**Yes, I'm still alive, just at a loss for time, as per usual – college degrees are very time consuming and mentally draining, it turns out. This past summer I studied in London and got to take classes in Shakespearian literature and the English monarchy, as well as attend plays at the Globe Theatre. Suffice it to say it did wonders for my inspiration! Thank you for those of you who are still reading this tedious beast of creation – I'm very, very grateful. Please keep writing, all of you – people may say it doesn't matter, but if it matters to you, then it's always worth it.**

"HAMLET." A pause. "HAMLET!"

The prince's eyes flew open and he lurched forward in his bed, before falling back into the covers when he wasn't met with any resistance. He was in his room, alone. The sun was streaming through his window, and outside he could hear the distant sounds of the kitchen. But…there had been a voice in his dream. Someone had been shouting for him, but he couldn't reach them. He could've sworn it'd sounded like—

"Good morrow, my lord prince! How do you fair?"

Hamlet jumped and glared at Sammy, who's head was sticking out of his now-open bedroom door. The smile on boy's face was absolutely disgusting, and he'd already started talking again, so what was the point of ever replying? "The sun heralds a new day – and a meal!"

That joke was so old he was surprised it didn't add wrinkles to the lad's face. The prince Hamlet followed his new breakfast routine with an air of graceful annoyance. Sammy, the grossly cheery serving boy, would wake him up as soon as the sun rose. Guards would supervise his daily routine, save bathing and the use of the chamber pot. He would then have his breakfast brought to him (a meager porridge and slice of ham, nothing special), ending with a sweep of his room.

But he did not complain, for after it was all over, he was released to wander the castle to his heart's content. He was easily the most well-off prisoner in the castle, nay, the whole country. By midday he was practically a prince again, exploring the castle he had been away from for so long, and eating as many meals as he wished. The only reminders that he was still a prisoner were these morning traditions…and his confinement to the castle.

With his breakfast complete, he made his way to the room he'd rather sleep in. Not that Laertes would ever let him, of course.

The castle was as quiet as was normally was during times of war, the sound of Hamlet's heels echoing like thunderclaps off the stone walls. Even the staff had little to do once most of the men were gone. The only royalty left to serve were Hamlet (as described above), Laertes, Ophelia (only the bravest servants volunteered for that job), and…

Queen Gertrude. Right on cue Hamlet turned and watched her come down the staircase in the northeast tower. She paused, glanced at her son, looked as if she was about to say something…and then sighed and continued walking down the steps.

Hamlet was at a loss as to what to do about his mother. When they approached each other from opposite ends of a hall, she'd find a door to escape to or blatantly turn around. When Hamlet sat the table for supper, she'd leave even if she wasn't finished eating. She never frowned at him, but never smiled either. They were trapped in a silent stasis of their own creation. But how could Hamlet try and approach her after everything he said and did? If she was terrified of him, he'd understand. But what he couldn't stand was this constant silent treatment – Hamlet would take weeks of arguments over this incessant torture.

Not only that, but he had no idea where she went during the day. The servants in her room were always denying him entry to her room, claiming she was asleep or "out", and never allowed him to follow his mother for more than a few feet. Hamlet wasn't one to start fights, and therefore did not pursue the issue. Perhaps this was just what she did when she didn't have Claudius to hid behind.

The prince watched the stairs she had just descended for a moment, but then turned away as he remembered his original goal. Today was a momentous day for his lady.

"Again, perhaps?"

"Hold your tongue, Laertes, or I'll use it as a balm for my aches."

"The lady speaks the truth. Let her alone!"

"See you do the same, prince, my patience thins!"

"I've been wounded by my lady love," Hamlet retorted, feigning a stab in the heart. Ophelia blushed from his wording, but as usual, the subject was dropped. One just didn't discuss such things in the public realm of courtly love.

"Hold your mirth, love birds," Laertes muttered as he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "We're not walking yet."

Ophelia smiled. It was a rare and beautiful occurrence, one that Hamlet craved more than light itself. "I will be, brother," she said. "Such promise I hold! An egg ne'er hold so much life as I do."

"Well put," Hamlet replied, casting a gentle, love-touched smile her way. "And we'll see it so."

Very carefully, he took her right hand and placed it on his shoulder, Laertes mirroring his actions on her other side. He slid close to her, until her hair tickled his ear. "Lead us hence?" He murmured.

And very soon, she did.

This practice continued for many weeks, past the only two bits of news they received from the front: that the Norwegian army had been sighted, and that "Denmark was engaged". Hamlet and Laertes would take turns walking with their charge throughout the castle (under supervision by guards in Hamlet's case). All in all, Ophelia was recovering wonderfully. She was a shining light in the gloomy castle, brightening the halls with her smile and laughter.

Perhaps most importantly, she brought Hamlet and Laertes together. They had no time for lingering distrust when working towards the shared goal of making their lady well again.

Because although Ophelia hated to admit it, she was not yet completely healed. Laertes would be the first to admit that he and the prince did hang on her a little too much, but without them, the lady was prone to fits of disorienting panic. She was very uncomfortable in large, open spaces such as the great hall, and needed a maid servant to help her in the mornings and at night. No one wanted to tread lightly around her, but at the same time, how could anyone feel at ease with someone who could change attitudes so quickly and unexpectedly?

At the end of the day, however, there was always improvement. Ophelia was such a fast learner that they were exploring the castle grounds within a week. She still loved flowers, and spent many days educating her guides about their names, meanings, and properties. Some days she would talk about everything, from her childhood memories to big ideas she'd never fully understood, such as religion and philosophy. And then there were other days when she would be utterly silent – never stoic nor unfriendly, but verbally unresponsive all the same.

It was on one of these "quiet days" that Hamlet noticed a change in Ophelia. As usual she would give non-verbal cues such as nods or smiles, but unlike previous outings she began to be nervous around him. As if he was the one that could start spouting madness at any moment!

"Hath she spoken of ought to you? At all?" Hamlet asked Laertes one day while Ophelia was taking an afternoon rest. "You see her as much as I do, my friend."

"She treats me kindly, and I her," he replied. He shrugged. "'Tis strange."

But this trend continued for several days, until it got to the point where Ophelia would speak with Laertes at great lengths but not say a word to him.

Finally, on one hot, sunny day, Hamlet could take it no longer. He opened his mouth to question her (perhaps his mother had filled her head with lies about him – anything was possible) when Ophelia beat him to it:

"Hamlet—" (Hearing his name come out of her mouth was enough to give him pause) "—please take me to the creek. My creek."

He knew which creek she referred to. Everyone did. It was the one she was found drowned in – whether by accident or on purpose no one knew for sure. She'd never brought it up before, and neither had anyone else, but she'd always been careful to steer Hamlet and Laertes away from the western part of the castle grounds, where that creek formed a border between the woods and the gardens. No doubt it was a place of great emotional trauma for her; no doubt it might take months or even years before she would feel ready to approach it once more.

But after only a couple weeks?

"My lady, are you certain? 'Tis early…mayhaps I should call your brother here—"

"No." Ophelia's eyes blazed with a determination the prince had never seen before, and could only admire in awe.

With a respectful nod, they made their way west.

She hesitated only once, but otherwise strode forth with all the confidence she could muster. Hamlet hung back and simply observed his love, ready to support her physically as well as mentally should she require it. Before long the woodland trees towered above them, the flowers and grasses became more wild and untamed, and the creek stretched far and wide in front of them.

Ophelia was silent and still. She watched the water carefully, an unreadable expression on her face. She was so far removed from the physical world that she didn't even shiver when a cold wind blew through.

Hamlet was quiet, too. This moment, whatever it was, was sacred; he felt wholly unworthy to be a part of it.

Ophelia was brave enough to break the silence. "I perished 'neath these waters."

The Danish prince nodded. "Yes, 'tis true." He stepped towards her until they were shoulder to shoulder. "Yet did I revive you, Ophelia. Epione smiles to see thee well."

"Am I?"

The question was so simple, and yet…that was the question, wasn't it? She was alive, but for a moment, she wasn't. Even before drowning her mind had left this world, and no one was sure how much had come back. If she was indeed "well", they shouldn't feel the need to consistently watch her for signs of a breakdown. Right?

But watching her, here, standing next to the creek that held such significance for her, Hamlet knew his answer immediately.

He turned her and held her hands firmly in his grasp. "By my troth, my bosom, my soul, you are," he told her. "Aphrodite would tremble to see you—"

"And yet are my stars hazy; they flicker." She couldn't take her eyes of the water. "I wander as a moth in darkness deep, hidden from friend, foe; from my very self." She waved a hand around her face, as if an unseen veil obscured it. "Oh, how my pretty remembrances hurt me with hidden thorns. God praise you both; yet do I fear you will tire of me and leave me to my foggy nights and days; and yet do I despise myself for this, that which clings to the vine that ripens it until rot o'ercomes them both. Woe is me! Why should I weep to be dismissed by hell?"

Hamlet used his hand to gently tug her chin back to him without any hesitation. "Doth not the scratch heal before the limb? Shall both leave scars on thy soul? 'Tis not so. As the wise man said, time doth heal all; yet do not despair, my lady, nor fear—Laertes and I will not let you fall."

The only other sound that could be heard was the whispering brook beside them; even the birds seemed to be listening. He took a deep breath, and wished he could absorb the sunlight for courage. "His soul would cross mountains and seas for you if it meant you could be well, as will I; he holds a great love for you…as do I."

Ophelia giggled, and Hamlet couldn't help but chuckle with her. How childlike those words sounded coming out of his mouth! He wished he could put every feeling he had for her into words, but it turned out he had much better knack for soliloquies than with conversation.

"My courting of you was madness, 'tis true," he continued. Ophelia nodded in understanding, and her calm acceptance made him want to spend his entire life devoted to making up for his terrible mistakes. "Nor am I worthy of half your fair sum."

She opened her mouth as if to retort, but the prince just shook his head and gripped her hands tighter. "Ophelia, I behold you in awe, and therefore in such profound reverence I know not what to say. Except that you are—"

"Forever my own," Ophelia murmured.

He nodded. "Most assuredly. You are beautiful, passionate, strong; yet do I bend my knees and cry for your forgiveness; forbear me. I am sorry for the wrongs I've caused thee."

Ophelia smiled, and released his hand so that she could caress his cheek. Her skin smelled of the flowers she'd picked that day, and felt soft against his afternoon stubble. "My thanks, gracious Hamlet, yet do stand tall; the harm done to the other has no bounds. And yet—" A shy smile came upon her face. "Should we live our days to forgive, together, then will I be most content."

Hamlet was silent in shock as he let those words sink in, and then they were both smiling, grinning like loons at each other and at their good fortune. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and they both leaned into each other and sighed in happiness.

After a few moments, he became aware of the creek's gurgle once more, and he got an idea. "My lady love," he began, "do you enjoy water?"

He felt Ophelia tense, but her response was free of hesitation. "Yes, for it has drawn me since I was young, when I still dreamed of freedom from hardship."

Hamlet stepped back, but retained his hold on her hand. "Would you show me?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Ophelia nodded. She carefully led him to the water's edge, smooth stones and reeds marking its path before they disappeared in the darkness of the creek's depth. They kneeled together, so close to the water's surface Hamlet could feel a certain coldness emanating from it.

"I am with you," he murmured. Ophelia briefly paused in her deep breaths to nod at him.

A few moments later, she shoved both of her hands deep into the water. She gasped, whether from the cold or from a deep, primal emotion in her very being he could not tell, but did not take out her hands. Hamlet gave her a proud smile, and copied her. Under the water, he clasped her hand in his, neither of them caring that their embroidered sleeves were getting soaked.

They sat there, leaning against each other, until their fingers began to turn blue.

"HAMLET!"

The prince dashed through his dream of darkness, searching for the source of the voice. Was it summoning him? Or was it chasing him? Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared in front of him, hands outstretched like claws with a face twisted with malice.

"HAMLET!" It shouted again.

It was his father.