Ophelia found herself drowning in gray, dead grasses that were far taller than herself. They reminded her of the fields of Hades, turned traitor instead of indifferent. She desperately tried to swim through as the weeds caught onto her skirts, and attempted to cling to every square inch of her sun-spotted skin while they knotted themselves into her hair, and hungrily dragged her down to the depths of Tartarus. She kept screaming for her mother, tears engulfing her vision as they stung the scratches on her cheeks. She was suffocating in the smell of dry, dead earth as shriveled blades tore at her palms and fingers. Her gods had abandoned her to a fate worse than death.
Suddenly she felt herself tumble and fall straight out of the maze she had been trapped in. Only then could she clearly hear the beautiful ringtone of her mother's voice, clear, bright, and hopeful as it sung her name like the most precious lullaby. Ophelia ran directly towards the siren's song, and found her mother in the gardens, pulling away weeds and thorns to make room for the beautiful plants that already were beginning to sprout, a true Gaia, Demeter, and young Persephone in her element.
"Mama!" She cried as she wrapped herself in her skirts, burying herself alive in her mother's presence. Her mother took a pause and began the same task at Ophelia's own head, gently pulling away pieces of leaves and twigs in the most comforting manner she could.
"Ophelia," she whispered as her fingers gently knitted through her fears and horrors, "you are quite the mess. Come and sit on my lap, I have always found the plants and the flowers to be the best remedy for tears."
Ophelia obeyed quietly, hoping she would not be scolded for her appearance, as her father always had a tendency towards. In reply, she too began to talk in quiet sighs. "Mama, tell me again what we are planting?"
Her mother let out an echo of a laugh, it had to be her favorite sound of all. "I'm sure you already know them all by heart. You helped me choose them."
"I know we have basil, for peace and happiness, and the apple and cucumber for healing, and the cabbage and mint are for good luck." Ophelia stated with such pride and confidence she couldn't help but sit a little taller.
"And the carrots?"
"For fertility, and the celery is for concentration. Daisies are for love, and dandelions for wishes. The honeysuckles will bring us money, and the lavender is for rest."
Her mother kissed her head once quickly before adding: "And the marigold protects us from all the bad and negative things, while nettle is brings us the courage to stand up to them if they do decide to appear."
"I know that rose is for beauty, and the rosemary is for cleansing."
"See? You know most of them by heart." The pride in her voice dried up the last of Ophelia's lake in her soul.
"But I love to hear you say them. I love you."
"I love you too, my darling Ophelia."
Suddenly a great pounding began to shatter her own little reality as that singular word was taken by another, a man's voice stealing the little sliver of peace she had found.
"Ophelia! Answer this damn door at once! I demand entry or I shall have it removed!"
And there she was, standing in her tomb of stone, and all her body wanted was to feel the dirt beneath her. Instead she was met with only rock, looking at a dead tree outside her window, a mockery of everything her mother loved. Her father was standing outside her door, banging loudly and calling her name like a curse which threatened the the full repercussions of his rage. She gave herself another pause of silence before responding to his calls.
"Yes father?" She opened the door. Her calm only seemed to fuel his anger.
"Why, you aren't even dressed. The prince has arrived, we are about to attend dinner, and you have yet to put any singular effort into your appearance." Polonius was a tall, lanky man with silver hair growing thinly from his scalp, with shallow cheeks that showed plainly the shape of his very much human skull. His eyes held a seeping anger than never truly burned away, always hungry for something further, higher, better.
"I'm not feeling well, Father. Perhaps I shall tomorrow." In truth, her paper white skin was somehow even more gaunt than normal, and the very idea of Hamlet returning was sending her stomach in spirals. Yet, in vain she stood quietly, waiting for the inevitable response.
"Nonsense. Put on something eye catching and pray to God you have more than two dances tonight. I am loathed to think of you partnered more closely with the wall than a man of any use or station."
"Dancing?"
"Put on the yellow one, it makes your hair brighter. We can at least use that to your advantage, it's perhaps the only quality your mother ever gave you that was useful." He waved his hand, turning to leave, ignoring the clear sting the comment brought on.
"Father, I genuinely do not feel well-" Ophelia could not bare another glance from the prince at this moment. In truth, they had not spent such an extensive amount of time together as Laertes had, but one would think that spending a whole two years in each other's company would leave some sort of impact. Perhaps it was selfish to assume some instant recognition, but to her, those months meant everything. To see the exact contradictory so plainly written on Hamlet's face hurt her far more than she expected.
"And I genuinely do not care." He held her chin and redirected her gaze and train of thought to fix on him. She could feel the cool metal of his rings digging into his skin. "You are attending," he continued, "and that is the end of this discussion. You are trespassing on my generosity as it is, and you insisting on avoiding gatherings, and possible suitors is testing my very thin patients. You will attend. And that is final. The yellow one will do you just fine."
She let out a quiet breath, and smiled politely, nodding. "The yellow one shall do nicely. Thank you, Father."
"Much better." Polonius ripped his hand away, adjusting his robes, pecking off invisible pieces of dust. "I'll have a maid tie you together. I expect you down promptly."
"Of course." Ophelia replied to his echoing footsteps as he stormed away to be merry in public, which seemed like such a Herculean task in this moment.
She debated whether or not to defy Polonius' explicit directions, and choose another color to wear; but she was no Hera, no proud and strong goddess that found no need to hide. She laid 'the yellow one' across her bed, examining for some concrete excuse to not have to wear it, yet she found none. She used to love this dress, the chaotic embroidery on the chest appeared as flowers fighting for attention, the simplicity of the skirts and sleeves lending to the the overall design's balance, the red and white beads woven into each floral accent. It did compliment her hair. Perhaps she she cut it all off, she pondered, she always had to have it tied back and restrained regardless.
The sleeves were tight, the skirts heavy, the bodice squeezed around her.
"You've lost weight, Ophelia! It comes together far nicer than last we attempted this." The maid scrambled, flattening every wrinkle, correcting every fold, a proud smile widening.
"Thank you, Mary."
"I swear to the Good Lord on High, every man in this here castle is more blind than my mouser. The fact you haven't been swept away to the church is testament enough to that. I ain't ever seen a lass as pretty as you, an my sis has three of em." She scrambled, weaving a white ribbon through her already restrained curls.
"Thank you, Mary."
"Ain't nothing but the truth neither. I'm not one for frivolous empty words. No better than lying in my most humble opinion. You have hair as red as Christ's Blood, and Our Lady's own sweet disposition. An you have a sharp, quick mind no doubt about it, no matter how often you keep it quiet!" She corrected, and recorrected, patted down and sprang at her skirts with more excitement than Ophelia certainly had.
"Thank you, Mary."
"Just remember, not all of these men have God's Good Word in their hearts, though they do enjoy to say otherwise. Ain't nothing I'd love better than to see you off and wedded in His humble House, but I'd be careful too. Some of these men would like nothing more than to see you in a pretty gown just so they can go an take it on off, and you are a better soul than that, a true good one of Our Father's creatures." She sighed, stepping back and admiring her handy work.
"Thank you, Mary."
"Be off with you, it ain't no trouble on my end. Enjoy yourself, my lady, these days are precious an few an you deserve a smidge of joy an a good night's celebration. You look so beautiful, I would not be surprised if the Prince himself, Lord bless him, were to dance with you. Not once, but twice!"
Ophelia laughed a surprised and honest laugh that Mary happily joined along in as she pushed her out the door, insisting she'd be later than she already was if she continued dawdling 'by Mary, Jesus, an Joseph too'. Ophelia obliged.
She exited into a labyrinth of halls and stairs, corridors and passages, the growing sound of merriment the only indication of her direction.
