Another update! Thank God for erratic sleep schedules, hey?

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Even more so than usual, Ophelia was pissed.

Not her generic "I'm going to poison someone in their sleep" pissed, either. No, this was "I'm going to stab someone here and now" pissed.

The inconvenient bit was that it would be rather useless to stab a dead man.

Hamlet, in all his egotistical suffering, had gotten so wrapped up in himself that he'd forgotten about the real world long enough to leave it. Overdose, because the bastard couldn't bear to do anything unsightly to himself.

Even in death, she thought she saw his lips twitch into a smirk. Ha, if only he could see how hideously his tie clashes with the flowers, Ophelia thought at his funeral, holding back a snort.

As much as the decorative incompetence irritated her (look at a color wheel, people!), the reason she seethed through clenched teeth had little to do with the stupid boy in the casket and everything to do with the stupid boy trembling beside it.

Horatio was the only person who truly cried when Hamlet died. As Gertrude shed a few dignified tears, Claudius and Laertes lowering their heads, Ros and Guil pressing that much closer to each other, Horatio had a hand clamped over his mouth to keep from making too much noise as he sobbed.

And it pissed Ophelia off.

Not that Horatio was sad, mind. She was pissed that Hamlet hadn't anticipated that Horatio would be sad. She was pissed that the stupid prince was too self-absorbed to see that Horatio would be completely, utterly, heartbreakingly shattered by Hamlet's suicide. She was pissed that Hamlet was blind to Horatio's affections; the fond glances as they walked side by side, the endless patience through monologue after monologue, the enthusiasm with which he reciprocated each and every kiss.

The promise in his voice when he said, "I love you."

Ophelia mourned both friends, in many ways. She mourned the loss of the light in Horatio's eyes and the spring in his step. During the funeral, though, she did mourn the dead man. She mourned the Hamlet she climbed trees with. The Hamlet she chased around the halls of Elsinore in games of tag. The Hamlet that comforted her and Laertes when their mother died.

The Hamlet that, from what she knew, said, "I love you too." The same one Horatio cried for into the early hours of the morning, hands shaking even as Ophelia held them.

So naturally, when Laertes approached her in the library two days after the funeral, she drew him into a hug and muttered, "He's such an idiot."

"Which one?" Laertes sighed.

"Hamlet. Horatio's an idiot too, but I won't say it to his face because I love him too much."

Laertes shifted his hold to raise an eyebrow at her. "You loved Hamlet once."

"So did you."

"Touche."

Ophelia all but dragged her brother to sit next to her on the disgustingly ornate library couch that probably cost more than the average Danish farmer's entire paycheck. She pulled her legs up across his lap and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"It's weird, not having him here," she murmured sadly.

"I think it's been weird for a long time," he murmured back. "When was the last time he had a civil conversation with anyone who wasn't Horatio?"

Instead of answering, Ophelia pointed toward the grand doors.

"Speak of the angel."

Horatio slipped as quietly as he could through the small crack he'd made between the wood slabs, looking entirely out of place without the loudmouthed prince who was usually half a step ahead of him. He nodded respectfully when Ophelia lifted her arm, but only moved toward them when she called his name.

"You doing alright?" she asked tentatively when he sat down.

Horatio let out a "Ha!" that ended up getting caught in his throat, and he swallowed heavily. "Honestly, it could be worse. I haven't tried to follow him yet. So."

Well. That yet set off every one of Ophelia's red flags, and she quickly grabbed his hands to hold them to her chest.

"Horatio, look at me." He did. "I know you're hurting, anyone could see it on you, but listen to me: there is no gain in losing both of you." Laertes moved to Horatio's other side when he saw his shoulders begin to shake. "Please, Horatio. No matter how bad it hurts, promise me you won't try to follow him."

Horatio nodded, too choked up to speak, and Ophelia leaned their foreheads together. Laertes kept a firm hand on Horatio's back and moved the other to his sister's shoulder. They stayed like that for a while, the siblings finally shedding long-overdue tears as their friend cried.

~~~

When Ophelia awoke, the library was no longer filled with sunlight. Instead, pale moonbeams filtered through the stained glass windows, dusting the room in subdued greens and blues.

Her eyes were drawn to a corner, where a more pure, white light was emanating. If not for her numerous hours in this library, she would have thought it to be the simple forgetfulness of one of the staff; the window having been left open.

Alas, there was no window in that corner. She shook the boys awake.

"Laertes, Horatio," she hissed, her eyes never leaving the pale glow. "Wake up and look, dammit!"

And they did. Laertes tightened protective arms around the two of them as Horatio's eyes widened.

"D'you think- Lae, let go of me- d'you think it's him?"

"Unless there are other restless suicide victims in this castle," Horatio breathed, "which I wouldn't doubt, but he's the only one who'd come to us."

A brief moment of eye contact and then they were up. The light disappeared from the corner when they were halfway there, shifting to a different spot across the room. Laertes stopped the other two by tugging on their collars.

"He's playing a game." Awe with a touch of fear made his voice waver. "Phe, follow him directly. Horatio, go the opposite direction from her. I'll alternate corners between you."

And then they were off again, this time with blood pounding in their ears with anticipation. The light bounced between a few more points, almost causing Horatio and Laertes to run right into each other, but it finally stilled when Ophelia turned another corner.

Hamlet's ghost was irritatingly beautiful. He looked like himself but in silver clothes and washed in moonlight, which totally should've made his normally pale skin look pinkish, but instead he just looked like he'd been blessed by Artemis herself.

The first thing he did was give her that sheepish smile he put on when he thought he'd been hilarious and turned out his palms in an I'm back! gesture.

Ophelia's hand cut straight through the cold air that would've been his cheek. His form shimmered in ripples from that spot.

"Ah! What the hell, Phe?!" Hamlet cried.

"No, Hamlet, quit your whining for one goddamn second and listen the fuck up."

She wasn't sure if he fully understood the gravity of the situation yet, but he was still and looking at her intently, which would have to do. She took a shaky breath.

"I am so pissed at you I can't hope to put it into words. Do you have any idea what you caused? I'm not chewing you out for your depression, so don't even start on that excuse, because you refused all the help you were offered. I can't fathom why, because you knew how much it hurt the rest of us, but whatever. Actually, that's a great segway: how the fuck did you not see him?"

Hamlet opened his mouth. Ophelia held up her hand. He shut it.

"Hamlet, did you even look at him? Could you really not see how shaken up he got every time you hurt yourself? All he's ever done is care about you, and now you've broken his heart."

He opened his mouth again, and for a moment she was worried he'd joke whether she meant Ros or Guil or Laertes, but to her surprise his voice dipped quiet.

"Did... did I make him cry?"

Ophelia let out a dry laugh. "Oh my God. Really? Are you seriously asking that?" At Hamlet's genuinely concerned look, her face fell. "Oh my God. Oh my God. You're kidding. Tell me you're kidding." He shook his head. "Hamlet, what the hell! Yes he fucking cried, you've been making him cry since we were kids!"

Hamlet's eyes went distant and sad, staring off somewhere over her shoulder. Time seemed to slow around them and the hairs on the back of Ophelia's neck pricked, a shiver running down her spine as the gears turned in Hamlet's head. When he spoke again she had to strain to understand him.

"How is he?"

Nope. Nope, I'm done. I was probably crazy anyway but this is too much, she almost said aloud. Instead, she marched around a few turns, trusting Hamlet would follow, and pointed. "Ask him yourself."

At that moment, before Hamlet could catch a glimpse of his boyfriend, Laertes rounded the corner.

"Phe, what..." He trailed off, but picked himself back up again when his jaw clenched.

For the second time that night, a hand passed clean through the ghost prince's head.

"Hamlet, you absolute idiot douchebag bitch. Go fucking talk to him."

Hamlet didn't need to be told twice. He flitted straight through the bookshelf in his hurry. Ophelia grabbed her brother by the arm and let him away, out of the library and down the hall go her room.

They sat in silence for a long time, passing a bottle of pilfered wine between them, lost in their thoughts. They did not see Horatio for the rest of the night.

When they searched for him the next day, they discovered him frantically scanning across the spines of a high shelf. Ophelia had a sneaking suspicion he didn't sleep.

"Ratio, what are you doing?" she called up to him. He glanced down, smiled, and slid neatly down the ladder.

"I think I can bring him back."

"... Come again?"

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Okay. I can't promise a part two, but I kind of really want to write it, so maybe. This started from Requiem, I had no plan, but maybe.

I've always thought Ophelia's underlying emotions toward Hamlet are just her raging about everything he does, and I imagine she'd flip her lid the second she sees how much he hurts Horatio, though unintentionally. If anyone is going to knock some sense (metaphorically or literally) into our idiot prince, it'll be Ophelia.

Farewell and good day, my faeries. May you always see clearly, and never ignore.