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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.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready?” 

Hamlet was jolted from his stupor by Horatio’s words. His mind had been on Ophelia’s face, and his heart had been filled with guilt. Hamlet offered his friend an easy grin.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

Horatio gave him an exasperated glance. The two of them were moving with Norway's army back towards Denmark. Hamlet, two months prior, had met with Fortinbras. The pair had bonded more than Hamlet would have thought possible, seeing as how Fortinbras’s father was killed by the late King Hamlet. Surprisingly, the fact both of their fathers had been murdered brought them closer together. Fortinbras had believed Hamlet when he offered his help, and treated him well. Hamlet was immensely thankful. 

Fortinbras, at first, had decided to end the feud with Denmark, before Hamlet discovered a better idea. In exchange for Denmark's good trade and good will, Norway would assist Hamlet in reclaiming his throne. Horatio had been opposed to the idea.

“Didn’t we just leave?” Horatio had told him, desperately. “I thought you promised you were over your dreams of revenge.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t let myself die,” Hamlet had corrected, simply. “And I won’t. Trust me, Horatio.”

Horatio had eventually relented, and here they were, just a few miles from Elsinore. Hamlet was nervous; it was not because of Claudius, or even Gertrude, but because of Ophelia. I left her. Hamlet thought to himself, marveling at his stupidity. I just left her. 

At the time, it had seemed like the best course of action. Now, however, Hamlet couldn’t see how she would forgive him. He had broken her heart, almost killed her father, and then abandoned her. Hamlet couldn’t imagine a world where she would be understanding about his reasons for doing so (which was fair). 

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” Horatio remarked, sympathetically. “Especially not when we are so close.”

“The closer we get, the better I feel,” Hamlet lied charmingly. “Don’t worry so much, Horatio.”

“It’s hard not to when we are surrounded by an army.”

“This precaution? If anything, it should make you feel safer.”

The plan was simple. They would arrive at Elsinore under a white flag, and demand to meet with the false king. Once alone, Hamlet would propose a deal: Claudius could admit his treachery, or he could face the full power of Norway. Hamlet preferred the former, but he was content to accomplish the latter.

“Innocents shouldn’t get brought into this, Hamlet,” Horatio muttered, dismally. “Noone should get hurt.”

“Wrong. One man, my uncle, should. And he will, one way or another.”

Horatio didn’t respond to that, and so they walked on in silence. As their journey continued, Hamlet felt increasingly paranoid. He wondered how quickly they were moving, and how much longer it would take until they would arrive at his home. Hamlet wondered how his mother would react to seeing him again in such a way. Hopefully, once Claudius revealed the truth, she would become relieved that her late husband was to be avenged.

What Hamlet didn’t tell Horatio, nor would he tell anyone, was that his fathers ghost had been revisiting him frequently. Hamlet could barely sleep with the spirit's voice constantly in his ear. It spoke to him of his worst fears. It called him a coward, a traitor. The only solace Hamlet found was when he could be around Horatio, his last true friend. 

After months together, Horatio had finally reciprocated Hamlet's genial feelings for him. Horatio called Hamlet by his name, and spoke to him as he would any other man. Mostly. There were times Horatio failed to be casual, but Hamlet never judged him. He could never reprimand Horatio, and Hamlet would insist on their friendly language even when he became king.

King…

It was a necessary role, even if Hamlet himself didn’t truly care to take it. Honestly, he was only fighting hard for the crown so that it would no longer be Claudius’s. Hamlet wasn’t too sure what he would do once he was crowned. He shoved the thought away, and tried to focus on what was important. 

It was then Hamlet realized they had arrived. After passing another row of trees, Elsinore was in sight. Hamlet wagered it was roughly a half mile away. 

“Look alive, men. We’re here,” Fortinbras called. Hamlet sidled up next to the king, Horatio close behind him. “Are you ready, Prince Hamlet?”

“Quite,” Hamlet replied, false confidence rich in his voice. “Are your soldiers prepared if this goes poorly?”

“I’d like to think so,” Fortibras said, dryly. “Really, though, we should try to avoid it.”

“Of course.” Hamlet agreed. 

The army progressed forward. Guards began to poke out from behind the turrets. They all had stone expressions on their faces, yet Hamlet couldn’t help but notice how they fidgeted with their weapons. He smirked; they were nervous. Fortinbras, Hamlet, and Horatio moved toward the gate while the army stayed back. There were two guards at the gateway, their eyes roving over the legions of soldiers in front of them.

“We are here to see the false king, Claudius,” Fortinbras said, loudly enough so that any eavesdropping guards and townsfolk could hear him well. “If he refuses to meet with us, we will have no choice but to storm Elsinore. I’m sure none of us want that, so let’s spare the hassle.”

The guards exchanged a glance. Then, stepping together, they spoke in hushed tones. Hamlet didn’t bother to listen in. One of them left, while the other turned back to the trio. 

“We will report this to King Claudius,” the guard told them, stiffly. “His response will decide what we do.”

They stood, and waited. The silence was practically unbearable. Hamlet blew out a breath and turned to Horatio.

“Tell me, dear Horatio, what do you miss most about Denmark?”

Horatio paused, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know.”

Hamlet raised a brow, amused. “How can you not know?”

Horatio gave a shrug. “Truthfully, you were the only thing that kept me in Elsinore after we finished school. Without you, there is nothing to miss.”

Hamlet stared at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes,” there was a beat of silence. “What did you miss the most?”

Hamlet would have said Ophelia, for she was always the first person to come to mind, but something made him bite his tongue. “A good night's rest.”

It was a simple answer, but it was as much of the truth as Hamlet was willing to give at that moment. The sound of footsteps drew their attention. The guard had come back.

“The king has agreed to meet with Prince Hamlet only,” the guard told them. “In private.”

Hamlet let out a laugh. “He takes me for a fool, does he? No, the three of us will meet him, and we shall meet him before his court.”

The guard stiffened. “I do not think that is allowed, Prince Hamlet.”

“You heard our alternative,” Fortinbras reminded him, darkly. “Are you sure you would rather have that?”

The two men paled at the thought. They hesitated only briefly before opening the gates for Fortinbras, Hamlet, and Horatio. Hamlet peered around the city, memories flooding through him. It hadn’t been that long since he had been home, but it felt like a lifetime. As they passed through the streets, urchins and townsfolk Hamlet vaguely remembered stared at them. 

“We’ve got a crowd.” Horatio murmured under his breath.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Hamlet replied.

The more citizens to behold Claudius’s deceit, the better. The group finally arrived at Elsinore Castle. Hamlet's home towered above him; a foreboding welcome. Hamlet walked into the entrance hall easily. Getrude was waiting for him.

“Hamlet,” she cried, rushing towards him. Hamlet winced as she embraced him. “I was so worried.”

Hamlet wrenched out of her grasp. She looked hurt by the gesture, but Hamlet refused to care. “You do know why we are here, my lady? Where is your husband?”

“Waiting for you, my dear son.”

“Fetch him, then. I want all of Elsinore Castle to witness his humiliation.”

“You cannot be serious, Hamlet,” Getrude pleaded. Hamlet met her grieved eyes with his cold ones. “They say you came with an army.”

“That I have,” Hamlet responded plainly. “And if my uncle does not arrive soon, you will be forced to meet them most unpleasantly.”

Gertrude blanched. Quickly, she hurried away. She spared a single worried glance Hamlet's way, but Hamlet did not react. This woman had lost all his sympathy the moment she married Claudius. 

“That was cruel, Hamlet.” Horatio remarked, disdainfully.

“It was necessary,” Fortinbras corrected. “We are not here as allies. Not until Prince Hamlet reclaims the throne.”

It reassured Hamlet that at least Fortinbras was on his side. In the past months, the two had gotten rather close. They were alike in matters such as revenge and practicality. Hamlet related to the young king a fair amount. He was not ashamed to say some part of him had grown to care for Fortinbras.

Hamlet felt a nudge, and looked at the culprit: Horatio. In response, Horatio eyed one of the balconies overseeing the castle's immense entryway. It was surrounded with servants and court members alike, all looking down with interest. Hamlet sucked in a breath. Ophelia was there.

She looked as beautiful as ever, but her eyes were wide and scared. Ophelia had the same expression on her face as she had the day Hamlet had denounced her. Hamlet swallowed, regret filling the pit of his stomach. He had been harsh, but at the moment he had thought it necessary. Ophelia looked as though she wanted to speak, to call out to him, but her voice refused to work. Hamlet did her the honor of looking away. He couldn’t allow anything aside from justice to reside in his head. 

Loud footsteps echoed around the entry chamber. Hamlet looked to see Claudius reentering with Gertrude and Polonius close behind him. Hamlet's jaw set, anger sparking in him upon seeing his uncle again. He wanted to tear that crown from Claudius’s head.

“What is the meaning of this, Hamlet?” Claudius asked, sternly. He stopped a few feet before the trio, eyes flitting from Hamlet, to Fortinbras, back to Hamlet. Claudius didn’t even bother to look at Horatio, which incensed Hamlet further. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want, uncle,” Hamlet responded, keeping his voice calm. “I want you to tell this court the truth of what happened to my father.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” Claudius said. Bless him, he almost sounded believable. Hamlet, however, saw the way his breath hitched and how his eyes widened ever so slightly. He grinned wickedly. 

“I’ve already made the price of lying clear, uncle. You have two choices: be killed a falsifier, or,” Hamlet drew his sword. Claudius took an abrupt step back. “Die as honest a man as you can be.”

Claudius eyed the rapier cautiously. “I don't—”

“Before you finish that thought,” Hamlet cut in swiftly. “Know that I have been waiting for justice several months now. I am patient, but a son can only go so long before avenging his father. So why don’t we keep this short? Admit your sins now, in front of everyone. Do not avoid your fate any longer, uncle.”

“Hamlet, there must be something we can agree upon,” Claudius pleaded. The panic in his voice was sweet to Hamlet's ears. “I have money, positions—”

“I care for none of those,” Hamlet said, dismissively. “Do you know what I care about?”

“What?” Claudius asked hesitantly. 

“My father.”

Hamlet gave his uncle an icy glare. He could tell that Claudius had started to accept the fact there was nothing to be done. Hamlet would not relent. It was up to Claudius now: would he save his kingdom or would he try (and fail) to save his pride? Claudius let out a ragged sigh.

“I killed the late King Hamlet.” Claudius finally admitted, dully. 

Hamlet almost laughed. Finally, oh Lord, finally. Hamlet felt such a grim, yet delicious, sense of vindication. Vaguely he heard Getrude let out a strangled sob. All around him, different people were whispering, and protesting, and crying. Hamlet didn’t care. He advanced on the false king. Claudius backed up, terror in his eyes.

“Be reasonable Hamlet,” his uncle insisted, backing up. “Will there be no trial?”

Hamlet paused. Then he cocked his head. 

“Tell me, did you show such mercy on my father?”

Claudius’s eyes widened, and in that moment he knew what his fate would be. “No—”

Hamlet's sword found its mark, right through his uncle's heart. There were more gasps and cries around him, but Hamlet didn’t care. The deed was done, and now his fathers spirit could finally be at peace. Hamlet could finally sleep at night, knowing this monster was dead.

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.