The rest is silence?
He remembered the slice of the blade against the palm of his hand, the way it stung and bit into his skin. He remembered the anger, the hatred, the despair. He remembered the way the life faded from Claudius' eyes as he slumped in his stolen throne. He remembered feeling cold, numb, as though he'd stood too long in the snow. He remembered Horatio's arms, and blackness.
And then, nothing.
And then, cold once more. The prince shivered and curled in on himself, pressing fresh snow against his chest and face.
His eyes snapped open and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, limbs numb from the cold. Was this Hell?
He saw a house and ran to it, seeking shelter from the cold and perhaps an answer as to his whereabouts.
Hamlet fell to his knees before the door, beating his fist against it as hard as he could. "For the love of God, I beg you open the door and grant me entrance!" he pleaded, frozen and tired and deeply confused.
Typist: I see we have Ophelia again, which makes me think she should have a Hamlet. Taken after the end of the play, and after his death. Apologies to Ophelia's sanity.
And then, nothing.
And then, cold once more. The prince shivered and curled in on himself, pressing fresh snow against his chest and face.
His eyes snapped open and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, limbs numb from the cold. Was this Hell?
He saw a house and ran to it, seeking shelter from the cold and perhaps an answer as to his whereabouts.
Hamlet fell to his knees before the door, beating his fist against it as hard as he could. "For the love of God, I beg you open the door and grant me entrance!" he pleaded, frozen and tired and deeply confused.
Typist: I see we have Ophelia again, which makes me think she should have a Hamlet. Taken after the end of the play, and after his death. Apologies to Ophelia's sanity.