**Pearlydewdrop – and all of you lovely folks who've come this far – should be given a friggin medal. There are no worthy excuses from me. I've been putting this off far too long! Despite how this looks, I do know how this story ends. I plan on there being two final chapters after this one, which I plan to post simultaneously just to get this thing done! (Read the previous chapter for a refresher, this one picks up immediately where that one left off.)**

"YOU SWORE."

King Hamlet's voice seemed to shake the very walls of reality. Prince Hamlet tried to cover his ears, but in this dream he had no hands. Instead he was forced to stare into the eyes of his murdered father, feeling as vulnerable as a child.

"Father—"

The ghosts' eyes flashed. His thin strands of hair were whipped across his face by an unseen wind. "YOU SWORE!"

Hamlet couldn't look away, but his thoughts were wild. What could he say to his father? All thoughts of Ophelia vanished from his mind as if she'd never existed. There were more important things, weren't there? Claudius still sat on the throne, Laertes wanted him dead twice over, his mother—

His mother.

The prince sat up in bed wide awake, the image of the deceased king burned into his vision as he took in his room. Everything was the same, but the air felt different somehow. More urgent.

Hamlet almost fell out of bed in his haste to leave the room for somewhere, anywhere. He fled the room with barely enough time for putting on his robe. Sammy - carrying what would have been the prince's breakfast – scuttled to get out of the way before realizing what the "prisoner" was doing.

"My lord! My prince!" Hamlet heard the boy's dishes clatter to the floor. "Guards, to your posts, make haste!"

Sammy's performance made Hamlet roll his eyes. He, Denmark's prince, a prisoner in his own castle! The injustice made his blood boil with a rage that hadn't affected him until now. Robe billowing, Hamlet flew through the hallways at a brisk pace, not even pausing to acknowledge Horatio or Laertes as he passed them.

There was such determination driving him forward that he paid little head to where he was going. His thoughts were not bloody, as they'd been in the past. Quickly he halted at an intersection. Down the hall on the right, guards were already marching to intercept him. On the left, he caught a glimpse of Queen Gertrude just as she left through a door to the courtyard.

There.

Hamlet followed his mother into the yard, only dimly aware of guards behind him shouting, "Save the Queen!" This confused the prince. Save her? From whom?

The first light of dawn was cutting through the fog in the courtyard. Queen Gertrude was crossing the yard swiftly. If she was aware of her son following her, she didn't show it.

The memory of Hamlet's first attempt at directly confronting his mother about his uncle flashed in the prince's mind and he winced. This time, Hamlet kept his distance, allowing his mother to enter the chapel in the courtyard a few paces ahead of him. When he followed her inside, he closed the door behind him as a form of habit.

Queen Gertrude kneeled in front of the alter with her hands clasped and head bowed. Truly, the ease at which she settled into this pose gave the prince the first moment of pause of that morning. She'd done this before, he thought.

Hamlet looked at the walls of the chapel, at its elegant stained-glass windows and traditional stone buttresses, and felt the weight of Christ settle around him. His father, the murdered king, suddenly seemed so far away, as if his dream had been nothing more than that.

A brief clamor arose from behind the door, but a priest seemed to halt the guards, attesting that the church was sacred ground. Then, silence fell. Hamlet felt it again: vulnerability, confusion, and doubt. He was a child once more, standing next to his father as King Hamlet Sr. showed him the entire kingdom on a map. He was told that one day, he'd be king, and this land would be his. Hamlet Jr. had not believed that he could ever be as good a king as his father; this moment, he wasn't even sure he could be a good man.

Hamlet looked at his mother, still kneeling with her back to him. It was only in this position that he could see how she'd shrunk in age. He wondered if it was hard on her knees or back. He wondered what she was praying for, to not be bothered by such things as pain.

The prince kneeled next to his mother and bowed his head. There was barely a step between them – the closest Hamlet had been to his mother physically in a long time – but to Hamlet it felt like a thousand leagues.

Moments passed. A draft made the air cold. He glanced at his mother, and he saw how her hands were clasped so tightly her nails were white. The last time the prince had been in this church, it had been for his father's funeral rites. Wordlessly, Hamlet copied her position; he suddenly realized that over the years he had forgotten how to pray.

Now is my moment, Hamlet thought. Now was his chance to tell her the same truths he'd told Horatio and Ophelia: his flight from the English noose, his feelings upon seeing the Norwegian armies, his revelations upon returning home to rekindle feelings of love. According to his dear friend, Hamlet's speaking abilities could make accomplished orators turn green with envy. So why, then, could he not breath a single word?

Hamlet was surprised, then, when his mother broke the silence.

"As I recall," the queen began, her eyes still shut, "twas many years ago that I did comb your hair for Sunday mass; you were afeared you'd drop the Lord's body. In this holy shrine, you kneeled beside me, ay, your fair locks in disarray once more, and performed the ceremony faultless. Then Lord's blood touched your lips, and then you smiled."

Queen Gertrude chuckled. "Without doubt, King Hamlet and myself knew we must watch our wine, lest you attain it and make such mischief as befits a Prince of the Wildlings."

Hamlet chuckled as well. He opened his mouth to reply – he also recalled this moment, specifically how pleasant and warm the wine felt going down his throat – but then his mother frowned. "Perhaps I should have seen the stone-carv'd words: my family's lives were doomed to fly apart. Your father dead and gone, God rest his soul; and you, for schooling and then for slaughter.

"Rumors is all I heard," the Queen continued, halting Hamlet's confusion. "all of them bloody; servants whispered of the king, your uncle, and of written orders so base and low his wife was not to share such confidence. You knew this, else you would be dead and gone; I cannot say how long you have had hate for Claudius, however just it is, yet I am afeared you hate me in turn. The laughter of my dear son does not last while I am present."

For the first time that morning – nay, the first time in too many months – Queen Gertrude looked directly into the eyes of her son. "I beg for your forgiveness, Prince Hamlet, for I have fail'd you, my sex, and my love, King Hamlet the Dane."

Once again, Hamlet could think of nothing to say. He blinked back tears and hoped he didn't look as foolish as he felt. He allowed himself to recognize that what he needed now, and what he needed many days ago, was someone to tell him the truth. He didn't need the Queen Gertrude that would hope to sooth a prince with platitudes. He needed his mother, the woman who kissed his wounds after his first sparing matches as a child.

"And I would beg your forgiveness as well," Hamlet replied just as solemnly. "I was horrid, to you most of all, and for no just reason I can describe."

His mother was frozen for a moment, and then a small smile spread across her face. "What I have become, a fool on a string, to miss my son grow to be a king."

Hamlet smiled as well. He chuckled, and the Queen followed. Soon they were both laughing to each other, kneeling on the floor together like they were sharing secrets. Under a portrait of Jesus, they hugged one another, with silent, grateful tears streaming down their cheeks.

A door latch clicked, and Hamlet and his mother parted to see a priest and a handful of weaponless guards entering the chapel. The guard captain nodded to his men and they shifted to stand abreast with one another, blocking off the prince's only exit.

Hamlet chuckled. "I have earned that reprimand from Osric." Despite the circumstances, his smile widened. "Ophelia will be wanting of me, though I shan't think why."

His mother laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You are as fine a man as Laertes, if not surpassing; your Ophelia shall not want of a more loving husband."

A blessing for their marriage! Hamlet beamed, as young as a child once more. "I thank you, mother."

With an outstretched hand he helped the Queen to her feet. Then he approached the guards, both hands raised playfully. "Be wary, guardsmen: my tongue hast no stopper."

The captain rolled his eyes. Then a voice from the watch tower froze everyone in their tracks. "The king and the sons of Denmark, at last! The king, oh, hurrah, we have won the day!"

The captain and his men raised a victorious yell. Hamlet turned and saw that his mother's face was as white as his.