"My dear Hamlet, you must stop fidgeting. This habit was not apparent before you went to Wittenberg. Perhaps it has given you a bad example after all." His mother sat in her parlor, quietly stitching, staring at her son pace, and anxiously stare out the windows, sigh, sit, bounce his knee, pick his fingers, stand, and repeat the whole mess once more.
She didn't understand. How could she? All he wanted was to race out of this room, this sickening cell, and sprint to a place of safety. He shouldn't have come. It was none of his affairs who his mother married, or how soon it may have been since that monster died. He should be happy for her happiness. He had not been invited to the wedding, nor had it been mentioned to him. It was clear his opinion was of no use in this situation. He should have stayed away.
He sat once again on the red cushioned armchair his mother had personally embroidered with floral detail, and stared at her quietly before quietly asking: "Why Claudius?"
Out of any and all men that she could have possibly chosen, why him? With what very little knowledge he had of his uncle he did understand how grave a situation this truly was. Hamlet worried for both his mother, and his kingdom. Claudius did well at court, it was a place of flattery, lies, and half truths. Yet what worried Hamlet most was the simple fact that his father and Claudius came from the same childhood, grew with the same ideologies, inherited the same habits.
He worried for his mother's happiness, for her safety. Claudius too had a temper, and in some ways Claudius was worse. His uncle bore a jealous soul, and he could not ignore its needs. What he wanted, he hunted, tracked, cornered, and conquered.
Would having such a man as a husband be any different than his father? Would it be worse? Clearly Gertrude cared very little for his opinion, as they had practically married in secret from him. Now that Claudius had taken his first sip of the power that was rightfully his own by birth, Hamlet doubted he would let such sweet fruits go easily. Claudius had already proven all too eagerly his comfort in wearing the crown, sitting on the throne, and using his own brother's title in his stead. Was he expected to be compliant? To submit?
Hamlet did not even wish for the name of prince, let alone that of king, and if the possibility of escaping it were even slightly remote, he would take it an instant. Yet Hamlet could not leave the crown in his uncle's hands, not with his mother here. If that were the choice, he would ascend the throne, just to save her in some small way.
"Hamlet, are you quite alright?" The prince snapped out of the cage that was his mind. Often he found himself sinking deeper into that pit of snakes, and as of late for longer and longer periods of time. No, he surely could not be "quite alright".
"Yes, I apologize, mother, the journey must have taken a greater toll than what I initially suspected. Did you say something?"
Gertrude stared at her son a moment, concern engraving her face. Those wrinkles were new, as well as the silver gently scattered throughout her hair. Signs of years of anxiety permanently scarred themselves upon her figure. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps none of it mattered, perhaps the years of pain were over for her, perhaps she would finally find peace, even if it was with his uncle. She broke into a soft patient smile, and Hamlet's very heart melted. How he had missed her so.
"I stated you should go and dress for dinner. I have just received word there is to be dance as part of the celebration tonight."
A silence passed between them, soaking once more into each stone. Her parlor was small, modest, comfortable, with embroidered curtains hanging from the walls, depicting Artemis running through the woods with the forest nymphs at her heals, Hera crowned in golden splendor with cherubs at her feets, Athena guiding Odyssious home on his great ship, hair in the wind. For a moment he felt at peace as he smiled back, nodding, and rising from his place.
"Hamlet, might I request you wear some other color at dinner? We are no longer in mourning, my dear."
"That, Mother, I had already deduced. Yet, unfortunately, I still am."
"He never loved you like a proper father should. He sent you away, away from home, away from me as some sort of punishment for only the Lord knows what." She stood, gently putting her project aside, taking small steps towards her son. "My son, he is gone, and we are better for it."
"Are we? Is this so different from the man you were married to before?"
"He loves me, Hamlet. I am happy."
"Then why not send for me? Why keep such news away from me?" He took a step back, keep her at arm's length.
"I thought we agreed your studies were far more important, I thought I could surprise you with happy news at your return." His mother reached out her left hand, a ruby resting on her index, and a band he did not recognize on her ring finger.
"Happy?" He stepped further away. "Happy that you are finally rid of a horrible husband who- who beat you in front of me as some sort of lesson, some punishment? Happy that, instead of embracing your liberty, you dash it aside for his exact copy? His brother?"
"Are you not overjoyed for my new found content?" She had stopped her attempts at approaching him now, standing with a small tremor throughout her whole being.
Hamlet silenced himself for a long moment, gathering back his composer before, practically in a whisper, responding: "I am trying, Mother, I truly am."
His mother closed the distance between them and rested her hands on his cheeks. They stayed paused in that instant, suspended in time, some statue of mother embracing child, some inspiration behind a painting or poem, frozen for just a moment, a beautiful immeasurable moment.
"Your skin is cold." She whispered. "You are so thin, do they not feed you at Wittenberg?"
He smiled softly and rested his face more into his mother's embrace. "I am well fed, Mother, I promise."
"Not too well, I hope, we have a dinner to attend." A small silence filled with tangible hesitation hung between them for she continued. "Perhaps you may find someone to your liking, there are a great many beautiful women at court." Gertrude smiled hopefully as she suggested it.
Hamlet paused for a moment before thinking better on that remark. He nodded softly, bringing her hands into his own and simply holding them before bowing his head. "Perhaps."
He dropped hold of those familiar hands after kissing one. He smiled, and left without another word, letting his mother sit with his last response resting like fallen snow as his footsteps echoed down the hall. She smiled slightly, knowing full well the double meaning of the word:
Perhaps, perhaps not.
