Hamlet Bella Williams

“Suspicions of what? Not like you have a shot at the throne or anything.”

“Regardless, consorting with the leader of a foreign invasion probably isn’t great optics.” A glance at the assembly of black-clad nobles gathered in the center of the hall does in fact meet with a score of eyes directed back at him.

She chuckles. “It’s a little late for optics. The invasion already happened.”

“I hope you can understand. I don’t have an army at my disposal should the powers that be find me inconvenient.”

Fortinbras gives a full cackle at that one, head thrown back with the confidence of someone fully aware of her audience. She places her free hand on the sword at her hip. (She’s the only person in the room openly armed. Maybe bringing a blade to a funeral is socially acceptable in Norway.) “I think you’ll be fine.” It’s a simple offer: information for protection. He doesn’t doubt Fortinbras’s Hamlet, digital ability to fulfill her end, but he also doesn’t trust her as far as he can throw her, and given his scholar’s constitution and the amount of armor she clanks

around in, that probably isn’t very far.

Not once in the last four years has taking chances turned out well for him or for anyone he once knew, but as he avoids meeting the gaze of another face halfcovered by black lace and whispering hands, something dashes across his mind about devils you know. He decides he’s tired of them.

Scene II

One of the first things Hamlet did a lifetime ago when Horatio came to Elsinore was show him all the places even the crown prince could disappear for hours, unnoticed and unbothered. His favorite was the garden maze, planted in a style that had gone out of fashion half a century ago and left abandoned to grow into a twisting labyrinth of vines and roses. Horatio can’t quite shake the feeling of something close to sacrilege in bringing Fortinbras here, but it’s the only place he’s certain they won’t have any unwelcome company.

The first challenge in explaining the situation to Fortinbras is convincing her of the existence of the supernatural. Might as well get it over with, he thinks, and trips and stumbles through his description of the night on the garrison with Marcellus and Bernardo like it’s a bed of hot coals. Even after he’s done speaking he doesn’t breathe, too busy studying her face for a reaction.

Fortinbras’s brow furrows. Her mouth twists into a different shape with every question half-formed and abandoned.

“I know, I didn’t believe in them either, but if you’ll just humor me for a minute —.”

“I didn’t get a ghost.”

Horatio blinks. “Didn’t realize a ghost was something one could get.”

“No, I mean,” she begins, cracking the knuckles on her right hand in a kind of audible ellipsis, “my father never came back from beyond the grave to tell me what to do.”

Horatio has no idea how to respond to that. Is he supposed to offer a second round of condolences? Some kind of explanation as to why her situation had not called for spectral interference? Congratulations for getting this far in her revenge quest without it?

Fortinbras waves his thoughts aside with a flick of her hand and keeps walking. “You’ve been around here a while, right? Long enough to know everyone who comes through court?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Great!“

The rest of their conversation, and many of the ones after that, are taken up mostly by Fortinbras’s questions about the Danish nobility and basic court politics. Horatio doesn’t mind. It’s easier to talk about, simple questions with simple answers. He wouldn’t be able to do the story justice anyway.

Scene III

Horatio does make some progress in this last favor to his friend, but it always comes to a halt whenever Fortinbras asks why Hamlet didn’t just hurry up and kill the guy. Horatio never has an answer for her. It made sense in the moment, listening to Hamlet go on about all his thoughts and plans and fears, but looking back on them now Horatio can barely grasp whatever line of reasoning had strung them together. Maybe he never had in the first place.