Theirs isn't a passionate love, and he knows. He's had this share of passion, ill-advised flings, wicked wits and gifts -- he's fallen into bed with men and women he hated as much as loved. But Gertrude he adores.

Osric’s words meant nothing, but that was the fun of it, for Hamlet. They exchanged words without consequence, just to savor the sound of them, bowed and flirted and flattered, called each other ‘sweet lord,’ ‘dear sir,’ competing through compliments.

“Prince Claudius has gotten charming, hasn’t he?” asked Elise, the queen’s lady’s maid, as she pinned Gertrude’s hair.

Panic bloomed in Claudius’s chest, and he couldn’t bear it.

Horatio, for all his commonness, had many fine qualities — he was almost a gentleman, but he didn't know how to plan an event.

"I love you," said Gertrude, giddy and glad, and it was nothing, really, Claudius only had listened and laughed at her jokes, but she hugged him and he boyishly blushed. Sisters were like that, he supposed, effusive, emotional, nothing like —

Nothing like a brother. But having a brother brought Gertrude into his life — she was his brother's betrothed and that made her his sister — and that must be what made him blush. He wasn't used to it, used to love, used to kindness. Why wouldn't he laugh? At ten years old, she made him happier than anything in his life.

Hamlet was a prince, and his will was not his own — he knew it, but his heart was not his own, either. It rushed ahead of him, too rash, too quick to collide and fall headlong in love at the first affectionate glance.

Laertes's pact-blades flash through his hands, Hamlet flung by the force of them like a rag doll, caught again and again in the whirlwind of his blows until he staggers back, spitting blood. If it weren't for the celestial blood in him, he wouldn't be standing. Battered, with eyes bright and beseeching, he looks at Laertes but Laertes doesn't let that stop him -- he can't.