Chapter Text
Two months.
It had been two months since everything changed, since life in the court of Elsinore changed so drastically that it was almost impossible to wrap one’s head around. Well, it was feeling quite impossible for Horatio to wrap his head around it all. The only reason he was even in the castle in the first place is gone, as is every other person he knew around the place. It all happened too quickly, and once the cyclone of chaos had blown over, Horatio was all that was left in the rubble. And as much as he wanted to let himself die in the debris, he made a promise. And so, two months had passed, and Horatio made it out alive.
As unfamiliar and un-Danish as he was, Fortinbras was not a terrible ruler. Horatio still didn’t find him a good fit, as it was Denmark, and you should probably be Danish if you’re to be the king. But still, Fortinbras was certainly an upgrade from their previous tyrannical lord. Under the instructions of Fortinbras, the court began to rebuild itself after the tragedy, and things were starting to return to normal. As normal as things could be without a certain eccentric prince getting up to whatever mischief he planned for the day. It felt too normal, too calm. Like everyone just forgot what had happened, like it didn’t change how a whole kingdom was to be run.
Of course, it made sense that Horatio would be grieving more than anyone else in the court, since he was the closest to the crown prince, and the others who died had no friends whose bond could ever come close to that of Horatio and Hamlet. But even with this in mind, the court swept the entire tragedy under the rug far too quickly to be considered noble. From what could be gathered from the townspeople, they cried harder than the noblemen, even though most villagers never met the royal family personally.
After the overwhelming sorrow he felt due to the tragedy, due to the loss of his closest and greatest friend, Horatio was left shell-shocked. In the months following his father’s death, Horatio lived for Hamlet. He spent as many free hours as possible with him, trying to guide him out of the darkness that was beginning to overtake his mind. Now, his entire reason for being in the state of Denmark was slaughtered, leaving Horatio alone, unsure of what to do next. He was considering leaving to return to Wittenburg, so he could finally finish his studies and complete the main goal he had set for himself many years ago.
It felt so wrong, though, as if, by returning to Wittenburg, he were trying to erase what had happened, just as the court did. Like he was trying to erase the reminder of why he was here, for him. In addition, he didn’t think he could take an entire semester without hearing one of his prince’s schemes, or the latest abominable test score from Rosencrantz or Guildenstern. All he had left of their days at the university were his own memories, now that everyone he shared them with is dead.
And so, Horatio remained at the castle, with no companions to call his own. There was a silver lining, however, as the newly crowned Fortinbras had offered Horatio a new job title not long after his coronation. Royal advisor. Horatio wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the new job. While he didn’t doubt his own capabilities, it was a significant task, and it was also strange to share the title with the late Polonius. So far, Horatio has been primarily tasked with helping to acclimate the new king to Danish culture.
There have been many a trip to and fro the library, each with a book on Danish tradition on history in tow. One of the most unpleasant aspects of the job was the close proximity to the king, who, while not unkind, was still largely a stranger to Horatio. The benefits of the job made it worthwhile, though. Horatio’s once temporary chambers in the castle were now officially his to remain in, and he now often ate with the rest of the court. A lot had changed in the two months since the tragedy.
Horatio trailed closely to the king, who was giving him his next orders as they strode through the castle halls. Horatio was decidedly not short, but Fortinbras’s large and muscular form loomed over him in comparison; along with his heavy armor, he cut quite the imposing figure.
“Horatio, I’m going to have you pick up another book for me at the library. Do you think you can find one for me that outlines the borders of Denmark’s territories over the past century?” Fortinbras’s voice cut through the sounds of boot on stone.
“Of course, my lord, I’ll see to it done as soon as possible. I can head over to the library after this and ensure you’ll have the book by tomorrow morning. My skills are at your service.” The words felt like ash in Horatio’s mouth. He was still unused to calling anyone other than his dearest prince ‘my lord.’ He never once had to address Claudius directly, so the title was reserved for Hamlet. Calling the new king by it felt incorrect, and the words held such sentiment that Horatio was borderline uncomfortable calling anyone but his prince by the title.
“See to it that you do. That’s all I have for at the moment. You are dismissed.” Fortinbras was not a man of flowery language or lengthy instruction. He was overall quite brief and concise with his wording, which Horatio appreciated, especially in court, where there was no lack of drawn-out conversations. With his words, Fortinbras turned on his heel and started walking to who knows where, ready to complete his next task on his royal agenda.
Left with nothing left to do, Horatio strolled his way to the castle library, looking to complete his task as soon as possible so he could spend the rest of his time reading in his quarters. Perhaps he can check out a book for himself if he can find a fitting book for the king in a timely fashion.
As Horatio walked, he gazed at the paintings hung upon the wall. Many were of the previous royal family, now covered in a thin black layer of silk for mourning. They will, without a doubt, be retired to a storage room in the next few months, the last reminders of the tragedy wiped clean from the castle.
Horatio made it to his quarters as the sun was setting, a thick historical book for the king in his arms, with a thinner poetry collection for himself stacked on top. He put the king’s book on a chair near the fireplace, and then lay in bed with his own. He didn’t get far, though, as his mind drifted back to all that had happened.
The tragedy overtook most of his thoughts nowadays. He thought of all that had happened, all that could have been prevented if he had just listened to his gut and convinced Hamlet to call the duel with Laertes off. Alas, what’s done is done, and both Hamlet and Laertes now lie in their graves while the rest of Denmark slowly forgets all that has happened. Not Horatio, though, he could never forget.
Times like these, where he had nothing to do but look up at his ceiling and contemplate where it all went wrong, Horatio starts to feel guilt crawling into the corners of his mind. He was aware of how much his friend yearned for death, to the point where he knew that the young prince and death joined each other in what could only be a macabre dance throughout the final months of Hamlet’s life. He knew that by avenging his father and dying nobly, unlike the suicide he so often contemplated, Hamlet got all he desired. His father’s spirit and his own were both simultaneously freed, and the prince at last got the slumber he so ardently wished for.
Yet, selfishly, Horatio couldn’t help but wish Hamlet were still at his side. His life had dulled without his presence, and Horatio wasn’t sure whether he could ever be the same as he once was. Although it was regarded as a sin, Horatio could not deny the truth; he loved the prince. And despite his death, he still does. He loves him so much that the thought of one day getting over the loss and moving on hurts.
BANG
There was a knock on Horatio’s door, though it was less a knock than a thud. Horatio startled; it was far too late for anyone to be visiting him. The only reasonable explanation was that the king had an emergency and was in some sort of need of guidance. It was a frightening thought, but since his room was but one of many deep in the castle, it was surely not an intruder or thief. The knock sounded again, and Horatio shakily rose from his position on the bed.
“J-just a second! I’m on my way!” Horatio shouted over, redoing his shirt buttons that he had undone while getting into bed.
Horatio, after hastily making sure he looked presentable for the king (although it was the king bothering him at such an hour, where it made no sense to keep oneself presentable), made his way to his door. He could see the shadow of a person on the other side, lit by the candles that lined both his room and the castle hall outside. He opened the door, which sounded with a loud creak, and gazed onto the other side. Who he was met with was not the king, yet he knew the face very well.
On the other side of the door stood Prince Hamlet. He was pressed up against the frame, his face pale, hair mussed, and covered in dirt and stray blades of grass. He looked as though he had just escaped a battlefield, and the tired and dazed expression on his face furthered that. He was still dressed in the black royal uniform he was buried in, which was now equally as dirty as his fair skin.
“Hamlet?” Hortatio questioned, unsure if what he was seeing was truly real, or if he had gone mad with lovesickness, like what was once theorized to have happened to the object of his affections. Or perhaps Hamlet was now a ghost like his father had been, doomed to walk the mortal plane in the darkened hours of the night.
Hamlet looked up, his face lighting up, now looking more alive than dead at the sight of Horatio.
“Horatio!” Hamlet jumped into Horatio’s arms, their chests colliding. Horatio could feel the beat of his dearest friend's heart against his own and realized his prince was very much alive.