[His heart aches as he reads her missive. That she is much more wounded and unhappy than she lets on is clear, and unsurprising; he knows how deep Ophelia's emotions run, however quietly she reveals them on the surface. And he can guess too how much power Hamlet has to injure her.
There is a quiet, restrained anger that burns in him when he thinks of Hamlet. He should feel pity, and does, and yet...and yet. Perhaps it would be different if he might meet the man, but as it is...
As it is, he wishes Ophelia were away from Elsinore.
He sits for a while, calming himself before answering her letter, and when he addresses her it is deliberate that he uses her term of endearment rather than one of his own.]
Elskede--
Do not dismiss your own hurt, Ophelia, in seeking to ease my worry. I do not doubt that whatever harshness you received was unwarranted, and I grieve for the pain you must feel as a result of it. I would I could give you advice, but knowing so little of Hamlet's mind, there seems nothing to be done but to hope you may avoid him, and thus spare yourself--and him, it seems--further pain.
I wish it were otherwise. I know it grieves you to see him hurting.
[He hesitates. What he feels is not envy, not exactly--though it would self-deception to not admit a degree of that, however slight. It is more anger mixed with a cool suspicion. There was a time when Hamlet recognized Ophelia's worth, when--Faramir suspects--the prince even loved her, or seemed to. What madness or necessity now makes him cruel?
There is too much unknown, and he likes it not at all.]
You tell me not to think of you unhappy, but I could not abandon you thus; what friend could do so? So I will worry, and hope the days to come are more kind to you and yours, and wish I were there in truth to soothe away any hurts you have.
But be assured I do remember you happy as well, the light of your smile and the warmth of your fingers. And your kisses, sweeter than honey.
Action should probably happen to her first rather than to him. Or shall they meet for fencing?
There is a quiet, restrained anger that burns in him when he thinks of Hamlet. He should feel pity, and does, and yet...and yet. Perhaps it would be different if he might meet the man, but as it is...
As it is, he wishes Ophelia were away from Elsinore.
He sits for a while, calming himself before answering her letter, and when he addresses her it is deliberate that he uses her term of endearment rather than one of his own.]
Elskede--
Do not dismiss your own hurt, Ophelia, in seeking to ease my worry. I do not doubt that whatever harshness you received was unwarranted, and I grieve for the pain you must feel as a result of it. I would I could give you advice, but knowing so little of Hamlet's mind, there seems nothing to be done but to hope you may avoid him, and thus spare yourself--and him, it seems--further pain.
I wish it were otherwise. I know it grieves you to see him hurting.
[He hesitates. What he feels is not envy, not exactly--though it would self-deception to not admit a degree of that, however slight. It is more anger mixed with a cool suspicion. There was a time when Hamlet recognized Ophelia's worth, when--Faramir suspects--the prince even loved her, or seemed to. What madness or necessity now makes him cruel?
There is too much unknown, and he likes it not at all.]
You tell me not to think of you unhappy, but I could not abandon you thus; what friend could do so? So I will worry, and hope the days to come are more kind to you and yours, and wish I were there in truth to soothe away any hurts you have.
But be assured I do remember you happy as well, the light of your smile and the warmth of your fingers. And your kisses, sweeter than honey.
Tye-meláne, Ophelia. I pray you keep safe.
Ever yours,
Faramir