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As the king's last words of his speech ring out, Hamlet and Laertes prepare to start their duel.
Horatio stands closely to the men, watching with worried eyes as Hamlet raises his sword.

Hamlet; his best friend, lost to grief and madness, sent away and reappeared. Horatio had just gotten him back mere moments ago, only to watch his face from a distance, a blade pointed towards it with intent to kill.

Horatio's eyes scan the crowd, the faces of excitement and cheers mirrored on almost everybody - no concern for their prince to be found. If Horatio is going to be the only one to worry, so be it.

His eyes land on the king last, handling cups around, almost seeming nervous; but not for the duel - his eyes never met the men again after calling for it to begin.
Nobody but Horatio seems to notice, everybody too enthralled in the action to pay attention to the sidelines.
Not paying enough mind either, Horatio's eyes focus back on the prince.

"Come on, sir," Hamlet speaks first, teasing, riling up his rival. Laertes stays focused, barely moves a muscle at his words.
"Come, my lord," he says and the duel begins.

At first, they are evenly matched; no clear power difference apparent, until-
"One," Hamlet says, smug, eyebrow raised as he scans his rival. His rival, whose ribs he most surely touched, Horatio thinks. He nods in approval, although nobody sees, much less Hamlet himself.
"No," is all Laertes says, determined but not deterred. Horatio almost admires his confidence, but he stops himself as he realizes before him is not strategy, but ignorance. He sighs quietly, pretends his breath doesn't shake.

"Judgement," Hamlet calls, taking his eyes off Laertes for the first time since the fight began. Horatio tracks the movement with his own, scans every twitch and flinch of Hamlet, almost as if subconsciously, he knew to commit his very being to memory; as if he already knew this was his last chance.
Osric, the judge, barely has to think.
"A hit, a very palpable hit," he says, nodding, seeming nervous; unsure, not of the hit, but of the duel.
Laertes breathes. Closes his eyes. Opens them.
"Well; again."

Swords drawn, the men dive back in.
Horatio's eyes begin to drift again, torn between watching Hamlet's every move and fearing of what he might see.
His eyes land on the king once more, though he can barely hear him over the crowd.

"Stay; give me drink," he says.
"Hamlet, this pearl is thine; here's to thy health."
Horatio flinches as suddenly, trumpets and cannons sound around him. As he looks back at the king, unreasonable dread fills him; slowly, surely, crawling up the back of his throat.

But why? No reason, nothing comes to mind, nothing out of the ordinary at the scene, but-
"Give him the cup."
But generosity. The king, who sent Hamlet away to England to be executed, now showers him in cheers and prepares him a drink.
Horatio swallows hard, disbelieving of his own realization. A public murder? By his own royal hand?
Nervous, unsure, afraid, Horatio looks back to the price.

"I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile, " Hamlet says, dismissive, not sparing the cup a second glance. Horatio breathes a sigh of relief.
Safe, for the time being.

"Come," says Hamlet, and Laertes does. Not long do they fight, move, dance, before-
"Another hit; what say you?"
Hamlet appears cocky now, not sure of his win, (not stupid,) but confident; the illusion of success makes him reckless, Horatio knows.

Laertes laughs, short and strong. Almost nonchalant, but missing something.
"A touch, a touch, I do confess't," he says, and Horatio is sure that is not right. Something has shifted, he can tell; anticipation building in Laertes, knocking the stability out of his feet, his voice, his smile.

As Horatio is focused on him, he misses the royal couple's conversation becoming heated.

"Gertrude, do not drink!" the king shouts, and Horatio truly is not sure if a single other person has noticed - not to blame them, even he only listens, his eyes still on Hamlet's heaving form.
Quietly, he hears the queen's reply:
"I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me."

He tears his eyes off the prince only to catch the swallow of the queen's throat. The king is quiet, so Horatio turns away- until he doesn't. His eyes snap back, focused on the king; his pale face, wide eyes, mouth open, hands shaking -
Horatio was right all along, he realizes. He should have never doubted his eye - now the queen, the mother of dear Hamlet, would die in his place.

Shocked by the relief settling in Horatio's shoulders, guilt overcomes him; he realizes, quietly, the only thing that matters to him is that it was not Hamlet who swallowed that poison.
Hamlet, who, focused on his opponent, is as unaware of his mother's impending doom as she herself is.

"I dare not drink yet, madam," he says, and raises his sword.

Horatio risks a glance over at Laertes' face and is met with something unexpected; remorse.
For something to come? For the duel? For hurting Hamlet?
Or, possibly, and Horatio hesitates to consider -
for the death of the queen?

Hamlet, unaware of everything going on around him, keeps talking to his opponent.
"Come, for the third, Laertes: you do but dally;
I pray you, pass with your best violence;
I am afeard you make a wanton of me."
Horatio raises an eyebrow at Hamlet's words. Was this strategy now? Provocation? Distraction?
Or was it all merely misplaced overeagerness?

"Say you so? Come on," Laertes responds, matching Hamlet in wit, not in mood.
Horatio is sure now, watching him, that Laertes is further involved than he was lead to believe.

The men continue to duel, and Horatio's eyes keep being trained on Hamlet.
Even, and regrettably so, as Laertes' sword slashes him. Horatio's breath catches as red starts to seep from Hamlet's side.

His eyes flick up to Laertes' face, searching for guilt until he spots it. Switching over to watch the king, awaiting a loud expression - anger at Laertes for the small wound, possibly guilt, if only for his wife - but what he finds is a self satisfied smile.

A familiar feeling of dread trickles down Horatio's spine; the king's plan worked.
Eyebrows drawn, muscles tensed, in desperation despite the knowledge it's already too late, Horatio realizes: the blade was venomous.

Eyes falling to the blade in Laertes hand, Horatio recognises it as Hamlet's; while he was busy searching the king's face for clues, they must have switched rapiers.

Almost as if his eyes on him have an effect, Hamlet strikes Laertes once again; now, as only three people, of which Hamlet is not one, seem to know, with the blade laced to kill.

A voice cries out, then a thump on the floor.
The queen has fallen.
Horatio doesn't spare her a second glance. The pause of the duel is his only chance-
"They bleed on both sides. - How is it, my lord?" he asks, and Hamlet's eyes find his for the first time in an eternity. His skin is pale and sweaty, his pupils blown wide, his eyelids drooping and his breaths shaky. Horatio doesn't need him to answer to know.

Osric, meanwhile, speaks to Laertes. Horatio barely catches part of their conversation, too focused on the prince before him.

"I'm justly killed with mine own treachery."
Horatio's eyes snap to Laertes for the fraction of a second. His face paints a clear picture.
Horatio, once more, was right; Laertes was an accomplice all along.

He truly isn't surprised- this is Laertes' revenge.
Hamlet should have seen it too; the rage and grief of himself mirrored on his opponent, directed directly at him - but Hamlet has lost himself in his madness. The Hamlet Horatio knew and loved was gone the moment his father departed.

Another moment passes before Hamlet tears his eyes from Horatio's.
"How does the queen?" he asks, observing her weakened state, down on the floor. The king makes an excuse Horatio does not bother to hear. That man deserves no more of Horatio's attention.

The queen calls out then, weak and desperate:
"No, no, the drink, the drink," and the king begins to look nervous.
"O my dear Hamlet," her eyes are falling shut, arms falling to rest beside her on the floor.
"The drink, the drink," her voice is weakening, her eyes falling shut.
"- I am poisoned."
And she falls, collapses in on herself like a house of cards. The end of the queen.

Hamlet, to Horatio's mild surprise, calls out.
"O villainy!"
He yells instructions, almost frantic, and-
"Treachery! seek it out!"
Horatio looks to Laertes.
As if called, Laertes collapses to the ground. The hall has long since fallen silent.
"It is here, Hamlet.
Hamlet, thou art slain;"

And Horatio knew this, of course. He observed, concluded, confirmed- and yet, as he hears the words spoken, he falters like it was his own death announced.
"No medicine in the world can do thee good;
in thee there is not half an hour of life;"
And that is not enough time. Not enough time to say everything, wrap up what's been left behind; not enough time for Hamlet to conclude his life. Not enough time for Horatio to conclude their life.

"The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,
unbated and envenomed; the foul practice hath turned itself on me; lo, here I lie, never to rise again; thy mother's poisoned; I can no more. - the king, the king's to blame."

For a while, Hamlet does not move.
Neither does Horatio, or anyone.
Laertes stills, on the floor between them, and Hamlet does not look up to meet Horatio's eye.

"The point envenomed too," he speaks, lowly, considerate,
"then, venom, do thy work."

Horatio blinks and the king has been slain.
Sword through his chest, Hamlet above him, expression almost numb as he stares at his withering uncle.

The people scream, finally, again, but Hamlet cannot hear them. Horatio can see his eyes from here and he knows, whoever Hamlet once was, this is not him any more.
Words spew from his mouth;
incestuous, murderous, damned;
and Horatio may not be truly surprised, considering the events, but-
listening to the curses rolling off his tongue, he misses what their life once was.

The king dies, Hamlet's sword in his chest and his words in his ear.
Laertes, voice weak, gives one last effort to make amends; to beg forgiveness, to take blame off Hamlet's hands; and Horatio thanks him, silently, as his soul departs.

"Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee,"
Hamlet says, and this time Horatio is truly surprised; convinced his Hamlet was gone, convinced he didn't hear a word from anyone, and yet -
But that's not all. The worst is to come.

Horatio's heart almost stops as Hamlet turns to him, looks him in the eye, and speaks.
"I am dead, Horatio."
And, well; Horatio knew that, of course. In many ways, he knew, and yet; as Hamlet, the last flicker of his Hamlet, says these words to him, he thinks he might be dead along with him.

His head turns down, meets the corpse at his feet.
"Wretched queen, adieu," he says, loud and strong, and isn't that a way to leave a mother?
Horatio remembers how it used to be, before his father's death, how close him and his mother were - but no time for memories.
He feels himself drifting into the shell of melancholy Hamlet became, and dreads it.

The crowd falls silent again as he turns to them.
"You that look pale and tremble at this chance, that are but mutes or audience to this act, had I but time (as this fell sergeant, death, is strict in his arrest). O, I could tell you - but let it be."
Nobody speaks.

Hamlet's eyes meet Horatio's again. He feels that this time will be the last time.
"Horatio, I am dead," he speaks, and silently, Horatio thinks he has heard it enough times now. If he would hear it one more time, he may as well join.
"Thou livest," he continues, "report me and my cause alright to the unsatisfied."

Horatio speaks before he even realizes he's doing it; words on autopilot, tumbling from his mouth uncontrolled.
"Never believe it; I am more an antique Roman than a Dane; here's yet some liquor left."
He holds the cup in his hand.
For a moment, he thinks to follow the myriad of souls departing from this very hall.

Hamlet speaks again before he can raise it to his lips, and-
"As thou'rt a man, give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I'll have't."
-how could he ever deny him anything?
The cup passes from his hand to Hamlet's. He regrets it the moment it happens.

"If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart," Hamlet then begins, and Horatio wants to laugh in his face. When did he ever not?
"Absent thee from felicity awhile,
and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story."

Eyes locked still, Horatio suddenly questions when Hamlet fell to the floor; when Horatio followed him, held him to hear the last of his whispers.
And how could he ever deny him anything?
Absent from felicity, a given, truly, after losing Hamlet; draw his breath in pain he must, for breathing air of loneliness may as well be swallowing knives with every word he speaks;
so of course, of course, if tell his story Horatio should, then tell his story he will. He can never deny him anything.

Hamlet sighs weakly.
"O, I die, Horatio; the potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit; I cannot live to hear the news from England; but I do prophesy the election lights on Fortinbras; he has my dying voice; so tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited - the rest is silence."

And again- Horatio almost wants to laugh.
Here he is, listening to his dying wish, succumbing to the world of the living to carry out what Hamlet desires;
and his dying voice has Fortinbras.

Horatio watches as the light fades from Hamlet's eyes, feels the warmth fade from his limbs, and thinks;
yes, the rest is silence.
The time was not enough for Horatio to speak.
The rest is, has always been, will always be, silence.