**Thank looney gloomy hobbit for this miracle – I've actually written something again! Crazy, I know. Keep creating, y'all, I felt so lost not making anything new while slogging through my engineering classes. So much love and gratitude to all of you for reading my work. Only the (much shorter) epilogue left at this rate… (I'm almost done with this, eep!)**

With a thundering crash, the castle doors burst open. Hundreds of soldiers poured into the courtyard, and they were far louder than they'd been when they left all those weeks ago. Their cheers of triumph vibrated the castle walls and agitated their horses. A welcoming party was being formed at the front of the castle proper comprised of servants, guardsmen, cooks, entertainers, and anyone else who happened to be nearby. Everyone was hugging someone; it didn't matter who they had been fighting or for what reason. It was enough to know that a man could come home safe to his family. Hamlet and Queen Gertrude nearly stumbled to keep pace with the crowds – it wouldn't do for the king to arrive home without his wife and stepson to greet him.

They jostled their way to the top of the stairs, their presence already causing a respectful ring to be formed around them. Hamlet resumed his position beside his mother, the same spot he stood when Claudius had initially left for battle. Horatio was the next to emerge from the crowd, a wide smile on his face. Hamlet caught himself smiling, too, as the high spirits of the crowd made him think fondly of his party-going days.

Laertes came next with Ophelia under his arm. At the sight of him, Ophelia broke away from her brother to stand on the other side of Hamlet. She gripped his hand tightly – the crowd must have had a strong effect on her, but she came to the thick of it regardless. Perhaps she knew she'd be safe beside a lover, a brother, and a friend. Hamlet beamed. Was it what had just happened between his mother and himself that caused his heart to be so full of joy?

Then his father's words from his dream echoed in his mind, and Hamlet's smile faltered. He gazed over the crowd, half-hoping that his uncle was arriving in a casket rather than astride a steed. Of course, it was sinful to wish ill upon one's own family – the prince wasn't sure if his uncle being murderous and adulterous made any difference.

Perhaps it was for the best that his uncle lived, Hamlet mused. When he'd first seen Fortinbras' army, he'd vowed to follow the opposing prince's example and act before thinking. He'd been so busy helping Ophelia recover that he'd lost that drive altogether.

Trumpets sounded, and the crowd parted down the middle. They cheered once more to herald the entrance of the king and his personal guard, trotting through the courtyard with banners flying. King Claudius removed his helmet to be better seen, but Hamlet noted how he was neither looking to his people nor above them. His eyes were fixed on something behind Hamlet and his mother, as if he could see something inside the castle no one else could see. In his eyes, was that surprise…?

The entourage reached the stairs and the king dismounted, ending the moment. As Claudius walked forward, Hamlet spotted the banner of Norway hanging from the back of his horse. It trailed along the ground, the red fabric torn and filthy. Fortinbras was an enemy, but Hamlet could not ignore the pang in his heart at the sight; he hoped the brave, young prince had not been hurt in the skirmish.

"My queen," King Claudius proclaimed from the base of the stairs. He bowed at the hip, and when he stood up again Hamlet could see his excitement in the redness of his face. "The sons of Denmark send regards to you, for thou art the most fair of all; twas I who dreamt of the mem'ry of thee."

Queen Gertrude smiled, and to Hamlet it looked as earnest as the smiles she'd given his father. Perhaps this was what drew her to his uncle, that common shred of youth between the two brothers. Her reply was equally playful, saying, "Then twas you who kept me awake at nights; I should wish your healers would find a cure."

Claudius' smile seemed genuine as well, but it could never match the strength of his elder brother's. "That, I fear, they've not."

The crowd gave another cheer, and when the king climbed the stairs to kiss his wife on the lips they hollered and whistled as well. Horatio was laughing under his breath at the noble men and women who were in attendance. Their faces were twisted in disgust, first at the sight of common folk being on their doorstep and then by sound of the crowd finding entertainment in this reunion.

The king stood between Queen Gertrude and Hamlet. He held his wife's hand with his left and raised his right to address the crowd.

"My people!" He began. Hamlet, for his part, was too busy trying to ignore his uncle's body odor to roll his eyes. "Denmark has vanquished Norway, and now our sons may return to their wives; may their sons sleep and dream of safer lands protected by God."

A last, hearty cheer, and then the crowd dispersed. Despite the day's excitement, it was clear that the common man still had work to do.

Not for the first time, Hamlet wished he could have a life that simple.

*/*/*/*

The first night they sat to supper – the same day of the king's return – all was well.

Roast duck, specially requested by the king himself, was served alongside a bed of herbed potatoes and other root vegetables. King Claudius was jovial in conversations and drank enough wine to turn his face purple. He complimented Ophelia's dress. He inquired about Laertes' future schooling. He proposed a toast to the country of Denmark and to his wife's health specifically. He even ignored Hamlet completely, much to the prince's relief. To everyone at the table, he was the picture of the perfect king, and Hamlet could find no reason to disagree with them.

There was only one moment that gave Hamlet pause. Just before dessert – a round of sugared plums and dates purchased from far off lands – Queen Gertrude noticed Claudius yawning.

"Heavy lids so soon, my king? Art thou ill?" She joked. The table of royal family members, nobles, and court attendants chuckled politely, but Hamlet raised his eyebrow in confusion. In the prince's youth, his uncle had always prided himself on how long he could go without sleep.

The king shook his head, his chuckle delayed due to his yawning. "Nay, forbear it, twas the gait of my horse and a long campaign, not your dialogue, that hangs my eyelids so."

More polite chuckles, and the matter was dropped. Hamlet shrugged, although privately he'd never consider a horse's canter to be relaxing. Soon thereafter the table was cleared, and the castle began to silence itself. The guard was changing as Hamlet bid a surprising farewell to his friends.

"Must you leave me hence?" Hamlet whined, adjusting his voice with altering pitches to make Ophelia laugh. "Your brother will steal you from under me."

Laertes glared at him. "Let's pray it's not so."

Ophelia laughed at them both, the light of a candelabra dancing across her cheeks. "He jests, brother, else I'd rid me of him."

She winked at him, and Hamlet grinned like a love-struck fool. "You'd have Herculean strength to do so."

Their departure was sudden for the prince, but in truth he should have seen this coming for a while. Laertes and Ophelia were guests of this castle and always had been, even more so now that their father was murdered. After a few inquiries via letter, Laertes had found property owned by their extended relatives that was not too far away from a university. He planned to finish his schooling there, while Ophelia would take a holiday with the rest of the family.

Hamlet wanted to whisper something in Ophelia's ear – perhaps a hint that there was an engraved, golden ring burning a hole in his coat pocket – but the sight of his lady-love had once again stopped his tongue. Instead he let a close embrace convey his meaning. He felt Ophelia smile into his neck, and in return he planted a lasting kiss to her forehead. When he pulled back, he could hardly bring himself to look away from her eyes. She had come so far in her recovery – Hamlet couldn't remember Ophelia standing with this much confidence before, ever.

"I shall put this prince to bed, Laertes, 'fore he stores himself among your luggage," Horatio said with a snide chuckle.

Hamlet made a face, but he managed to tear himself away from Ophelia's beauty and act like a prince. He shook Laertes' hand firmly, their eyes meeting and conveying a new sense of respect. For once, Hamlet had no doubt that Laertes would be happy to give his sister away to the prince of Denmark.

He stood beside Horatio and pulled his shoulders back. With the same words his father had said to every guest leaving his house, Hamlet proclaimed, "May you pass through lands and seas without strife to a good home and a better life."

Laertes bowed and Ophelia curtsied. With a final wave, they left for the carriage that awaited them. Hours later, from his room in the highest tower, Hamlet's eyes lingered on the road south.

However, Hamlet was soon grateful Ophelia was taken somewhere with peace and quiet. The castle of Denmark was dull during the day – Horatio initially went to the public brewhouses with Hamlet, but quickly left for them on his own when the prince started to sneak textbooks in with him – but every evening supper was fraught with unsettling behavior from King Claudius. One night, he gave a frightened shout without preamble, dropping his roast pheasant on the floor in the process. Almost immediately the castle dogs began fighting over the carcass, and the laughter this created drowned out any possible questioning. At the next supper, Claudius couldn't focus on one person for longer than a few seconds. With every flick of his eyes to the doors or walls sweat would gather on his brow and his chest would heave. And the one after marked the first time Claudius had ever been late to supper. He stumbled in long after the pig had gone cold, his steps slow and his shoulders shaking.

Hamlet realized how pale his uncle's face had become. His eyes wore dark bags underneath them with the sockets sunk into his skull. His hair was rapidly greying, the edges frayed and as unkept as his mangy beard. His lips twitched when he spoke, but one wouldn't have noticed that by chance, as Claudius would speak less and less as the night wore on. Even the nobles' talk hummed with curiosity when the evening came when the king departed for his bed chambers without even a farewell to his wife.

One would never know the queen's opinion of these occurrences just by looking at her, however. Queen Gertrude maintained the same stately composure she'd worn throughout Hamlet's life. For him, this persona his mother wore was not cold or heartless, but a source of comfort. After his father's passing – murder, Hamlet corrected himself – the queen was his rock; she was without a doubt the second ruler of the realm, even as she was preparing to marry her late husband's brother.

But, being her son, Hamlet could see what he'd been too stubborn to notice the first time he'd returned from England: Queen Gertrude was as concerned with King Claudius' condition as Hamlet was. Each day the king withdrew more and more into himself. His pacing through the halls was hardly productive, however, and by the end of the week, the queen was back to attending to matters of the State in the king's absence. Hamlet would be present for these meetings, and he would be brimming with pride at how poised his mother stood and spoke. However, although it was clear the generals, nobles, and ambassadors did not buy whatever flimsy excuse Queen Gertrude could conjure up, there was no use arguing about it. The king was entirely unreachable, mentally and physically.

"I'm at my wit's end!" Queen Gertrude admitted. Her and Hamlet were in her drawing room after discussing the events of the latest counselor meeting. "He ne'er rests, ne'er sleeps; he sits distracted, looks through me elsewhere."

The prince frowned. "He's ceased all speech?"

His mother sighed and looked towards the window. "It seems he has, for now. Methinks something unnatural lies here."

"Horatio calls it the shock of war."

"So speaks a scholar, not a warrior," the queen gently admonished with a smile. "The king speaks mighty words of the battle; he's not afeared to speak of his vict'ry."

Hamlet thought for a moment. "The curse of long life?" He offered.

Queen Gertrude gave him a sharp look. "Tis a curse of mem'ry, not of sound mind."

The prince looked away, regretting his words immediately. His late father and uncle were close to the same age, and yet King Hamlet Sr. had died a mentally-sound man.

He heard his mother sigh and turned towards her. She'd rested her chin on her hand and was staring out the window, lost in thought. "I grieve the loss of a second husband, Hamlet, though it pains you to hear of it. A great man was your father; Claudius, perhaps only a good one; I loved him if not for scant else."

Hamlet swallowed the feelings that had risen at his mother's admission, but he finally nodded. With Claudius' condition, the queen was twice a widow, and the only two people who could help her with that were beyond the reach of mortals.

Queen Gertrude briefly blew out a puff of air. She returned to her original position in her chair: back rim-rod straight, hands folded neatly together on her lap. "Have you writ a word to Ophelia?"

Hamlet scoffed. "Of mine uncle? Nay, it'd but trouble her. But writ her I have."

His mother's eyes sparkled. "What fantasies have you bombarded her with?"

"Oh, mother, for sooth!"

She winked, much to his horror. "Fondly do I recall a summer's day filled with Hamlet's words to read and to hear; a gentleman in speech alone, I pray! Though his letters were thick with meaning—"

"No…!" Hamlet covered his face in mock anguish, a pose that caused his mother to laugh. He tried his best to memorize the sound of it.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the castle coming from the window. A light breeze blew through, lifting the corners of their papers one by one.

"I wish to marry her, mother."

It was Queen Gertrude's turn to scoff. "Swear it now? Hath you not sworn it a hundred times o'er? Blessings are given; drink, dance, there's not time enough for it all."

Hamlet glanced sideways at the queen in confusion. She waved her hand flippantly. "God hath given the blessings of children and has seen fit to dismiss it; an heir, Hamlet, an heir will save the Danish throne. Worry not, my son—I've simple wishes to adhere to now."

The prince nodded solemly. He opened his mouth to thank his mother, but she beat him to it, saying, "Oh! Betwixt your search for words of beauty and summer to describe your lady love, recall to your good friend, Horatio, as introductions are of pertinence."

"If her hair be touched by fire, tell all I've left for England."

That got another laugh out of the queen of Denmark. The sound made Hamlet smile once more.

*/*/*/*

In hindsight, they should have foreseen King Claudius' final plunge into madness from day one.

That night, Hamlet opened his eyes to a dark bedroom. It was drafty again, and completely silent. From the window slit he could hear the light flapping of a Danish flag hanging on the stone wall outside. If Hamlet lay still enough, he could even catch the occasional sound of an archer patrolling on the wall beneath him.

Although it was late, the prince found himself wide awake. He was suddenly twitchy, like he was a bird finally allowed to leave its cage. Hamlet frowned. It was not fear he was feeling…maybe alarm?

A chill crawled down his spine.

Something moved in the periphery of his left eye.

Hamlet sat up so quickly his vision blurred with dizziness. But there was nothing there – he was alone in his room. There was hardly even a breeze.

The prince suddenly had the burning desire to take a walk. He wasn't sure where, but it didn't seem to matter. He just needed to move.

Now shaken, Hamlet quickly donned a robe and slippers and left his dark room for the dimly-lit hallways, grateful he didn't need a posse of guards with him every second of the day. At first his feet automatically turned towards the room where Ophelia had been staying, a reaction from the days where he'd taken shifts with Laertes watching over their love's condition. After a brief pause, the prince turned around and walked towards Horatio's room instead. It was a longer walk to get to that part of the castle, but Hamlet wanted someone to talk to. Maybe he could go with Horatio to the pub and meet that person his mother mentioned. Hamlet chuckled to himself – a drink sounded perfect at that moment, but he'd forgotten to grab his coin purse.

The stone corridors were as drafty as his room was now that the servants had extinguished any fires in the common areas. For a while Hamlet's only companions were the torches on the walls, although he did nearly trip on a sleeping dog at one point.

At the great hall he passed two guards. They both stood at attention for the prince, but guard on the right was noticeably slower to act than the other.

"You guard most carefully upon your hour," Hamlet told them. "Have you had quiet guard?"

"Not a mouse stirs," The guard on the left replied. The other was blinking heavily.

The prince smiled. "Pray it ever thus." He nodded to them. "Good eve to you both."

The guards saluted, and held the position until Hamlet left the room. Behind him he heard the clank of their metal as they relaxed. He smiled – hopefully the tired one was able to return to his nap.

Hamlet rounded the corner—

And froze stock-still. An arm's distance ahead of him was Claudius leaning front first against the wall. He wore only his night robe, without even shoes on his feet. One arm was grasping the stones while the other clutched his chest. He was shaking – in the faint light, his gray strands of hair made him look more like an old man than ever.

"Uncle…?"

The king swung his head and stared at his nephew. Hamlet took a step back in alarm, for Claudius' eyes were as wide as moons. Sweat beaded his brow despite the cool night air and his breath came out in short gasps. He looked like he wanted to speak but had forgotten how. In this setting, the torchlight only accented his sunken eyes. Stress had etched itself into every line and dark mark on his face.

Hamlet glanced down and sucked in a breath. The robe had blocked it earlier, but now the prince could see that Claudius' other hand was clutching a knife with white, trembling knuckles.

He should call for the guards, Hamlet reasoned. He should get away from this madman as fast as possible. But he could not fathom why his uncle looked so…terrified.

Claudius blinked rapidly, a sign that he was awake and not possessed or sleep-walking. He glanced at something behind his nephew and gasped for air. Now even his knife blade was shaking, causing the light to reflect against Hamlet's eyes.

"Oh…have you ill intents?" The king rasped. He sounded tense and weary at the same time, like he'd finally been cornered after a long chase.

"Not I, my lord," Hamlet replied carefully. How was he supposed to talk to a lunatic with a knife? Not a month prior he thought that he was the craziest one in the castle.

Claudius didn't seem to have heard him – his eyes were distant, like he was concentrating on something else.

"You torture me, for hours a day, why?" He croaked. "I spoke the holy words, I bent my knees; are you an angel, then, to appease me? A demon, a restless spirit? Each hour of fighting I paid for my crimes in blood of thousands of men; Denmark's' mothers' sons, and ones of Norway."

Nothing moved or made a sound, not even the prince. His uncle narrowed his eyes at whatever he believed was behind Hamlet. "Have you a forked tongue? Speak! My acts were true, and if not to our God then to myself. First dreams, now waking sight, cease your taunting. Speak, I pray you, else flee to your master. Answer, brother, wherefore do you haunt me thus?"

Spirit.

Brother.

Hamlet's eyes widened. So did his uncle's. Then, before the prince could speak, Claudius turned and ran down the hall.

It took Hamlet a moment to regain his voice. "Guards," he spoke. "Guards! Legions, the king! The king is mad!"

Well, perhaps "mad" wasn't the right word for it. But what other word could spark a reaction inside this castle so quickly?

Hamlet took off after his uncle at a sprint while shouting as loud as he possibly could. It wasn't long before he heard the clatter of armor behind him.

"The king, where is the king?" The non-sleepy guard shouted behind him.

"A pace ahead," Hamlet answered. He saw his uncle turn the corner and hurried to follow. Where was he going?

From the opposite doorway that Claudius took came the captain of the guard. As soon as he spotted the prince, he fell into step beside him. "Prince, speak. If this be a trick—"

"No trick, sirrah." Hamlet resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps a half-truth would satisfy the captain. "The king sees ghosts about; he rejects them but they've his soul ensnared for devil's meat."

"God above!" The captain cried.

As they rounded another turn, it seemed Claudius was not running planning on running himself out of the castle after all. The guard began to slow and split off, the captain shouting orders where necessary. They meant to corner the king, but where…?

Hamlet finally recognized the hallway he was running in. His uncle was headed for the church.

*/*/*/*

The evening air hit Hamlet's face abruptly, halting him in his tracks. He was just outside the castle interior, with the church a few paces in front of him and the graveyard alongside it. Around him more guards were stumbling forward, their armor hastily donned as they'd woken from sleep. They were assembling around the graveyard, and Hamlet soon saw why. As his eyes adjusted, he could now see the outline of Claudius standing among the gravestones.

The prince shivered, though he knew not if it was from the damp grass chilling his feet or some darker power.

Hamlet breathed in deeply. He exhaled, taking the scant few seconds allowed to him to savor the coolness of it on his tongue. Then, the prince strode forward. The guards parted for him without preamble and the captain did not challenge him – a mad king was clearly outside of their skill level.

He walked to his uncle until he was a scant few feet away. Claudius remained standing where he'd been, his eyes staring unblinking at a spot to the left of them both. On God's Earth, the only thing that was on that spot was King Hamlet's grave. But only Hamlet and Claudius could see beneath the veil to what was truly there: the ghost of King Hamlet Sr. himself.

"SWEAR."

Hamlet's father's voice was as intimidating as ever, but it sounded softer somehow. To Hamlet it could have been a passing breeze, not the hurricane it was all those weeks ago.

Claudius shivered at the sound of it, however, as if the strength of the former king's words had rung through his entire body. He was holding the knife with both hands now. "Brother. I…"

The ghost stared at the man that used to be his brother.

King Claudius paused. He blinked and looked around, at the guards, his nephew, and finally the ghost of his brother. Using the last of his inner strength, he stood straight and quelled his shaking. "King Hamlet—nay, brother—with quick poison I doomed us both to graves without just rites; grief ne'er touched my heart to see you laid down: tis befitting my crimes made to heaven that I tremble before you now. Forswear, you mean to tell me, reject my kingship and enter heaven? I am too foul to have my prayers answered."

He lifted the knife out in front of him, the blade pointing towards the stoic spirit. "I've forsworn your tricks, your remorse, your woe. If I swear, I give witness to myself, that which has ne'er led me astray, never; if my thoughts betray my sins, then let words reach Men freely, the most sinful of all."

With the greatest care and intent, Claudius flipped the blade of the knife to face himself. "There is no sin that can be forgiven worse than following one's own ambitions."

Hamlet had killed a man before, but it did not prepare him for the blood gurgling out of Claudius' slashed neck. He did not know how to react to the sound of his uncle's last breaths being cut off by the sheer amount of that blood. He was even surprised by the lack of a real sound when Claudius fell to the ground, his body already cold from the evening air.