A/N: Sequel to To Thine Own Self. While not entirely necessary to understand this story, you might want to read the previous one for context. Many thanks to Nat and Amber for their editing, feedback and lots of encouragement! You are wonderful, ladies!
In My Memory Locked
'Tis in my memory lock'd,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
Hamlet. I. iii. 86-87.
I. Words
Spring has once again arrived at Elsinore. Perhaps it is childish of me to do so, but in the past months, I found myself willing the snows to melt, the air to warm, and the landscape to bloom. The first flowers have graced us with their presence now for several weeks. Winter is the cruellest season, when all is dead and dying. Spring brings me more joy than I could possibly describe – though, perhaps, in the hands of a poet, a description could be attached.
I fear I am still a young girl! The very first day of spring, I took several of the queen's handmaidens and we rode out to the rolling hills and pranced among the new blooms as though we were children. If only you could see it now. Though I know Elsinore's hills must be a sight long engraved in your vision, I wish you were here to see. But as the pages and manuscripts of Wittenberg demand your presence, I must decipher a new way to illuminate Elsinore's landscape for you.
I believe I have found such a way! In the words of someone very dear to me: words, words, words!
I should very much like to relate those "words" to my father, one day. I do not doubt that he will find them amusing at all. Over the winter months, I readily discovered that my father lacks a sense of humour and I have decided to embark on a mission to make him laugh. To live in this world without a sense of humour only proceeds to thrust you into impenetrable darkness and the castle more than fulfills the necessary quotient of darkness.
Listen to me... one would think that I hated the castle. How dare I abuse your childhood home and your inheritance with my words? I do not. I have grown to love Elsinore. It is now my home more than France ever could be. It is only here that I am free to be myself, as you have taught me.
I inhale a sharp breath as I accidentally blot the most recent line of my letter. Ink blossoms on the parchment, swallowing the words within my latest paragraph. I frown, knowing that I will have to cross it out and start again below. Usually this would not cause me grief, but my hand is so cramped that I know I will not have a chance of finishing this letter as of right now. Perhaps I will be able to continue it tonight.
I slowly gather my writing instruments, setting the letter aside so the ink can dry. It is the last thing to be cleared from my desk and stored away, where no one will happen across it. No one is aware of my letter writing. No one knows that I spend so much time in my room, my pen eagerly soaring across page after page. No one knows that eventually, each sheet of parchment finds its way to what is no doubt a brightly lit stone room in Wittenberg. I do not know what the university looks like (as I have never been there), but I know what he likes and I cannot imagine that he would find himself in a place as dark as Elsinore.
After all, it is impossible to be a scholar in the dark.
He departed in the fall of the previous year. He left just as my love for him began to blossom, torn between his sense of duty, his lust for knowledge, his love for me, and his fear of attachment. It was his lust for knowledge that won in the end, sending him back to Wittenberg. Though I know he is more a scholar than a prince and I know that he cannot be himself without access to art and literature, part of me always wonders whether his departure was a flight from his fears. I do not want to blame him for leaving – that would be selfish and cruel of me. I cannot blame him. He is the prince and one day he will take the weight of the world on his shoulders – as of now, he is not ready. He must be able to lead himself before he can lead a nation.
What was a flame of passion during the summer months now only exists on the written page. By way of letters, the candle still burns. When he left, he gave me a gift: a poem he had composed for me, to remind me of him when I missed him the most. Some weeks after his departure, I chose to prove myself to him. I would not merely become a passing memory. I would fight to stay in his presence, even though long leagues separated us.
And so, I wrote. I wrote, I attempted poor excuses for poetry, I expressed my thoughts and wishes through the written word. I sent my letters with messengers, and waited, praying, hoping that he would receive them. He did. In return, I was gifted with new poems written in his hand, new compositions written solely for me. Though the long months of the fall and winter, we kept each other company by way of letter.
Every week, I wait in anticipation to receive his letters. Every time I open one with trembling hands, my heart leaps in my chest. Each letter is a new and exciting experience. Once read, I race to complete my response and send it off. It has been so for months. Strange… though we are not in each other's physical presence, it seems that I fall more in love with him with each letter. I miss him, but yet I do not. He is still with me, the man behind the words on the parchment. It is as if I have fallen into a storybook romance!
I have not told him so. One day, some letter from now, I will. I have not found the words yet to describe the effect of his messages.
I exit my private rooms, gently massaging my right hand where it hurts from holding the pen. I will finish the letter tonight. As for now, spring has arrived and I have ever intention to enjoy this season's warmth. There is only one place for me now, late in the afternoon as it is. I quickly make my way down the hall and weave through the labyrinthine passages of the castle.
Elsinore's gardens are blooming with new fragrant flowers. It is here that I often walk when I wish to be alone with my thoughts. However, I barely have had to use my chosen escape. When I first came to Elsinore, I spent more time alone in the gardens then I did surrounded by others. This year, that has changed. I am most content when I am with the queen's other ladies-in-waiting; they are a good group of girls, all around my age. I happily spend time with them, and on some days, the queen herself. When I grow tired of the girls' presence, I retire to my rooms and spend time with my ink and parchment, pouring my thoughts out to my beloved, lonely soul in Wittenberg.
"Ophelia."
My father's voice echoes somewhere behind me. For a fleeting moment, I think I have just imagined it. I continue on my journey through the gardens.
"Ophelia."
The voice is more firm now. I stop and turn and see him standing several paces away. My cheeks flush and I quickly bow my head.
"I apologize, Father," I say swiftly, "I did not know you were there, I meant no disrespect."
His expression is calm and light. "Sweet child," he says, taking my hand. "Dearest child. Did I frighten you?"
"Yes, my lord." I pause. "Partially."
He raises an eyebrow. "Partially?"
"I had imagined your voice was an echo on the wind and thus did not hear it proper."
He gives me a strange look and then chuckles. "Do you imagine many such things?"
"Sometimes," I reply. "This is the place where I can be alone with my thoughts."
"And would you allow your poor, doting father to intrude?"
I smile slightly. "Perhaps."
This time, he laughs fully, a loud, bellowing sound. "Charming girl," he says. "Come, let us walk."
I take his arm and we amble slowly through the garden, the late afternoon sun playing on our faces. It has been a very long time since I have seen my father. Of course, I have seen him at a distance during court, but it has been many the week – or perhaps many the month – since we have walked together as father and daughter. Part of me is bothered by this fact, which I am only realizing now, but a more dominant part dismisses it. My father is the Lord Chamberlain. He has his duties, and they are numerous. He does not have time to waste walking through gardens with his daughter, and though I hate to admit this about my own father, he is not the most interesting of company.
"I have not been graced by your presence in many a day, daughter," Father says.
I immediate feel guilty for my latest thoughts about him. "I apologize, Father," I answer quickly. "I meant no disrespect. I have…" I looked away, searching for a way to phrase my excuse. "I have been busy of late and I did not wish to distract you while you fulfilled your duties for the king."
"Oh, do look up, girl," he says. His tone is kind. I raise my head and look him in the eye. "Are you ashamed? You have no reason. You are too fair, daughter of mine, for shame. It is I who should be ashamed. I have not sought you out until today. I have not been a good father to you of late."
"No!" I take his gnarled, old hand in mine. There is a stone bench nearby; I draw us near and sit down. "You are the only father I could hope for," I say.
He smiles. "Tell me… how are you enjoying Elsinore now that you have been here for a year?"
"I have grown fond of the castle," I reply. "I feel much more at home here than I ever did in France."
"Do you miss your brother?"
My voice catches in my throat. In all my letter writing of the past months, I have not written a word to Laertes. I can feel the guilt rising up in me. A poor sister am I, to have forgotten my own brother. In my defence, he has not graced me with a letter, either.
I sigh. "I have no heard a word from him for months," I say truthfully. "I am uncertain if that makes me miss him more or miss him less."
My father gives me a quizzical look. "Strange words from the girl who would have done anything to return to her brother this time a year ago."
"Many things change in a year," I answer simply. And more than you can possibly know. My father is not aware of the romance between myself and the prince. I am adamant that he should never know – at least, not for now. It is something special, something I do not need him to tread on. It is a secret that breathed life into me, one that has turned me from girl to woman. I know my father will not react well, knowing that I had taken love into my own hands.
"You are happy here?" my father asks.
"Yes."
"You find that much joy in embroidery." It is a statement, rather than a question.
"The ladies of the court do have activities with which we occupy ourselves other than embroidery," I say shortly.
He catches my reproachful tone and his beard bristles. I cannot help but laugh.
"Oh, do not be affronted, Father," I tell him at once. "I meant it with good nature. If I did naught but embroidery, you would find yourself with a churlish and sour daughter."
He still does not look impressed with my comments.
"Father," I say firmly, "I have spent many a year perfecting the art of embroidery. I still spend time engaged with it, but there are other activities that we ladies of the court find enjoyable that goes beyond stitching."
"I see," he says, after a moment. "And what 'activities' are these to which my daughter applies herself so diligently?"
"Riding. The outdoors provide me with more joy than I could find the words to describe. After the winter months, I find myself needing time outside this dark, majestic place I now call home."
"And when you are not riding?" my father continues.
"I read and write," I say honestly. I know that he will probably not approve, but I feel that I must be honest with my father if I am going to hide the secret of my romance. I do not wish to be deceptive about everything I do. He is my father, and I must honour him.
I can tell from the darkening of his expression that he is not impressed. "Read?"
"I am literate, father, and there are more wonders to behold than passages found within the Holy Book. There is much to learn from the manuscripts and ideas of others. I enjoy perusing them and writing down my thoughts of them. If I were not a woman, perhaps I would become a scholar—"
"Have you gone mad, Ophelia?" Father interrupts. "Has some fairy spirited you away and replaced you with a madwoman who merely resembles my daughter in face and voice?"
The wind has picked up. Locks of my long hair are blown into my face. I release my hands from my father's and brush the hair away.
"No madness, Father," I answer calmly. "Merely interest and the application of my mind. Do not underestimate the power of words."
"Bah!" my father scoffs. "Books and manuscripts… they are for fools, not gentle flowers."
"Is the prince a fool?" The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think of their impact.
My father freezes. A redness slowly creeps into his cheeks as he realizes the meaning of their words. I have managed to do what I have never done before – shock my father.
"No," he sighs, flustered. "No, you are correct, the prince is… the prince is his Highness."
It is an ambiguous answer that has no meaning. I have always had the impression that my father does not approve of the prince's sojourn in Wittenberg.
"The prince is a scholar," I say pointedly.
"The prince may do as he pleases," my father says flatly.
The wind sweeps across the garden, bringing with it the scent of rain. I shiver. My father notices.
"If you are cold, perhaps you should return to the castle," he says, standing up. "The rain will soon arrive."
"Yes," I agree. I pause. I am upset that he is seemingly mad at me for my suggestions. I dislike arguing with my father; it usually wracks me with guilt in some way.
I hold out my hand. "Will you return with me?" I ask.
He sighs and takes it. "What father would I be to dismiss my only daughter's request?"