Is that all? All I am to wish for? Hope for? I who have tried to do nothing but please you, my father, my brother? I cannot recall a time when I did not know you. When we did not share confidences, dreams, sorrows and triumphs. I had kept all your letters, every single one. From the first, in which you were carefully instructed in what to say, to the last, in which you shunned all pretense of propriety and poured your soul out to me. Doubt thou the stars are fire. I know that you would have preferred I keep the letters to myself, but I thought in showing them to my father, I could prove that... well. I suppose it matters not what I thought I might do. You care little enough now.
You were always the instigator in our adventures. Laertes was constantly lecturing me not to allow you such esteem in my affections; that it would lead me into trouble. I cared not. You were so passionate, so full of life and excitement. I was content to be carried along on your enthusiasm, just pleased that you wanted to even have me near you. You were the star, shining bright in the court. No one mattered to me but you. I felt that it was impossible to be close to you without inexorably being drawn to you; I wondered why no one else could feel it. You pulled me in, as a child with your daring schemes, as a woman with your clever words, and caring touch. I thought that you were my constant star in the sky, burning brightly to lead me on to better things with you. Had I known, had I realized what lay in store for me, I might have placed more care in my father's staid words. Doubt that the sun doth move.
Yes, my father. He has never quite known how to handle you, and thus, his mistrust of you. He is only content when he is the one pulling the strings, the one feeding words into your mouth, and you would never allow him that. But you never understood him, did you? Couldn't fathom why Laertes and I would obey his every command, almost without hesitation. You could never comprehend that while you were my fiery star, he was always my sun. The whims of little boys are fickle. You and your friends, even my brother, would often tire of me. There were few enough young girls at Elsinore to be my playmates, and often I was lonely while you all were learning to be lords and princes. My father was never one to play, more the one to lecture, but he was always there. Never really having known my mother, I had no knowledge, really, of what I had missed. My father was the one I went to with all of my childish injuries, whether real or imagined. He was never perfect, I cannot claim that for him, but I knew that he loved me. He has always wanted the best for me, looked out for me, and protected me from the harshness of what my life could have been. I just never knew until now that his love for other things might one day eclipse the love of his daughter. That he would betray my confidences and... Oh! I cannot even bear to think of it! How could he have? Doubt that the sun doth move.
So you see, my darling, how your words, so beautiful though they were, have come back to haunt me? As I write this to you, I have not your remembrances in front of me, but I don't need them. I have committed your words to memory, and written them on my heart. 'Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love'. How precious they were to me, what a comfort. But now, you see, now... You are no longer the fire in my sky at night. You have forsaken me, treated me with cruelty I have never before experienced. How could I have known my father would betray me? How could you have expected me to be prepared to face treachery where always before I had sought comfort and solace? How can I soothe your pain when you do not share it with me? How can I make dreams upon my star when it fades before my eyes? My father took his light willfully from my day, and when I look to you for guidance, you also pull from me. Where else am I to turn? Who am I to look to? Never doubt I love.
And your final words, I can see them now, on the page. Cramped together, as if to fit all your feelings into the last few lines. 'I am ill at these numbers, I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it'. I did, Hamlet. I truly did. I believed that you loved me with every fibre of your soul and body. I took that love, and gave you mine in return. And now, doubt truth to be a liar. Everything you have done since your return has belied those words. Nothing you have said or done has shown me what those words said. What have I done? Why is this so?
Don't you see? We have done this to each other. I, with my unwavering fealty to my father, you, with your unwillingness to believe in my sincere feelings for you. I knew not that your love only extended to my perceived loyalty to you. Now I have no where to turn. My sun, my star, my truth, all vanished. The pillars of my world have disseminated like the morning mists across the castle grounds. We doubted our love, you doubted my love, and I am alone. Do you know what I do now? I wander the fields around Elsinore, picking flowers for when Laertes returns. I shall tell him all. He will listen to me, and he will know what to do. I look for the flowers, for the ones he loves, and I pluck them and set them aside, special. Sometimes, I think, I will pick some for myself, but all I am worthy of is Rue. Should I procure some for you as well, my love?