Shakespeare fic dump
Shakespeare-AU drabbles
Defeat was not a matter that he was familiar with, nor stalemate or strategic retreat at best, balancing on the line of battle with anxious fingers. The look that Cesario bore helped not in his strategy, stiffened with shoulders hunched and cheeks flushed as his retainer busied himself with collecting Fortinbras’s reports while delivering them in a voice most laden with hasty uncertainty. As awkward as a new schoolboy - and he could not bear to worsen it with words or reassurances or pressed advantages or a kiss, and so he held his tongue and hands firm, allowing Cesario leave to speak as he re-drew his maps in his head.
He had been controlled and patient as a good king should be, hacking out his stifled anger in the private of his quarters and turning a stoic face to the man who made his heart twist and his head pound in frustration. And so he chided insults at himself as he watched o’er his retainer, sprawled exhausted and senseless across Fortinbras’s bed - the king having carried him there after finding him unconscious in the nearby study, regaining two days of sleep lost in the midst of Luneburg’s siege. Wrote his letters by the candlelight and watched Cesario breathe but did naught else, as he snapped his quill afore finding a fresh one with which to finish his work.
Twas heaven’s irony in its deepest sense that sent Cesario to his side at last, and Fortinbras could not help but grin tired and weary through medicinal fumes and the bandage pinned to the corner of his mouth. In truth, the days of awkward avoidance and stiff unfamiliarity were near all he could bear, to have his dear friend so near at last and yet all but snatched away. No amount of persuasion could seem to mend the space tween them, and Fortinbras did re-draw his maps and wrack his mind for that which would return his companion to him, till the Goths did suddenly appear and war horns sound.
And then there was Cesario, fretting worry and reassurances in tones more soothing than any concoction that his physicians could e’er prescribe. That favor, he considered as he gripped those hands wrapped tight round his own, might e’en be worthy of a letter of thanks to Tamora.
Sequal to this
“My lord, I am most pleased to inform that you have a son,” the midwife began without preamble, wringing stained fingers gainst the cloth in her hand as she stood in the doorway between Norway and his now-resting wife. Though serious in demeanor, her eyes smiled ‘round wrinkled skin, quickly outmatched by Fortinbras’s radiant grin as he flashed his teeth and cantered around the room with long limbs unable to keep still - throwing open windows and kissing the old woman and shaking Horatio’s shoulders hard enough to knock a bottle of ink across the scholar’s near-completed writings.
He carried on for several minutes more, shouting a haphazard apology to his courtier before circling the room again afore returning to his starting place. Breathing deeply, his smile still near to splitting his face in two, he turned to the waiting midwife still patiently affixed ‘neath the door. “Well, what have you, woman? You have all the thanks that I could e’re give forth in my lifetime, but I would that you return at once to tend to my lady wife, lest she come to some unexpected harm.”
“I beg your pardon, your highness, but I have not yet finished with the delivery of my news.”
And here Fortinbras did finally slow to a still, the dregs of happiness and curiosity and a quiet wash of sudden fear flickering ‘cross his face. He stared her down in silent questioning, as the midwife clasped her hands and let the seconds roll by, waiting till she commanded his complete attention once again.
“My lord,” she finally drawled, eyes once again sparking in sly amusement, “also has a daughter.”
The new look that flared across his face did somehow manage to outshine the first.
Some non-AU things of the Hamlet variety.
Twas a too clever arrangement by half: a bold and ambitious royal companion to still the morose disposition of her all-too distracted son. The friendship of their chancellor’s child to match that which Polonius had long since given to them, and in truth, the boy Laertes bore a list of accomplishments fit to rival the prince’s own. A strong fencing arm and lungs much accustomed to the vigorous Danish air, a head for politics and comradery, and handsome too, with a becoming grin to match his fair face.
And yet her son managed to drag from the farthest corners of the court some gawky boy with coloring and dress alike to brown on duller brown, whose father’s name Gertrude couldn’t e’en recall. Dredged him up like a fishmonger’s winter catch and stole away with him to the library to read on Homer, while Laertes and Rosencrantz wrestled outside, and her husband laughed and laughed.
Twas in the prince's typical, unnecessarily extravagant fashion that caused it all to come about. They had been parrying across the court floor most fiercely, a single touch awarded to the prince's count. With an overly confident smile written across his fine featured face, Hamlet moved effortlessly 'cross the platform until he attempted some semblance of elaborate footwork, sidestepping to Laertes's left till his boot caught on some invisible snare and did send him tumbling to the ground in a most ungraceful manner. Hitting the floor roughly and rolling into a half-curled ball, the prince set up a loud round of squawks and moans, filling the room with his indignant shouts with till the physician arrived.
“Tis badly strained,” the physician reported of the ankle that he held between his hands, binding it with quick fingers as the prince grimaced and clung to Horatio's shoulder whilst his mother hovered worriedly overhead. “But t'will be rightly healed with rest and time. I should hope," he finished as he rose again, "that the prince will not be pressed to play out this wager in such a state?"
“O, aye, merry we wouldn't dream of't!” Osric laughed while Hamlet rolled his eyes, unseen beneath him. “My lord, shall I fetch the foils again, so that your second may chose his weapon?”
All expression disappearing from his face, the prince turned sharply to the courtier as he frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”
“Your second, sir - good Horatio. Shall I bring the foils so that he may continue the bought where you did leave off?”
At his side Horatio quietly paled and looked half-sick at this question, fair skin turning e'en more colorless, and Laertes could feel his own feelings reflected in his face. Hamlet for his part paused, staring at Osric from the corner of his eye with his mouth slightly open, as though t'were the first time he'd actually considered the word's true meaning. Laertes would not have been surprised.
“Sir, if I may,” he began, attempting to rise in order to stare the courtier down more directly, and succeeding in merely slouching over sideways to the floor in a most ridiculous fashion. “In light of this unfortunate event, I do wish to choose another to fight in my stead. My friend is ill-suited for such a cause.”
“Aye, thou mayest choose, but twill be be of little sense and lesser purpose,” Osric replied, attempting to muster a look halfway close to one of apology, giving something alike to a slow shrug and the raising of his hands. “As your highness has already declared most officially, to alter the records would cause an invariable forfeit. Tis clearly stated in the engagement's rules that our most good and honorable kings before have laid out, found in section-”
“O,” the prince interrupted, making to half-swoon much to Horatio and the queen's distress as they both darted forward to catch him about the shoulders. Though whether twas from his hurts or this new knowledge or from the prince's invariable ability to be a spoilt, foul wretch, Laertes knew not. Still seated atop the platform, Hamlet continued to badger an unwavering Osric into some form of a delay or alteration to the engagement, and with each denial Laertes could feel their plans slip quietly away, the hard ball of anger and obligation twisting and knotting round itself in the pit of his stomach. T'were that he could kill him now - find a dagger and gut him like a fish afore the court and retainers and ladies in waiting and whoever else he cared not of. Could do it, save that he refused to create any more victims for this uncaring naive - the lady queen whose death such an outright murder may cause - his family name, that of his father and sweet sister, tarnished and vilified. His fingers itched and so he curled them sharply gainst his palms, the tiny, sharp ruts of pain pricking at his clouded mind and bringing him forth to draw a deep breath of air. Greedily taking several more, he forcibly loosened his hands before retreating back toward the king, who sat stiff and tense, jaw locked as his fingers worked out a furious rhythm against the arm of his chair.
“Laertes,” Claudius began curtly with his eyes affixed upon the mockery of a scene still unfolding upon the platform, Hamlet now having moved on to threatening Osric with bodily harm and lifelong suffering, whilst half his words fell upon deaf ears, seemingly lost upon the courtier.
“My lord,” he returned with equal emphasis. Several moments passed as they watched Osric desperately attempt to understand to which circle of hell his was to be sent for his actions, broken only by the fitful pounding of Claudius's fingers gainst wood. “It would seem that we must seek a different route.”
“No.” And here the king slammed down his hands, pushing himself to standing before turning full to face Laertes. “Tis too well-formed a plan to abandon to some fleeting stroke of misfortune. A forfeit would deny to us any opportunity for a rematch, which we can most easily declare again once this here is over." He pointed cross the platform at Horatio, who seemed to be selecting his foil with some confusion. "While I hath seen both both Hamlet and thy swords matched in combat, his I can recall not, which doth speak louder to who the victor will be. Thou shouldest have no troubles in thoroughly besting him.”
“My lord,” Laertes frowned, shaking his head slightly to toss auburn bangs from his eyes. “My lord, the foils have 'ready been tipped. I harbor no ill will gainst Horatio and would not see him come to harm in the name of my father.”
Something akin to a twitch had begun in Claudius's jaw, and the king moved to rub harshly at his left temple with one hand. “So hesitant now that the deed is at hand? Recall that he is more oft than not inseparable from our nephew. Tis possible that he has laid a hand in good Polonius's death.”
“Oh, aye, and I shall slaughter the whole of the court as well, as tis possible that they too had found some involvement.” Sighing, he felt the knot in his stomach still slightly, still e're present but soft and calm, as though to draw the heat and anger from't. “Nay, I insist that my blade will not touch our friend. T'would be well aside,” he pressed, tilting his head slightly to catch Claudius's eyes. “As his sudden death would stir Hamlet's suspicion and make our task all the more difficult.”
He seemed to mull this claim o'er, and Laertes noticed for the first time the tired lines beneath the king's eyes, weariness tugging fitfully at their edges. “As thou wishes, Laertes; thou'rt in the right. But if we are to play out this mockery, then thou must feign to have the feign appear real, lest we draw suspicion from that court as well,” he finished afore throwing himself back into his chair. “I wish you luck with that endevour - he doth hold his foil alike a stick of wood.”
Turning to seek out Horatio with his eyes, he found Claudius's jab to be closer to the truth than he would have liked. Far, far closer, and Laertes felt something akin to a groan work its way up through his throat. Horatio had already taken his position at his end of the strip, nodding gravely Hamlet leaned heavily gainst some poor serving boy and hissed frantic advice into his friend's ear.
“I pray, thou must be nimble and quick alike a morning breeze - darting in to strike afore Laertes knows thou'rt there. Yet mind that thou'rt not too hasty, lest that carelessness leaves thyself exposed for the hit. And thy hand-” Hamlet grabbed at the scholar's fencing arm, jerking his wrist upward from its limp position till it was level with the elbow that the prince's other hand held firmly in place. “-Must be firm, unwavering as though the whole of the world doth depend upon it. Twill hold strong with much finality, as though each turn were turning a key in a lock.” Hand sliding up to rest on Horatio's wrist, he turned the brunette's hand to form a basic parry, blade flicking up then counter-clockwise downward till it sailed too far and the point struck hard against the ground with a most unsettling clatter. Horatio gritted his teeth, face still frozen in that half-ill expression, while Hamlet buried his face in his friend's shoulder, moaning as he shook his head.
“...My lord?” Osric called from the platform's side, toying fitfully with his hands and standing hesitant, as though attempting to keep out of range of the prince's wild tongue. “Sirs, if you are ready, we should make haste to continue the match; good Laertes has been long prepared to play this bought-”
“Nay, I do not mind,” Laertes quickly interjected, tilting his chin as he hastily waved Osric's fears aside with a cut of his hand. “T'would be unkind of me to deny my opponent his council. I pray, your highness, continue with your advice, though for his sake I do hope it to be of a more sensible breed.”
Lifting his head, Hamlet raised an eyebrow at him, mouth pulled back into a sneer and clearly set to disregard Horatio's need in favor some new volley of insult, when Osric silenced them with a jovial laugh that all three did turn to grimace at. “O, most excellent Laertes, you art quite the noble lordship! But alas, tis most clearly spell't out that respites should not be left in excess, else t'would be not a true gentleman's match.”
“So long as we speak of excess, seek to curb your words in such a fashion,” Hamlet snapped, twisting his face into a foul expression as Osric retreated even further from the platform alike to a wounded dog. “Lest our faculties rot from scant use by their lack of purpose.”
“Now, Hamlet-” Queen Gertrude began, voice stern and laced with reprimand, and somehow between them, Hamlet was convinced to relocate to his mother's side and allow the bought to continue, afore he sought to harass the courtier any further.
Osric began the match again with a tap of their swords, quickly skirting out of the and back toward the assembled crowd to stand 'cross the way from the royal family. The glass of wine, Laertes noticed, had conveniently disappeared from Claudius's elbow, replaced instead with its brother of an assumedly less dangerous nature. The king himself sat half-distracted, eyes adrift and hand near to tensely squeezing that of Gertrude. Meanwhile, Hamlet sat beside her as he held his breath and watched his friend stand stock-still upon the platform, foil still at the ready.
T'would be best to end this quickly, Laertes considered, edging slowly closer to Horatio, who still deemed to not move from his spot. Hamlet had already scored the one touch, and so two more should not be terribly difficult to draw out. He tapped his blade gainst Horatio's, touching lightly as he tested the scholar. He could e'en blame the misfortunate loss on some semblance of overconfidence, explaining that he had underestimated the scholar's abilities with a rapier. But only if he could convince Horatio to hit him in the first place - and he nearly grimaced as he smacked his foil once again, only to have the brunette remain pinned, unmoving as he stared at Laertes with wide brown eyes.
“Come, good sir,” Laertes muttered, half under his breath as he extended his arm and lunged, his foil positioned ridiculously far to the left and the poisoned blade sailing over Horatio's shoulder, safely past delicate skin. A counterstrike straight to the chest would have been most advisable, but the scholar gasped and nearly staggered backward, rightening himself before attempting to beat away the blade by pushing it further out. Still fighting, he shoved it further still and succeeded in exposing his entire left side in a move that elicited some sort of pained moan from the direction of the royal family. And O, God, had he perchance not practiced since they were children, when they had played in Elsinore's courtyard with flat and dulled swords? T'would not have surprised him, and Laertes easily swept aside a parry made toward his thigh, the blade moving so slowly that their intended loss would have been made obvious, had he allowed it to hit.
Staring him down once again with large, watchful eyes, Horatio crept slowly closer, knees bent and back pitched forward in terrible position, and Laertes once again sent his foil flying off-target out of harm's way. The scholar jerked and send his weapon haphazardly upward, knocking the offending foil wildly askew and nearly causing the poisoned blade to scratch 'cross his forearm. With a sudden gasp of worry, Laertes darted forward to mock parry and swing the foil round to safety on Horatio's other side. The scholar scampered backward completely down the strip this time, making haste to give his own blade a parting whack as he did so.
With a resigned, mental shake of his head, Laertes once again moved to close the distance between them. Perhaps he could control his arm just so and strike him softly enough so as not to break the skin. T'would put an end to this mockery of sport and guarantee Horatio's safety at once. And yet - he thought as they began the tapping game once again, Laertes beating upon Horatio's blade every few seconds with increasing impatience as he attempted to spur the brunette into attacking - he would need do so in nine passes to win the bought. And while he kept confidence in his skills, twas not something that he could comfortably allow a good man's life to hang upon.
Reaching out to strike for a third time, Horatio met his blade with his own, attempting some semblance of a parry, though laughably loose and wide. And yet that he could at least work with, counter-parrying back and generously turning his shoulder out to the scholar. E'en so, the gift seemed to be for naught till there came the sound of Hamlet shrieking indignation, demanding that Horatio stop playing the fool and strike now. His friend obeyed, staggering forward to swipe Laertes cross the shoulder in a light but blessedly legal hit.
“Two!” Osric called, and in truth, Laertes could hardly tell if twas Hamlet or Horatio or he himself who was most relieved. Hamlet had staggered ungracefully onto the platform, reaching out to clasp a somewhat shocked Horatio in celebration before pulling back and shaking his shoulders as he attempted to snap out the basics of parrying that the brunette seemed to have forgotten since his last explanation. Claudius for his part remained unmoved, perhaps contemplating a new snare with which to bring the prince to justice. But for now he could not bring himself to care, as Osric called for the next round and Laertes pinched his nose and breathed in deeply, putting his foil to the ready.
Defeat was not a matter that he was familiar with, nor stalemate or strategic retreat at best, balancing on the line of battle with anxious fingers. The look that Cesario bore helped not in his strategy, stiffened with shoulders hunched and cheeks flushed as his retainer busied himself with collecting Fortinbras’s reports while delivering them in a voice most laden with hasty uncertainty. As awkward as a new schoolboy - and he could not bear to worsen it with words or reassurances or pressed advantages or a kiss, and so he held his tongue and hands firm, allowing Cesario leave to speak as he re-drew his maps in his head.
He had been controlled and patient as a good king should be, hacking out his stifled anger in the private of his quarters and turning a stoic face to the man who made his heart twist and his head pound in frustration. And so he chided insults at himself as he watched o’er his retainer, sprawled exhausted and senseless across Fortinbras’s bed - the king having carried him there after finding him unconscious in the nearby study, regaining two days of sleep lost in the midst of Luneburg’s siege. Wrote his letters by the candlelight and watched Cesario breathe but did naught else, as he snapped his quill afore finding a fresh one with which to finish his work.
Twas heaven’s irony in its deepest sense that sent Cesario to his side at last, and Fortinbras could not help but grin tired and weary through medicinal fumes and the bandage pinned to the corner of his mouth. In truth, the days of awkward avoidance and stiff unfamiliarity were near all he could bear, to have his dear friend so near at last and yet all but snatched away. No amount of persuasion could seem to mend the space tween them, and Fortinbras did re-draw his maps and wrack his mind for that which would return his companion to him, till the Goths did suddenly appear and war horns sound.
And then there was Cesario, fretting worry and reassurances in tones more soothing than any concoction that his physicians could e’er prescribe. That favor, he considered as he gripped those hands wrapped tight round his own, might e’en be worthy of a letter of thanks to Tamora.
Sequal to this
“My lord, I am most pleased to inform that you have a son,” the midwife began without preamble, wringing stained fingers gainst the cloth in her hand as she stood in the doorway between Norway and his now-resting wife. Though serious in demeanor, her eyes smiled ‘round wrinkled skin, quickly outmatched by Fortinbras’s radiant grin as he flashed his teeth and cantered around the room with long limbs unable to keep still - throwing open windows and kissing the old woman and shaking Horatio’s shoulders hard enough to knock a bottle of ink across the scholar’s near-completed writings.
He carried on for several minutes more, shouting a haphazard apology to his courtier before circling the room again afore returning to his starting place. Breathing deeply, his smile still near to splitting his face in two, he turned to the waiting midwife still patiently affixed ‘neath the door. “Well, what have you, woman? You have all the thanks that I could e’re give forth in my lifetime, but I would that you return at once to tend to my lady wife, lest she come to some unexpected harm.”
“I beg your pardon, your highness, but I have not yet finished with the delivery of my news.”
And here Fortinbras did finally slow to a still, the dregs of happiness and curiosity and a quiet wash of sudden fear flickering ‘cross his face. He stared her down in silent questioning, as the midwife clasped her hands and let the seconds roll by, waiting till she commanded his complete attention once again.
“My lord,” she finally drawled, eyes once again sparking in sly amusement, “also has a daughter.”
The new look that flared across his face did somehow manage to outshine the first.
Some non-AU things of the Hamlet variety.
Twas a too clever arrangement by half: a bold and ambitious royal companion to still the morose disposition of her all-too distracted son. The friendship of their chancellor’s child to match that which Polonius had long since given to them, and in truth, the boy Laertes bore a list of accomplishments fit to rival the prince’s own. A strong fencing arm and lungs much accustomed to the vigorous Danish air, a head for politics and comradery, and handsome too, with a becoming grin to match his fair face.
And yet her son managed to drag from the farthest corners of the court some gawky boy with coloring and dress alike to brown on duller brown, whose father’s name Gertrude couldn’t e’en recall. Dredged him up like a fishmonger’s winter catch and stole away with him to the library to read on Homer, while Laertes and Rosencrantz wrestled outside, and her husband laughed and laughed.
Twas in the prince's typical, unnecessarily extravagant fashion that caused it all to come about. They had been parrying across the court floor most fiercely, a single touch awarded to the prince's count. With an overly confident smile written across his fine featured face, Hamlet moved effortlessly 'cross the platform until he attempted some semblance of elaborate footwork, sidestepping to Laertes's left till his boot caught on some invisible snare and did send him tumbling to the ground in a most ungraceful manner. Hitting the floor roughly and rolling into a half-curled ball, the prince set up a loud round of squawks and moans, filling the room with his indignant shouts with till the physician arrived.
“Tis badly strained,” the physician reported of the ankle that he held between his hands, binding it with quick fingers as the prince grimaced and clung to Horatio's shoulder whilst his mother hovered worriedly overhead. “But t'will be rightly healed with rest and time. I should hope," he finished as he rose again, "that the prince will not be pressed to play out this wager in such a state?"
“O, aye, merry we wouldn't dream of't!” Osric laughed while Hamlet rolled his eyes, unseen beneath him. “My lord, shall I fetch the foils again, so that your second may chose his weapon?”
All expression disappearing from his face, the prince turned sharply to the courtier as he frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”
“Your second, sir - good Horatio. Shall I bring the foils so that he may continue the bought where you did leave off?”
At his side Horatio quietly paled and looked half-sick at this question, fair skin turning e'en more colorless, and Laertes could feel his own feelings reflected in his face. Hamlet for his part paused, staring at Osric from the corner of his eye with his mouth slightly open, as though t'were the first time he'd actually considered the word's true meaning. Laertes would not have been surprised.
“Sir, if I may,” he began, attempting to rise in order to stare the courtier down more directly, and succeeding in merely slouching over sideways to the floor in a most ridiculous fashion. “In light of this unfortunate event, I do wish to choose another to fight in my stead. My friend is ill-suited for such a cause.”
“Aye, thou mayest choose, but twill be be of little sense and lesser purpose,” Osric replied, attempting to muster a look halfway close to one of apology, giving something alike to a slow shrug and the raising of his hands. “As your highness has already declared most officially, to alter the records would cause an invariable forfeit. Tis clearly stated in the engagement's rules that our most good and honorable kings before have laid out, found in section-”
“O,” the prince interrupted, making to half-swoon much to Horatio and the queen's distress as they both darted forward to catch him about the shoulders. Though whether twas from his hurts or this new knowledge or from the prince's invariable ability to be a spoilt, foul wretch, Laertes knew not. Still seated atop the platform, Hamlet continued to badger an unwavering Osric into some form of a delay or alteration to the engagement, and with each denial Laertes could feel their plans slip quietly away, the hard ball of anger and obligation twisting and knotting round itself in the pit of his stomach. T'were that he could kill him now - find a dagger and gut him like a fish afore the court and retainers and ladies in waiting and whoever else he cared not of. Could do it, save that he refused to create any more victims for this uncaring naive - the lady queen whose death such an outright murder may cause - his family name, that of his father and sweet sister, tarnished and vilified. His fingers itched and so he curled them sharply gainst his palms, the tiny, sharp ruts of pain pricking at his clouded mind and bringing him forth to draw a deep breath of air. Greedily taking several more, he forcibly loosened his hands before retreating back toward the king, who sat stiff and tense, jaw locked as his fingers worked out a furious rhythm against the arm of his chair.
“Laertes,” Claudius began curtly with his eyes affixed upon the mockery of a scene still unfolding upon the platform, Hamlet now having moved on to threatening Osric with bodily harm and lifelong suffering, whilst half his words fell upon deaf ears, seemingly lost upon the courtier.
“My lord,” he returned with equal emphasis. Several moments passed as they watched Osric desperately attempt to understand to which circle of hell his was to be sent for his actions, broken only by the fitful pounding of Claudius's fingers gainst wood. “It would seem that we must seek a different route.”
“No.” And here the king slammed down his hands, pushing himself to standing before turning full to face Laertes. “Tis too well-formed a plan to abandon to some fleeting stroke of misfortune. A forfeit would deny to us any opportunity for a rematch, which we can most easily declare again once this here is over." He pointed cross the platform at Horatio, who seemed to be selecting his foil with some confusion. "While I hath seen both both Hamlet and thy swords matched in combat, his I can recall not, which doth speak louder to who the victor will be. Thou shouldest have no troubles in thoroughly besting him.”
“My lord,” Laertes frowned, shaking his head slightly to toss auburn bangs from his eyes. “My lord, the foils have 'ready been tipped. I harbor no ill will gainst Horatio and would not see him come to harm in the name of my father.”
Something akin to a twitch had begun in Claudius's jaw, and the king moved to rub harshly at his left temple with one hand. “So hesitant now that the deed is at hand? Recall that he is more oft than not inseparable from our nephew. Tis possible that he has laid a hand in good Polonius's death.”
“Oh, aye, and I shall slaughter the whole of the court as well, as tis possible that they too had found some involvement.” Sighing, he felt the knot in his stomach still slightly, still e're present but soft and calm, as though to draw the heat and anger from't. “Nay, I insist that my blade will not touch our friend. T'would be well aside,” he pressed, tilting his head slightly to catch Claudius's eyes. “As his sudden death would stir Hamlet's suspicion and make our task all the more difficult.”
He seemed to mull this claim o'er, and Laertes noticed for the first time the tired lines beneath the king's eyes, weariness tugging fitfully at their edges. “As thou wishes, Laertes; thou'rt in the right. But if we are to play out this mockery, then thou must feign to have the feign appear real, lest we draw suspicion from that court as well,” he finished afore throwing himself back into his chair. “I wish you luck with that endevour - he doth hold his foil alike a stick of wood.”
Turning to seek out Horatio with his eyes, he found Claudius's jab to be closer to the truth than he would have liked. Far, far closer, and Laertes felt something akin to a groan work its way up through his throat. Horatio had already taken his position at his end of the strip, nodding gravely Hamlet leaned heavily gainst some poor serving boy and hissed frantic advice into his friend's ear.
“I pray, thou must be nimble and quick alike a morning breeze - darting in to strike afore Laertes knows thou'rt there. Yet mind that thou'rt not too hasty, lest that carelessness leaves thyself exposed for the hit. And thy hand-” Hamlet grabbed at the scholar's fencing arm, jerking his wrist upward from its limp position till it was level with the elbow that the prince's other hand held firmly in place. “-Must be firm, unwavering as though the whole of the world doth depend upon it. Twill hold strong with much finality, as though each turn were turning a key in a lock.” Hand sliding up to rest on Horatio's wrist, he turned the brunette's hand to form a basic parry, blade flicking up then counter-clockwise downward till it sailed too far and the point struck hard against the ground with a most unsettling clatter. Horatio gritted his teeth, face still frozen in that half-ill expression, while Hamlet buried his face in his friend's shoulder, moaning as he shook his head.
“...My lord?” Osric called from the platform's side, toying fitfully with his hands and standing hesitant, as though attempting to keep out of range of the prince's wild tongue. “Sirs, if you are ready, we should make haste to continue the match; good Laertes has been long prepared to play this bought-”
“Nay, I do not mind,” Laertes quickly interjected, tilting his chin as he hastily waved Osric's fears aside with a cut of his hand. “T'would be unkind of me to deny my opponent his council. I pray, your highness, continue with your advice, though for his sake I do hope it to be of a more sensible breed.”
Lifting his head, Hamlet raised an eyebrow at him, mouth pulled back into a sneer and clearly set to disregard Horatio's need in favor some new volley of insult, when Osric silenced them with a jovial laugh that all three did turn to grimace at. “O, most excellent Laertes, you art quite the noble lordship! But alas, tis most clearly spell't out that respites should not be left in excess, else t'would be not a true gentleman's match.”
“So long as we speak of excess, seek to curb your words in such a fashion,” Hamlet snapped, twisting his face into a foul expression as Osric retreated even further from the platform alike to a wounded dog. “Lest our faculties rot from scant use by their lack of purpose.”
“Now, Hamlet-” Queen Gertrude began, voice stern and laced with reprimand, and somehow between them, Hamlet was convinced to relocate to his mother's side and allow the bought to continue, afore he sought to harass the courtier any further.
Osric began the match again with a tap of their swords, quickly skirting out of the and back toward the assembled crowd to stand 'cross the way from the royal family. The glass of wine, Laertes noticed, had conveniently disappeared from Claudius's elbow, replaced instead with its brother of an assumedly less dangerous nature. The king himself sat half-distracted, eyes adrift and hand near to tensely squeezing that of Gertrude. Meanwhile, Hamlet sat beside her as he held his breath and watched his friend stand stock-still upon the platform, foil still at the ready.
T'would be best to end this quickly, Laertes considered, edging slowly closer to Horatio, who still deemed to not move from his spot. Hamlet had already scored the one touch, and so two more should not be terribly difficult to draw out. He tapped his blade gainst Horatio's, touching lightly as he tested the scholar. He could e'en blame the misfortunate loss on some semblance of overconfidence, explaining that he had underestimated the scholar's abilities with a rapier. But only if he could convince Horatio to hit him in the first place - and he nearly grimaced as he smacked his foil once again, only to have the brunette remain pinned, unmoving as he stared at Laertes with wide brown eyes.
“Come, good sir,” Laertes muttered, half under his breath as he extended his arm and lunged, his foil positioned ridiculously far to the left and the poisoned blade sailing over Horatio's shoulder, safely past delicate skin. A counterstrike straight to the chest would have been most advisable, but the scholar gasped and nearly staggered backward, rightening himself before attempting to beat away the blade by pushing it further out. Still fighting, he shoved it further still and succeeded in exposing his entire left side in a move that elicited some sort of pained moan from the direction of the royal family. And O, God, had he perchance not practiced since they were children, when they had played in Elsinore's courtyard with flat and dulled swords? T'would not have surprised him, and Laertes easily swept aside a parry made toward his thigh, the blade moving so slowly that their intended loss would have been made obvious, had he allowed it to hit.
Staring him down once again with large, watchful eyes, Horatio crept slowly closer, knees bent and back pitched forward in terrible position, and Laertes once again sent his foil flying off-target out of harm's way. The scholar jerked and send his weapon haphazardly upward, knocking the offending foil wildly askew and nearly causing the poisoned blade to scratch 'cross his forearm. With a sudden gasp of worry, Laertes darted forward to mock parry and swing the foil round to safety on Horatio's other side. The scholar scampered backward completely down the strip this time, making haste to give his own blade a parting whack as he did so.
With a resigned, mental shake of his head, Laertes once again moved to close the distance between them. Perhaps he could control his arm just so and strike him softly enough so as not to break the skin. T'would put an end to this mockery of sport and guarantee Horatio's safety at once. And yet - he thought as they began the tapping game once again, Laertes beating upon Horatio's blade every few seconds with increasing impatience as he attempted to spur the brunette into attacking - he would need do so in nine passes to win the bought. And while he kept confidence in his skills, twas not something that he could comfortably allow a good man's life to hang upon.
Reaching out to strike for a third time, Horatio met his blade with his own, attempting some semblance of a parry, though laughably loose and wide. And yet that he could at least work with, counter-parrying back and generously turning his shoulder out to the scholar. E'en so, the gift seemed to be for naught till there came the sound of Hamlet shrieking indignation, demanding that Horatio stop playing the fool and strike now. His friend obeyed, staggering forward to swipe Laertes cross the shoulder in a light but blessedly legal hit.
“Two!” Osric called, and in truth, Laertes could hardly tell if twas Hamlet or Horatio or he himself who was most relieved. Hamlet had staggered ungracefully onto the platform, reaching out to clasp a somewhat shocked Horatio in celebration before pulling back and shaking his shoulders as he attempted to snap out the basics of parrying that the brunette seemed to have forgotten since his last explanation. Claudius for his part remained unmoved, perhaps contemplating a new snare with which to bring the prince to justice. But for now he could not bring himself to care, as Osric called for the next round and Laertes pinched his nose and breathed in deeply, putting his foil to the ready.