Chapter Text
The thing about kings, as you know all too well my lord, is that they are terribly stubborn. Once they have decided on a course of action only divine intervention can stop them. I had foolishly hoped that Fortinbras would be the expectation to this rule. Alas, not only is he the most stubborn man I’ve ever met, he has the added cruelty of being a decent man. Calling him a good man would be generous. Though he may yet prove me wrong in that regard.
As it stands now, I cannot find a reason to tolerate his company for longer than a few minutes. I hate his swagger as he walks down the halls of what was once your home. I hate his booming voice. I hate the way he stands ram-rod straight at all times, as if he expects Heaven itself to bend down to the ground, so that the angels might whisper directly into his ear. All that, I might have forgiven.
If only he would let me die.
“You have a story to tell me,” Fortinbras said once. “You promised it to me, and you promised it to your prince, did you not?” He avoids speaking your name in my presence. As if it will become an incantation that will cause me to collapse into a fit of hysterics. His fear isn’t unsound. Madness once flowed in the halls of Elsinore like wine, you saw to that yourself.
In the days after your death, Fortinbras kept me sequestered in my chambers. Once it became clear that there were no legitimate challengers to his claim over the Danish throne, Fortinbras became our king. After news spread that the attempted assassination of his wife Marina failed, the wiser nobles bent the knee. Most of whom were eager to avoid what would have surely been a brutal civil war. Foreign kings and queens forged treaties and alliances, assuming that they themselves weren’t caught up in their own wars and putrid plots. Little changed. Save for the fact that Denmark and Norway share a king. A new flag flies over Elsinore, and more soldiers walk the streets, but the winter is as cold as ever. The fields need tending, clothing needs mended, children reared, graves dug. What point is there in complaining? Life goes on.
For most, anyway. Life left me behind, and death did not want me.
Throughout this past year, while Fortinbras has been out forging treaties and reorganizing the government of Denmark, I was largely left to my own devices. However, being that it is my testimony that secured him the throne, I have earned myself a few enemies among the Danish elite. After I received an anonymous letter detailing the ways in which the sender wished to murder me (quite violently I might add), I was not allowed out of Elsinore without a guard. Even then, it was hard to care. Once I was caught cutting my wrist, however, my movements were restricted even further. Sharp objects were removed from my chambers, guards were posted at my door, and Elsinore transformed into my own personal madhouse. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t trying to die. Not then. How was I supposed to explain that I thought it might help with the pain? That I needed something to remind me that I was alive? I thought pain would help. Only, pain is such a banal affliction, one which merely left me inconvenienced, rather than enlightened.
It is just as well that I don’t walk the halls of Elisnore. It has taken months to undo the damage to the castle that was dealt during the invasion. Bloodstains on the wallpaper, scuff marks on the tile, slashed open paintings of former kings, all accompanied by the lingering scent of gunpowder and blood. Now, a full year later, the horror of the invasion has started to fade. Scrubbed away by dutiful servants until there was no trace left. The palace is shining again.
Wittenberg beckons me from the distance. Any other student would be expelled by now, but the headmaster has a soft spot for me, and has promised that I may finish my education at any time. He doesn’t know that I can’t. If you cannot finish your education, why should I? It would be a waste of time, for I would be staring at the empty seat beside me and waiting for you to sit down beside me. Better to never go back than fail.
Don’t be so foolish as to suggest home, my lord. My brother, Elias, will only let me access my share of the family trust so long as I never set foot on our ancestral lands whilst I am still unmarried. We haven’t spoken in years. Nor has he written to me, even after news of your death spread, which I feel is a message in and of itself.
What is there for me now? I am now nothing more than a king and queen’s passing curiosity. A pitiful creature. One that, for some strange reason, they have taken upon themselves to try and fix. As if I were a bird with a broken wing they found in the garden, and not a man.
Forgive me. I couldn’t do what you asked of me. I could barely give testimony to the fact that, yes, you did name Fortinbras as your successor in your dying moments. I choked the words out. Taking pity on me, the assembly had me escorted out, and no one has had any use for me since. Nor will they ever again. I couldn’t tell them the rest of it. A year wasn’t enough time for me to string myself back into the man you knew. If a measly year took a herculean effort to survive, then how could I be expected to survive the rest of my life without you?
I bided my time. Waiting until a day when I knew that Fortinbras would be in a meeting with his advisors, and when Marina would be visiting Chancellor Vaux. Slipping away from my guards was easy enough. I can thank Elias for that, as I had made a game out of slipping away from my brother’s watch as a child. A skill that served me well, as I rushed into the woods surrounding Elsinore. Once safely hidden in the shadows of the trees, the pale winter sky above me, I took a moment to breathe. Simply breathe. Then, with speed and dexterity that a hare would have envied, I started running.
It was only when I paused to catch my breath, that I heard it.
“Horatio! Damn it, Horatio!”
Footfalls against the earth. Close by and getting closer with each passing moment. Swearing, I ran again. I didn’t dare look back. All I allowed myself to look at was the path in front of me, for if I looked at anything else, I’d lose all my courage. That’s a very precious resource in these bitter days.
By some miracle, I managed to reach the jagged cliffs overlooking the Mouth, the tiny bay that connects the river around Elsinore to the sea. This time of year it is the color of spit and churning with discontentment. Few people bother with it, even during the spring and summer. The waters are rumored to be haunted. Only once, did you and I make the walk out here. I complained the whole time, about the sun in my eyes, my sore legs and even sorer feet. You merely laughed. Pulled me into the water and promised that next time, it would be better. Next time, always next time.
I did what I was certain my pursuer wouldn’t once I reached the cliffs. I jumped. For a brief, glorious moment, I was flying up into the winter sky. Free from all earthly deeds.
Then I hit the water.
I had always thought that drowning would be a peaceful death. I have a distinct memory of sitting in my family’s library, my legs swinging from the table I sat atop. A book with yellowing pages was spread out on my lap. I couldn’t read it, as I had not learned French yet, so I merely flipped through the pages, marveling at the illustrations left by monks a hundred years prior, when I fixated on the image of a young man sinking into the waves. Struck by the fact that he was not fighting. He was sinking. A serene look on his face as he perished.
A peaceful death. That was what I wanted. Pockets full of stones, dragging me down into the unending blackness of the ocean. Sunlight forming a halo around my head. I imagined my corpse on the sea floor. Fish swimming down my throat and eating me from the inside out, much like maggots do. Crabs making a cathedral of my ribcage. I imagined peace, as the sea slowly unwound me and made me into nothing. I felt comfort in the fact that there would never be anyone to disturb my rest. It would be a painless death. If such a thing exists.
After everything, I wondered if Ophelia had the right idea after all.
Is there truly such a thing as a peaceful death, my lord? Is it ever truly painless? Elias once told me that death is a stranger at a party who feels, oh so familiar, but whose face you cannot quite place. It’s right on the tip of your tongue. Until finally, when you’re cut to pieces and your blood seeps between the flagstones, you see that face again. You know that face. Only then, will Death smile upon you, with all the warmth and cruelty you deserve.
I half-expected to see you by my side when I died. Elsinore is haunted after all. Or at least, it was. Wasn’t it, my lord? There are nights when I find myself questioning my memory, asking myself if I know what I really saw that fateful night. Was it the old king? Or was it my bedeviled imagination? It could have perhaps been a different creature altogether, a trickster given power by rumor and grief. For God knows Denmark has her share of enemies, and that your father was not well loved for the war and turmoil he brought to this land. I’ve considered every possibility. What else makes sense, but for it to be the dead king? What is madness but faith in the wrong God.
Elsinore is haunted no longer. In the weeks after your death, I was furious at this turn of events. I returned to my roots. Sulking in shadows, walking around in ragged and stained clothing. Looking for someone who wasn’t there. You had gone towards your eternal rest, but you would not let me take mine with you. You made me stay behind. An act of love. The most sublime cruelty.
Drowning is not the peaceful death I had imagined for myself. Now as I sink below the waves, I am cold. Everything hurts. Did you know that you can be so cold your bones ache? There is a terrible pressure in my chest. As though someone has placed pieces of hail into my lungs, and I begin to worry that I will not die from lack of air. Rather, that my lungs shall burst open. When my body finally wrests control from my mind, and starts gasping for air, I see stars. I taste salt and iron. I am a creature of flesh and blood no longer. The saltwater has consumed me.
How did you think I would die, my lord? Was I meant to die of old age and pass peacefully in my sleep? It is not the sort of death that the poets write of, though I am not the sort of man that attracts poets. They were meant to write about you. I was meant to tell your story, only I don’t have the words for it, the skill to make it understandable. You left me alone to solve a puzzle which has no solution.
I sink into darkness, my body quickly growing numb. I haven’t seen you yet. Not in this strange purgatory. Not even heard the faintest whisper of you, but I can manage that, so long as I don’t have to think.
Darkness consumes me, just as a hand latches onto mine
----
When I open my eyes, I am laying on my back. Spitting up saltwater and nearly blinded by the rays of sunlight that have started to penetrate the clouds. A terrible sight. It is made worse when Fortinbras comes into my field of view. That is the other thing about kings. They are never as handsome as their portraits make them out to be. Fortinbras is pale, covered in freckles, and his hair and neatly trimmed beard are the color of a sunrise. He has one blue eye, and one green eye. A crooked nose, which does not surprise me as I have often wanted to break his nose myself. Most notably, a gap-toothed smile that should look terrible but somehow he manages to make it fit him. Another thing I detest.
“You’re alive,” he says, dumbly. “Can you stand?” I see that he is soaking wet, but he must have removed his cloak before jumping in after me because it is still dry. A purple so deep and lush, it is nearly black. Standing out as a beacon on this white beach.
“Horatio? You didn’t scramble your brain in the fall, did you? Marina will be most vexed if you did.”
I know that if I don’t stand, he will simply carry me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I refuse to suffer such an indignity. A wheeze escapes me as I push myself into a sitting position, keeping my gaze away from him. The horizon beckons me, making me wish this was a dream. Ever since your death, I have frequently tried to tell myself that I am merely dreaming and that tomorrow, I would wake up to find you in bed beside me. From there, I would spirit you across the sea, to a place where the land is green and there are no kings to muck things up.
“It was a good plan,” Fortinbras tells me. “I will admit, you can be be quite clever when you want to be, Horatio. Had my meeting not been postponed, I’d not have been able to save you.”
I don’t look at him. Instead I dig my fingers into the sand. The cold has sunk down into my bones and my joints are stiff. I can only imagine what whispers will course through the halls once we return to the palace. The both of us soaking wet. Elsinore used to be such a vibrant place. The first time I visited, it was full of life and laughter and color. Now, only the bravest and most curious nobles live there, as they attempt to curry favor with their new king and queen. By all accounts, Fortinbras is a decent king. Far better than what we had before, that much, most everyone can agree upon.
I manage to stand up and when Fortinbras is asking me if I want his cloak, I attempt to run back into the waves. Only for him to grab me, hard enough to hurt, and pull me further onto the shore. I know then. Today is not the day I die.
“I hate you,” I snarl. All I want is to die in the manner of my own choosing. Most men would do anything to choose the manner in which they die, and I have decided that I would rather die by my own hand, than be subject to the whims of any more royals. You know as well as I do, my lord, that once you have started a tale, you cannot escape it. Destiny is a cruel mistress. I watched her snatch you away in the prime of your life. It only seems fitting that I take my leave now, and step offstage with you.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Fortinbras drags me further away from the shore, until I tumble and fall back onto the sand. “I know you’ve lost a great deal. But is life truly so meaningless now?”
I don’t look at him. I have long since discovered that the quickest way to wound him, is to merely ignore him, to treat him as though he does not matter. Kings do not enjoy being ignored. Especially not by their own subjects, and especially not by someone that they believe they own. Fortinbras can speak all he wants of us being friends, countrymen, I know what I am to him.
I am his window into the sordid history of Denmark. I am entertainment. A songbird, kept in a glided cage, and I shall not sing for him. Not for his raven-haired queen, not for his soft eyes, not for all the gold in the world. Not even for my freedom from Elsinore.
“Did your prince not ask you to tell his story?” Fortinbras demands. “You cannot do that if you kill yourself.”
“Don’t.” The word is barely more than a hiss. “Don’t you dare use him as a weapon against me.”
“What am I supposed to make of the prince? I hear from one man that he was mad, only for another man to say that the prince was merely a skilled liar. Others say he was grief-stricken. He was a coward. He was noble. He was a cold-blooded murderer, he was justified, he was a victim, he was a boy, he was a man.” He throws his hands up in dismay. “If I am to rule over Denmark, should I not know what came before? I thought I would have a war ahead of me, yet when I arrived at Elsinore, I found that my enemies had already slaughtered themselves!”
“One would think you’d be happy to be spared a fight.”
“Only a fool would think that.”
“Yes, you would know much about the thought process of a fool, wouldn’t you, my king.” Despite not looking directly at him, I know that his expression has darkened, the small line that forms between his eyebrows whenever he is angry is most certainly there.
Fortinbras grabs my shirt collar and starts to drag me back to the palace. I shove him away. Stumbling against the sand, and falling again. My limbs are trembling. It occurs to me that I could simply freeze to death out here. How easy it would be, to lay in the sand and let the winter sea take me, but it would be a slow death. When I die, I want it to be fast.
I could try to fight off Fortinbras. He’s only a hair taller than me, and what he has in strength, I have in agility. However, I was taught only the basics of self-defense, whereas he was taught to fight in earnest. “Walk,” he orders. “Or I’ll drag you like a dog.”
I glare at him, and once more consider running into the waves. Between being dragged back to my bedchamber like a misbehaving child, or walking in his shadow, the latter seems more tolerable. The two of us move in relative silence. Only my chattering teeth provide any noise but I refuse to take the cloak when Fortinbras offers it to me.
Despite the violent shivers that rack my body, I feel somewhat at ease, back under the shadows of the naked beech trees. Snow has started to fall. Soon the thin dusting on the ground shall be replaced by a thick blanket, one that will smother the whole world. I pause for a moment. It would be a slow death, and thus unsuitable, but I imagine there must be a beauty in simply standing in the forest and watching snow fall, as the night swoops in. Listening to the world go quiet. As a child, I used to think that would be the closest a human being could ever come to watching the world end. I know better now.
“For God’s sake,” Fortinbras grumbles. He grips my arm with an iron tight grip and pulls me along after him. “We need to make haste, before we freeze to death.”
I would snap at him but my teeth are chattering too much. It feels as though all the warmth and life fled my body when I dove into the sea. Suddenly, I can hear Ophelia. She is humming, the way she did before the madness wrapped around her like a noose, on the nights when the three of us would dine in your quarters. Back when you still thought Ophelia and I might become friends. Free from the gaze of chaperones, we kept the curtains closed, so the only light was that of the fireplace. I sat there, watching as you wrapped your arm around her shoulder, beguiled her with story of our exploits at university. While I stewed and sipped wine. When it grew late, and all three of us had loosened up and grew too tired for much of anything, she would trace the shape of different flowers against your hand. She did it for me, once. Said that she was tracing a marigold against my hands, though in truth, I have no idea if she really was.
The further we walk, the weaker my legs grow. It seems fitting that there was no life in these woods, as twilight begins to loom down upon us. I wish Fortinbras was not here. He is out of place. Too vibrant. Unlike me, who is barely alive at all. There is nothing I want less than to be dragged back into the warm palace and fussed over. What have I done to deserve being fussed over? I’ve fought no battles. Saved no lives. They should fuss over someone else, anyone else.
When I stumble against a loose root, I collapse. Accidentally taking Fortinbras down with me. He lets out an undignified curse. My limbs are shaking so badly that I can’t even rise up to my feet, all I can manage is to twist my face out of the dirt. When I do, my eyes land on impossible greenery. A shock of gold hair against the sky, hair that is interwoven with a dozen different flowers. Even from here, even with strands of hair covering her face, I can feel her disdain.
I attempt to call out to her. Try to convince her not to go to the river but I cannot even scream at this impossible sight. All that comes out is a low groan.
“Good lord.” At first I have hope that Fortinbras is seeing Ophelia, that I am not going mad after all. To my dismay, he rolls me onto my back. His cheeks are red from the cold, full of life. I turn away from him, towards the dead. “You’re white as a sheet,” he tells me. “You’re taking the cloak-” more irritating concerns are spilling out of him, but I say nothing. I have to see her again. I have to apologize to her for what I did. For what I didn’t do.
Ophelia is gone, and there is only a grey sky where she once was. I am alone with Fortinbras again. All there is naked branches cutting the sky into pieces. When I realize that I am alone with Fortinbras, truly alone, I stop looking for anything at all.