“I pray you sire, it is my deepest will to remain without a wife. I need no maiden. I am content in solitude, I swear it.”

Hamlet knelt before his father, one knee pressed against the coarse stone floor of the large throne room. Waxen light filtered faintly through the arched windows that stood straight like pale soldiers against the walls. Long scarlet curtains hung from the ceiling, gathering on the main wall behind a raised platform that held the throne. The grand space was now empty of company, all of whom King Hamlet had dismissed prior to his son’s entry. The two of them were now alone; the king sat high on his silk-draped throne with his fair-headed son bent before him. The older man stared fixedly at the pleading boy and berated himself silently for allowing matters to reach this point.
“You and I both know that while you curse a woman’s company you do not wish for solitude.”

The king’s voice was measured, ringing with the same certainty he used to command his army or silence the babble at court. He would address this matter directly, as a ruler to a subject. This was not the time to play the father.

“I ask you not to mock me with this innocent guise. You may fool those in court, but I am your king.”

Regal though his father was, Hamlet could detect a hint of vexation laced through his tone. Hamlet bowed till his forehead rested on the floor. He half wished the stone would let him slip between its cool crevices so he could escape his father’s next words.

“I am privy to the carousing of students, to the curiosities that can grapple young men such as yourself,” the king began slowly. “ I will not berate your actions abroad. But mark, what serves as guiltless merrymaking in Wittenberg is naught but a plague in this court.”

Plague. The word seemed to echo through the hall, rattling in the pillared arches of the ceiling. Hamlet knew he must say something now, deny his father’s claims or fight them. But his legs would not permit him to rise and his churning gut kept him bent over. He could feel the scrutiny of his father’s gaze, probing the back of his skull. It demanded truths he dare not speak and commanded choices he’d never sought.

“Look at me.”

It was an order.

Reluctantly, Hamlet brought his eyes up to meet the king’s furrowed brow. He could not decipher the emotion behind his expression, nor was he sure he wanted to. But he could see there was no point in denying the truth. He stood up unsteadily.

“Father…please,” he began, fear gripping his throat, “I mean no harm. I implore you; disregard the sanctimonious ramblings of court. They do not possess the wit to note any strange behaviors on my part. This... this condition is hidden even from my mother. I would never adventure my discretion and dishonor our name. But pray, let me be without a wife. I do not wish to falsely woo some poor maid into a life of contemned love.”

The king’s face softened at the mention of his wife, but at Hamlet’s plea, his furrowed expression returned. He slammed his palm against the armrest of the royal seat. Hamlet flinched.
“Then she will not know it to be contemned!”

The king’s roar was startling. Hamlet dropped his gaze to a fold of white robe that brushed at his father’s feet. His father’s frustration was gnawing through his famous composure.

“It matters not whether your heart holds passion, lad. Lucky are the few who wed with such blessings. A king is satisfied with the respect of his subjects even if his marriage is bitter. Your duty is simply to have this maiden convinced of your affections till you are joined in law and in the sheets. Who knows, you may even find yourself convinced of your own affection before too long.”

Hamlet clenched his fist, a slow panic weaving through his body.

“Father, please…

“No. We will of this speak no more.” The king raised his hand and took a long breath, as if cleansing himself of anger.

“When I summoned you here, I impressed on you the duties required for a future king. Needless to say your response to my request for your marriage is disappointing. I have listened to your foolish pleas. You have my answer. Now hear my decree, and obey. Your mother and I have selected a suitable match to accompany you on the throne of Denmark.”

Hamlet blanched.

“Father?”

It was a question bathed in dread.

“Your Ophelia.”

Hamlet’s throat closed painfully. Ophelia, a friend since infanthood, so sweet and gullible. There wasn’t a more innocent maiden to suffer false pursuits.

“There is no better choice. She is the daughter of my respected and faithful advisor. And, as I know well, a dear friend to you. I think these tidings should be agreeable to both of us, don’t you?”

The fear in Hamlet was replaced with irritation. Did his father really expect him to abandon all hesitation and laud this decision? He cared for Ophelia. But to share a bed with her would be to bed kin; incestuous sheets, indeed. Why did his father refuse to accept his preference? This was not some infantile phase that would dwindle with time. No. He would not wed. He could not. For both himself and Ophelia, he had to make his father understand.

Denial and determination coursed through him. Hamlet started fiercely up the stairs that separated him from his obdurate father.
“Agreeable?” He swung his arms up in disbelief, “Father I have just begged you to pardon me; pardon me from a life you know I do not seek. Why do you insist otherwise?”

His father’s expression darkened. Hamlet reached the top of the steps in time to receive a rough slap across the cheek.
“Enough!” The king’s voice rang with finality. “Stop trying my patience! You will court this maiden. If you refuse, I shall be forced to act severely.”

Hamlet could suddenly detect the hidden emotion hovering in the king’s expression. It was not anger. Was it… dread? This would not end well.

“Sire?”

“I..,” The king seemed unable to speak, “I will remove your claim to the throne of Denmark by denying you as my son.”
Guilt graced his father’s face, yet he continued.

“I’m sorry. This marriage is to continue our line. Should you wish to be my son and heir, I pray you, end this pursuit of... ‘solitude’.”
“Now, begone. I’m done with this fruitless topic. Go pursue your wife.”

With this, the tired king rose from his silken-clad chair and dismissed his son with a flick of the wrist.

There was nothing more to be done. His own father had threatened to remove his right to rule, to be a son. His beloved father, who had never laid a finger on his beloved boy. It was over, Hamlet realized with despair. He would have to woo poor, gullible Ophelia, and deny the truth in himself.

Dazed, Hamlet stumbled down the stairs and along the length of the hall to a small wooden door that led out of the throne room.


Horatio sat in a small chamber by the side entrance to the throne room, his head resting in his hand. For the past hour, he had heard loud voices resonating from within the hall. This was not promising. He prayed Hamlet would return soon.

No sooner than he had this thought, Horatio heard a loud thud at the end of the corridor. He looked up to find Hamlet stumbling towards him, pale and defeated. Horatio stood up.

“Hamlet, what news?”

The prince didn’t look at him. He slumped against the wall, sliding slowly to the ground. He sat for a minute, gripping fistfuls of his hair.
“Hamlet? What did the king say?

Horatio crouched and placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Hamlet, speak.”

The prince froze, shrugging away from Horatio.

“You make yourself too familiar, Horatio.” His voice was still thick but decisively cold.

Startled, Horatio dropped his hand
“Hamlet, why do you speak thus?”

In all the years they’d spent together in Wittenberg, Hamlet had never acted so distant.

“I am your prince. I speak to you as a prince commands his subject, Horatio.”

“No,” replied Horatio quietly, “you speak as a son whose father has condemned our friendship.”

“Friendship.” Hamlet glanced up at Horatio. “It must be friendship. And it must remain so till my father’s own death.“
“I see.” Horatio’s whisper was hollow.

He stood up.

“I must take my leave,” he said. “I swore to see my own father before tomorrow. He remains in your uncle’s court, so I will ride there tonight.”

THE END