9. Strange and Stranger Still.

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    What a strange feeling, to be the silence in the noise, the calm in the chaos, the black in an ocean of color. Hamlet had never felt his heart shake with such anxiety, never known each cell of his skin could shake individually, never experienced the overload of every hair follicle slowly standing up, hyper aware of each breath of oxygen around him. What a strange feeling to hear the lively pointless chatter around him, yet be completely unable to understand language as a whole. Men and women danced to the violin, gossiped in circles, and ate at tables. Hamlet felt as if the world had fallen off of its axis, spinning out of control, though his better judgement told him otherwise. Apparently the celebration was for him, the specific reason why he could not recall, yet through that lense, he found the gathering off topic.
    "Hamlet."
    The prince's soul shot back into his body as he filled his lungs with air. He hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath. There he was, in the flesh, a playful smile filling up his vision as he assessed Hamlet's condition. Horatio stood taller than himself by a few inches, always had, yet it still managed to surprise him.
    "Are you alright?" His voice was barely audible through all the incessant noise, yet Hamlet understood.
    "I forgot how long these gatherings have a tendency to become." Hamlet found himself unable to stop looking at him. Horatio seemed so much more rejuvenated than his college days, though he amended that Horatio ran on a scholarship, and thus had to maintain perfect scores. Hamlet had no need to.
    "Yes, it can be quite overwhelming." Horatio agreed.
    A long pause passed between them as they both soaked in each other's presence, comparing the references to the images they had painted in their minds. It was strange to find how little, and how much everything had changed.
    "How are you?" Hamlet asked, almost running over his words.
    "Well." That was all? Well? He had not a single glimpse, barely a word from him, and all Hamlet could get was well?
    "Settling in to court life?" Hamlet asked, feeling even more isolated. His skin was cold stone, stiff and smooth, yet immovable, and awkward.
    "I must confide I hate every second of it. I do not know why you thought this my ideal scene." Horatio laughed, stepping closer to him. What was the ideal length between 'friends' in a public setting having casual banter? Was he too close? Would distance determine how evolved their companionship had become? Hamlet loathed this, just as he loathed their blossoming romance in an academic setting. They became more concerned over what others could see than what they could feel, scared of time and space, hyper aware of words and their double means under their triple layers, like some secret language invented for just the two of them.
    "It's not too late to run away." Hamlet whispered, hoping he could see the earnesty in his expression.
    "I believe it is." Horatio replied, his smile faltering. He knew better, he always had. Hamlet often envisioned himself as a cloud, flying high above the earth, unable to relate to others by himself. Horatio, on the other hand, was a tether, a rope, a chain tying him down to reality, reminding him of what was fact, and what was fiction.
    "I would very much like to talk before you head to your chambers for the night." Hamlet hoped that at least Horatio could give him this, and the response was written plainly on the physician's face even before he spoke any words.
    "As you wish." Horatio nodded, his smile rebuilding upon his face. "Enjoy your celebration."
    "You're leaving so soon?"
    "The only reason why I was allowed entry was under the specific request of Lady Sabina. I'd rather not test it." Horatio took a small step back, really a rather small movement, but to Hamlet each inch felt like a mile, and once again he was slipping out of his grasp.
    "What are you talking about?"
    "The King stated he was bored of some of the current standing traditions, one such change seems to be the lack of physicians at court." An adamant apology was written all over Horatio's face.
    "That's preposterous!"
    "I'm sorry. Truly." He turned to leave, attempting to swim through a thick crowd to return to his apparent partner for the night.
    "Horatio," Hamlet called out, the noise so consuming, no one specifically heard him, except of course his 'companion', who instantly turned at the slight sound of distress. "From now on do not worry about who you must please to come to court. You are my- my close comrade from college. You need no more excuse than that."
    "Are you sure?" Clearly the pressure of eyes and ears had gotten to him as well.
    "Unless we are no longer friends."
Hamlet knew Horatio was a man a few words, and yet still somehow paragraphs were forming in his brain as he wrote and rewrote his response before simply stating : "Forever." Once again, he turned to leave.
    "Horatio." Once again, he turned until their eyes met. "You look rather becoming in red." And with that some strange curse was lifted off of Horatio's shoulders, and he laughed, not for particularly long, but any second with that beautiful noise was enough. A long moment pass between them where not a word was said, but a volume was spoken.
    "Thank you." Horatio replied, before disappearing in a forest of cloth.
    "I am so glad that your school friend was able to come here." Gertrude quietly stepped next to him amongst the chaos. Together they stood still, like mere pebbles against the rolling waves of the tide. "I rather worried you were alone when you were away. You never said such in your letters, yet we both know a son keeps many things from his mother."
    "I was never alone."
    The queen took in a deep breath, hesitating before she stated: "I am hurt you wore black, my dear."
    "Not tonight, mother. Tomorrow, and each day afterwards, but not tonight. I swear I shall not say a thing, as long as we both pretend that all is perfect here in Denmark, and everything is as it should be." With all of the information swirling around his head, he highly doubted he was in the proper space to argue with his mother anymore.
    "Then you are perfect, and everything is as it should be, Hamlet." He could see the pain he had accidentally inflicted upon his mother, yet he did not go to apologize, nor did she ask for forgiveness. "There are many beautiful ladies here tonight," she continued, looking out upon the various faces present. "Have your eye on any?"
    "Is the lady Ophelia still at court? I understand Polonius is still an advisor. Unless she is lately married." Gertrude hesitated, pure perplexity painted upon her perfect face.
    "I would not advise to pursue Ophelia, she is not worthy of your station, Hamlet. You know this."
    "Mother, you promised. Tonight, and tonight only, I swear. I do not wish to pursue her, I wish to talk to her."
    "She is not married," the Queen amended. "And as far as I am aware, she has yet to find a single serious suitor. Yes, she is still present at court, though she is hardly active. I believe you can find her amongst the columns. I would have thought Laertes would have informed you, unless the two of you are no longer acquaintances." Gertrude let the implication hang for a moment, glancing at her son.
    "It has been a long time since I have spoken with him. He is not here, I presume."
    "He is, though I have not seen him yet tonight. My ladies in waiting say there is word of his departure on the horizon. Rumors state that he is lately wishing to return to France. I'm sorry for the inconvenient timing."
    "It is probably far better this way. Thank you, mother." It was now his turn to attempt braving the crowds.
    "Where are you going? The party has barely started." Clearly his mother had very different intentions for this night then Hamlet did.
    "I would like to find Ophelia. I must chastise her. She has never written to me, although the invitation was very open to it."
    "Well, at least she is trained enough to know not to talk to single men above her station." The Queen laughed at her own joke.
    "Good night, mother. I do not know if I will see you before you retire." He kissed Gertrude's hand, smiling up at her. It was hard to hate her, despite her choices.
    "Behave. I hope Wittenberg taught you good habits, instead of bad practices." She kissed his head.
    "Perhaps." And Hamlet vanished before he could admit to any more of his vices or virtues. He dove head first into this pit of snakes, searching for even a small sign of the dragon fire girl he had ran through forest and field with.
    It was strange, merely a few hours earlier, it had taken every ounce of his will to not search for her in the crowds as he entered at luncheon, although she was one of the first faces he found; every piece of control to turn away from, and not towards her, although she had found her way to the front of the room. She did not deserve lingering eyes from a prince. She did not need gossip, and whispered tones and laughter, and unnecessary implications painted about her name. She required as much respect as he could muster. Yet he almost blew it all when he made that one impulsive turn and looked straight at her. It took every last strain of muscle to look past her, gaze beyond, and to be completely indifferent and ignorant to her presence. Hamlet was not a fool. He understood the pain he may have caused, but he would rather his actions harm her than the words of others.
    "Ophelia?" There she was, now a woman, trying her hardest to appear presentable. She stood in a group of ladies bantering about something Hamlet had not had a chance to hear, as she barely engaged in the conversation at all. Instead, she had been fixing, and rearranging, and re-fixing her skirts when she suddenly heard Hamlet foolishly call out her name. There was a moment of horror, of joy, as the two of them locked eyes. Hamlet could see the 10-year-old with dandelions knotted in her hair singing some folk song her mother had taught her.
    "Your Royal Highness." Ophelia, along with the entire group, curtsied deep, head low. Her hair had not dulled a single shade, and instead matched the bright red of her cheeks as her face slowly reddened. "I'm overjoyed by your return." The other ladies eagerly awaited the same attention, the same memory of their names as Hamlet solely focused on her.
    "It has been so long, yet I still recognize you perfectly."
    "Indeed, many years in fact. I am happy your education was willing to spare you for even a brief moment." Many of the ladies in the group were starting to fill with palpable irritation.
    "I understand your card must be quite full, but I would love to hope that I may have the honor and privilege to have the next dance with you." Hamlet held out his hand, an audible gasp coming from somewhere behind him. Of course there were eyes, even when he wasn't around Horatio.
    "The pleasure and honor is entirely mine." She eagerly pulled herself away from the group, smiling wide. He could see the fear, and excitement, and how strongly she was attempting to restrain herself from simply leaping at him and hugging him tightly.
    Hamlet lead her to the floor, as they waited for the current dance to end.
    "How are you?" Hamlet whispered, unsure how much he should talk to her. He hadn't quite thought this through.
    "I breathe." Ophelia nodded in reply, clearly just as lost on the answer as he was.
    "I'm sorry." A moment of silence sat between as the dance concluded and the shuffle of partners ensued.
    "Why?" Ophelia whispered as Hamlet lead her to the floor. She looked beautiful in gold.
    "I ignored you today." He wanted to explain everything, yet right the moment counted his words refused to exit his mouth.
    "I never wrote." Ophelia shrugged, somehow everything evening itself out in her gray slate eyes. They bowed and began a simple step, never touching but coming close together.
    "You're so much taller than I expected," she admitted. He enjoyed her earnesty.
    "You are unmarried." Hamlet spun her and guided her through a row of dancers.
    "To my father's displeasure."
    "I hope this helps on that front."
    "Is this a favor?" Ophelia was taken by another partner and spun around before returning to her station.
    "A gift, an apology," Hamlet amended before taking another woman for turn.
    "I do not need your help."
    "I just wanted an excuse to talk." And the steps began again.
    "How are you?" Ophelia asked, afraid of the answer.
    "I do not know how to feel," he whispered truthfully.
    "I'm glad you came." He spun and began to lead Ophelia around once again.
    "I'm glad you wrote."
    "My lord?" Confusion swept across her face.
    "It was you wasn't it? You are the only soul I know is brave enough to tell me the truth, besides Horatio; but that was not his hand." Ophelia was spun away and quickly returned.
    "I do not know what you are speaking of. I do not write letters to men, especially eligible, young princes." Ophelia giggled as Hamlet lead another woman around.
    "Of course, my mistake."
    "I thought you needed to know." And thus the steps began once more. "My greatest fear was that they had not informed you. I had hoped that you were already aware and therefore my letter would ring on educated ears. If that was not the case, I simply wished for you to be prepared instead of coming back to such a shock."
    "As you may have guessed, I was not told." Hamlet spun her and lead her around the group.
    "I gathered as much when you stormed in at luncheon with war in your eyes."
    "They do not wear mourning colors. It has barely been a month." Ophelia spun away and promptly returned.
    "As such neither can we. I am sure your mother and uncle are disappointed in your choice of attire." Hamlet took a third lady around.
    "My mother was hoping for support," he admitted upon his return.
    "I do not see why she would need support. Her actions were truly justified. She is in love." They joined hands with another three couples and began to spin together.
    "You believe otherwise?" He glanced at Ophelia.
    "I merely defend our Queen and new King. Though I blush to say I am confused as to why you have not been coronated as of yet, or why such news has to be mentioned." The group dipped in and out of the circle as one, women first, men second.
    "My mother wished me to finish my schooling." They both knew that was not an appropriate excuse.
    "I cannot believe you are here," she confided as the circle spun again.
    "Have you met my school friend?" Hamlet asked, attempting to be casual.
    "I like him very much," she beamed. His shoulders released some unknown tension.
    "He does not write often, though in his few letters he has said that he likes you as well." The women dipped first, the men second.
    "And I know it."
    "I understand it is not official, but I hear that Laertes is set for France?" They joined hands a third time.
    "I believe he is going to ask permission to leave court tomorrow, it is all but final." Ophelia nodded.
    "What excellent timing."
    "He thinks so as well."
    "Does he talk of me?"
    "Hamlet." Her reproachful, indignant tone implied what a lengthy conversation this would have been in private.
    "I did not mean to hurt either of you. It was not my decision." The women dipped in, and then the men.
    "I believe deep down he knows that. Yet for a man such as my father, as Laertes, it is far easier to hate the things that harm you, than to forgive them." The circles rejoined to lines and thus the steps began again.
    "Your father does not sound like a very wise or mature man."
    "No one ever stated at otherwise." Ophelia smiled wide as Hamlet spun her again.
    "Does your father still-"
    "Not as often," she stated firmly as she was twisted away and back again.
    "But he still does."
    "He has gotten smart." Hamlet stole and returned a fourth lady. "My clothes must hide the aftermath, and thus it has become more rare."
    "You are not some lap dog to be beaten and trained, Ophelia."
    "I did not say that," she replied as they bowed low to the song's final notes.
    "You didn't insinuate otherwise."
    "The song is finished."
    "Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Lady Ophelia." He tilted his head respectfully, blonde hair temporarily blinding his vision.
    "Thank you for the privilege of this dance, your Royal Highness." One last time she bowed low. He didn't want her to leave.
    "Please enjoy your night. Again, I am sorry." He began to lead her back to her group of rabid wolves.
    "All is forgiven, and all is forgotten. I simply find it strange that I get to talk to you. Although, this very well may be the only time."
    "I'll find a way, I promise."
    "Did he speak to you on that?"
    "No, but he did not have to. It has been a top priority since my arrival." She slipped her hand away, a bittersweet smile now resting on her face.
    "Good night, Prince Hamlet." He nodded, walking away to the sudden eruption of women's voices asking for every possible detail, and Ophelia politely stating nothing truly happened.

    Yes, a strange night indeed.

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⏰ Last updated: Oct 10 ⏰

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