PERCHANCE TO DREAM
RATING - PG15
DISCLAIMER - Not mine, no money, don't sue.
AUTHOR'S NOTE - Yes, this is a Hamlet/LotR crossover. No, I don't know
what the hell I was thinking when I thought of this.
PROLOGUE
The hour was late when the Queen's messenger sent up the call that the noble Lord Chamberlain Polonius was dead at the hands of her son, Hamlet. There was no moon in the sky. The night was dark and cold, lit only by the pale glimmer of the stars above.
When her daughter had grown old enough to ask questions, she would ask Ophelia exactly how she had met her father. It was her favourite bedtime story. On each such occasion, Ophelia would sigh sadly, tucking her daughter's hair behind her tiny, pointed ear, smooth the quilt at the foot of the bed, and say that it all began with Hamlet. Always Hamlet.
"I was young," Ophelia would say. "I thought I was in love."
Each night she would tell of how she had loved the young Prince Hamlet, son of a king murdered by his own brother, and of the ghost, and of the Prince's descent into insanity, and of her own.
"And will 'a not come again?" she would sing, an echoing memory of a life long past. "He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan -- God have mercy on his soul."
And then Ophelia's eyes would glass over as she told about the day at the lake, the day she had left her life behind and fallen into the gently rippling pool, dragged down by the heavy garments she wore -- how she sank so deep into the murky waters that the sun grew dim and the world blurred and faded.
But the Gods had taken pity on her, Ophelia would say, and given her another chance, snatched her from the claws of death and placed her in another world.
"I lost one life," she would murmur. "But another began."
RATING - PG15
DISCLAIMER - Not mine, no money, don't sue.
AUTHOR'S NOTE - Yes, this is a Hamlet/LotR crossover. No, I don't know
what the hell I was thinking when I thought of this.
PROLOGUE
The hour was late when the Queen's messenger sent up the call that the noble Lord Chamberlain Polonius was dead at the hands of her son, Hamlet. There was no moon in the sky. The night was dark and cold, lit only by the pale glimmer of the stars above.
When her daughter had grown old enough to ask questions, she would ask Ophelia exactly how she had met her father. It was her favourite bedtime story. On each such occasion, Ophelia would sigh sadly, tucking her daughter's hair behind her tiny, pointed ear, smooth the quilt at the foot of the bed, and say that it all began with Hamlet. Always Hamlet.
"I was young," Ophelia would say. "I thought I was in love."
Each night she would tell of how she had loved the young Prince Hamlet, son of a king murdered by his own brother, and of the ghost, and of the Prince's descent into insanity, and of her own.
"And will 'a not come again?" she would sing, an echoing memory of a life long past. "He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan -- God have mercy on his soul."
And then Ophelia's eyes would glass over as she told about the day at the lake, the day she had left her life behind and fallen into the gently rippling pool, dragged down by the heavy garments she wore -- how she sank so deep into the murky waters that the sun grew dim and the world blurred and faded.
But the Gods had taken pity on her, Ophelia would say, and given her another chance, snatched her from the claws of death and placed her in another world.
"I lost one life," she would murmur. "But another began."