Chapter Text
It was done. Claudius was dead, and Hamlet's father had been avenged. Despite this, Hamlet didn’t feel content. Not yet. After Claudius’s body had been taken away, and Fortinbras’s army had been invited into the city, Hamlet looked back towards the balcony. Ophelia was no longer there. Horatio rested a hand on Hamlet's shoulder upon seeing what he was staring at.
“Go to her, my king.” Horatio told him, softly.
“You need not call me that,” Hamlet said scathingly. “Not yet, anyway. And I doubt she would want to see me after the events of my arrival.”
“You do not know that, Hamlet. You will need to face her eventually.”
Hamlet knew that to be true, but the idea of reuniting with her was both thrilling and terrifying. Nevertheless, Hamlet slipped through the crowd of gathered courtiers to find her. He suspected her to be in her room (he knew well where it was). Sure enough, when he arrived, she was there. Her back was to him, and she was in the midst of weaving a tapestry. It showed a glistening stream, with flowers and vines flowing down it. Parts of the greenery were stuck on different rocks peeking through the water. Hamlet admired it for a moment, before turning his attention back to Ophelia.
“My dear Lady Ophelia,” Hamlet began slowly. “How are you?”
“Well, my lord,” Ophelia responded, her voice even. “And you?”
“The same,” They stood in tense silence for a moment more. “I am sorry.”
Ophelia paused her weaving. She swerved in her chair to look at him. Her eyes were worn, and red in a way that implied she'd been crying. The sight tortured Hamlet's gaze.
“For what, my lord?”
“For hurting you, with my words as well as my actions. I was wrong to treat you so,” Hamlet stopped, weighing the options of what to say next. He gradually knelt down, so that he could look her directly in the face. “But surely you can see now that it was necessary?”
Ophelia let her eyes drift down, and away from Hamlet. “‘Necessary?’”
“Yes,” confirmed Hamlet. “I couldn’t let my uncle know how dear you were to me. I refused to let him hurt you on my behalf.”
“So, instead of letting him harm me, you did it yourself?” Ophelia asked, sharply.
“I did only what I thought was best. I am dreadfully sorry.”
He waited for her response eagerly. She seemed to be considering his words. Eventually, she blew out a breath and met his gaze once more.
“I forgive you for your harsh words,” Ophelia told him, plainly. “But I do not believe I can accept how you betrayed me so.”
“‘Betrayed?’” Hamlet repeated, stunned. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You refused to tell me about your uncle. I could have helped you. Instead of being honest with me, you told me to go to a nunnery. Then, after breaking my heart, you disappeared with no goodbye.”
“Ophelia—”
“I can handle you not loving me, but to not trust me? Hamlet, have I ever given the impression of being unreliable?”
“You do have a weakness, my dear Ophelia,” Hamlet snapped, feeling the need to defend his actions. “Your father, as well as your brother. Are you to tell me that you would have concealed the truth from them?”
“You are not one to judge having paternal loyalty.” Ophelia responded, coolly.
A pause.
“That is fair,” Hamlet agreed, tone listless. “But at the very least, can you understand my situation?”
“I can. Of course I can, Hamlet,” Ophelia cried, desperately. “But can you not understand mine?”
Hamlet paused, assessing her words. He himself had been lied to, and kept in the dark. Hamlet had hated his uncle's deceit, Gertrude’s ill-placed reassurance, Polonius’s naivety. All the deceptions and cowardice…had he not done something similar to the one he loved most in the world?
“I can,” Hamlet assured her, sincerely. “And I know that my apologies will never be enough for you to forgive me. However, I will say this: for as long as I live, I will never lie to nor harm you again. By my fathers soul I promise this, sweet Ophelia.”
He took Ophelia’s hand in his. Hamlet looked up at her, before noticing her eyes had started to well once more.
“What is wrong?”
“I just—” she wiped her eyes in a frantic manner. “I missed you, dear Hamlet. I’ve been cursing my emotions these past months, for I’ve longed to see you again. And now… now you are here, and just as beautiful as ever.”
Hamlet let out a bright laugh. “Ophelia, I have missed you too. If I went a day without thinking of you, it would have been a poor day indeed.”
Ophelia smiled, and the sight made Hamlet melt with joy. Oh, how he missed her smile, so kind and tender. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, longing and love deep in their eyes.
“Hamlet, what are you to do now that you are home?” Ophelia asked abruptly. Hamlet blinked.
“Become king, I suppose.”
“Have you an idea of when your coronation will be?”
Hamlet shrugged. “Whenever possible.”
“Do you—” Ophelia pinkened. “Do you know whether you will take a queen?”
Hamlet smiled slowly. “My dear Lady Ophelia, are you proposing marriage?”
“I never said that.” Ophelia pointed out, tone full of whimsy.
“I suppose it’s within your right,” Hamlet conceded. “I have put you through enough hardship as it is.”
“Enough of that, my lord,” Ophelia scolded, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “I believe we have already sorted out our predicament.”
“I should hope so.”
“My lord?”
Ophelia and Hamlet jumped at the voice. Hamlet whirled around to see Horatio waiting awkwardly in the doorway. Hamlet rose to his feet quickly.
“Horatio!”
“Apologies, my lord.”
“None of that,” Hamlet chided. “What brings you here, my friend?”
Horatio looked nervously at Ophelia. “Would you want to talk in private?”
Hamlet saw Ophelia’s eyes narrow. She looked injured, and Hamlet could tell she was worried he would agree. Hamlet refused to go behind her back anymore.
“Nonsense, Horatio. Tell us both; there’s no need for secrets here.”
Horatio still looked ill at ease. He took in a shaky breath. “Fortinbras, and many of the other soldiers, wonder what will become of the traitor Polonius?”
“My father? What crime has he committed?” Ophelia asked, confused. Dread began to course through Hamlet, for he suspected the answer.
“In order to free Queen Getrude as a suspect to treason, he admitted to being an accomplice to the late King Hamlet's murder.” Horatio told her, warily.
Ophelia gasped, and put a hand to her mouth. Her shocked eyes began to brim with tears once more. Hamlet felt a mixed array of emotions. He was angry. Hamlet had always suspected Polonius was a traitor, even before this confirmation. Yet Hamlet couldn’t help but feel pity upon seeing Ophelia's grief-stricken face. It was as though she had already accepted her fathers death.
“What do you want us to do, my lord?” Horatio asked, carefully. Hamlet took one more look at Ophelia's distressed face, and his choice became clear.
“He will not be killed,” Hamlet announced, sternly. “He will, however, be banished from Denmark forevermore. I do not wish to ever look upon his face again.”
Horatio nodded, and with a last fleeting glance, left. Hamlet turned back towards Ophelia. She was staring up at him, surprised.
“You allow him to live?” she croaked, eyes still watering.
“For you,” Hamlet asserted. “Not him.”
“Oh, thank you, Hamlet!”
It was Hamlet's turn to be surprised: Ophelia leapt up, and embraced him. Hamlet staggered back, then returned the gesture gladly. He held her tightly, and resisted a sob. Hamlet could not begin to explain how much he had missed her. So, he didn’t. For once, Hamlet's thoughts slowed, and a million indecisive decisions and plans were quiet. He kept his head silent, and simply enjoyed a moment of peace with the love of his life.