End of December, some few days before Christmas - 1893

Some few weeks pass and by the time December has come to its end, Vince is starting to be back to rights. His Ophelia’s last question, having gone unanswered, lingers in the periphery of his mind day in and day out. Which of the bards great works has had the greatest impact upon him, in his lifetime? Vince isn’t sure he has an answer to that question. All of his favorite plays, for one reason or another, are tinged with the sentiments he has attached to Cassian. For better or worse, even his own name carries with it a weight that only Cass has ever been able to shift, if not remove entirely from his shoulders. It feels unfair to bring the blonde into their secrets however, and so Vince keeps the letters to himself and does not answer his Ophelia. One snowy afternoon, after some few weeks since James’ last visitation however, Vince finds himself re-reading the missives and he stumbles across her Jabberwocky.

If nothing else, the poem’s cadence brings a rhythmic lull to his busied thoughts and Vince decides to take quill to ink. Perhaps just this one last time, as a thank you—of sorts. To the one person who understood him when nobody else could.

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Ophelia,

I suppose I owe you an explanation as much as I might owe anyone for the recent silence. My vorpal blade has at last gone snicker-snack. And, while I don’t have a head to galumph around in warning to other such mental pains that may rest in the future, I feel the need to brandish at least this one shining ray of hope in your direction.

Without delving into further detail, my mind is at last free of some of its shadows— or so it seems.

As such, with life beginning to return to rights and confinement finally lifted, I yet find myself coming back to our correspondence, time and again. Lovely, dearest Ophelia— won’t you find means to occupy less of my time? It is not your fault but mine; I have let the crutch of my weakness facilitate this kinship and now I find myself at loss of how - or will - to sever it.

I cannot answer your last question at present, and perhaps I never shall. Each of our bards triumphs carries with it a weight and sentiment I cannot separate from the text. I can concede however, that to carry such depth of feeling upon one’s shoulders must have indeed been a harrowing feat. I sense a likeness of this trait in you, sweet Ophelia. Have you yet tried to master wrangling such emotion into your own writing? Even from our letters alone, I see potential for great talent.

Keep me (not) in suspense, or do— as you like it. I am always here, your eager ear, and certainly with no poetry in my own future. (Ridiculous, banal dribble that it is.)

Yours ever still,
Hamlet

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