III. Forthright
I return to my rooms in the dark. The rain has long since come and gone. Though it is chilly, I throw my windows open. I enjoy the smell of the air that only comes after the rain. There is little wind, so I will be in no danger of my candles being blown out. I rummage around for the little stumps of wax and carefully light them. For a moment, I stand by my desk, warming my fingers above the candles, enjoying the spark of heat.
A man who addresses his letters with "fairest" and "dearest" surely shows that he loves the woman to whom he sends them. A man who spends the time to compose poetry surely shows that he has affection for the woman who receives his compositions.
Why do I concern myself with something that may not be true? Why do I worry about something that I cannot control?
I sit down at my desk and retrieve my parchment. I have to finish this letter tonight. I take my pen and plunge it into the inkwell.
As you may imagine, I cannot write a letter all at once. There are interruptions throughout the day. Tonight, I visited your mother. Sir, I know you do not wish to speak of your family. You do know wish them to intrude on your private life, but I feel that I must be frank with you and bring up this matter.
I sense that your mother is concerned for you and the power your love of scholarship has over you. I feel that she wishes for nothing more than you to return to her in preparation to take the throne. She is lost; she does not know why you choose study over politics. I attempted to give her answer, an honest one. I told her that you would rather contemplate the meaning of the world, and to abandon such a contemplation in order to rule would to turn you back on yourself.
But I must ask you myself: why cannot you study and rule? After all, a king requires intelligence to lead a nation. All a scholar truly needs is his own mind and imagination, and those can never be forced from you. Can Elsinore not be a seat of wisdom and study as well as a throne?
On another topic, I must also be forthright. I respect you for your studies. I love you for the letters you have sent me. But now I wish for more. I wish to see you. I wish to touch you, to kiss you and hold you in my arms. I cannot leave Elsinore; my father will never allow it. Will you return to me, for the sake of our hearts? Or will you forever turn your back on what we once had?
I cannot be angry with you, I can only be left to sit and wonder. But my heart shall always yearn for you while you are gone. With every word you have written me, I have fallen more deeply in love with you, prince of scholars. If I have learned anything at all from our chance meeting, it is to never underestimate the power of words, for they can be more potent than a lover's touch.
It is my custom to tell you that I shall wait patiently for your reply. Tonight, I shall be very honest. I cannot wait for your reply. If your words are the only thing I can have of you now, I cannot wait. My impatient shall fuel me for the days to come until I receive your next letter.
I remain forever yours,
Ophelia.
I set down the pen and scan what I have just written in the flickering light of my candles. For a moment, I sit motionless, my eyes starting blankly at the page as I recall every letter that has passed between us. Memories circle my mind's eye, reaching back into summer days when I heard the words in his own voice, rather than read them, when I felt the fiery touch of his lips on my own, the blazing trail of his fingers across my skin…
I shake myself awake. These letters have always been the key to unlock my summer memories and unleash the yearning within my heart. I slowly begin to fold the parchment, but pause as I notice that I have forgotten to address the letter.
In the past, I have addressed these letters in an assortment of ways. Most of them veer towards the formal, as I will never forget that it is to a prince whom I write. However, tonight there is only word I could choose to use. With set determination, I pick up my pen and slowly inscribe the words at the head of the parchment.
To my greatest love.
I have never addressed a letter to him as such. I have never called him as such. I have told him that I love him, but I have never called him "love." I have never called anyone "love." The word has a deep, special meaning for me, partially because it was not until our meeting that I had an inkling of what love could mean. I know, even as I fold the letter and seal it, that this will strike him profoundly. All I can do is wait and see what his reaction will be.