammy, who's head was sticking out of his now-open bedroom door. The smile on boy's face was absolutely disgusting, and he'd already started talking again, so what was the point of ever replying? "The sun heralds a new day – and a meal!"

That joke was so old he was surprised it didn't add wrinkles to the lad's face. The prince Hamlet followed his new breakfast routine with an air of graceful annoyance. Sammy, the grossly cheery serving boy, would wake him up as soon as the sun rose. Guards would supervise his daily routine, save bathing and the use of the chamber pot. He would then have his breakfast brought to him (a meager porridge and slice of ham, nothing special), ending with a sweep of his room.

But he did not complain, for after it was all over, he was released to wander the castle to his heart's content. He was easily the most well-off prisoner in the castle, nay, the whole country. By midday he was practically a prince again, exploring the castle he had been away from for so long, and eating as many meals as he wished. The only reminders that he was still a prisoner were these morning traditions…and his confinement to the castle.

With his breakfast complete, he made his way to the room he'd rather sleep in. Not that Laertes would ever let him, of course.

The castle was as quiet as was normally was during times of war, the sound of Hamlet's heels echoing like thunderclaps off the stone walls. Even the staff had little to do once most of the men were gone. The only royalty left to serve were Hamlet (as described above), Laertes, Ophelia (only the bravest servants volunteered for that job), and…

Queen Gertrude. Right on cue Hamlet turned and watched her come down the staircase in the northeast tower. She paused, glanced at her son, looked as if she was about to say something…and then sighed and continued walking down the steps.

Hamlet was at a loss as to what to do about his mother. When they approached each other from opposite ends of a hall, she'd find a door to escape to or blatantly turn around. When Hamlet sat the table for supper, she'd leave even if she wasn't finished eating. She never frowned at him, but never smiled either. They were trapped in a silent stasis of their own creation. But how could Hamlet try and approach her after everything he said and did? If she was terrified of him, he'd understand. But what he couldn't stand was this constant silent treatment – Hamlet would take weeks of arguments over this incessant torture.

Not only that, but he had no idea where she went during the day. The servants in her room were always denying him entry to her room, claiming she was asleep or "out", and never allowed him to follow his mother for more than a few feet. Hamlet wasn't one to start fights, and therefore did not pursue the issue. Perhaps this was just what she did when she didn't have Claudius to hid behind.

The prince watched the stairs she had just descended for a moment, but then turned away as he remembered his original goal. Today was a momentous day for his lady.

*/*/*/*

"Again, perhaps?"

"Hold your tongue, Laertes, or I'll use it as a balm for my aches."

"The lady speaks the truth. Let her alone!"

"See you do the same, prince, my patience thins!"

"I've been wounded by my lady love," Hamlet retorted, feigning a stab in the heart. Ophelia blushed from his wording, but as usual, the subject was dropped. One just didn't discuss such things in the public realm of courtly love.

"Hold your mirth, love birds," Laertes muttered as he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "We're not walking yet."

Ophelia smiled. It was a rare and beautiful occurrence, one that Hamlet craved more than light itself. "I will be, brother," she said. "Such promise I hold! An egg ne'er hold so much life as I do."

"Well put," Hamlet replied, casting a gentle, love-touched smile her way. "And we'll see it so."

Very carefully, he took her right hand and placed it on his shoulder, Laertes mirroring his actions on her other side. He slid close to her, until her hair tickled his ear. "Lead us hence?" He murmured.

And very soon, she did.

*/*/*/*

This practice continued for many weeks, past the only two bits of news they received from the front: that the Norwegian army had been sighted, and that "Denmark was engaged". Hamlet and Laertes would take turns walking with their charge throughout the castle (under supervision by guards in Hamlet's case). All in all, Ophelia was recovering wonderfully. She was a shining light in the gloomy castle, brightening the halls with her smile and laughter.

Perhaps most importantly, she brought Hamlet and Laertes together. They had no time for lingering distrust when working towards the shared goal of making their lady well again.

Because although Ophelia hated to admit it, she was not yet completely healed. Laertes would be the first to admit that he and the prince did hang on her a little too much, but without them, the lady was prone to fits of disorienting panic. She was very uncomfortable in large, open spaces such as the great hall, and needed a maid servant to help her in the mornings and at night. No one wanted to tread lightly around her, but at the same time, how could anyone feel at ease with someone who could change attitudes so quickly and unexpectedly?

At the end of the day, however, there was always improvement. Ophelia was such a fast learner that they were exploring the castle grounds within a week. She still loved flowers, and spent many days educating her guides about their names, meanings, and properties. Some days she would talk about everything, from her childhood memories to big ideas she'd never fully understood, such as religion and philosophy. And then there were other days when she would be utterly silent – never stoic nor unfriendly, but verbally unresponsive all the same.

It was on one of these "quiet days" that Hamlet noticed a change in Ophelia. As usual she would give non-verbal cues such as nods or smiles, but unlike previous outings she began to be nervous around him. As if he was the one that could start spouting madness at any moment!

"Hath she spoken of ought to you? At all?" Hamlet asked Laertes one day while Ophelia was taking an afternoon rest. "You see her as much as I do, my friend."

"She treats me kindly, and I her," he replied. He shrugged. "'Tis strange."

But this trend continued for several days, until it got to the point where Ophelia would speak with Laertes at great lengths but not say a word to him.

Finally, on one hot, sunny day, Hamlet could take it no longer. He opened his mouth to question her (perhaps his mother had filled her head with lies about him – anything was possible) when Ophelia beat him to it:

"Hamlet—" (Hearing his name come out of her mouth was enough to give him pause) "—please take me to the creek. My creek."

He knew which creek she referred to. Everyone did. It was the one she was found drowned in – whether by accident or on purpose no one knew for sure. She'd never brought it up before, and neither had anyone else, but she'd always been careful to steer Hamlet and Laertes away from the western part of the castle grounds, where that creek formed a border between the woods and the gardens. No doubt it was a place of great emotional trauma for her; no doubt it might take months or even years before she would feel ready to approach it once more.

But after only a couple weeks?

"My lady, are you certain? 'Tis early…mayhaps I should call your brother here—"

"No." Ophelia's eyes blazed with a determination the prince had never seen before, and could only admire in awe.

With a respectful nod, they made their way west.

She hesitated only once, but otherwise strode forth with all the confidence she could muster. Hamlet hung back and simply observed his love, ready to support her physically as well as mentally should she require it. Before long the woodland trees towered above them, the flowers and grasses became more wild and untamed, and the creek stretched far and wide in front of them.

Ophelia was silent and still. She watched the water carefully, an unreadable expression on her face. She was so far removed from the physical world that she didn't even shiver when a cold wind blew through.

Hamlet was quiet, too. This moment, whatever it was, was sacred; he felt wholly unworthy to be a part of it.

Ophelia was brave enough to break the silence. "I perished 'neath these waters."

The Danish prince nodded. "Yes, 'tis true." He stepped towards her until they were shoulder to shoulder. "Yet did I revive you, Ophelia. Epione smiles to see thee well."

"Am I?"

The question was so simple, and yet…that was the question, wasn't it? She was alive, but for a moment, she wasn't. Even before drowning her mind had left this world, and no one was sure how much had come back. If she was indeed "well", they shouldn't feel the need to consistently watch her for signs of a breakdown. Right?

But watching her, here, standing next to the creek that held such significance for her, Hamlet knew his answer immediately.

He turned her and held her hands firmly in his grasp. "By my troth, my bosom, my soul, you are," he told her. "Aphrodite would tremble to see you—"

"And yet are my stars hazy; they flicker." She couldn't take her eyes of the water. "I wander as a moth in darkness deep, hidden from friend, foe; from my very self." She waved a hand around her face, as if an unseen veil obscured it. "Oh, how my pretty remembrances hurt me with hidden thorns. God praise you both; yet do I fear you will tire of me and leave me to my foggy nights and days; and yet do I despise myself for this, that which clings to the vine that ripens it until rot o'ercomes them both. Woe is me! Why should I weep to be dismissed by hell?"

Hamlet used his hand to gently tug her chin back to him without any hesitation. "Doth not the scratch heal before the limb? Shall both leave scars on thy soul? 'Tis not so. As the wise man said, time doth heal all; yet do not despair, my lady, nor fear—Laertes and I will not let you fall."

The only other sound that could be heard was the whispering brook beside them; even the birds seemed to be listening. He took a deep breath, and wished he could absorb the sunlight for courage. "His soul would cross mountains and seas for you if it meant you could be well, as will I; he holds a great love for you…as do I."

Ophelia giggled, and Hamlet couldn't help but chuckle with her. How childlike those words sounded coming out of his mouth! He wished he could put every feeling he had for her into words, but it turned out he had much better knack for soliloquies than with conversation.

"My courting of you was madness, 'tis true," he continued. Ophelia nodded in understanding, and her calm acceptance made him want to spend his entire life devoted to making up for his terrible mistakes. "Nor am I worthy of half your fair sum."

She opened her mouth as if to retort, but the prince just shook his head and gripped her hands tighter. "Ophelia, I behold you in awe, and therefore in such profound reverence I know not what to say. Except that you are—"

"Forever my own," Ophelia murmured.

He nodded. "Most assuredly. You are beautiful, passionate, strong; yet do I bend my knees and cry for your forgiveness; forbear me. I am sorry for the wrongs I've caused thee."

Ophelia smiled, and released his hand so that she could caress his cheek. Her skin smelled of the flowers she'd picked that day, and felt soft against his afternoon stubble. "My thanks, gracious Hamlet, yet do stand tall; the harm done to the other has no bounds. And yet—" A shy smile came upon her face. "Should we live our days to forgive, together, then will I be most content."

Hamlet was silent in shock as he let those words sink in, and then they were both smiling, grinning like loons at each other and at their good fortune. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and they both leaned into each other and sighed in happiness.

After a few moments, he became aware of the creek's gurgle once more, and he got an idea. "My lady love," he began, "do you enjoy water?"

He felt Ophelia tense, but her response was free of hesitation. "Yes, for it has drawn me since I was young, when I still dreamed of freedom from hardship."

Hamlet stepped back, but retained his hold on her hand. "Would you show me?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Ophelia nodded. She carefully led him to the water's edge, smooth stones and reeds marking its path before they disappeared in the darkness of the creek's depth. They kneeled together, so close to the water's surface Hamlet could feel a certain coldness emanating from it.

"I am with you," he murmured. Ophelia briefly paused in her deep breaths to nod at him.

A few moments later, she shoved both of her hands deep into the water. She gasped, whether from the cold or from a deep, primal emotion in her very being he could not tell, but did not take out her hands. Hamlet gave her a proud smile, and copied her. Under the water, he clasped her hand in his, neither of them caring that their embroidered sleeves were getting soaked.

They sat there, leaning against each other, until their fingers began to turn blue.

*/*/*/*

"HAMLET!"

The prince dashed through his dream of darkness, searching for the source of the voice. Was it summoning him? Or was it chasing him? Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared in front of him, hands outstretched like claws with a face twisted with malice.

"HAMLET!" It shouted again.

It was his father.

Chapter Text

"YOU SWORE."

King Hamlet's voice seemed to shake the very walls of reality. Prince Hamlet tried to cover his ears, but in this dream he had no hands. Instead he was forced to stare into the eyes of his murdered father, feeling as vulnerable as a child.

"Father—"

The ghosts' eyes flashed. His thin strands of hair were whipped across his face by an unseen wind. "YOU SWORE!"

Hamlet couldn't look away, but his thoughts were wild. What could he say to his father? All thoughts of Ophelia vanished from his mind as if she'd never existed. There were more important things, weren't there? Claudius still sat on the throne, Laertes wanted him dead twice over, his mother—

His mother.

The prince sat up in bed wide awake, the image of the deceased king burned into his vision as he took in his room. Everything was the same, but the air felt different somehow. More urgent.

Hamlet almost fell out of bed in his haste to leave the room for somewhere, anywhere. He fled the room with barely enough time for putting on his robe. Sammy - carrying what would have been the prince's breakfast – scuttled to get out of the way before realizing what the "prisoner" was doing.

"My lord! My prince!" Hamlet heard the boy's dishes clatter to the floor. "Guards, to your posts, make haste!"

Sammy's performance made Hamlet roll his eyes. He, Denmark's prince, a prisoner in his own castle! The injustice made his blood boil with a rage that hadn't affected him until now. Robe billowing, Hamlet flew through the hallways at a brisk pace, not even pausing to acknowledge Horatio or Laertes as he passed them.

There was such determination driving him forward that he paid little head to where he was going. His thoughts were not bloody, as they'd been in the past. Quickly he halted at an intersection. Down the hall on the right, guards were already marching to intercept him. On the left, he caught a glimpse of Queen Gertrude just as she left through a door to the courtyard.

There.

Hamlet followed his mother into the yard, only dimly aware of guards behind him shouting, "Save the Queen!" This confused the prince. Save her? From whom?

The first light of dawn was cutting through the fog in the courtyard. Queen Gertrude was crossing the yard swiftly. If she was aware of her son following her, she didn't show it.

The memory of Hamlet's first attempt at directly confronting his mother about his uncle flashed in the prince's mind and he winced. This time, Hamlet kept his distance, allowing his mother to enter the chapel in the courtyard a few paces ahead of him. When he followed her inside, he closed the door behind him as a form of habit.

Queen Gertrude kneeled in front of the alter with her hands clasped and head bowed. Truly, the ease at which she settled into this pose gave the prince the first moment of pause of that morning. She'd done this before, he thought.

Hamlet looked at the walls of the chapel, at its elegant stained-glass windows and traditional stone buttresses, and felt the weight of Christ settle around him. His father, the murdered king, suddenly seemed so far away, as if his dream had been nothing more than that.

A brief clamor arose from behind the door, but a priest seemed to halt the guards, attesting that the church was sacred ground. Then, silence fell. Hamlet felt it again: vulnerability, confusion, and doubt. He was a child once more, standing next to his father as King Hamlet Sr. showed him the entire kingdom on a map. He was told that one day, he'd be king, and this land would be his. Hamlet Jr. had not believed that he could ever be as good a king as his father; this moment, he wasn't even sure he could be a good man.

Hamlet looked at his mother, still kneeling with her back to him. It was only in this position that he could see how she'd shrunk in age. He wondered if it was hard on her knees or back. He wondered what she was praying for, to not be bothered by such things as pain.

The prince kneeled next to his mother and bowed his head. There was barely a step between them – the closest Hamlet had been to his mother physically in a long time – but to Hamlet it felt like a thousand leagues.

Moments passed. A draft made the air cold. He glanced at his mother, and he saw how her hands were clasped so tightly her nails were white. The last time the prince had been in this church, it had been for his father's funeral rites. Wordlessly, Hamlet copied her position; he suddenly realized that over the years he had forgotten how to pray.

Now is my moment, Hamlet thought. Now was his chance to tell her the same truths he'd told Horatio and Ophelia: his flight from the English noose, his feelings upon seeing the Norwegian armies, his revelations upon returning home to rekindle feelings of love. According to his dear friend, Hamlet's speaking abilities could make accomplished orators turn green with envy. So why, then, could he not breath a single word?

Hamlet was surprised, then, when his mother broke the silence.

"As I recall," the queen began, her eyes still shut, "twas many years ago that I did comb your hair for Sunday mass; you were afeared you'd drop the Lord's body. In this holy shrine, you kneeled beside me, ay, your fair locks in disarray once more, and performed the ceremony faultless. Then Lord's blood touched your lips, and then you smiled."

Queen Gertrude chuckled. "Without doubt, King Hamlet and myself knew we must watch our wine, lest you attain it and make such mischief as befits a Prince of the Wildlings."

Hamlet chuckled as well. He opened his mouth to reply – he also recalled this moment, specifically how pleasant and warm the wine felt going down his throat – but then his mother frowned. "Perhaps I should have seen the stone-carv'd words: my family's lives were doomed to fly apart. Your father dead and gone, God rest his soul; and you, for schooling and then for slaughter.

"Rumors is all I heard," the Queen continued, halting Hamlet's confusion. "all of them bloody; servants whispered of the king, your uncle, and of written orders so base and low his wife was not to share such confidence. You knew this, else you would be dead and gone; I cannot say how long you have had hate for Claudius, however just it is, yet I am afeared you hate me in turn. The laughter of my dear son does not last while I am present."

For the first time that morning – nay, the first time in too many months – Queen Gertrude looked directly into the eyes of her son. "I beg for your forgiveness, Prince Hamlet, for I have fail'd you, my sex, and my love, King Hamlet the Dane."

Once again, Hamlet could think of nothing to say. He blinked back tears and hoped he didn't look as foolish as he felt. He allowed himself to recognize that what he needed now, and what he needed many days ago, was someone to tell him the truth. He didn't need the Queen Gertrude that would hope to sooth a prince with platitudes. He needed his mother, the woman who kissed his wounds after his first sparing matches as a child.

"And I would beg your forgiveness as well," Hamlet replied just as solemnly. "I was horrid, to you most of all, and for no just reason I can describe."

His mother was frozen for a moment, and then a small smile spread across her face. "What I have become, a fool on a string, to miss my son grow to be a king."

Hamlet smiled as well. He chuckled, and the Queen followed. Soon they were both laughing to each other, kneeling on the floor together like they were sharing secrets. Under a portrait of Jesus, they hugged one another, with silent, grateful tears streaming down their cheeks.

A door latch clicked, and Hamlet and his mother parted to see a priest and a handful of weaponless guards entering the chapel. The guard captain nodded to his men and they shifted to stand abreast with one another, blocking off the prince's only exit.

Hamlet chuckled. "I have earned that reprimand from Osric." Despite the circumstances, his smile widened. "Ophelia will be wanting of me, though I shan't think why."

His mother laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You are as fine a man as Laertes, if not surpassing; your Ophelia shall not want of a more loving husband."

A blessing for their marriage! Hamlet beamed, as young as a child once more. "I thank you, mother."

With an outstretched hand he helped the Queen to her feet. Then he approached the guards, both hands raised playfully. "Be wary, guardsmen: my tongue hast no stopper."

The captain rolled his eyes. Then a voice from the watch tower froze everyone in their tracks. "The king and the sons of Denmark, at last! The king, oh, hurrah, we have won the day!"

The captain and his men raised a victorious yell. Hamlet turned and saw that his mother's face was as white as his.

Chapter Text

With a thundering crash, the castle doors burst open. Hundreds of soldiers poured into the courtyard, and they were far louder than they'd been when they left all those weeks ago. Their cheers of triumph vibrated the castle walls and agitated their horses. A welcoming party was being formed at the front of the castle proper comprised of servants, guardsmen, cooks, entertainers, and anyone else who happened to be nearby. Everyone was hugging someone; it didn't matter who they had been fighting or for what reason. It was enough to know that a man could come home safe to his family. Hamlet and Queen Gertrude nearly stumbled to keep pace with the crowds – it wouldn't do for the king to arrive home without his wife and stepson to greet him.

They jostled their way to the top of the stairs, their presence already causing a respectful ring to be formed around them. Hamlet resumed his position beside his mother, the same spot he stood when Claudius had initially left for battle. Horatio was the next to emerge from the crowd, a wide smile on his face. Hamlet caught himself smiling, too, as the high spirits of the crowd made him think fondly of his party-going days.

Laertes came next with Ophelia under his arm. At the sight of him, Ophelia broke away from her brother to stand on the other side of Hamlet. She gripped his hand tightly – the crowd must have had a strong effect on her, but she came to the thick of it regardless. Perhaps she knew she'd be safe beside a lover, a brother, and a friend. Hamlet beamed. Was it what had just happened between his mother and himself that caused his heart to be so full of joy?

Then his father's words from his dream echoed in his mind, and Hamlet's smile faltered. He gazed over the crowd, half-hoping that his uncle was arriving in a casket rather than astride a steed. Of course, it was sinful to wish ill upon one's own family – the prince wasn't sure if his uncle being murderous and adulterous made any difference.

Perhaps it was for the best that his uncle lived, Hamlet mused. When he'd first seen Fortinbras' army, he'd vowed to follow the opposing prince's example and act before thinking. He'd been so busy helping Ophelia recover that he'd lost that drive altogether.

Trumpets sounded, and the crowd parted down the middle. They cheered once more to herald the entrance of the king and his personal guard, trotting through the courtyard with banners flying. King Claudius removed his helmet to be better seen, but Hamlet noted how he was neither looking to his people nor above them. His eyes were fixed on something behind Hamlet and his mother, as if he could see something inside the castle no one else could see. In his eyes, was that surprise…?

The entourage reached the stairs and the king dismounted, ending the moment. As Claudius walked forward, Hamlet spotted the banner of Norway hanging from the back of his horse. It trailed along the ground, the red fabric torn and filthy. Fortinbras was an enemy, but Hamlet could not ignore the pang in his heart at the sight; he hoped the brave, young prince had not been hurt in the skirmish.

"My queen," King Claudius proclaimed from the base of the stairs. He bowed at the hip, and when he stood up again Hamlet could see his excitement in the redness of his face. "The sons of Denmark send regards to you, for thou art the most fair of all; twas I who dreamt of the mem'ry of thee."

Queen Gertrude smiled, and to Hamlet it looked as earnest as the smiles she'd given his father. Perhaps this was what drew her to his uncle, that common shred of youth between the two brothers. Her reply was equally playful, saying, "Then twas you who kept me awake at nights; I should wish your healers would find a cure."

Claudius' smile seemed genuine as well, but it could never match the strength of his elder brother's. "That, I fear, they've not."

The crowd gave another cheer, and when the king climbed the stairs to kiss his wife on the lips they hollered and whistled as well. Horatio was laughing under his breath at the noble men and women who were in attendance. Their faces were twisted in disgust, first at the sight of common folk being on their doorstep and then by sound of the crowd finding entertainment in this reunion.

The king stood between Queen Gertrude and Hamlet. He held his wife's hand with his left and raised his right to address the crowd.

"My people!" He began. Hamlet, for his part, was too busy trying to ignore his uncle's body odor to roll his eyes. "Denmark has vanquished Norway, and now our sons may return to their wives; may their sons sleep and dream of safer lands protected by God."

A last, hearty cheer, and then the crowd dispersed. Despite the day's excitement, it was clear that the common man still had work to do.

Not for the first time, Hamlet wished he could have a life that simple.

*/*/*/*

The first night they sat to supper – the same day of the king's return – all was well.

Roast duck, specially requested by the king himself, was served alongside a bed of herbed potatoes and other root vegetables. King Claudius was jovial in conversations and drank enough wine to turn his face purple. He complimented Ophelia's dress. He inquired about Laertes' future schooling. He proposed a toast to the country of Denmark and to his wife's health specifically. He even ignored Hamlet completely, much to the prince's relief. To everyone at the table, he was the picture of the perfect king, and Hamlet could find no reason to disagree with them.

There was only one moment that gave Hamlet pause. Just before dessert – a round of sugared plums and dates purchased from far off lands – Queen Gertrude noticed Claudius yawning.

"Heavy lids so soon, my king? Art thou ill?" She joked. The table of royal family members, nobles, and court attendants chuckled politely, but Hamlet raised his eyebrow in confusion. In the prince's youth, his uncle had always prided himself on how long he could go without sleep.

The king shook his head, his chuckle delayed due to his yawning. "Nay, forbear it, twas the gait of my horse and a long campaign, not your dialogue, that hangs my eyelids so."

More polite chuckles, and the matter was dropped. Hamlet shrugged, although privately he'd never consider a horse's canter to be relaxing. Soon thereafter the table was cleared, and the castle began to silence itself. The guard was changing as Hamlet bid a surprising farewell to his friends.

"Must you leave me hence?" Hamlet whined, adjusting his voice with altering pitches to make Ophelia laugh. "Your brother will steal you from under me."

Laertes glared at him. "Let's pray it's not so."

Ophelia laughed at them both, the light of a candelabra dancing across her cheeks. "He jests, brother, else I'd rid me of him."

She winked at him, and Hamlet grinned like a love-struck fool. "You'd have Herculean strength to do so."

Their departure was sudden for the prince, but in truth he should have seen this coming for a while. Laertes and Ophelia were guests of this castle and always had been, even more so now that their father was murdered. After a few inquiries via letter, Laertes had found property owned by their extended relatives that was not too far away from a university. He planned to finish his schooling there, while Ophelia would take a holiday with the rest of the family.

Hamlet wanted to whisper something in Ophelia's ear – perhaps a hint that there was an engraved, golden ring burning a hole in his coat pocket – but the sight of his lady-love had once again stopped his tongue. Instead he let a close embrace convey his meaning. He felt Ophelia smile into his neck, and in return he planted a lasting kiss to her forehead. When he pulled back, he could hardly bring himself to look away from her eyes. She had come so far in her recovery – Hamlet couldn't remember Ophelia standing with this much confidence before, ever.

"I shall put this prince to bed, Laertes, 'fore he stores himself among your luggage," Horatio said with a snide chuckle.

Hamlet made a face, but he managed to tear himself away from Ophelia's beauty and act like a prince. He shook Laertes' hand firmly, their eyes meeting and conveying a new sense of respect. For once, Hamlet had no doubt that Laertes would be happy to give his sister away to the prince of Denmark.

He stood beside Horatio and pulled his shoulders back. With the same words his father had said to every guest leaving his house, Hamlet proclaimed, "May you pass through lands and seas without strife to a good home and a better life."

Laertes bowed and Ophelia curtsied. With a final wave, they left for the carriage that awaited them. Hours later, from his room in the highest tower, Hamlet's eyes lingered on the road south.

However, Hamlet was soon grateful Ophelia was taken somewhere with peace and quiet. The castle of Denmark was dull during the day – Horatio initially went to the public brewhouses with Hamlet, but quickly left for them on his own when the prince started to sneak textbooks in with him – but every evening supper was fraught with unsettling behavior from King Claudius. One night, he gave a frightened shout without preamble, dropping his roast pheasant on the floor in the process. Almost immediately the castle dogs began fighting over the carcass, and the laughter this created drowned out any possible questioning. At the next supper, Claudius couldn't focus on one person for longer than a few seconds. With every flick of his eyes to the doors or walls sweat would gather on his brow and his chest would heave. And the one after marked the first time Claudius had ever been late to supper. He stumbled in long after the pig had gone cold, his steps slow and his shoulders shaking.

Hamlet realized how pale his uncle's face had become. His eyes wore dark bags underneath them with the sockets sunk into his skull. His hair was rapidly greying, the edges frayed and as unkept as his mangy beard. His lips twitched when he spoke, but one wouldn't have noticed that by chance, as Claudius would speak less and less as the night wore on. Even the nobles' talk hummed with curiosity when the evening came when the king departed for his bed chambers without even a farewell to his wife.

One would never know the queen's opinion of these occurrences just by looking at her, however. Queen Gertrude maintained the same stately composure she'd worn throughout Hamlet's life. For him, this persona his mother wore was not cold or heartless, but a source of comfort. After his father's passing – murder, Hamlet corrected himself – the queen was his rock; she was without a doubt the second ruler of the realm, even as she was preparing to marry her late husband's brother.

But, being her son, Hamlet could see what he'd been too stubborn to notice the first time he'd returned from England: Queen Gertrude was as concerned with King Claudius' condition as Hamlet was. Each day the king withdrew more and more into himself. His pacing through the halls was hardly productive, however, and by the end of the week, the queen was back to attending to matters of the State in the king's absence. Hamlet would be present for these meetings, and he would be brimming with pride at how poised his mother stood and spoke. However, although it was clear the generals, nobles, and ambassadors did not buy whatever flimsy excuse Queen Gertrude could conjure up, there was no use arguing about it. The king was entirely unreachable, mentally and physically.

"I'm at my wit's end!" Queen Gertrude admitted. Her and Hamlet were in her drawing room after discussing the events of the latest counselor meeting. "He ne'er rests, ne'er sleeps; he sits distracted, looks through me elsewhere."

The prince frowned. "He's ceased all speech?"

His mother sighed and looked towards the window. "It seems he has, for now. Methinks something unnatural lies here."

"Horatio calls it the shock of war."

"So speaks a scholar, not a warrior," the queen gently admonished with a smile. "The king speaks mighty words of the battle; he's not afeared to speak of his vict'ry."

Hamlet thought for a moment. "The curse of long life?" He offered.

Queen Gertrude gave him a sharp look. "Tis a curse of mem'ry, not of sound mind."

The prince looked away, regretting his words immediately. His late father and uncle were close to the same age, and yet King Hamlet Sr. had died a mentally-sound man.

He heard his mother sigh and turned towards her. She'd rested her chin on her hand and was staring out the window, lost in thought. "I grieve the loss of a second husband, Hamlet, though it pains you to hear of it. A great man was your father; Claudius, perhaps only a good one; I loved him if not for scant else."

Hamlet swallowed the feelings that had risen at his mother's admission, but he finally nodded. With Claudius' condition, the queen was twice a widow, and the only two people who could help her with that were beyond the reach of mortals.

Queen Gertrude briefly blew out a puff of air. She returned to her original position in her chair: back rim-rod straight, hands folded neatly together on her lap. "Have you writ a word to Ophelia?"

Hamlet scoffed. "Of mine uncle? Nay, it'd but trouble her. But writ her I have."

His mother's eyes sparkled. "What fantasies have you bombarded her with?"

"Oh, mother, for sooth!"

She winked, much to his horror. "Fondly do I recall a summer's day filled with Hamlet's words to read and to hear; a gentleman in speech alone, I pray! Though his letters were thick with meaning—"

"No…!" Hamlet covered his face in mock anguish, a pose that caused his mother to laugh. He tried his best to memorize the sound of it.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the castle coming from the window. A light breeze blew through, lifting the corners of their papers one by one.

"I wish to marry her, mother."

It was Queen Gertrude's turn to scoff. "Swear it now? Hath you not sworn it a hundred times o'er? Blessings are given; drink, dance, there's not time enough for it all."

Hamlet glanced sideways at the queen in confusion. She waved her hand flippantly. "God hath given the blessings of children and has seen fit to dismiss it; an heir, Hamlet, an heir will save the Danish throne. Worry not, my son—I've simple wishes to adhere to now."

The prince nodded solemly. He opened his mouth to thank his mother, but she beat him to it, saying, "Oh! Betwixt your search for words of beauty and summer to describe your lady love, recall to your good friend, Horatio, as introductions are of pertinence."

"If her hair be touched by fire, tell all I've left for England."

That got another laugh out of the queen of Denmark. The sound made Hamlet smile once more.

*/*/*/*

In hindsight, they should have foreseen King Claudius' final plunge into madness from day one.

That night, Hamlet opened his eyes to a dark bedroom. It was drafty again, and completely silent. From the window slit he could hear the light flapping of a Danish flag hanging on the stone wall outside. If Hamlet lay still enough, he could even catch the occasional sound of an archer patrolling on the wall beneath him.

Although it was late, the prince found himself wide awake. He was suddenly twitchy, like he was a bird finally allowed to leave its cage. Hamlet frowned. It was not fear he was feeling…maybe alarm?

A chill crawled down his spine.

Something moved in the periphery of his left eye.

Hamlet sat up so quickly his vision blurred with dizziness. But there was nothing there – he was alone in his room. There was hardly even a breeze.

The prince suddenly had the burning desire to take a walk. He wasn't sure where, but it didn't seem to matter. He just needed to move.

Now shaken, Hamlet quickly donned a robe and slippers and left his dark room for the dimly-lit hallways, grateful he didn't need a posse of guards with him every second of the day. At first his feet automatically turned towards the room where Ophelia had been staying, a reaction from the days where he'd taken shifts with Laertes watching over their love's condition. After a brief pause, the prince turned around and walked towards Horatio's room instead. It was a longer walk to get to that part of the castle, but Hamlet wanted someone to talk to. Maybe he could go with Horatio to the pub and meet that person his mother mentioned. Hamlet chuckled to himself – a drink sounded perfect at that moment, but he'd forgotten to grab his coin purse.

The stone corridors were as drafty as his room was now that the servants had extinguished any fires in the common areas. For a while Hamlet's only companions were the torches on the walls, although he did nearly trip on a sleeping dog at one point.

At the great hall he passed two guards. They both stood at attention for the prince, but guard on the right was noticeably slower to act than the other.

"You guard most carefully upon your hour," Hamlet told them. "Have you had quiet guard?"

"Not a mouse stirs," The guard on the left replied. The other was blinking heavily.

The prince smiled. "Pray it ever thus." He nodded to them. "Good eve to you both."

The guards saluted, and held the position until Hamlet left the room. Behind him he heard the clank of their metal as they relaxed. He smiled – hopefully the tired one was able to return to his nap.

Hamlet rounded the corner—

And froze stock-still. An arm's distance ahead of him was Claudius leaning front first against the wall. He wore only his night robe, without even shoes on his feet. One arm was grasping the stones while the other clutched his chest. He was shaking – in the faint light, his gray strands of hair made him look more like an old man than ever.

"Uncle…?"

The king swung his head and stared at his nephew. Hamlet took a step back in alarm, for Claudius' eyes were as wide as moons. Sweat beaded his brow despite the cool night air and his breath came out in short gasps. He looked like he wanted to speak but had forgotten how. In this setting, the torchlight only accented his sunken eyes. Stress had etched itself into every line and dark mark on his face.

Hamlet glanced down and sucked in a breath. The robe had blocked it earlier, but now the prince could see that Claudius' other hand was clutching a knife with white, trembling knuckles.

He should call for the guards, Hamlet reasoned. He should get away from this madman as fast as possible. But he could not fathom why his uncle looked so…terrified.

Claudius blinked rapidly, a sign that he was awake and not possessed or sleep-walking. He glanced at something behind his nephew and gasped for air. Now even his knife blade was shaking, causing the light to reflect against Hamlet's eyes.

"Oh…have you ill intents?" The king rasped. He sounded tense and weary at the same time, like he'd finally been cornered after a long chase.

"Not I, my lord," Hamlet replied carefully. How was he supposed to talk to a lunatic with a knife? Not a month prior he thought that he was the craziest one in the castle.

Claudius didn't seem to have heard him – his eyes were distant, like he was concentrating on something else.

"You torture me, for hours a day, why?" He croaked. "I spoke the holy words, I bent my knees; are you an angel, then, to appease me? A demon, a restless spirit? Each hour of fighting I paid for my crimes in blood of thousands of men; Denmark's' mothers' sons, and ones of Norway."

Nothing moved or made a sound, not even the prince. His uncle narrowed his eyes at whatever he believed was behind Hamlet. "Have you a forked tongue? Speak! My acts were true, and if not to our God then to myself. First dreams, now waking sight, cease your taunting. Speak, I pray you, else flee to your master. Answer, brother, wherefore do you haunt me thus?"

Spirit.

Brother.

Hamlet's eyes widened. So did his uncle's. Then, before the prince could speak, Claudius turned and ran down the hall.

It took Hamlet a moment to regain his voice. "Guards," he spoke. "Guards! Legions, the king! The king is mad!"

Well, perhaps "mad" wasn't the right word for it. But what other word could spark a reaction inside this castle so quickly?

Hamlet took off after his uncle at a sprint while shouting as loud as he possibly could. It wasn't long before he heard the clatter of armor behind him.

"The king, where is the king?" The non-sleepy guard shouted behind him.

"A pace ahead," Hamlet answered. He saw his uncle turn the corner and hurried to follow. Where was he going?

From the opposite doorway that Claudius took came the captain of the guard. As soon as he spotted the prince, he fell into step beside him. "Prince, speak. If this be a trick—"

"No trick, sirrah." Hamlet resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps a half-truth would satisfy the captain. "The king sees ghosts about; he rejects them but they've his soul ensnared for devil's meat."

"God above!" The captain cried.

As they rounded another turn, it seemed Claudius was not running planning on running himself out of the castle after all. The guard began to slow and split off, the captain shouting orders where necessary. They meant to corner the king, but where…?

Hamlet finally recognized the hallway he was running in. His uncle was headed for the church.

*/*/*/*

The evening air hit Hamlet's face abruptly, halting him in his tracks. He was just outside the castle interior, with the church a few paces in front of him and the graveyard alongside it. Around him more guards were stumbling forward, their armor hastily donned as they'd woken from sleep. They were assembling around the graveyard, and Hamlet soon saw why. As his eyes adjusted, he could now see the outline of Claudius standing among the gravestones.

The prince shivered, though he knew not if it was from the damp grass chilling his feet or some darker power.

Hamlet breathed in deeply. He exhaled, taking the scant few seconds allowed to him to savor the coolness of it on his tongue. Then, the prince strode forward. The guards parted for him without preamble and the captain did not challenge him – a mad king was clearly outside of their skill level.

He walked to his uncle until he was a scant few feet away. Claudius remained standing where he'd been, his eyes staring unblinking at a spot to the left of them both. On God's Earth, the only thing that was on that spot was King Hamlet's grave. But only Hamlet and Claudius could see beneath the veil to what was truly there: the ghost of King Hamlet Sr. himself.

"SWEAR."

Hamlet's father's voice was as intimidating as ever, but it sounded softer somehow. To Hamlet it could have been a passing breeze, not the hurricane it was all those weeks ago.

Claudius shivered at the sound of it, however, as if the strength of the former king's words had rung through his entire body. He was holding the knife with both hands now. "Brother. I…"

The ghost stared at the man that used to be his brother.

King Claudius paused. He blinked and looked around, at the guards, his nephew, and finally the ghost of his brother. Using the last of his inner strength, he stood straight and quelled his shaking. "King Hamlet—nay, brother—with quick poison I doomed us both to graves without just rites; grief ne'er touched my heart to see you laid down: tis befitting my crimes made to heaven that I tremble before you now. Forswear, you mean to tell me, reject my kingship and enter heaven? I am too foul to have my prayers answered."

He lifted the knife out in front of him, the blade pointing towards the stoic spirit. "I've forsworn your tricks, your remorse, your woe. If I swear, I give witness to myself, that which has ne'er led me astray, never; if my thoughts betray my sins, then let words reach Men freely, the most sinful of all."

With the greatest care and intent, Claudius flipped the blade of the knife to face himself. "There is no sin that can be forgiven worse than following one's own ambitions."

Hamlet had killed a man before, but it did not prepare him for the blood gurgling out of Claudius' slashed neck. He did not know how to react to the sound of his uncle's last breaths being cut off by the sheer amount of that blood. He was even surprised by the lack of a real sound when Claudius fell to the ground, his body already cold from the evening air.

Chapter Text

"Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Ophelia, will you have me?"*

"I will."

"Now join hands, and with your hands your hearts**; in sight of God and Men, I pronounce you man and wife, lord and lady of the Danes!"

Cheers and hollers resounded through the great hall, making Hamlet and Ophelia smile through their first kiss as husband and wife. When they parted lips, they lingered in that position, their foreheads touching as they gazed into each other's eyes. Hamlet's mind was in a whirlwind, but for once, it was not because he was contemplating the inherent flaw of Man. At that moment, he was committing to memory the shine of Ophelia's eyes, the joyful smile on her lips, and the feeling of a gold band on the finger of his right hand.

*/*/*/*

Next was the prince's least favorite Danish tradition: the kisses given to the bride and groom. First, all men in attendance, excluding Hamlet, gave Ophelia a kiss. Laertes and Horatio gave her respectful pecks on the cheek, but some of the nobles, red in the face with premature drinking, decided to kiss Ophelia fully on the lips. Hamlet had gripped the arm of a chair through the whole ordeal while making a mental note on which nobles he'd need to keep his wife far away from.

Wife. What a fun word to say, Hamlet thought, a smile coming to his face. He should really use it more often.

The second half was the reverse, where every woman except for Ophelia gave Hamlet kisses. Queen Gertrude gave her son a very tender one on his cheek, but the other women were, in his opinion, too brave for their own good. A group of French ladies whom Ophelia had befriended and invited gave him several kisses each, on both cheeks and lips. Afterwards they crowded around Ophelia, giggling and tittering to her in their language. Hamlet couldn't help but grin – Ophelia was becoming quite skilled in French, and through the help of her new friends she'd developed a gorgeous accent.

When his wife glanced his way again, Hamlet made a disgusted face and mimed whipping his cheek. Her laughter could be heard across the room – it was a sound so beautiful Hamlet wanted to close everyone's ears so only he could hear it.

Osric, in his most pompous outfit yet, announced that drinks and small plates had been served. The guests murmured their approval, and soon they filed into a secondary room to open the kegs. Before Hamlet could join them, Queen Gertrude laid a hand on his arm.

"My tears of joy hath worn me to the core; I beg your forgiveness as I leave you to your revelries," she said with a sad smile. Hamlet returned his mother's smile and nodded. As she left for bed, he suddenly became aware of how grey her hair had become.

"My lord!"

Hamlet turned and grinned like a loon. Horatio was waving to him from the entrance to the dining hall, a pint already in his hand.

Moments later, Hamlet and Horatio had found a corner of the room that was miraculously unoccupied. The guests had balanced themselves out between the rooms, some stuffing their faces with gravy-drenched goose and others dancing waltz in between sips of wine. Horatio had long since finished his slice of kransekage, but Hamlet was trying to savor each bite of its nutty flavor. It was not so late in the eve for people to become daring in their amorous pursuits, but Horatio joked that it wouldn't take too much longer.

"Tis the blue doublet, that be he," Horatio asserted.

"Not so! I'd place my claim in the golden lapel," Hamlet countered.

With bated breath they watched the two men. Then, the man with the lapel of gold stumbled. His path forced him to fall into the man in the blue doublet, who took that as a slight against him. Within seconds the two were in a shouting match with only their friends to hold them back from blows.

"Ha!" Hamlet shouted. "Have at you, fool! He's drunk enough for us all."

Horatio groaned and shook his head. "I'm no fool, if my bet had not eaten you'd have lost."

They laughed and took another sip of their beers. As is the way with those prone to drunkenness, the two men had already calmed down and were laughing with each other over a pint.

A few moments of comfortable silence passed. Through the archway that led to the great hall, Hamlet could spot Ophelia standing amongst her brother and their friends and family from France. Her maturity displayed itself through her confidence. She was a new woman, one who had finally found happiness on her own terms. He could not count the ways he was grateful to her and her forgiveness. For the rest of his life, he wished to devote himself to her; to dote on her like a nun to her prayers.

"Your father would be proud to see you wed," Horatio said.

Hamlet turned to him and was surprised to see pride brimming in his friend's eyes. The prince blushed under the scrutiny. "But ashamed in the same breath; tis my fault Polonius was, his paternal role, thus denied."

"Nay, lord, I think it not so; was she not smiling?" Horatio shrugged. "In privy I confess her preference was most evident—Laertes was her closest companion ere all came to pass."

Hamlet nodded finally, but he didn't think he'd every feel fully comfortable with what he did. From what Ophelia had told him, Polonius was perhaps not the best father in the world, but how was his father any better? Hamlet did not regret killing Polonius, but he did rue killing Ophelia's father.

The prince swirled his finger around the lip of the drinking glass. "I'd like to put my pen to it," he said.

Horatio raised his eyebrow. "To all? Ha! A book would scrub itself clean of it."

"Tis a tale of Danish kings, not witchcraft! Man needs to hear of it, all of Denmark must know the ill that lies twist a brother and his king, and all that came hereafter."

His friend's raised eyebrow was joined by a skeptical bite of the lip. "Indeed, tis an extraordinary tale, my lord, yet may I advise against this? Stay thy hand until your crown is matured; wait until Denmark is more forgiving and may pardon you and Ophelia all wrongdoing, else may your reign be wrought with rebellion."

This hadn't occurred to Hamlet; he'd spent so many months dealing with his father's murder, his mother's hasty marriage, and everything else that he forgot how jarring it would be to a stranger. If the people of Denmark learned that, say, their new king had killed an innocent man, they'd never trust the monarchy again.

The prince grinned and clapped Horatio on the shoulder from across the table. "Your wisdom confounds and trumps mine, my friend. What will happen to my crown without you?"

Horatio nodded in acknowledgement, but to Hamlet's surprise, he only gave a small, quick smile before frowning. The prince opened his mouth to ask what was on his friend's mind, but Horatio's expression cleared before he could. "I raise my glass to you and her, my lord, for finding the happiness thou deserves."

"Thank you, Horatio. I drink to your health, such that it may be after so many nightly bar visits." Hamlet retorted, winking.

Horatio went red. "Alas, my lord, to be mentioned by you reminds me to speak."

It was Hamlet's turn to raise his eyebrow in suspicion. "Oh?"

The prince glanced at his friend's hands and noticed how tightly they gripped the pint glass. Horatio inhaled deeply, and then suddenly stood up from his stool and walked into the crowd surrounding the dance floor. Hamlet frowned after him, utterly baffled, but before he could get up to follow him, Horatio was returning with a man following close behind. The man wore a doublet similar in style to Horatio's – so similar Hamlet briefly wondered if they'd gotten it from the same clothier.

"My lord," Horatio began, "please allow me to introduce Frederick of Denmark, a loyal friend and good companion."

Frederick bowed from the waist. "My lord," he said respectfully.

Hamlet tried not to roll his eyes. When Frederick came up, the prince clapped him on the shoulder the same way he'd done to Horatio. "Frederick, you are welcome here! But please, I'll not have groveling, tis friendly here. You're enjoying all?"

Frederick smiled shyly. "Much, my lord."

"And now, Horatio!" Hamlet turned to his friend, who was more flustered than before, if it was possible. "Why such delay, to meet my friend's friend ere my wedding day?"

Horatio glanced at Frederick and then back at Hamlet. Frederick held out his hand, and Horatio clasped it firmly. "Forgive me, prince, I did not think it wise; We are…"

He glanced at Frederick. A small, yet earnest, smile appeared on his face. "Very close," he finished.

Hamlet glanced between then two men and at their clasped hands. He suddenly understood. "Oh! My friend, my tongue has stopped with such joy; bless you both, yet I beg your forgiveness if my speech offend."

"Nay, tis blunt words, we smile to hear your speech," Horatio said between chuckles. His breath came out in a whoosh, like he'd been holding it the entire evening. "We've told few else for fear of an outburst; such fear I've had, for myself and my love."

Hamlet looked away, ashamed at the thoughts that had initially came to his mind. He had not had many encounters with those of a different persuasion, but he did remember growing up under a particularly traditional household. The subject never came up until Hamlet left for a more open-minded university. "Tis surprise, I assure you, nothing more, though it makes me laugh – Horatio, I thought cinnamon would acquaint itself with you on your birth day." The prince shook his head. "You hath been with me through fire and hell; forgive a man that cannot repay that."

Horatio waved his hand in dismissal. "A prince should have their mind overtaken with such matters as marriage and kingship."

Hamlet nodded. He was happy the two men had relaxed; now that they had, the prince could see that they were very comfortable around each other, just like he was with Ophelia.

After a moment, Hamlet chuckled. "Your sly ruse could not trick one set of eyes: the Queen's, who in passing gave me hints, yet I was blind to them."

"Ha!" Horatio laughed. "A mother's eyes rival the eyes of God; twas she who bid me tell you."

"Ay, I'm pleased," Hamlet replied, nodding. "But to be devoutly wished…" He glanced towards the dance hall, which had begun a lively Danish folk dance. He wasn't even a king and he already felt like he failed those closest to him: no matter how much power he had he could not let Horatio and Frederick dance freely.

Horatio and Frederick looked at each other sadly. "Yes, my prince," Horatio murmured. At a nod from his love, he stood up straighter and looked Hamlet in the eye. "Tis that which led us to this conclusion, to bid you farewell and leave Danish lands, to live as two halves of one whole being as you do with Lady Ophelia; Laertes knows such like-minded people in French countryside, and there we will live among those who also wish to love men and God without shame."

Hamlet should have guessed that those words were coming, but he was not prepared for the feelings that welled to the surface. He tried to mask them as best he could. "I…I wish you the best, Horatio, friend, yet two conditions I present to you."

Horatio nodded vigorously. "Tell, and I will grant them."

Hamlet couldn't help but laugh. "Horatio, thy loyalty is true. First, stay awhile until my crowning day; I cannot think of that day without you, my friend, you kept me sane throughout it all."

Horatio glanced at Frederick, who nodded. They smiled together and Horatio replied, "Yes, my lord, we shall."

"And second…" Hamlet reached out and rubbed Horatio's shoulder. "Ere you leave to become French, I beg the privilege of drinking with you one time—the last—as brothers of knowledge; allow me a debate that lasts till dawn when the barman quits."

At his words, Horatio began to look like he was holding back emotions as well. "Twill be done, my lord."

"Thank you," Hamlet murmured. Then he let go of Horatio's shoulder and took a step back. "Now, drink, be merry! I'll have no tears at my wedding, lest they be of joy or drunk revelries."

Horatio blinked hard. He breathed deeply and smiled, despite whatever was going through his head. Then, he let go of Frederick's hand and stepped forward to hug the prince tightly.

"Thank you…Hamlet," he said, "You will be a great king."

Hamlet closed his eyes tightly and returned the embrace. It was over, wasn't it? Everything was: the good times debating at university, when life seemed so simple, and the bad, filled with self-doubt, over-thinking, and halted action. The wedding guests could use revelry to move past the turmoil of the past few months, but some could not. The queen still mourned both of her husbands' deaths, Laertes was no doubt a few years behind his schoolmates, and Ophelia would be parted from her brother once more. And yet, at this wedding, Horatio and Frederick had been given hope of living a normal life. Hamlet was not the same man who returned from Wittenburg, and that was a glimmer of hope in itself; he had to remember that.

With a final nod, Hamlet pushed himself away from Horatio. "Your words sound of farewells; I'll not have it," he said, sniffing. "Frederick, put a stop to them for good; I charge you, as your prince still, make merry!"

Horatio smiled and returned the nod. He looked to Frederick, clasped hands with the other man, and disappeared into the crowd. Perhaps they were off to look for a quiet corner of the castle where they could dance and plan the rest of their happy days in peace.

The prince looked after them, before he smiled and wiped the corners of his eyes. He mentally chided himself for his selfish desires – he was at his wedding, just as he stated. How, he wondered, could someone be so happy and so sad at once? What use were men's brains if they could not decide between simple opposites?

He felt a tap on his elbow, and Hamlet to see his lady love standing beside him. All thoughts of sadness faded to be replaced with their hopeful counterparts. He must remember to ask Laertes for the name of Horatio and Frederick's new home so he could make time to write to them and visit.

Hamlet cupped Ophelia's cheek. She laid a hand on his chest and looked up at him expectantly. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then chuckled. "I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, 'I love you',"*** he murmured.

Ophelia giggled and turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand. "Doubt thou the stars are fire—"

Hamlet's eyes widened comically. "Oh…"

She planted another kiss to his palm. "Doubt that the sun doth move—"

"No, oh, no," he muttered in exasperation.

She giggled and gave him a final kiss. "Doubt truth to be a liar…" She looked up at him with playful eyes.

Hamlet sighed heavily but could not prevent his smile. "But never doubt I love."

Ophelia laughed and leaned into his shoulder. He leaned his head against hers, grinning like a love-struck fool. How coy of her, to quote perhaps the silliest and most over-the-top love poem he ever gave to her! He wondered what he could do later that evening to playfully embarrass her in turn.

With hands clasped, the lovers slowly swayed to a music all their own.