Hamlet: Benedict Cumberbatch
Ophelia: Sian Brooke
(National Theatre Live)

He opens his eyes…and she is here.

She is here, and she is as beautiful as ever, her dark hair curling just below her chin. Her smile outshines the sun he can see far above them – but, then again, it always has, whether it be in life or death.

She wears the gown she wore the night that she had come to him, tears streaming down her cheeks, speaking of her father's demands that she see him no longer – the very same night as his aunt-mother and uncle-father's horrid wedding. He had held her, dried her tears, promised that he would love her until there was no breath left in his body.

Now, the words seem meaningless. He will continue to love her now that his blackened heart beats no more.

She is here.

All he can think, staring up into her kind, warm eyes, is that this is wrong, wrong, wrong–

He should not be here. He cannot be here.

He does not realize he has tried to speak his thoughts aloud until she hushes him gently.

"How?" he finally manages to croak. He attempts to sit up, so he can truly look at her, but he is not yet strong enough. He falls into her lap, and the recollection of his own cruel words about laying there once before feels like a physical blow to his chest. He can only clutch desperately at the soft, familiar fabric that pools around her knees with shaking, cold hands.

Running her fingers through his mussed curls, she laughs quietly, and the pure joy in the sound nearly brings tears to his eyes. He feels as if he has not heard her laugh in years.

"I thought you brilliant, my lord," she teases, "but if you must be reminded of how you came to be dead, you were poisoned. Quite recently." She glances briefly at the scarlet stain on his lower right side, and sadness flickers in her eyes for just a moment.

"No," he replies, and his voice feels wrong, scratchy, as if it has gone unused for days. "Why here? After…all I have…done…"

"Shhh," she repeats, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his brow. "You must recover first, Hamlet. And you must learn to exist here before you can speak, and move, and be as you once were."

Still, he persists. She has to understand. There must have been some grave error. He is not meant for this paradise; he does not deserve it. He has murdered. He has had the blackest of thoughts tied to hell. He has driven her to death –

"Wrong." It comes out as a gasp, and though it absolutely burns to speak, he goes on. "Not…here. Hell. How?"

She frowns then, her hands stilling in his hair. "For all your faults, my lord, your soul is still pure."

He blinks once, twice, and his vision slowly begins to clear. He feels his voice and reason returning to him as he simply gazes up into her eyes, savoring the chance to take in her beauty. When he can finally breathe without feeling every inch of his new existence, he repeats, "How?"

"Your love and loyalty hold more worth than your darkness. In the end, the Ever-lasting knows that you deserve peace after all you have suffered." The corner of her mouth lifts in a half-smile. "That is why I am granted this haven, as are you."

"The Ever-lasting?"

She laughs. "Aye, my lord. He bid me welcome you here, made me your guide."

His eyes widen in wonder, and she grins down at his incredulity. He will not act as if this – all of this, truly – does not give his soul a lightness it has not known for many months. His strength seems to have returned now, but he feels no need to rise from her warm embrace. He is more at home here, in her arms, than he has been in Elsinore since the death of his father.

With slow, careful movements, he lifts a gentle hand towards her face, lightly brushing his fingers against her cheek. The gesture, which has become a question now after all this time, is still so familiar that his heart aches. "Ophelia," he whispers, her name both a plea for forgiveness and a prayer of thanks on his lips. "My Ophelia."

"Your Ophelia," she replies, smiling. "Always."

Tears begin to gather in his eyes. "I am sorry," he continues. "For my words – for your father's death – "

She shakes her head, laying a finger across his lips. "All is forgiven, sweet prince. You are here; that is all that matters. Think no more of the past."

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he embraces her with all his love. As always, she is right.

Except, mayhap, about one thing.

She is here. This is what matters.