A/N: Last year, during an indepth discussion on Shakespeare, my friend Nat challenged me to write her an Ophelia/Hamlet vignette. It has been on my list of "Things I Want To Accomplish In My Time As A FanFic Writer" for a while and I finally managed to find the inspiration and the story. This is for Nat – happy holidays!

I've taken certain artistic liberties with coming up with character backgrounds from before the start of Hamlet. In this story, Ophelia spent her adolescent years in France. Hamlet has already been to Wittenberg and has started his studies there. This takes place before the murder of King Hamlet and the coronation of Claudius. I was also trying out a different writing style with this story. Since I did not want to write it in verse (as my verse is total and complete crap compared to Shakespeare), I had to change the approach to dialogue but I still wanted to maintain a Shakespearean feel to the speech. I'm not sure if I succeeded or not, but there you go.

Much thanks to Tchaikovsky's op. 67, which is his musical tribute to Hamlet. I listened to it non-stop while writing this and you should go check it out because it's an awesome piece of orchestral music. The title is, of course, from Polonius' most famous line from Act I, Scene III: "This above all: to thine own self be true."

Many thanks to JediAnt/Abagael for betaing!

To Thine Own Self

Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.

Hamlet. Act I, Scene ii, lines 115-118.

I. Frozen

Elsinore is deathly cold this time of year. Out of desire to avoid his disappointment, I will never tell my father that I miss Paris desperately. I long for the sprawling city, the bustling sounds of music and culture, and the winding rivers. Most of all, I want to see the bright greens that came after the thaws, signalling spring's coming and the return of life after winter.

Yet here I am, returned to the land of my birth, on my father's whim because he missed me. No doubt he has a marriage in mind and wanted to bring me back before I became too comfortable with romance-seeking Frenchmen. This appears to be a latent fear all fathers have about virtuous daughters, whether they want to admit it or not. How little faith he has in me: I would rather enter a nunnery than sacrifice my virtue to a man I barely know for the delights of one night of passion. Intriguing though they are, I am yet to meet a man who is either interesting or delightful to talk to. Learned men take no notice of me, for books and the rites of scholarship are far more interesting. A mere woman pales in comparison to the likes of parchment and ink.

Elsinore is a cold castle, high on the hills, over-looking the river. Though it is spring by the calendar, the weather says otherwise. This morning, as we travel by carriage up the craggy hillside to the castle, I can see the shimmer of frost on the stillborn grass, yellow and matted after months of snowy burial. I sigh. My eyes narrow in distaste at the sight of my silvery breath rising into the air. I pull my fur-lined cloak tighter around my shoulders.

"You look troubled, daughter," my father says.

I smile as gently as I can. "Not troubled. My heart grieves for my brother. His presence here is greatly missed."

My father's brow darkens. "Be not troubled by Laertes' absence, daughter. He will return to us when the values of France have given him all he desires."

I hold back a choked laugh. Father means it well and he means it innocently, but he fails to recognize the hidden meaning of his own words. Of course Laertes is enjoying the "values of France". He is a man, after all.

"Ah," Father says, noticing my altered mood and misreading its cause. "Do I detect a light in your eye, daughter of mine? Could it be the glimmer of happiness? Do not despair, Ophelia. Your brother will return to you in time."

He will not return of his own volition. I do not have the heart to say it aloud. I have to keep Father happy, as is my duty as his daughter. It is a game my brother and I have played for many a year.

I watch the countryside pass as the carriage climbs its way upwards to the castle. I am banished from the city of my heart to the city of my birth. I do not know if I will ever return to Paris, but that chapter of my life is now over. I must begin afresh. I will not let the coldness of Elsinore chill my heart.

There is a babbling brook that runs down the hill, falling through cracked ice in happy rapids towards the river. At its edge is a great willow, still asleep, waiting nature's call. This is a good place to visit in the summer, I decide. Perhaps I will journey here. Perhaps Elsinore can be my home after all.

When we finally reach the castle, we ride in as if we are royalty ourselves. Father is chief counsellor to the king. As such, he demands a certain respect from the other courtiers who reside here. There is a flurry of greetings and then we are ushered in to see the king and queen. Queen Gertrude welcomes me like a daughter as Father and King Hamlet settle into a brief and mild discussion. It all seems very detached, as if I am watching the scene from afar, orchestrating my own movements as though I am a puppet master. I am not certain if I can adjust to this life immediately. My mind has gone blank.

Father waits for me to say something to the king, but I cannot speak.

"I apologize, your Majesty," he says quickly to cover my dumbfoundness. "My daughter is very tired."

"Well, then, she must get some rest immediately." The queen rises from her seat and graciously escorts me toward the nearest door. She calls for a maid and instructs the girl to take me to my quarters.

There is a fire lit in my bedchamber when we reach it. It is the warmest place I have been all day. The maid then leaves me to my privacy. I lay on my bed, but I cannot sleep. It is strange, being back in the place where I grew up. It is familiar, and yet not. I want to run from the strangeness, but something bids me to stay.

I sit up and dart across the room. I do not need rest. I need motivation, something to keep my wandering mind occupied. What else can accompany a wandering mind but wandering feet? I am struck by a sudden desire to test my memory of this castle. I will depart on a mission of exploration.