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The water of the creek raced over Ophelia’s ankles. February meant it wasn’t cold enough for the water to freeze over, and the frost had almost thinned, but the bitter sting of winter nipped at her feet. Still she longed- that ever present golden feeling. The urge to reach her arms to the sky and be taken by the wind, or to walk straight into the ocean and let the waves swallow her down, or to fall back into a bonfire and rise up, up, up, as smoke and ash.
“Ophelia.” Ah yes. A mother. The last one to rest, but the first home we had. Where all earth comes from. She walked with a drooping demeanor, like the burdens of motherhood were a weight chained to her neck, one that she simply could not bear.
“Yes mother?” Her eyes were still stuck to the sky. She quite enjoyed the earth more than people. She considered the trees her womb, the fields a bountiful breast. She loved her Mother, but would rather hug the wind.
“The prince is here to see you again.” She gently smiled, still unnerved from her daughter’s childish heretics. “Would you like for him to wait?” she glanced at Ophelia’s soaked hem and muddy feet.
Ophelia finally looked to her mother. “No.” She felt fine as she was, the mud only bothering the clean floors of her home. “Hamlet won’t mind.” she smiled.
Gentle footsteps followed gentle footsteps as Ophelia followed her mother to their home past the creek. While her mother seemed to trudge through the grass, burdened by its life around her ankles, Ophelia seemed to sink further into the grass, and like a welcomed babe, she spun through the womb of earth to pass the time between expectations.
When she reached the small stone castle her mother called home, the coolness from the creek had worn off, and she was soon smothered by warmth. Stones did well to cradle the soil, but Ophelia did not feel cradled. What good were bricks to a child of the sky?
Stepping past the threshold of where ground meets floor, Ophelia shivered. It was coldest outside, but the stifling air of home was unwelcomed. She slipped back into her shoes- barely ever used until necessary- and walked past her mother to the main hall of her stone enclosure.
Any semblance of unease that clung to her skin was diminished when she saw his face. The sweet boyish face of a future king. He smiled that perfectly broken smile, one side of his face tilting upward, the other half stoic- like only half of him could be anything but a king. That half-face intrigued sweet Ophelia. She ran towards him.
His arms gathered her hair and limbs, holding her close. “Hello there little nymph.” He chuckled into her hair. “What have you been up to today?”
She pulled away to look at him. “The creek is cold today.” She beamed like a babe. “It has not frozen yet.” He tucked a hair behind her ear, tugging it gently, earning a pink tinge on Ophelia’s cheeks in reward.
“Still spring is it?” He touched her cheek. “Nothing could be cold around you my sweet.”
Ophelia scoffed. A sweet sentiment. But misplaced. “I quite enjoy cold.” She said matter-of-factly, falling into step beside him. “The flowers are quite nice though,”.
“I’m sure they are.” He grinned wholly. “Shall we visit them in the gardens today?” His hand grazed the small of her back, tugging a bit at the fabric draped across her waist. “Perhaps take a secluded walk?” His smile turned devilish. Cruel and oh-so-charming. Ophelia felt a warmth spread across her cheeks.
“Perhaps the flowers would enjoy some company,” She said, breath dancing between them. “Perhaps they would enjoy company more than cold.”
He looked at her quizzically. People did that quite often. The flowers never turned their heads in judgement at her, the skies never whispered past her back, rivers never tugging on braids, or pointing their watery fingers. Ophelia hated when people did those things. The company of silence on earth was much preferred to the disapproval of people. She felt small. Perhaps she should enjoy the company of leaves today, rather than the company of Hamlet.
But then he smiled again. The quizzical look still left in his eye, but the asymmetrical light and cut of his cheekbones was enough to convince her to stay with him. He did that a lot. Convince her to stay on solid ground. With him. “Shall we go warm them up?” He whispered into her ear, his breath coating her cheeks in heat. When she met his eyes, they were hidden with something else.
“We shall.” She whispered back, letting her gaze trace the shadows of his perfect face.
He pulled her along to the back gardens. They were Ophelia’s favorite because they smelled of lavender and citrus and were all messy. They were Hamlet’s favorite because they smelled like Ophelia. They were Ophelia. Lavender and citrus and mess. His lungs were flooded with the smell of her hair when they reached the gardens.
An orange tree twisted into the sky, and lavender blanketed the ground.
Ophelia held Hamlet’s hand as she sat down right under the tree, angled away from the view of the castle stones. Despite being the son of a king, Hamlet felt quite at home on the soil, so long as he could breathe in the scent of lavender and citrus forever.
They sat for a long while. Ophelia whispered of stories and dreams, they all seemed to spill out of her, as if creeping out of her body slowly until she could speak of them. Like a vine twisting through her lungs and across her eyes until all she saw was magic. Hamlet listened. He did that a lot. Listen. She quite liked that. While her mind traversed secret cities and ancient seas, Hamlet’s hand had never let go of hers.
“You are lovely.” He whispered once her voice was tired and the sun was low. She looked up at where his head was propped up. “A true delight.” He pulled her hand up to his lips, and pressed a gentle kiss to her pale knuckles. “A woman of light and sweetness.” He looked deep into her. The warmth that had spread across her cheeks soon pooled low in her stomach. “Ophelia…” He traced the illuminated line of her cheek. “My sweet darling,” His eyes dipped to her mouth. She never tasted the same way twice. He breathed in her scent again.
“Please,” She whispered, eyes shying away from his. “Say not what you do not mean.” She kept her eyes fixed on the lavender, now painted with the gold of sundown.
“But I do.” He tilted her chin up, so she was forced to look at him. He had a halo of light around him. “You are everything.” He gently kissed her brow. “Can you not see?”
She sighed as his touch. The hand he wasn’t cradling her face with, traced gentle circles on her waist. “Make me see.” She whispered, treading her fingers up his arm, like she did to the water in the river. “Show me that you say what you mean.” She pleaded. Her fingers had settled to rest on his neck, feeling the warm muscle underneath flex and shudder under her touch.
“I will.” He promised. “I will show you a thousand times over.” His fingers ran through her hair. He leaned down slowly and kissed her. It looked like an angel was delivering a kiss down from heaven.
She kissed heaven back. Holding him to her gently.
When their lips parted, she looked into his eyes again.
She recognized the look in his eyes now. The look of a king.
The look of greed.
But she did not mind.
The greed of men surprised her no longer.
The greed of a lover though, was a greed that startled her. It drank her in and poured her out. It hooked into her throat and tugged her into bliss.
When the sky was cold and the flowers had closed, Ophelia felt loved. But loved by nothing but a man.