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“The rest is silence.” As if it was something so easy to say. Something so passive that could possibly begin to sum up such a man, that could hope to sew together the frayed ends of his life. Something he could say so easily.
He can’t help but look back on it all with a sense of foolish heartbreak. The royal family dead, the castle handed over to Fortinbras – and yet every time he dared to relive the memory, all he can think about is the vivid feeling of Hamlet’s body being held in his arms. The gentle quivers as he drew his last breaths. So strong, usually, so noble and stoic, but reduced to a shaking mess – and then nothing but a sack of flesh. (Nothing could make him admit it, but he sometimes thinks that maybe Hamlet’s absence is more important than the kingdom’s political troubles. He dares not acknowledge the thought, for such selfish desire does nothing but draw him further into his spiral of self-pity in the face of an entire nation’s strife).
And to want is worthless, for greed and lust are nothing more than sins. But is it not human nature to sin? God knows Hamlet should understand that, for as much as he nobly fought for his family, his country, his story still ended with nothing more than a dirty kill and the wrath of so many leaving bloodstains on his hands. One could argue that he was fated to cause all this death – but arguing such a thing would require accepting that his death was fated alongside them, and such a thing was too painful to suggest.
Some selfish, “noble” part of him wants to say that he can sympathise with Hamlet’s pain, with his delusions and breakdowns, but would that not be a delusion in itself? Hamlet had felt like a different person within the week leading up to his death, but perhaps that was how he had always been. As much as he would’ve liked to say they were close friends, that he knew Hamlet intimately, how close could a Prince and a mere scholar really be? Certainly not close enough to become lovers.
And so, he can’t help but look back on it all while yearning for a love that never was. A love that he swore could have been reciprocated, but would never be proven until death came for him too. Perhaps Hamlet will have waited for him.