by Lisa Fiedler
Laertes has opened his eyes to find himself in a stranger’s arms. In the next instant, though, he understands.
“My noble sire.”
Our father smiles, does not try to hide his tears.
Laertes’ voice is hushed and happy as he studies the image so like his own. “I see that it is you I may thank for these tousled waves through which so many French ladies did delight in running their fingers.”
(I cannot help but roll my eyes at that!)
Would that I could cross the room to welcome my brother back, but I am too reliant upon this tabletop. I watch as the color returns to his face, the brilliance to his eyes, which are so like those of the man who holds him. ’Tis lucky I need not introduce them: in my current state, I would find it difficult to form the words.
Behind me, Anne and Horatio whisper nervously, for still no move does Hamlet make.
Flights of angels, change thy course. Sing him here, to me!
When Laertes groans in pain, Anne fetches fresh water from the fire and goes to him. She removes the bloodstained bandage, and again sets to rinsing the deep gash in Laertes’ chest; he winces as Anne applies a salve. I am so lost in watching her tend him that I almost do not hear …
“Ophelia?”
I remain where I am, bent over the table, not turning, for I fear I’ve only dreamed the sound: even if Hamlet has revived, he would find no reason to speak my name; last he was aware, I had gone to my eternal rest.
But now comes a gentle roll of laughter, so familiar that my heart nearly bursts to hear it. Trembling, I remove my hands from the table, but I am still afraid to turn.
“Much as I enjoy this particular view of thee, love, I would quite prefer …”
I rush to him and crush his lips with mine, capturing the words he’s yet to speak. I kiss his cheeks, his eyes, his hair, then draw back to look at him. Our next words come in unison:
“I thought you were dead!”
Our laughter too sounds as one.
“Those months you were gone,” I whisper, “you cannot imagine my grief.”
“I can imagine well,” he assures me. “I was at your funeral!”
“’Tis true, you were at that My brow wrinkles in confusion.”And yet, upon your waking, you knew ’twas I who stood there at the table. Pray, sir, how?”
“’Tis simple. I would recognize your backside anywhere.”
My eyes fly open. The breeches!
“Do not look so embarrassed, love. While I cannot begin to guess why you’ve taken to wearing pants, I must say I do not mind it in the least, for I confess, the sight of you in them is quite enticing. But you will promise me one thing!”
“Anything, my lord.”
“You shall wear more customary attire on the day we are wed.”
I am aware of nothing now but the blush upon my cheek and the long, sweet, wonderful kiss I share with Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.
’Tis well after midnight. Hamlet and I have walked to the stream. In the distance, the windows of Elsinore flicker with candlelight. Hamlet is relieved to hear that his mother will be given a place in the court of Fortinbras. He has already dispatched Tuck with a missive, bidding her farewell.
Anne, who shall go to Wittenberg with Horatio, returned briefly to the castle to gather her belongings. She brought the news of Fortinbras’s decision along with a golden ring he bid her give to me as a token of his affection. Claudius was given none of the antidote and was left to expire from the poison.
Hamlet and I will as well remove ourselves from Denmark.
“’Tis strange to think we shall never go back,” I say in a wistful tone that surprises me.
“Aye,” Hamlet agrees. “Which leads me to this, love. Where exactly will we go? To some sweet-scented isle of flowers where we may spend our midsummer nights among fairies?”
I smile. “Well, since you are asking, my lord, I have been pondering precisely this issue from the moment I learned you were alive.” I reach down to pick a daisy and twirl it between my fingers. “What think thee of Italy? In particular, the city of Verona.”
“Pray, why there?”
I toss off a dainty shrug. “Something I read in my mother’s journal. You see, she often corresponded with an apothecary there. His letters lead me to believe our sleeping poison would interest him greatly.”
“Verona.” Hamlet strokes his chin, considering. “At Wittenberg I made the acquaintance of an impetuous fellow from that place. His name, as I recall, was Romeo.”
“See there?” I say, eagerly. “’Twould be nice to pay him a visit, would it not?”
Hamlet shrugs, nods.
“The cost of our voyage is no concern,” I remind him, “since Laertes has offered us the beauteous pearl which Claudius used to taint the wine. Father says it is a most costly gem.”
“Verona,” repeats Hamlet, and now a grin kicks up one corner of his mouth. “Ah, you know me, love. I cannot decide.”
“Aye, my lord,” I say. “But I can.” I reach for his hand, and the journey begins.
I count myself in nothing else so happy
As in a soul remembering my good friends.
—William Shakespeare, King Richard II
Copyright © 2002 by Lisa Fiedler
All rights reserved.
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eISBN 9781466813540
First eBook Edition : January 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fiedler, Lisa.
Dating Hamlet: Ophelia’s story / by Lisa Fiedler.
p. cm.
Summary: In a story based on the Shakespeare play, Ophelia describes her relationship
with Hamlet, learns the truth about her own father, and recounts the complicated
events following the murder of Hamlet’s father.
[1. Revenge—Fiction. 2. Murder—Fiction. 3. Princes—Fiction.]
I. Shakespeare, William 1564-1616. Hamlet. II. Title.
PZ7.F457 Dat 2002 [Fic]—dc21 2002068902
First Edition—2002
