| From late 2005: my debut directing Hamlet, and first in the Wild-Card Endings Series. |
[Sep. 18th, 2007|12:14 am] |
Title: At This Chance
Pairing: Obscured until the end, I fear. Bear with me.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I wrote this in the wake of seeing the English Touring Theatre production of the play in November 2005. Ed Stoppard did an intriguing (if not brilliant) job as the prince, and the actor playing Horatio, whose name I now forget, was wonderful. In any case, this story owes to their performances and also to that of the cast of Shakespeare on the Common's summer 2005 production. I've never seen their likes.
Summary: Even this ending may chance to be more than it seems.
The king comes to breakfast at half past ten, and not a moment sooner.
Fortinbras rises from his seat, as do the others, and bows his head until the seat at the head of the table is taken. For many a month now, he has been a frequent guest in Elsinore; it is a wonder, he thinks, that he has not since his first unhappy encounter with the court outstayed his welcome. Beside Fortinbras, Osric fidgets with his gloves. To his other side, Reynaldo stands with calm and perfect poise, as if at silent prayer.
"I bid you good morning and fair welcome, friends."
The king's voice echoes in the vaulted hall, far stronger than it ought to be after such an ordeal as they have all borne witness. At the king's right hand, Horatio—the unfortunate schoolfellow, and a brave man besides—stands with his hands folded on the back of his chair, his clear eyes fixed on the pale, empty plate set before him. The king gestures, almost too slightly to be noticed, but Horatio's head is the first to rise.
"Good your majesty, much thanks," he says, and at this signal, they take their seats.
As with most meals in the palace, it is a somber affair. The court seems to have tired of Rhenish, for even at such a fair hour of day, there is no such drink to be had. Fortinbras fills his cup with water from the nearest jug, offering it after to Osric. The young man refuses with a wave of his delicately stitched gloves, quietly awaiting the servants, who have come in bearing trays laden with the morning's repast.
At the head of the table, there is quiet conversation. Horatio's voice, in spite of its measured softness, has a way of carrying the length of the hall in counterpoint cadence to the king's. They do not speak of state matters, not so far as Fortinbras can tell. There has been some strain since his false start to the throne, but his standing invitation of welcome in Elsinore gives him reassurance that his life is not in danger.
Restrained laughter rings from the far end of the table, as if borne in on the sun.
At the sound of Horatio's voice, the king falls intent and listens.
* * *
The queen lived for less than an hour.
The poison in the cup had been a distillment of such a kind as Fortinbras's physician had never seen. His soldiers had borne the queen to her chamber at Osric's direction, pale and trembling, and in the end they had watched her hands' last grasping wish for life. Roused again, wracked with the poison's ravaging, she spoke.
"The drink—tell Hamlet—tell him it was—"
Darkness trickled from the corner of her mouth. The physician wiped it away.
"Madam," said Fortinbras, clasping her clawed hand, "it shall be done."
"Good," Gertrude whispered. "He should not...."
Fortinbras looked away as her blunt nails cut into his palm.
"Peace," he said, closing his eyes. "Victory was his."
The queen died, choking, with her son's name upon her lips.
* * *
At midday, Osric closes the chamber door.
The king and Fortinbras are well bestowed, with cushioned benches and casks of liquor at their disposal. Horatio is at his desk in one corner, silent except for his quill against the parchment or his trimming-knife at work. Osric takes his place beside the door, his hands folded in front of him. The post might have been his, had events turned differently. His lot may be no better than before, but it's certainly no worse.
Fortinbras pours two glasses of Rhenish and offers one to the king. The king accepts—not hesitantly, but slowly, as if something in the act of reaching and grasping is yet difficult for his lately recovered frame. Even a month ago, his life was no surety. In the corner, Horatio lowers his quill and listens.
The king reclines upon his cushions, head inclined to rest upon one hand. His eyes have not lost their haunted, weary brightness, and Osric is willing to guess that they might be forever changed. It does his majesty no disservice, truly. Even after wounding and in illness, he'd been as comely a figure as any gentleman could wish.
Horatio starts to write again, apparently satisfied that Fortinbras has come this time to speak only of matters pertaining to treaty and friendship. Indeed, the king has been most gracious in his offerings to Norway. The man who had nearly taken his crown had, it seemed, all but free reign of the palace upon his frequent visits.
The king's laughter, a new and fragile sound of late, is startling.
From across the vast divide, Horatio warily catches Osric's eye.
* * *
Laertes, they brought in next, upon discovering that his breath had not left him.
The physician shook his head, examining the long, shallow cut that the prince's sword had made across the young man's white stomach. The wound was red, angry with more than blood, and though the venom from the blade was not of the cup's caliber, it had put the young man into a fitful sleep from which the physician doubted he'd wake.
Fortinbras placed Laertes's hands upon his chest, then crossed it with the other. The flash of his throat in the dim light was high and shallow, infrequent, and his hands upon his heart rose and fell less frequently with each passing second. The physician pressed one hand to the young man's neck, his expression grave.
"He was the last of his father's line, was he not?"
"That is what I have been told," said Fortinbras, pressing the backs of his fingers to Laertes's cheek. The color was draining from his body as fast as his breath.
"He was the prince's peer, my lord."
Fortinbras turned away, reaching for the door.
"Bear him to the stage. His rapier would have shown him for a good soldier."
Behind him, Laertes heaved a gasp, then lay silent.
* * *
Marcellus finds early evening the calmest hour of the day.
For nigh on ten years, his watch has then begun, and God have mercy on his soul if it should change. The king, lately restored to his former health, has not made senseless changes in the order of Elsinore—new councilors, perhaps, but he has kept the palace guard-ranks as they are. For this, Marcellus is grateful, as there's comfort in habit.
With the arrival of fair weather, the king has taken to walking in the gardens. The first tentative buds have come to bloom: crocus, hedge-rose, and pansy. The violets that line the cobbled paths have begun to creep between the stones, pale white and purple ripples in the sunset breeze. The king, Lord Fortinbras, and Horatio stand at the far end of the gardens, their backs to Marcellus, eyes cast far out to sea.
God's truth, it was no certainty that the king would live. For months, the court had seemed a barren place, and empty. At first, Marcellus had been certain that Horatio was wrong to stay. Such things could only come to hardship and danger, he'd thought.
The breeze carries the king's soft laughter to his ears like a guilty, wistful secret. His eyes are not what they used to be, but he can hear Horatio's careful voice now, making some gentle response. Fortinbras is silent, perhaps in contemplation, hands clasped behind his back. The king stands near to Horatio, hands splayed on the wall.
Marcellus wonders if the ghost has truly gone to rest.
* * *
Prince Hamlet, the Royal Dane, fought for his life into the early hours of morning.
"The poison has not yet spread to his heart," explained the physician, grimly, tracing a line from the small, angry gash in the prince's thigh up and across his exposed torso. "He suffers greatly."
"But he resists," insisted Horatio, angrily, nearly leaning across the bed. "Can you do nothing? If there's yet some delay in the tracks of the body, perhaps—"
The physician sighed and glanced away, re-soaking the rag in the basin, stirring its stewed contents with an agitated twitch of his hand. He met Horatio's eyes.
"These herbs have drawn out what they can," he explained, pressing the cloth into the wound a last time. "I can close the flesh, that it may chance to heal, but…"
"Then do," said Fortinbras, taking hard hold of Horatio's shoulders as the prince's head tossed sharply to one side against the rumpled pillow. "Do what you must."
Once or twice, at the prick of the needle, Hamlet's lips twitched as if to speak.
* * *
At the end of the day, Horatio finds court life tiresome.
For the hundredth time as he walks the long hall, he thinks to himself that Elsinore is, indeed, a cold prison in comparison to Wittenberg. The library is as fine as the university's collections, but he prefers a cramped and quiet space, candlelight, and constant interruptions from the desk across the room. Those days, sadly, are done.
The doors of the king's bedchamber are open, though they are heavy. He gives them a hard pull, and manages to slip inside without crushing himself. The king stands waiting, alert, as if he's gotten up to answer the doors.
"Good my lord, I won't have it," he says, panting, and manages a bow.
"No more than I shall," says the king, advancing, and takes hold of his shoulders, raising him up. "How far will you carry these formalities, good Horatio, when you've no more strength for them than I?"
"Far enough for us both," Horatio replies, steadily meeting the king's gaze. "You are not to undertake matters of heavy lifting." He finds it difficult to keep a straight face. The king's lips twitch, relaxing into a smile.
"Something too much of this," he whispers, his hands slipping lower. "Horatio—"
A kiss, Horatio finds, is as good a cure for excessive words as any.
"To bed," he murmurs, "sweet Hamlet."
"To bed," agrees Hamlet, and laughs.
—fin— |
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