The last man standing.

It’s occurred to me over the past couple of weeks that that is what I am.

I didn’t want to be. When he died, all I wanted was to follow him. I’ve always followed him. It seemed natural. But he told me not to. And I was his best friend, and was never good at saying no to him.

So here I am, writing at my desk. As if nothing has changed except the scenery. As if I were at school again, preparing an assignment for class. Except this assignment is different. This charge was given me as my best friend’s dying wish. And what kind of man would I be to refuse him, even if he’s not here. Even if I don’t have to.

But he asked me to do this. To tell his story.

So here I am. This is the story of the past six months or so – the last of the life of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

It was nearing the end of the quarter at Wittenberg, and I was drowning in my studies. Hamlet left so suddenly that all he had time to do was leave me a note saying he’d been called home and had to leave immediately. For a few weeks I tried to get in touch with him, but no matter what I tried, I simply couldn’t reach him. Finally, I saw in the paper that Hamlet’s father, the King of Denmark, had died. I was in Germany, so the information was delayed. I couldn’t believe I had missed the funeral, but I knew how Hamlet felt about being at home. He had often said that if I ever wanted to visit him there during breaks, I would be welcome. I had been to Denmark once, before Hamlet and I were acquainted. So I decided to leave my studies early and travel to Denmark to offer my sympathy and support for my now-silent friend.

A couple days before I left, two of the castle guard who knew me from my previous visit contacted me. They knew of my friendship with Hamlet, as he had apparently spoken of me often, and they urged me to come quickly. They included an account of a ridiculous and vague story involving a ghost and their desire for my scholarly aid. To be honest, they had always seemed to be a loyal but rather dim-witted pair, and, though I didn’t plan to accompany them on their ghost-hunt, I did appreciate their insight into Hamlet’s disposition. They said he was very somber, especially since… wait, what?!… his mother’s… marriage?! to his… UNCLE?!

I got a ticket for an earlier date and set out right away.

On the train ride to Denmark, Bernardo and Marcellus’ information was confirmed when I heard about the royal wedding on the radio. I couldn’t imagine what I would have to say to Hamlet, or how I could help. How do you even talk about a situation like this? What can you even say? “I’m sorry for your loss and also I hope your mom’s marriage isn’t as awkward as it looks like it will be?”

I landed in Denmark and made my way to the home of the King. Bernardo and Marcellus met me on the road, and, though I was highly annoyed with their presence and knew they would usurp my time and keep me from Hamlet, they did vouch for me when I approached that horrible little man Polonius to request quarters in the castle grounds. To return the favor, I agreed to go with them that night to see if this “ghost” would appear. Of course, it wouldn’t. Because ghosts don’t exist.

Marcellus met me outside my quarters, and we walked together to the place they claimed they had seen the ghost appear the previous two nights.

I made my opinion clear. There is no such thing as a ghost. Their overactive imaginations had fed off of each other and, combined with cold and fatigue (it was late at night), had swept them away into fantasy. I’ve never had much use for fantasy, personally. It will not appear.

Bernardo started off on his story again, and I was about to tell him to give it a rest when Marcellus grabbed me suddenly, telling Bernardo to shut up. I was startled by his outburst, and it took me a moment to follow Marcellus’ pointing finger out into the darkness.

I was struck dumb. Motionless. But not blind. Disbelief fought and clawed against the image before my eyes.

It was Hamlet.

Hamlet Sr., the late King of Denmark. I knew him immediately. I had seen him during that first trip to Denmark. Part of my visit was a trip to the royal museum, where the King’s armor from his triumphant battle to the death with Fortinbras Sr. was on proud display, a symbol of his legacy as conqueror of Norway. He was wearing it now, and walking toward us. Marcellus and Bernardo were shouting at me, but it was like their voices were muffled, slow, and distant. The King had me in his gaze, and I was deadlocked with fear and wonder.

It was a majestic sight. The glow of the Northern Star fell on him – no, it came from him. He moved toward us ceaselessly. He was War incarnate, beauty and terror, nobility and horror. He was pale, and only partially opaque.

Marcellus pushed me forward, and suddenly the gears in my brain began to turn once again. I asked it what it was. It stared at me and kept its course.

The words rolled out of my mouth, questions, commands, oaths to heaven. Marcellus drew his spear and struck out at the thing, but couldn’t touch it. It opened its mouth. There was nowhere to go. We were pinned against the gate behind us that led toward the castle, and there were no paths or exits in the walled corridor. The massive figure of the King moved to our position and, with nothing else to do, we shielded ourselves against an anticipated attack.

A shudder went through my very bones. It was cold and pain and fury, and it reeked of an aching revenge. Then the feeling passed, and I looked around me. The King was now behind us, through the untouched gate and headed forward to the castle doors. He hadn’t deviated from his course. His form had passed through our bodies and the gate, leaving us shaking and staring in the fog of our breath.

We were silent.

The figure stopped short and, looking up with hands raised to shield itself, dissolved into the dew and mist as the first rooster crowed at a distance. It was gone.

I felt my intellect searching, grasping at flecks of information I’d gathered over my years in study, trying to reconcile what I’d seen with what I thought I knew. Tales of witches, fairies, and gods flooded my mind. We agreed that someone must be told. Marcellus wanted to take the information to the King. But I had read about Claudius and how he was handling his new reign, and my loyalty lay with Hamlet. I convinced him to go to Hamlet with me instead, and let him decide what action to take.

We didn’t sleep or eat. We went straight to the castle to find Hamlet. On the way back I related to the others that Fortinbras Jr. had recently gathered an army to march on Denmark and take back his father’s old lands. I thought it might be pertinent to the appearance of the spirit. The path to the castle which the… ghost… had taken not an hour beforehand had been neglected. Weeds had nearly suffocated the garden, even though it was early spring and they should have been cleared and prepared for planting by now. We found Hamlet in the lobby, but he was speaking with the King and Queen. We waited outside the door to catch Hamlet alone. I heard them say something about Wittenberg, and a monotone reply from Hamlet. I thought I heard footsteps leaving the room, but Hamlet was still speaking.

When all was finally silent, we entered the lobby. On his own turf, Hamlet didn’t look quite as pale and foreign as he had at school, and yet there was more light in him at Wittenberg than here in this damp castle. The weight he carried was almost tangible. Still, he was shocked and happy to see me there.

I told him as gently as I could that I had seen his father. Hamlet’s face fell at the mention of the King, and once I had imparted our experience he questioned us closely about the event. As I had hoped, he agreed to accompany us that night to meet the spirit of the King. Hamlet was the most likely person in the world to be able to interact with the thing.

I measured Hamlet’s mood as we headed to the site together. He seemed eager, not a shred of doubt in him that it was a real… something.

It was cold again, colder even than the night before. We waited, tired and shivering. Suddenly, a blast came from the castle, with music and shouting. Hamlet said it was a Danish tradition, and as he explained I felt a chill roll through my veins like a wave. A mist gathered behind the Prince, and moved toward us, gathering its form. It was the spirit of the King.

Hamlet was not frozen. He was not silent, though he did look pale. Seeing them together, I noticed the resemblance between father and son. Hamlet burst out in speech, desperately begging the ghost to speak, to respond in any way.

The spirit did not speak. It reached out an armored hand, palm upturned, and beckoned Hamlet away. Immediately Hamlet sprung after it, but Marcellus and I grabbed him. There was no evidence that this thing was safe to be around. Hamlet insisted that he follow the thing alone, and in the end we let him – but we followed closely behind. Through the gate and up the rotten path we went, into the state of Denmark.

We found Hamlet on a walled platform holding a sword. He was alone. I couldn’t read him right away. We asked what had happened. He said simply that the ghost was, in fact, real, and asked us to part ways and go about our business. No, it wasn’t simply. He didn’t just say it. He eked out these things amidst an array of prattling nonsense. One thing was clear, though – we were to swear to secrecy all the things we’d seen of the ghost.

We swore. Hamlet said to swear. We swore again. Hamlet said to swear upon his sword. We were confused.

Then the word entered our midst like a fog.

“Swear.”

It threatened us, choked us. We lay our hands on the sword, desperate for relief. Hamlet claimed the oath, and the fog of sound and word thickened.

“Swear.”

We moved about the room, proclaiming our oath, gasping with tears in our eyes.

“SWEAR!”

A vase crashed to the tile floor. I was disoriented. The room was trembling in the depths of the oaths.

We swore. And I knew our oath was binding under threat of death. And I knew that the spirit was real. And I knew that I would never be able to explain it or reason it out.

Hamlet told me later that the spirit had charged him to avenge his death. His murder.