He stared after Ophelia as her brother led her away, gazed at the way Laertes seemed so insistent on the matter. It seemed he had changed much since his departure for a French education, his posture, demeaner, his accent was all a twisted version of the sweet and hopeful young man he had been described as. Hamlet had always insisted on calling Laertes the specific term "childlike", not childish or naive, but childlike, as if even his person could not be affected by age. Strange to see him so rebelliously apposing this statement, even by accident he defied the prince. Perhaps it was the way he slid into his sister's company, or how he stole her from her quiet solitude, or his possessive hold on her as he did so, his fingers too comfortable against her being, all of which were considered simple and normal and expected from an exterior point, yet regardless, he did not feel entirely comfortable around Laertes. Perhaps it was simply due to the fact that Hamlet had once loved this man, held him, touched him, and in some small way had a perspective on the prince he could never attain.
He watched as she vanished as easily as some phantom, leaving only small traces of her passing: a gap in the crowd, quickly filling, a sigh of relief from the women chattering on pleasantly without her, and yet another untouched meal. Ophelia was testing even his patients on the matter, perhaps he would write expressing his opinion. No, even something as simple as platonic concern could destroy her fragile reputation. These vultures were all waiting for anything, a movement, a sound, a signal for them to leap and devore her whole. He could not be the reason her years of labor, work, patients, obedience, and determination were lost. She was perhaps the best woman he had ever had the pleasure to call an acquaintance and yet with each passing day her frame thinned, her skin paled, her vibrant red hair grew, her gray eyes deepened with the unfathomable expanse of her thoughts, and to his horror she became delicate, the one title she had always refused to accept.
Of course, he had not known her nearly as long as Hamlet, and most of her person was relayed to him rather than discovered. Their chances at conversation were small, and filled with questions left unasked, statements unsaid, but just enough small hints and details that they could both smile, nod, and truly understand. He liked Ophelia, very much indeed. Thus, this forced distance was a true torture when all he wished was to talk to her. She seemed so far away, so alone even in an ocean of faces, so resigned to obscurity, yet trying so desperately to climb the impossible ladder her father had set for her. Even he knew she could never marry great, not because of her looks or even her being, for both sat on par with queens, but simply because she had no title, very little money, and Polonius was only an adviser, one of many. With such a father, with such odds stacked against her, it would be a miracle if she were to marry above her station. Yet even as his thoughts returned to her empty place at table, to the damned untouched plate, he found Ophelia passing through the crowds.
People did not make way for her as they had when in Laertes' company, in fact they did not notice her struggle until she had already passed them by. Her face was cold, with a well-rehearsed smile painted on her lips. Something of the furnace hidden beneath her skin licked at her eyes, bright and determined. He had not even considered the repercussions before walking to her side. She seemed confused by his decision as well but made no move to correct it.
"My lady, I found myself asking after you and thought perhaps asking you myself would be a more effective take on the matter." He smiled softly, bowing and holding out his arm. She met his gaze, curtsied, and left his arm untouched. She could not be alone with him.
"I am well, Lord Physician. It is kind of you to inquire, but I am simply returning to my place." She gave an apologetic and solemn nod, folding her hands in front of her and bowing her head slightly.
Ophelia had tried today, tried to be incredibly presentable. Her skirts were strips of ivory and soft rose, with delicate embroidery ascending the whole arrangement, and small accents of green ribbon. Her bodice was a cool jade tone, with peach embroidered sleeving. Her hair had been done up in an elaborate braided bun to try and contain the rebellious curls underneath. She looked beautiful. She was beautiful. Why did all of this have to be such a supreme struggle? Why could he not just ask if she was alright? What had happened? What was it she wished to do? Where to go? Because he could express none of these inquiries, he simply responded with: "Very well, my lady. I hope you enjoy the remainder of your festivities."
She made a swift and fleeting curtsy and continued on to her place at table. None of the ladies remarked on her return, or what her brother had needed so urgently as to remove her from dining. None of them tried to relay what pertinent information she may have missed or remarked on her very clear distress. Ophelia apologized absently for the sudden leave, stating some vague excuse involving Laertes, and no lady so much as tried to converse further on the subject. She sat quietly, pecking idly at the food still laying before her, and not a single word was uttered in question or concern. Instead of any or all of the above, she was met with a solitary question and the instant hungry stares of five women hoping for something to shred until the truth is unrecognizable:
"Was that Horatio, one of the court physicians, you were just talking with, Ophelia, dear?"
