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Rosencrantz spent his first fifteen minutes alone on origami.
He folded a paper dart. He folded a paper horse. He folded a second paper horse. He positioned the horses nose-to-nose. In the process of folding a paper feeding trough for the horses, he acquired a paper cut.
He abandoned the origami.
Rosencrantz spent his next fifteen minutes alone exploring.
He found the grand ballroom. He found a supply closet. He found the kitchens and swiped a nice looking apple for himself while there. He even found a rather tempting crawl space behind some crates in the pantry, although a familiar voice in his head reminded him he’d regret squeezing inside.
He munched contemplatively on his apple, shivering against the draft—a stale afterthought of the season’s first snow seething outside the stone walls—in one of Elsinore’s many hallways.
Rosencrantz spent his next fifteen minutes alone feeling unmoored.
The novelty of having nothing in particular to do wore off quickly, leaving him with the distinct sense that something wasn’t right. That he wasn’t meant to be alone like this and therefore, being such, something must have gone terribly wrong to bring about such circumstances.
He wandered. Every corridor was chillier than the last, enticing him to linger in the doorways of the castle’s various firelit chambers before drifting off again. A roiling sort of dread pooled beneath his diaphragm, unhindered by the tight squeeze of his own arms around his torso. Streaks of pale orange through the frosted windows confirmed what his internal clock already hinted at; the sun was setting.
Rosencrantz couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time.
Without any real intention to arrive somewhere in particular, he found himself in the castle’s grand foyer. A pair of enormous, intricately carved wooden doors separated him from the elements, and he traced the wrought iron handles with bloodless fingers. When a cursory glance over his shoulder revealed no one emerging from the shadows to stop him, Rosencrantz pried open the heavy door just far enough to squeeze himself through. He shuffled across the threshold, and before he could move to close it behind himself, the wind did it for him.
A cruel gust sliced instantly through the thin layers of his clothing, emptying his lungs of breath and punctuating the violation by forcing a weak cough from his throat. Chin tucked into his jacket collar, he set out on steadily freezing feet, making up with confidence what he lacked in purpose. He scanned the darkening castle gardens with squinted eyes, letting instinct pull him from place to place.
Although not very deep, the snow had an equalizing effect on the landscape—the sky just as pallid out as the ground beneath. Were it not for the insistence of dusk, it would be easy not to believe in the horizon at all.
Distracted by this thought, Rosencrantz failed to notice the snow-covered trip hazard before him until he was already on his way down. His own yelp was echoed by a pained grunt from beneath him as his hands, outstretched to break his fall, landed on something softer and warmer than he imagined the ground should be this time of year.
“Sorry,” he stammered, “I didn’t see—”
“Clearly not,” Guildenstern grumbled.
The realization of who, exactly, he had (quite literally) stumbled upon hit Rosencrantz with an exhilarating surge of relief. “It’s you,” he breathed.
“Obviously it’s me.” Guildenstern made no move to sit up.
“I’ve been searching for you.” Kneeling beside him, Rosencrantz reached out, spasmodic with shivers. Guildenstern’s face felt icy even to his own frozen fingers, something Rosencrantz knew couldn’t be remotely healthy. Worry eclipsed his relief with such intensity that he curled forward, pressing his forehead to his companion’s snowy chest. “Aren’t you cold?”
Guildenstern exhaled sharply, doing something bordering on a laugh at what Rosencrantz had identified as a stupid question the moment it left his mouth.
“I meant, why let yourself be cold? Come inside.”
“It’s cold inside as well.”
“Much less so. And it’s dry, at least.”
“The snow wasn’t yet falling when I got here.”
Rosencrantz sighed, still holding Guildenstern’s face between his hands. “I don’t understand. Don’t you want to come in with me?”
Guildenstern looked past him, eyes fixed on the empty sky. “I have no desires. None.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Rosencrantz asked.
Guildenstern frowned. “There’s been a certain greyness at the edges, of late. Have you noticed?”
Rosencrantz gazed westerly, noting how even the sunset, in all its splendor, appeared calcified. What was the use in dwelling on it, though? The hearth was plenty bright, he recalled. He itched to sit by one.
“Presently, I’m noticing you’ve got something of a whiteness at the edges.” He brushed some of it off of Guildenstern’s shoulders, out of his hair.
“Oh, shut up,” Guildenstern huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. Rosencrantz grinned triumphantly. “It’s just that—well, my meaning is…” Rosencrantz felt a tug at his heart as the hardness returned to Guildenstern’s face.
“What?” he asked, the cold be damned. “Explain it to me.”
“The greyness. Even when the fire is warm or the sun is bright or my eyes are closed, there’s a cloudiness to it all. I get the sense that there’s something beyond this feeling. That it needn’t always be this way. But I can’t recall a time when things were otherwise.”
Rosencrantz felt a bit out of his depth. “And… the snow?”
Guildenstern performed an approximation of a shrug. “I came outside to get some air. It started to snow and… I don’t know. My ambition left me. I supposed I’d let events play themselves out. Easier that way.”
A stab of fear hit Rosencrantz between the ribs. “The events playing out if you stay much longer will be frostbite followed by death.”
Guildenstern raised his brows thoughtfully, producing another wave of panic in Rosencrantz.
“Please come inside with me,” he begged, hearing the fissure in his own voice but feeling too desperate to care.
Guildenstern turned his head, hair dragging against the frozen ground, to study Rosencrantz’s face. For the first time since the conversation began, he seemed to recognize his friend’s concern for what it was. “I’m sorry,” he said, guilt pressed into his forehead.
“For what?”
“I didn’t mean to lead you out into the cold.”
Rosencrantz felt his chin twitch with the beginnings of a sob and carefully swallowed it down. “It’s alright. I just want to get you warmed up again.” He stood shakily on legs he could hardly feel, extending a hopeful hand towards the man beneath him.
To his staggering relief, Guildenstern grabbed it, letting himself be pulled upright.
Before his brain could supply him with any reasons not to, Rosencrantz followed the urge to draw his friend into a tight embrace. Guildenstern tensed for a moment as though forgetting his stage directions before, miraculously, throwing out the script and letting himself be held. He could use the warmth.
Rosencrantz detached himself to guide them both in the direction of the gloomy castle. With an arm around Guildenstern’s hunched shoulders, he thought of the fireplace in their chambers, the dry clothes in the armoire, the spare blankets in the chest at the foot of the four-poster bed…
Yes, it would be alright. He’d see they’re alright.