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He hadn’t had a full nights rest in a long time, and it easily showed on his haggard face in the way that dark circles made their home beneath his chestnut-colored eyes, and the way exhaustion made his breaths laborious and movements heavy. Prince Hamlet didn’t bother anymore to wonder how his life had become so utterly disastrous; he tossed his thoughts of denial in the mental trash bin, right alongside all of his hopes, pleasant memories, and former attempts at mental stability. However, when the demon – that is to say, his Uncle Claudius – had sent him away to England alongside former friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Hamlet found himself finally having a moment free to close his eyes. It was a quick sleep, surely no more than two hours (so Hamlet assumed), yet when he awoke he felt at least a little more refreshed. For a moment, he laid in his cabin, drowsily examining it: its wooden walls were reminiscent of the small home in France his mother used to take him to over the warm summers. There was a small, dirtied vanity by the door, that he dared not stare into lest the ghost of his father hidden away in his own visage look back at him. The blankets he had pulled over his chest (wherein his heart beat exhaustedly) were woolen and scratchy, and yet somehow, the ship’s small room felt vastly more homely than Elsinore had felt in the past handful of months, and he’d accept the claustrophobic room with its disheveled and peasant-like appearance over silk sheets and labyrinthine halls of the royal castle any day. It was with that same exhaustion that Hamlet refused to allow himself to think of all he had done in the simple past handful of days. Although it was only two days ago, it seemed like years ago that he had felt Ophelia’s alabaster wrist tight within his grasp, had seen the angelic tears stream down her countenance as she faced the sting of his enforced rejection. He knew if he thought about it too much, remorse would begin to constrict his heart as cruelly and tightly as the gallows’ noose. Yawning, he wondered what Ophelia was doing presently, and stayed in bed a long time, looking up at the ceiling and thinking of her. The prince wished to continue these somber thought processes when all of a sudden, the two aforementioned friends entered, the sunlight and fresh sea air along with them. There wasn’t any delight in their expressions, like there had been when they had first come to Elsinore, but a sort of sheepishness or concern. For a tired moment, Hamlet wondered why – but then the image of Polonius’s heap of a body, blood soaking through his shirt, appeared, and he understood. He was a murderer; heavily, he swallowed the thought like a bitter medicine. Guildenstern spoke first. “You’ve been asleep a long time, my lord.”Hamlet blinked in surprise. No wonder why he felt a little more coherent, a little better – after he’d seen the ghost of his father for the first time, he’d seldom slept more than an hour, dreaming of that grotesque face he possessed. Glad to be informed of the fact, he sat up. “Sleep is a thing all men need; deny you this, scholar?” It was clear he was unimpressed with him, and unwilling to put up with the questions and antics of a madman. While Guildenstern’s face was cold with distrust, there was a sort of bleeding sorrow in Rosencrantz’s, to see the prince in such a state. Hamlet almost pitied him. After a moment, the latter came by Hamlet’s bedside, taking a knee there as if by the hospital bed of a loved one near death. “My lord, you should come outside. The air shall do your mind good, I assure you.” Hamlet frowned and looked at him, examining Rosencrantz’s saddened, freckly face, the pure sorrow apparent in his hazel eyes. However, the prince held a heart of steel between his ribs, and he was resolute in his distaste toward his former schoolmates. They had taken the side of Claudius, and not his; therefore, they were enemies in the grand scheme of his personal tragedy. As if looking down on a dog, Hamlet patted his head once, twice. “There, there, there. I shall be out by and by.” Warily, Rosencrantz only nodded; moments after, he stood once more and made his way back to his friend. Hamlet watched them leave the room, watched as Guildenstern put his hand on Rosencrantz’s back and muttered something unhappy in his ear before closing the door behind the both of them. Strangely, Hamlet felt no remorse about the way he had treated them both – oh, he had so much worse sins to atone for! After sitting in bed against the wall a moment longer, Hamlet stood, stretched a little, and moved to dress himself in the spare clothes he’d packed. He closed his eyes as he pulled a fresh, white shirt over the one he had worn to bed, and tucked them into the black trousers he had accidentally, too, fallen asleep in. Normally a pinnacle of fashionable appearance, ever since the funeral Hamlet almost felt as though he had let his physical appearance go – seldom ran a comb through his hair, forgoing the cleanliness that gave him the regal atmosphere he once enveloped himself in. He buttoned his black doublet over his chest, tightening the cuffs around his wrists, and finally put on a belt over the ensemble. Normally he wore it in order to keep a rapier close on his hip, but the weapon had, of course, been confiscated when Claudius dismissed him. Oddly, he felt naked without it. After sitting back on the bed in order to pull sturdy boots over his feet, Hamlet caught a glance of himself in the dreaded mirror on accident and found himself enraptured with how different he looked. Grief had truly changed him inside and out, didn’t it? His thin, pale face looked blank and stricken; his hair, more unkempt than he thought, splayed off in brunet cowlicks; he even looked a lot skinnier, clothes hanging a bit loosely on him. Oddly, Hamlet mused himself to laugh. How pathetic everything seemed to him – how useless it was that he once fawned over his own appearance! Without question, he made his way toward the door where his friends had entered from minutes ago, musing on how his past self seemed like such a fool, attempting to enjoy life when such horror always inevitably laid ahead. Admittedly, he wasn’t too keen on the idea of going out and standing on the deck with Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and the other fools who were undoubtedly either too suspicious or afraid of him. After all, he had publicly been deemed insane, hadn’t he? And oh, after he had finally slept well enough, he felt too exhausted to publicly continue the charade. He’d seldom had an hour to himself since he and Horatio parted ways from the watch, and decided, instead, to sit and read for a while. He rifled through the bag that’d been made for him back at Elsinore, looking for the book he’d thrown in last minute. Not finding it there, he assumed that someone had already put it away for him, since his belongings had been checked fervently for anything improper for a declared madman. Frustrated after coming up empty both in the vanity (where he avoided looking at himself again) and the small dresser on the opposite side of the room, Hamlet decided he’d go look for it elsewhere. The prince emerged on the deck, squinting against the change in lighting. Although it was overcast, the sky was like a bright sheet of white spanning across the sky, as if God had forgotten to fill in the lines today. He glanced around and saw people going about their business – mopping, talking, steering, on watch. Even the Captain was busy lecturing his men on something that they had most likely marred. There was Guildenstern, too, and Rosencrantz leaning over the side of the boat, talking to each other over the crash of the waves. Avoiding them, Hamlet crossed the deck with the silent authority of someone who didn’t quite want to be spoken to, and went straight to the Captain’s quarters, which he knew would be empty. Hamlet walked through it with quiet, careful steps, examining every little thing. It was furnished quite nicely and expensively, which he found himself not caring much for. In fact, he cared less about his book now and more about just finding a book; anything to keep his mind busy for the several days to come wherein he’d quite possibly go truly insane if all he had to do was talk to people who thought lowly of him. After all, if he’d be able to clear his head, calm down, and rest a little bit, then he would be able to more effectively conjure a plan to get back to Denmark. For indeed, England was simply a detour in the scheme of Hamlet’s revenge – he knew no matter what, he couldn’t hesitate anymore in his quest to kill Claudius. Rifling through the items on the Captain’s desk, through the papers and different record books, Hamlet found himself opening each drawer where his item might be hidden almost boredly. Causing mischief was almost a first thought for the prince now, truly. However, when he opened a drawer on the bottom left side of the polished wood desk, Hamlet found himself nearly having a heart attack. There laid a letter with his Father’s wax seal on it. For a moment, his mind panicked and flew to the most illogical conclusion – that it was from his Father himself, somehow. Hamlet pounced on it with excitement, heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings in his chest. Standing alone in the cabin, he ripped open the letter and quickly looked down at the signature, only to be faced with horrid disappointment to see Claudius’s hand written there. Audibly, he groaned his anger, nearly moving to crumple it up – yet, still. Surely there must be an answer contained in this letter if the Captain had hidden it away so? He assumed it might be Claudius’s instructions for what to do with him when they arrived at their English destination. Wanting a safer place to read it, Hamlet tucked it away underneath the layers of his shirt and came outside, back on deck. Unfortunately, Guildenstern happened to be looking in his direction when he came out of the room. “My lord, what were you doing in there?” he hastened to ask with a hardened, suspicious voice, approaching the prince without hesitation as Rosencrantz tagged along behind him. Hamlet quickly assumed a false face, slipping into his feigned insanity like one might a warm bath; he was smiling somewhat nervously, looking behind him and all around. “Oh my, oh my. I’ve gotten terribly lost, you see. I can’t tell which way is up or down. Won’t you please help me? I’ve lost the road, and ended up in the middle of the ocean. Silly me.”Almost angry, Guildenstern hissed, “You can’t just go in there, it’s a private room.” However, Rosencrantz quickly squeezed his arm, saying in a hushed, pleading tone, as if to beg his mercy: “Guildenstern, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s confused.”“He’s dangerous,” he quickly countered, and closed the distance between himself in Hamlet, grabbing him by the arm. “It’s not safe with him just walking around out here. Who knows what trouble he could get into.” When Rosencrantz opened his mouth to protest the other’s harshness, Guildenstern sharply asked him: “Do you want him to throw himself overboard? Or kill one of us like he did the King’s advisor? Stop being naïve.” And that silenced the poor man, who couldn’t help but silently back down and agree.Hamlet, meanwhile, was a little frustrated with Rosencrantz’s good-natured attempts to spare him. What he wanted was for Guildenstern to throw him back in his room so that he could have a better chance to decipher this letter. “I lost my room. Can you help me find my room?” Hamlet looked up at Guildenstern, who was still holding onto him, and affectionately patted his face like a grandfather might his grandson. Guildenstern jerked away from his action, saying, “Yes. Just don’t try anything funny. Ros, go let the Captain know the Prince has been in his quarters, and –“ Panicking a little, not wanting the Captain to guess at where the lost letter might be, Hamlet flung himself at Rosencrantz, clinging to him in a show of hysterics. “Oh, I beg you, sir! I’m innocent, I tell you! Send me not to the gallows; oh, I have a family, I have children! Have mercy on a poor sinner! I’m innocent!” And pretended to weep profusely. Call him cruel for attempting to appeal to Rosencrantz’s bleeding heart and he’d likely agree with you.Of course, this succeeded. Rosencrantz looked horrified and stricken, immediately looking up at Guildenstern, and saying again in that sorrowful, pleading voice, “He’s just confused, Guil! Just let him be! He’s not doing anybody any harm—and he’s clearly distressed with you treating him like this!” “But –“ “The prince probably just got turned around and lost his way to his quarters. We just have to leave him be until we get to England. You’re only going to hurt yourself if you keep treating him like this—it’s a waste of time!” “It’s what he deserves! He’s a murderer!” Guildenstern shouted.“He was our friend first!” Rosencrantz shouted back.This exclamation from meek Rosencrantz shocked both of the men in his company, so much so that Hamlet almost broke character. However, he kept it up, taking the chance to stand and continue the scene with more slightly confused cries, “Oh, God bless you, sir! God will reward you!” And the two left Guildenstern, surprised, in their wake. As they entered Hamlet’s cabin once more, he almost thought of thanking Rosencrantz for standing up for him, villain though he truly was. Maybe he had been harsher than he should have been, too hasty in his judgment against his former schoolmates. However, when they entered the room and Hamlet went to sit on the bed with the other sitting beside him, Rosencrantz sighed profoundly and said, “Listen, my lord … I know you’ll probably forget what I’m telling you right now, but I just wanted to say that … well, what lies ahead in England will be the best for all of us. And I want you to know right now that I treasure the time we spent together in Wittenberg.” And suddenly, he embraced him tightly. “And I’ll miss you. I already do miss you.” Awkwardly, Hamlet patted his back, surprised at Rosencrantz’s heart. “There, there, gentleman. There will be no need for you to miss me. You will be by my side in England, and I will love you well when my mind is restored.” For that was Hamlet’s best guess of what Claudius had planned for him: a sort of out of sight, out of mind situation regarding Hamlet’s madness. But his guess changed when Rosencrantz pulled away from him, expression painted with sorrow too deep to name, his lips closed tight into a line to keep tears in, nod gentle in going along with the prince’s notions. This shocked Hamlet deeply, and his heart pounded in his chest as he began to wonder just what was this ominous thing that Rosencrantz claimed was laid ahead in England, that would make him miss him so. Moments after, the other turned and left, and he heard the door lock from the outside. This suited the prince fine – at least he’d be able to tell when someone was coming in by the click from the door. Immediately, he pulled out the crinkled letter from his shirt and began to examine it.
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The prince stayed cross-legged on his bed for several minutes, reading and re-reading the letter again and again, as if it was as spectral and impossible as his father’s spirit. His breath hitched, palm finding its way to feel his pale neck. The words “Official Decree of Execution” written in sharp, kingly letters at the top of paper already was constricting his throat as tight as the noose would, and for a moment, Hamlet found himself speechless, horrified. However, when the fear passed, anger replaced it – anger, of course, at Claudius, the damned, rotten hell-hound who called himself a King (or a human, at the very least)! He was attempting to get Hamlet out of the way in the same way that he got his father out of the way in the beginning! White-hot anger filled Hamlet’s chest, so much so that he almost began to feel sick – was almost tempted to swim back to Denmark if it meant piercing the traitor king’s throat with his dagger as soon as possible. Yet it was not only Claudius he was mad at: it was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, too. He knew that they were on Claudius’s side from the start, but to go so far as to not only support Hamlet’s execution, but deliver him willingly to the executioner? All of his former shreds of fondness for Rosencrantz evaporated as he realized that his emotional goodbye was to dismiss him to the afterlife, not to England at all. In his mind, the former friend transformed from a gentle defender to a spineless accomplice in minutes, and all of a sudden Hamlet was terribly aware that the only person in the entire world that he could trust was miles and miles away from him. For a moment, he simply sat, dreadful letter clutched in his hands tightly, almost to the point of ripping it. Hamlet wanted to weep in this moment of terrible misfortune, as he was miserable, terrified, angry, and possibly worst of all, missing his only friend Horatio. After all, hard things were always softer to deal with when someone you loved was by your side. Yet Hamlet found himself being encountered with several realities: that Horatio was not here, that there were no tears left in him to cry, and most shocking -- when he raised his head, his father stood in front of him. One would think that after several encounters with the ghost, Hamlet would grow something of a spine in regards to these surprising meetings – but then again, no one could truly experience the way all heat drained from the room, nor the way that the spectre’s blinding white eyes seemed to pierce through the very atmosphere in a strange, almost interdimensional manner the way that Hamlet experienced these things. The prince found himself instinctively backing against the wall, hands trembling, breath billowing from his lips in white clouds. “Father?” His voice was a pathetic whisper. “You are wasting your time,” the ghost cut right to the chase, its cold voice seeming to freeze the mortal in the room even further. Voice raising terrifyingly, the dead king clad in the old-fashioned armor cried out: “While you stay, here I suffer!”“I’m sorry!” Hamlet exclaimed, eyes wide with horror, expression stricken and white. “I’m – I have a plan! I’m going to g –” “I don’t care. Just do it. My damned brother is not in the ocean, Hamlet; he is busy corrupting Denmark, destroying everything I have made! There you must return. Now.” As the ghost moved, the whole world seemed to move and shake around him, and Hamlet could swear his vision was blurring at the edges. He covered his eyes with his hands, attempting to control his rushed, panicked breathing. He stayed in the corner of the bed for a long time, curled with his knees up to his chest, the palms of his hands pressed against his eyelids. He passed an hour like that, attempting to calm from his panic. The steady rock of the ship was not doing anything for him, either, and he did not need to open his eyes to know that his Father had left a long time ago. He knew he just had to regain his composure as much as he could, and then start to formulate a plan. But it was so difficult to do such a thing when his heart was pounding in the base of his throat, and his vision darkened at the edges like a blurring vignette, his thoughts irregular and sporadic. “How does he expect me to get out of here…?” Like a drunkard, Hamlet swayed to his feet, hand braced against the bed-stand to ensure his posture. “I cannot take one of the lifeboats, lest I deprive them of something they need in an emergency, thus taking more unnecessary life … and even then, they could easily come after me, noticing my absence – and in that case, I could never fight my way out without a weapon. There’s no one here that could help me escape, and no way I could escape once we settle in England … I’m under too much heavy watch to easily slip from them, and even then, sailing all the way to Denmark from England by my lonesome would take ages…” He had been pacing the floor all this time, and suddenly he groaned in frustration, hands clutching his head. “Argh! This is so frustrating! Why can things never just be easy? Is my quest for revenge fated to never occur? I did, indeed, prove my father’s word to be true just yesterday – but oh, if only I could have some kind of sign from the heavens that I am on the right track!”Suddenly, something clattered to the floor, catching the prince's attention with the familiarity of the sound. He looked down to see what it was, and found that his father's old wax seal had fled from his shallow pocket with his movement. His heart wrenched as he remembered that as he had been leaving his mother's chamber, he had taken the seal from her desk in order to have something other than the locket around his neck in memory of his father -- just in case he wanted to send a letter to Horatio, too. As if approaching a dainty bird on the ground, Hamlet took a knee and took the small seal into his hands, sighing, calmed. The prince pocketed it once more, letting his thumb run over the cool metal, and looked at the dreaded letter that still laid prone on the bed. He knew he had to do something about it. It wasn't the idea of death that shocked and harrowed him with terror; it was the frustration at the concept of being unable to complete his task, for indeed, Hamlet had accepted this as his life's purpose. He would gladly walk to the gallows a thousand times after all he had done, but only after Claudius's life had been successfully taken.Sitting once more on the bed, Hamlet allowed his eyes to run over the sentence of his death a last time and, in a moment of pure, intense impulse, violently crumpled up the paper, and then ripped it into unintelligible pieces. He tossed the remnants in a drawer of the vanity, feeling a sort of silent fury course through his veins. He looked for a moment inside the drawer, silently fuming for a second more over the contents of the letter, gaze trained on the assorted items within: just the shreds of paper, a handful of hair pins, and a worn-down wooden hairbrush. Afterwards, feeling terribly drained emotionally, he laid down and closed his eyes, silently vowing that once he regained the smallest bit of his energy, he would escape and make his move. A plan was already blossoming in the prince's mind, and it continued to prick at his thoughts and dreams even as he drifted off into sleep.