XII. Nightfall

The castle is ablaze in preparations. The funeral of a king and the coronation of another takes time, energy and resources. Though King Hamlet has already been interred in a small service held only for members of the royal family, there is still the state funeral to attend to. My father is busily overseeing much of the business as possible – he is to be King Claudius' Lord Chamberlain now, just one of many things the king is to inherit from his late brother.

It has been several days since my father addressed the court. I have tried to speak to Hamlet but I am unable to find him. I am concerned; I seem to be the only one who took note of his expression that evening – not even Gertrude noticed – and I sense there may be something terribly wrong.

Later today, I discover that it seems that no one has seen or spoken to the prince since King Claudius' coronation was announced. The servants whisper that he will not leave his quarters. Having heard this, I know there is but one more thing to try. Even though it is now of a late hour and I know it will look suspicious to those watching me, I convince myself to seek out the prince in his own apartments. In the event that word reaches my father of this, I will come up with a logical explanation then. I do not have time to worry about my father's reactions now.

A manservant opens the door for me and I tell him that I wish to speak to the prince. After a moment, I am ushered inside and the servant departs.

Hamlet sits by his hearth, looking pale and tired. There are dark bags beneath his half-closed eyes and his black clothing is rumpled. There is a stale smell about the place.

"What has become of you?"

His head lolls on his shoulders and his eyes open. "Ask wretched providence that takes first my father from me and second my throne." His voice is hollow and hoarse, and some of his words are slurred. From the way he speaks, I have a strong suspicion he has been drinking.

I look at him in horror; I have never seen him like this. I move to his side and take his hands in mind. "Do not say that," I tell him. He looks away, unable to meet my gaze. "Do not blame providence for what should and should not have happened! It is something beyond your control."

"I should be allowed to control my own fate," he says dejectedly, speaking to the stone walls. His fingers clench around mine. "I am a prince, am I not?"

"No man controls providence," I state flatly. "Fate is God's dominion, one which we may not cross. Any man who could control fate would be a terrible monster. We must live, and live as happily as we can, no matter what happens to us along the long and winding road. Did you not once say that to me?"

He scowls. He seems to have lost most of my words. "Damn God's dominion, then, for I have no wish to longer be a part of it!"

"My lord!" I exclaim, shocked.

His grip on my fingers relaxes and he raises a hand to his face. "I apologize, Ophelia," he says, "I am being unreasonable. Forgive me."

I sigh. "Why do you deny your birthright?"

He looks at me for a long time, his eyes unblinking. The effect is unnerving. "It is not mine to claim," he finally says, his voice ghostly.

"Why not? You are the king's son!"

He shakes his hand, his hands grasping mine again. "I am no longer the king's son." There is a dead look to his eye. "I am the king's nephew now, and as the king's nephew, I have no interest in ruling."

I cannot bear to see him so dejected. "The people love you, my lord." I choke the words out.

"Don't call me that—"

"Your country loves you!" I insist, my voice rising over his. There are tears in my eyes once more. Damn my eyes. I furiously blink them back.

"The people love my uncle, as my mother clearly does." He spits out the last phrase.

I am taken aback by this ferocity. "Your mother is in mourning and your uncle is family. I do not know what you mean."

His nostrils flare. "Have you not seen the way they look at each other?" he hisses. "As a lady-in-waiting and my mother's favourite, you must have noticed! Poor eyesight have you if you have not!"

I rise to my feet and glare down at him. "I do not know what you mean," I repeat icily. My eyes are stinging.

He returns my fierce expression, but suddenly he sees something in my face that upsets him greatly. Slowly, he loses his intensity and his rage diminishes. "Perhaps I am seeing things," he says bleakly, "grieving as I am…" He trails off. "The council sees no opposition to my uncle's claim to the throne. I was not there, and he was. It is as simple as that." He leans back into his chair. "I am better off in Wittenberg."

"No." I kneel at his side again. The word is more a plea than anything else. "You belong here, with your family. You cannot leave until your father's funeral and your uncle's coronation."

He looks at me sadly. "And what do you wish, Ophelia?"

"I wish for you to stay here," I whisper. "You are still heir to the throne."

He stands, crossing the room to his window. I stand as well, but watch him from my place by the hearth. His back is to me as he speaks, outlined by the silvery glow of an evening moon. For now, we need our distance.

"I should have been there, Ophelia," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I should have been there, at the end. I last saw my father a year ago, and now I shall never see him again. I should have been there when he drew his last breath. I am an ungrateful son, one who took my king-father and country for granted."

I stand helpless, uncertain of what to do. I have not lost my father, and my mother died when I was very young, I scarcely remember it.

He laughs hoarsely and throws his head back. "This is the madness of grief," he announces. "All those who have lost their fathers have felt its pain; all those who will lose their fathers shall feel its cruel sting."

I tremble, whether from cold or fear or anxiety or a combination of all three and more, I do not doubt. I cross to him and put my hand on his shoulder. The risen moon is bright tonight, but its silver light is not one to inspire poets. It is a ghost light, one come to honour the dead.

"What do you need?" I ask quietly. My lips brush his. The tears in my eyes finally begin to fall, shed for him and his grief. "Tell me what you need."

I kiss him again and feel his hands clasp around mine, gently this time. He meets my eyes.

"I need you to be Ophelia."

I nod, tears freely falling down my cheeks as I kiss him again. I let go of his hands, withdrawing a folded sheet of parchment I have carried with me these past few days and hand it to him.

"I wrote this on the day of your father's death," I explain softly. "I never finished it, but I wish for you to read it."

He takes it from me and opens it. The moon is bright enough that he does not need to return to the hearth for light. He eyes quickly read my words and his expression softens.

He sets the letter aside and embraces me. The kiss he bestows on me is one of thanks, but the flame that gives it life is the grief he cannot yet shed.

This night is the night I weep for him.