Chapter Text
Hamlet heard a voice call out from the curtains. Uncle? He nearly stabbed blindly, but thought better of it and quickly threw back the arras. Hamlet raised his rapier high before—
“Lord Polonius?”
Hamlet blinked, staring at the elder man. He had expected his Uncle Claudius, not this old fool. His eyes narrowed; Hamlet stayed his hand. Distantly, he processed his mother was weeping.
“What are you doing here?” Hamlet asked, coldly. Polonius was shaking, Hamlet saw that now. He’d known the old man was a coward, but hiding like a rat only to tremble when caught was a new low.
Polonius gulped. “I was merely here for the ladies safety—”
“Liar,” scoffed Hamlet. “You were going to report back to the king on my actions, weren’t you? I should kill you now.”
Polonius shrunk back, terrified. Hamlet raised the sword again, a crazed glint in his angry eyes. Hamlet knew this man was innocent, and only following orders, but at that moment he found it hard to care. Polonius still served Claudius without a hint of remorse for the former king. Hamlet even suspected Polonius, being Claudius’s right-hand-man, might actually know about the murder of his father. How dare Polonius live, and help a snake such as Claudius? Hamlet prepared to strike. Then he looked, deeply, into Polonius’s eyes. They were the same as Ophelia’s.
Ophelia…
Hamlet dropped his rapier, horrified with what he’d almost done. What has my vengeance turned me into? He’d almost killed his beloved Ophelia's father; a man Hamlet had known all of his life.
Father, what would you have me do to free you? Hamlet wondered, bitterly.
Everyone in Hamlet's life had betrayed him; they had turned away and bent their will to the tyrant that was Claudius. All except two: his loyal Horatio, and the fair Ophelia. What had he done to reward them? Nothing. He had shunned Ophelia and distanced himself from Horatio. What have I become?
Confused thoughts swarmed Hamlet's head. He’d been playing before, but now he felt truly mad. Unable to stand the terrified stares of Gertrude and Polonius, Hamlet fled the room. He wasn’t too sure where to go. He knew where he wanted to be, but if this treacherous task had taught Hamlet anything, it was that he could no longer accept anything he wanted. So no, he wouldn’t seek the company of Ophelia.
“My lord? Are you alright?”
Hamlet dimly registered that he’d hit someone. The man he’d run into grabbed Hamlet by the arms to keep him upright. He looked up to see, with dread, that it was Horatio. Horatio’s expression was puzzled, and his grip on Hamlet's arms was light. Hamlet felt he didn’t deserve such kindness. He took a step back, tearing away from Horatio's grasp.
“Quite, dear Horatio,” Hamlet assured, bringing a grin to his face. It was rugged, and weary, but a smile nonetheless. “I should be on my way.”
Hamlet tried to move past him, but Horatio blocked his way. Hamlet released an annoyed breath. “What is this?”
“You don’t seem well,” Horatio maintained. “Please, how can I help?”
Hamlet felt a lump swell in his throat. What had he done to earn such a friend? It was a simple nicety, but Hamlet had beheld so few since the death of his father. Claudius’s words to him were always sugary, but false. Gertrude’s solace meant nothing, after her betrayal. Hamlet always thought of himself as alone; he was almost glad to be put on a mission where his victory would lead to eternal sleep. Only recently, in horror, had Hamlet processed how much his few friends meant to him.
“You cannot,” Hamlet said, flatly. “I’ve told you before, Horatio: I am on a mission I don’t intend to come back from, and no one is to follow me.”
“Surely you will try to come out well in the end?” Horatio urged, looking distressed. “You must have a plan.”
Hamlet let out a bitter laugh. Of course there was a plan, but that plan only ensured the safeness of everyone aside from him (and Claudius too, obviously).
“Horatio, try to remember me kindly. Think of the Hamlet you knew before his fathers death changed him irrevocably.”
Hamlet tried to leave again, but this time Horatio put a firm hand on his chest to stop him. Hamlet refused to meet his eyes.
“Hamlet, why do you seek revenge?”
“For my father.”
“Would your father want you to die?”
“He sent me on this mission. You saw his ghost; you know what he asked me to do.” Hamlet tried to bite back any resentment, but it was hard. As much as he loved his father, it still stung to remember that the ghost put his own soul above that of his sons.
“You don’t have to do it, my lord.”
“I know that,” Hamlet snapped. Upon seeing Horatio's hurt face, Hamlet repented. “I am sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean for you to get involved in any of this.”
“I want to be involved, as long as it means I won’t have to lose you.”
Hamlet winced at the tender words. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Horatio.”
“What do you want to do?” Horatio asked cautiously.
“Avenge my father.” Hamlet said, automatically. Horatio gave a sigh, as though he’d known that would be Hamlet's reply, yet was still disappointed.
“Do you care so little for yourself?”
“I don’t think being selfless is a bad attribute.” Hamlet responded, coolly. He didn’t care to get into a debate with Horatio. Hamlet would much rather accomplish his deed. Claudius must be finished praying by now. Hamlet brushed past Horatio, and swiftly continued through the corridor.
“Do you care so little for me?”
Hamlet froze. The words had been so quiet, he’d almost missed them. He turned, slowly, to behold Horatio’s distraught face.
“What?”
Horatio took in a deep breath, and pressed forward. “Your death…it doesn’t just affect you, my lord. There are people who still care about you. Queen Gertrude. Lady Ophelia. Me.”
Horatio drifted off at the last word. Hamlet felt a tremor pass through him. He had been too busy shoving those close to him away in order to protect them from Claudius, he hadn’t thought about protecting them from the pain his own actions would cause. In Hamlet's defense, he hadn’t processed that anyone truly cared for him. He hadn’t wanted to.
“I—” Hamlet's voice broke. He tried again. “I’m sorry, Horatio.”
“Don’t say that,” Horatio urged. “Don’t apologize, just change your goal. Walk away from this dark path thrust upon you.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Isn’t it? What benefit is there to accomplishing it? Nothing. But by leaving, you have everything to gain.”
Hamlet turned away, and ran an agitated hand through his hair. This was not going how it was supposed to. He had a plan, a mission, and Hamlet had finally decided how it was going to end. He’d finally found the perfect way to enact his fathers last request. How could he not finish it now?
Hamlet didn’t mind dying. He was fully prepared to do it, and this way he could do it in a way that meant something. Dying for vengeance was a perfectly reasonable way to go. But now, with Horatio’s words, everything was crashing down around him. Hamlet thought of Ophelia's kind face, Horatio’s loyal and honest disposition… he’d been dreading leaving them, but someone it hurt more to know they didn’t want him to leave.
“You say it’s not too late, dear Horatio?” Hamlet said, quietly. He put a hand against the hallway's cold stone wall, not bothering to turn back around. Slowly, he let his forehead rest on it as well; he felt very warm all of a sudden.
“Yes, my prince.”
“Do you really think Claudius will not kill me after all the trouble I’ve caused?”
Horatio hesitated on his response, and for good reason. After the play Hamlet had held, Caludius would be a fool not to suspect Hamlet was privy to the way his father had died.
“You can still get away from Claudius, even without taking revenge.”
Hamlet's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You have said for a while now that Denmark is no longer for you, my lord. Maybe it is time to leave it behind.”
Hamlet rounded on Horatio then. “You expect me to evacuate my country, my lineage , and let my fathers killer reign victorious?”
Horatio took a step back, but his face was firm. “Better to leave and live a better life, then to stay and die.”
“At least I’d die with purpose.”
“What good are you dead?”
“What good is my uncle alive?”
“Hamlet please,” Horatio pleaded, grabbing Hamlet roughly by the lapel. Hamlet staggered, surprised. “Don’t do this. Your life is too precious to throw away for as futile a cause as vengeance.”
Hamlet blinked, words failing him. A horrified look spread across Horatio’s face, and he let the Prince of Denmark go quickly. He took a step back and cleared his throat.
“I am sorry, my lord.”
“Don’t be, my friend,” Hamlet replied, wearily. They stood in silence for a few moments before Hamlet voiced what had been on his mind since he’d heard his fathers last request. “Am I a coward if I do not do this?”
Horatio looked aghast. “Of course not, my prince.”
Hamlet felt tears prick his eyes. He would have reddened with embarrassment, but Horatio had seen him vulnerable a fair amount of times. Hamlet trusted this man with his heart's truth.
“Am I not a disgrace by letting this injustice stand?”
“My lord, I doubt you could be one if you tried,” Horatio told him, softly. “You are not weak for letting yourself live. You are wise.”
Tears trickled down Hamlet's face. He found he was no longer able to meet Horatio’s eyes. He cared, truly cared, about what Horatio thought of him. It made him feel bare.
“Will…will you not be ashamed?”
“I could never.”
“You mean that, Horatio?”
“More than anything, my prince.”
Hamlet took in a shaky breath, feeling grateful.
“Alright,” he said, trying to sound casual. Hamlet quickly swept the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “I will go with you away from Denmark.”
Horatio let out a breathy laugh of relief. “Really, my lord?”
“Yes, you’ve persuaded me. I suppose I can be of more use outside of the country. Perhaps I can even befriend Fortinbras and end our feud. And no more of that,” Hamlet added sharply to Horatio. “If we are to leave here together, you better start speaking to me as an equal. Call me Hamlet, dearest friend.”
“Gladly my—Hamlet.”
The two shared a smile. Hamlet felt light, as though a great burden had been taken from his shoulders. Hamlet, belatedly, recognized the lost feeling.
Calm.