V. Faith

I fling myself into my room, shutting the door behind me. I quickly light my set of candles, and reach for a knife to slit the letter's seal. My hands are trembling and I almost tear the precious parchment. Setting the knife aside, I sit down on my bed to relieve my knees of their quaking and open the letter.

To the dearest Lady Ophelia,

Were I ever present at Elsinore, I would find you hundred-fold violets to pass to you as a token. Ere I am not present, I must discover another path, one through words as they are all I have to offer, o most beautified lady.

Your grievances do pain me, and as such I shall be as forthright to you as you have respectfully done for me. You wonder why I cannot be satisfied with the resources Elsinore has to offer and why I must stay far away. It is difficult for me to pen this, as it does shame me in ways I – a prince – cannot escape. However, I must tell you, out of respect for one with whom I have shared so much.

A part of me feels very strongly that I do not wish to be king. That same part desires to learn what I can, abandoning my heart and soul to a power only my mind can provide. Perhaps I shall be wise and learnèd, but I shall not be king. It is a selfish desire, I know, and unwholesome to admit. But while my father remains strong and healthy – as a man of his calibre does – I shall continue to, shamefully, run from my heritage until a time when I am to be called back. Then, I must do as I should. I fear that, for now, if I return to Elsinore, I shall become instilled with the putrid affairs of the court and lose my mind to the squalor and corruption of rich nobles who care for nothing but material wealth and their societal advancement. I have nothing but disdain for schemes and petty cruelty. Once I return, I shall be under constant observation by the entire castle. It is a cruel thing, to be a prince. Much of my life is watched, like the madmen who are studied by doctors to enhance their craft. I wish to avoid that as I can.

You have called yourself a child for enjoying such simple things as the turning of the seasons. I envy you, sweet Ophelia. It is something I cannot learn to enjoy anymore, slaughtered as I am by knowledge of the world in which we live. Your mind is still pure and untouched; let it remain so for all eternity! I beg this of you. The simple joys are the most bounteous and lovely, and I fear I can never again take part. Were we within each other's presence, I would have you teach me to enjoy such beauty again, as I did when I was a child.

It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I cannot bring myself to return to Elsinore. Not a day goes by that I do not wish you were here and that we could be together. Your letters give me great warmth and boundless happiness – even when I detect an unsatisfied sharpness within your written words, as with your last letter. I can already sense your disappointment and I guilt myself once again for abandoning you outright simply because of my fears.

Know that I love you, and that no matter of distance can ever change what I feel within my heart. Were you here, I would give you a thousand kisses. Were you here, I would bring you a thousand sunsets. I would give you the stars and more if I could. Alas, dearest lady, I cannot, but I will ask you this: live, sweet one, so that one day I may give you such things. I may be entrenched in the power of my own mind, but I have not abandoned my heart. It belongs to you, and I give it to you for safe-keeping.

If I were a daring man, apt for all kinds of folly, I would say that I could not live without you and knowing every day that you are alive in Elsinore brings me peace and happiness that no book or manuscript could ever provide. If I could never be with you again, I would gladly trade all the manuscripts in this world to return to you. Perhaps you will now think that I could do so right in this moment – but I shall say that knowing you are there, waiting until I return from my studies, waiting for the joyous reunion that will one day come, is enough to content me. Faithful Ophelia, dear one, kind one, sweetest lady… I give you my leave and wait – impatiently, as you say – for your words to return to me.

Yours evermore, while I still draw breath,

Hamlet.

I press the letter to my breast, my heart pounding. I am shivering, but it is not from the cold. The tingle in my skin is nothing more than excitement. I scan the letter and to my surprise, the ink is running. Tears from my eyes have appeared, unnoticed and unbidden, dripping onto the parchment and smudging his elegant script.

I set the letter aside and lie back on my bed, brushing my fingers across my eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. Why am I crying? What did I read that invokes such weeping? I begin to laugh and a strange sobbing sound escapes me. I cannot explain it, even to myself. A bitter happiness, a sad romance… I close my eyes and think of him. His exuberant smile as he passes me one of his completed poems; the sound of his voice as he sings to me, folding me in his embrace; the knowing glances we exchange when we meet in the public halls. A love I thought would never end, yet fully feels the pain of separation that tonight's letter has only made worse as memories bombard me.

Yet I will never want to forget.

I recall Prince Claudius' remarks about leaders – heart, soul and mind. Had he subtly suggested that my prince lacked heart and soul? Did he blame his nephew, the future king, for being estranged from his country? Has Hamlet abandoned his nation for the pursuit of knowledge?

I do not know if I can answer these questions. I do not wish to have answers for them.

However… my heart still beats. My passion burns on. I re-read the letter and finally my tears cease.

It is ridiculous to suggest that my prince, my Hamlet, has been overtaken by the power of his mind. He may be my first love and therefore some will say I know little of the subject, but I know this: I love him. And despite the books and studies and his fears, he loves me. Why else would he continue such a correspondence and write with such blatant, powerful honesty?

My eyes catch a line from the letter: I would find you hundred-fold violets to pass to you as a token. I smile. Not only are they a favoured flower of mine, they represent faithfulness.

I close the letter and rise from my bed to put it away, stashed secretly with everything he has ever given me. Gone are the tears. I swear to myself that I will never doubt his love again. I shall not be selfish and demand more than he can give.

He loves me, and that is enough.