the prince of denmark is alive, and tired as all hell

chapter one

Hamlet

The table was set with silver crockery and tableware. A red silk table runner laid the length from Macbeth to the king of Scotland, whereas I found myself seated somewhat in the centre. I fiddled with the cross that hung around my neck, trying my best to ignore the long stares everyone threw our way, and why wouldn't they. I simply kept still, trying my damnedest to disappear into the chair.

The same could not be said of Fortinbras however, much to my dismay. Boisterous and talkative, he reminded me much of Ophelia when we went outside of Elsinore or when she spoke to her brother. He sat next to me, a comedic display of disparity in my opinion. A tall, strong oxen of a man with straight firey hair and lively green eyes. Intimating even without his armour, the tone of his body visible under the white tunic that clung to his skin. A stark contrast to my everything.

Built thin and lanky, I was a foot shorter. Still dressed in my mourning clothes that clashed with my nearly translucent skin, I looked more of a ghost than my father. Ghostly, and exhausted, deep circles framed the lower part of my eye with messy hair constantly falling in front. I had it pulled back in a shabby ponytail for now, but even then I knew it looked rough.

The smell of food spread through the room as the servants began placing out courses. I did my best not to gag, the thought of eating only served to make me feel even more ill. I merely focused on the water in my glass.

Pheasants and partridges lined the table alongside haddock and mackerel. Shellfish and salmon furnished the silken runner with lamb cutlets and stuffed larks. Baskets of bread and wine bottles were set out besides everything. Venison and mutton hunches quickly joined the other meats. I felt my stomach drop once again. I fixed my gaze into the goblet I held, waiting for the nausea to pass. Yet it persisted as everyone began to eat.

I quietly excused myself outside, hoping the air might help. I leaned heavily on the walls as I half-stumbled into a courtyard. The cold air hit me and I gagged. I dropped to my knees in a bush and proceeded to empty whatever stomach contents I had. My vision swam and my throat burned. Half-healed bruises stung as I leaned forward on my hands and knees.

After god knows how long I sat back on my heels, shaking but feeling better. I pulled a handkerchief out of my coat and staggered over to a fountain. There I did my best to clean up. I felt dazed, scared and lonely. I missed my lover dearly.

It had been nearly 6 days since Claudius had sent me to England to be executed, whereupon I found the Prince of Norway had been shipped off to a similar fate, though he enlightened me not to who was responsible. It was odd, seeing him in person for the first time. Letters exchanged about peace had filled our interactions before, but then all we could worry about was keeping our heads. With aid from some pirates who were once my fathers loyal lordsmen and my own skill with an inkpen, we managed to slip out of immediate danger. Now in Scotland, I was once again free enough to worry about things beyond my control.

Chiefy my thoughts were with Horatio, hoping he'd be alright. I'd sent a letter with a messenger to Elsinore, updating him on what was happening at the current moment. I only prayed it would find him alive and in good health. My thoughts of my love were jolted back to reality when someone cleared their throat behind me. Tentatively I turned my head.

"Are thou alright young one?" Macbeth stood in the archway, looking worried. Ha ran a hand through thick auburn locks. I stuttered but couldn't speak. He stepped forward and let out a laugh, which confused me. "There's no need for that, boy, there is not but to fear." he gestured to my hip. I glanced down, realizing with a start my hand had subconsciously drifted to grasp my rapier. Sheepishly I let go and felt my cheeks start to burn. I had problems, that much was clear to anyone. However I suspected Macbeth knew just a little more about mine than I would like. I cleared my throat and spoke.

"Is something amiss good sir, or art ye merely passing by?" my voice sounded raspy and hoarse. I winced for the pain of speaking. He frowned.

"thou hast been ill all night, methinks thy needeth a doctor." Macbeth stated firmly, leaving no room to protest. He then took hold of my arm, half-dragging me whilst telling me about his splendid doctor. Three corridors down and another courtyard later, I had to agree. Lukan was a fantastic doctor, when he served father in Elsinore.