**The long and the short of it: Yes, I will be writing all of my dialogue in Shakespearean iambic pentameter, cause, why not? It may take a little longer for me to update because of that. All quotes from "Hamlet" will be in italics, but from this point onward the quotes will be from different scenes of the original play. I own nothing except my own words.**
It wasn't until Ophelia was lying on a proper bed that things finally started to calm down. After they'd brought her to the palace infirmary and the royal doctor had confirmed her health, the men in black brought Ophelia to her bedroom and left to give the royal family some peace. The Doctor of Divinity quit the room as well, muttering something about needing a drink as he shut the door.
Claudius, Gertrude, Horatio, Laertes, and Hamlet remained. The king and queen hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed, and Horatio stood behind the prince with a stiff back, not ready to let his friend out of his sight. It seemed only Hamlet and Laertes were willing to sit at Ophelia's bedside.
Hamlet, who had hardly relinquished control of Ophelia's right hand, glanced at the other people in the room and grimaced. A thick tension had settled among them, out of place in a bedroom decorated like a young girl's room and lit by late afternoon sun. If someone decided to break it this might all end in a shouting match. That was to be expected, of course. They'd just discovered that the young woman before them was actually alive; Hamlet was the only one here who hadn't wasted his breath grieving in the days prior. It was a lot to take in.
Still, Hamlet would have much preferred it if they would give him some alone time with Ophelia, just so he could gather his thoughts without anyone watching. He'd returned to Denmark ready to finish what he'd started, then Ophelia was dead, and then she was alive. Was he supposed to be happy that she could finally hear his true feelings? Remorse over how she had taken her life, and how that might as well have been his fault? Guilt over what he'd put Laertes through? Or dread, because now Ophelia would be present for what his father had tasked him to do?
Laertes held Ophelia's left hand and occasionally glanced from Ophelia to Hamlet, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Hamlet had no way of knowing it, but his declaration of love to Ophelia, and the whole "resurrecting from the grave" bit, was giving Laertes pause. He couldn't forgive the other man for his father's murder, but now Ophelia was alive. That fact alone changed everything. Already Laertes could feel his strong opinions begin to waver.
The two men had almost forgotten there were other people in the room, until King Claudius coughed politely. "I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him."
Horatio nodded without looking at Claudius, his true obedience lying in Hamlet rather than the king. Hamlet couldn't blame his uncle for wanting some space; Ophelia was still as white as a ghost, looking very much dead despite her pulse. And it did not escape the prince's notice that Claudius had been more twitchy than usual ever since Hamlet's return.
Laertes shook himself out of his thoughtful stupor long enough to stand and escort the king and queen to the door. (Hamlet certainly wasn't going to do it.) But as the trio left, the prince turned and nodded to his friend, indicating that he should go, too. Horatio nodded deeply to him, and then left without another word.
As soon as Queen Gertrude stepped into the hallway, all of the adrenaline and pent-up emotions left her in a heavy sigh. She whisked herself to her bedroom, trembling from exhaustion and mumbling something about taking a long nap.
Claudius, however, closed the bedroom door quickly, leaving him and Laertes in the hallway. Afternoon light shined through the sparse windows and bounced off of the stone floors and gilded columns. All was silent, as if the whole castle of Denmark was holding its breath.
"Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech. We'll put the matter to the present push," the king muttered fiercely, his eyes swinging like frenzied pendulums. "This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; till then in patience our preceding be."
Laertes was confused for moment, before he remembered. Of course; he had sworn to Claudius that Hamlet would die at the tip of his sword. How could he have forgotten something that had consumed his entire being so easily? But the answer was as clear as day: Ophelia. Who could thing about killing while she still drew breath?
And now, Hamlet had said those three words. He'd seemed apologetic. Somehow, there was hope for a future for all of their blackened souls.
King Claudius bid him good day and left to find his wife, his heavy black coat standing out against the beams of light that slashed across the stone floor. But before reentering her room, Laertes hesitated outside Ophelia's door and tried to gather some semblance of strength from its cool wood. His sister was his top priority now, not the prince. And yet he couldn't ignore his father's murderer, either. From the rational part of his mind, the forgiving portion, Laertes had many questions only Hamlet could answer. One conversation, he promised himself. One chance to talk one-on-one, man-to-man, and then he would decide what to do from there.
With a deep breath, Laertes opened the door.
Hamlet breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the latch click closed. Leave Laertes and his uncle to their plotting, he thought. All that mattered now was Ophelia.
He looked down upon his beloved's face and felt his limbs sag in exhaustion. In his mind, it had taken too long for the funeral procession to turn around, Ophelia's body carried in the coffin because there had been no other option. They scarcely believed what had happened right in front of their eyes, anyway. Only when the royal physician confirmed Hamlet's words did the rest of the mourners bow their heads in stunned, but thankful, prayer. And then came the formalities of it all: the physician insisting on doing a whole health scan, the workers grumbling about the extra work as they shuffled Ophelia's body from her grave, to the infirmary, and finally to her bedroom, the queen saying "God be praised" much too often for Hamlet's liking. Why couldn't they all just leave him and Ophelia in peace? He was grateful that everyone eventually did drift off to their respective quarters, but there would be no getting rid of Ophelia's brother. Laertes would return soon, and then, well…there were many heavy words that needed to be said between him and the nobleman.
Ophelia coughed and twitched slightly, but it was nothing for him to be excited over. Apparently all half-conscious patients did that while in their state of deep sleep. She'd been dead this morning…at the thought Hamlet held her hand just a little bit tighter. Ophelia might be breathing, but she was resting on the border between the world of the living and heaven. She could still die at a moment's notice.
If only she would wake up…
Hamlet flicked his eyes to the door to make sure it was shut, and then rested his forehead against the palm of her lukewarm hand in fervent prayer. "Ophelia," he whispered. "Please, wake up." His breath caught. "Come back…" The words "to me" died in his throat. He hadn't the right to say such intimate words. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.
There was so much more he needed to say, so many words that would hold greater meaning if she was awake. What magic words could heal her? Would God listen to his prayers, even after all he'd thought and done? There was not enough time on this earth, never enough, and if it was in God's power to grant he'd beg for more. Or at least for a second chance.
Laertes reentered the room as silent as he could, out of respect for Ophelia and her condition. He had expected much the same image as before, though the side of him that still despised Hamlet pictured the prince in the process of ravishing his unconscious sister. But somehow, the reality surprised him more. Ophelia was still lying on the bed, but Hamlet was clutching her hand to his face, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. His lips were moving, but if his whispers held any voice behind them Laertes couldn't hear them.
Well, the noble man thought. This certainly changed a few things.
He stepped further into the room, his heel cuffing against the rug. Hamlet visibly flinched and quickly set Ophelia's hand back on the bedcovers, the sacred moment lost. Laertes took note of the fact that the prince did not release her from his grasp, instead using his other hand to hastily wipe away his tears.
Laertes, being a gentleman, did not comment on the other man's display of raw emotion. "How does she fare?"
"Well, though methinks she blinked," Hamlet replied. His original wariness returned as the man who was essentially his rival sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. When Laertes took Ophelia's other hand in his own, Hamlet imagined that to an observer they must look like mirror images of each other.
They sat in silence for some time, neither knowing what to say. Or rather, what to say first. Behind Laertes the curtains billowed in the breeze from the open windows. The sound of a clock chiming in another room could be heard, but neither men seemed willing to distract themselves by counting the chimes.
When Ophelia's eyelids twitched again, Hamlet spoke. "Hear you, sir, what is the reason that you use me thus?" He asked. "I loved you ever."
Laertes had to have heard him, but he didn't answer. At the other man's silence, Hamlet turned his gaze back to Ophelia. "But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, the cat will mew, and dog will have his day."
That finally drew Laertes' attention. He dismissed the last sentence as the ramblings of a part-time madman, but the first segment was something he could not ignore. "It matters as money does to a man," he said with a bitter edge to his voice. "Ophelia is belov'd of us both. We should not quarrel, not while she can't hear."
Hamlet nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Then, "How fares mine uncle?"
Laertes shrugged. "As well as he should."
"And my mother?"
"Well; as fair as ever, though distress hath lined her face these past nights. But now you walk upon Denmark again. Methinks she might smile once more."
"For me?" Hamlet scoffed. "Not until I am my father's visage. Methinks Ophelia will make her sing."
Laertes appeared confused at his remark, but to Hamlet it made perfect sense. What had been his mother's first action at Ophelia's funeral but to lament that the maid would never be her daughter? Not to mention, the last time Queen Gertrude had seen him he'd been a shouting, deranged, murderous madman. She probably wouldn't be particularly receptive to him at the moment.
In a soft voice, Hamlet attempted to delve deeper into the other man's thoughts. "And how fare'st you, noble Laertes?"
The other man shifted in his chair. "I'll praise your name when Ophelia wakes," he muttered, effectively cutting off that topic of conversation. Once again, they let silence overtake them.
Hamlet wasn't sure how much time had passed before Laertes blatantly said, "You killed my father."
The prince, who was rubbing Ophelia's hand, paused mid-stroke. He didn't see any reason to deny the fact. "Yes," he replied.
A pause. And then, "Feel you no remorse?"
Hamlet could hear the rising anger in Laertes' voice, a tone as familiar to him as death. He'd used the same infliction himself. It was not so long ago that his father had been murdered, and he'd been the one cursing everyone he'd deemed responsible. Even Ophelia had experienced the taste of his vengeance, despite her being blameless. But Hamlet judged this to be the wrong time to tell Laertes of these facts, and continued to be apologetic. "My grief and guilt are not to be talked of. Believe me, Laertes; I stay silent not because my soul is of tarnished lead, but that my sorrow cannot be expressed more than you and I have bled already. Polonius was a good man." Ignoring the times he spied on me, Hamlet added silently. "Forgive me. I mistook your father for Claudius."
Laertes had also stopped rubbing each of Ophelia's fingers, and stared at Hamlet with a bewildered, but softened, gaze. "What gave you cause to slay the king?"
"How strange." Hamlet flashed him a grin. "I have oft asked myself that same question."
Either men might have spoke further, but suddenly Ophelia's head started to roll side to side. A small groan came from her lips, and her eyes clenched shut. She was finally waking up!
Laertes leaned forward in eager anticipation, but Hamlet remained clutching the maid's hand and moved no closer. Fear overtook his earlier confidence. What if she saw his face and only remembered how cruel he had been all those days ago? What if she forgave him? He'd heard his mother mention something about Ophelia being in a state of madness in the days before her death. What if her brain was still out of joint with the rest of the world? What if she didn't remember him? Which would hurt worse, to be hated or forgotten? What if?! The questions paralyzed Hamlet until he could look at nothing but his love's hand.
Ophelia muttered something unintelligible, and the prince could see fear flicker in Laertes' eyes. The other man had no wish to see his sister live out her second chance at life in a state of madness. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. "Ophelia," he said. "Dear sister, can you hear?"
The woman slowly opened her eyes, but even from Hamlet's angle he could see her face change to confusion. "Laertes," she breathed. "Brother. I'm sorry…I drown'd. Are you with me in heaven? Or some hell?"
Laertes smiled shyly and shook his head, willing away the small tears that formed in his eyes. "No, sister, neither. You can breathe again. You yet live, thanks to the prince Hamlet here." The man glanced over at Hamlet, and the prince was swallowed by Laertes' enormous gratitude. It was forgiveness. Hamlet might have killed Polonius, but if it wasn't for him, Laertes would be weeping at Ophelia's grave. Who knows what desperate acts Laertes might have committed then? But they didn't matter as much now. Yes, Polonius was dead, that much could not be erased. But Hamlet and Laertes met eyes in a new light, both beginning to wonder about the future. Ophelia was alive! Anything was possible!
However, as another furrowed brow appeared across Ophelia's beautiful face, Hamlet was reminded that the future would be severely dimmed if even one of his fears came true.
"Hamlet?" Ophelia murmured. Even the way she said his name made his heart hammer in his chest.
He felt her hand move in his grip, as if she'd attempted to move it and was surprised to find it stuck. On instinct Hamlet held it tighter, but the time for holding back out of fear was over. With a deep breath, Hamlet watched as Ophelia turned her head, and they met eyes for the first time in many (too many) days.
"Hello, Ophelia," Hamlet breathed. His love didn't seem to be breathing. "It's me, Hamlet."
He didn't even twitch, for fear that if he did the movement would startle her and she'd take her hand back. Laertes was worried as well; he'd just toyed with the idea that he and the prince could be friends, and that wouldn't be very possible if Ophelia wasn't back to her old self. But Hamlet was the only one of the two who knew of the falling out he'd had with her, so only he was worried about that becoming an issue.
Everything rested on Ophelia, and what she, and her brain, would decide to remember.
**Jeez, these chapters take a long time to make…sorry, folks. Hope you're liking my little Shakespearean adventure!**