**This would have tagged along with the last chapter, but in the end I decided to save this bit for a shorter-than-normal chapter 5. For those of you wondering where Hamlet's angst went, don't worry, that's on its way. Enjoy!**

If Hamlet could have walked slower, he would have. But he actually did have something important to tell his uncle, and it was rather time sensitive – an approaching army with an aggressive, trigger-happy, high-standing commander fell under that category, right? As such he too-soon found himself outside the doors to his uncle's quarters. They were large, broad things, made of dark wood and the sweat of a highly-paid craftsman. Hamlet should know; these used to be his father's rooms, and his father's doors. The quarters of a king, he mused. When had he seen the inside of these doors last? He must have been too young to remember it.

The memory, or lack thereof, strengthened his resolve. Claudius was not the rightful ruler, this was certain. And although killing had lost much of its appeal since Ophelia's revival, this false king deserved to be taken down, somehow. Hamlet just had to figure out how.

Ophelia did not deserve to live out her second chance of life under the rule of a licentious tyrant.

Taking a deep breath, he swung open both doors at once. It did not cross his mind that mere days ago, the Hamlet of then would never have had the courage to do what he was doing now.

If Hamlet had to describe the interior of his uncle's quarters, he would call them wholly unremarkable. Not because they were drab or empty, but because they were so rich and splendid in appearance that it was impossible to remember everything inside upon leaving. An enormous, four-posted bed in the corner, gilded with gold and expensive wood? A closet no doubt filled with heavy garments of the utmost quality? Stone walls garnished with elegant banners and colorful tapestries? A mirror decorated with the carved faces of the great Danish kings of old? With such a display of wealth, the man standing in the middle of the room seemed entirely unnecessary.

"Good morrow, dear uncle," Hamlet proclaimed, casually stepping further into the room. "The king, the king! He sends for his dogs and they bring him cats." He grinned and tilted his chin in thought. "Though methinks you may need them. Here there be rats—and not all of them reside behind walls."

Claudius continued to stare at him without flinching. After a few moments of drawn-out silence, he asked, "Did the king receive you well?"

"Which king, king?"

"The English king."

"English?" Hamlet scoffed. "Never trust them."

His uncle clasped his hands behind his back – a side effect of his effort to maintain his patience, no doubt. "Did he receive you?"

"No, sir. The scoundrel."

"Where is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?"

"There."

For the first time (as far as Hamlet could tell) Claudius blinked. Lines of frustration grew deeper on his balding forehead. "Where?" He grunted.

Without fully realizing it, Hamlet began walking around the room, staying downwind of his irritated uncle. He stared at tapestries and furniture, all in an effort to buy him some time, and test the waters of his uncle's mind. This wasn't a social call, Hamlet had known that the minute Osric came towards him; this was an interrogation.

"With the king," Hamlet replied. "The English king." He shrugged. "Methinks."

"Wherefore," Claudius ground out through clenched teeth, "did they leave you?"

With an even tone, Hamlet looked right at his uncle and answered, "The noose got them."

Before Claudius could formulate an incredulous reply to that statement, Hamlet continued. "But all this is no matter; your letter? No doubt received by the king of England. Your cohorts? Gone, never to trouble us. As for myself, pirates, and two sore feet – here I stand, humble, at your gracious feet." He twirled on his foot and walked towards the other side of the room. "And yet there be more for your ears to hear – a Norwegian army marches with spears and swords to knock down the walls of Poland. But beware of Fortinbras of Norway, who hath not lost his ire against us."

"You deceive me, a trick!" Claudius cried, stepping forward until his was practically nose to nose with his nephew.

Hamlet stood his ground. "Nay, my uncle. And as surely as the wind blows northwards he will not leave these lands without quarrel."

They stared at one another, and then Claudius turned away, his neck and shoulders as stiff as wooden beams. Hamlet felt the slightest bit of sympathy for the man, an emotion that greatly surprised him, but how could he not? Rightful or not, Claudius was the king, and he hadn't exactly had a peaceful ruling these past few weeks. But now an army would be marching through and he could do little else besides give them safe passage and pray it didn't all go to shite.

But what if he could do more?

"If I could be the bringer of good news, I would be happy with myself for once," Hamlet said. He stepped forward. "But all is not lost! Ride out to meet him! Display the might of Denmark for all to see. He shall decide which course is nobler: ride to Poland, or limp back to Norway."

His uncle stood stock still, facing away from him. Then, slowly, Claudius turned around. He stared at Hamlet with an unreadable expression, a dense mixture of anxiousness, anger, and surprise.

"If what you say be true…" Claudius said. "Then hie you hence. As of today, you are a prisoner – guards!"

At his call two burly guardsmen marched through the door behind Hamlet. "Yes, my lord?" They said in unison.

"Gentlemen, confine Hamlet to these grounds, to be watched at all hours of the day. I ride to meet Norway on our own land, with an army fit to make them tremble behind. Go! Sound the battle cry of Denmark."

"We obey," the guard on Hamlet's right intoned, before grabbing the prince roughly be the shoulder and leading him out of the king's quarters.

Even with guards flanking him on either side, Hamlet found it in himself to smile. Confined to the castle! What joy! He could have all the time in the world to help Ophelia heal. And with Claudius away, Denmark might actually be fun again.

As they turned a corner, he did a little skip. He would enjoy this break from acting deranged. And if his uncle died in battle, well, wouldn't that just be the strangest coincidence?