anti-otp: horatiophelia.

[allsweetflowers]

One thing Ophelia has always loved, has always been entranced and enchanted by, is poetry. Words, the way they fall and rise across the page or along a voice; the images, the trembling sounds, the very idea of poetry bewitches

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[truant_horatio]

Horatio has soft footsteps, but not silent ones, and perhaps she can hear him (most likely) as he comes up behind her, and sits on the grass behind her, softly, with an air of friendliness--almost as though he hasn't come to speak at all, but just to sit, sit there near where she is, and nothing is required, and nothing means--she can notice him or she needn't, neither matters, and everything is all right.

[allsweetflowers]

She seems at first not to notice his presence, absorbed as she is by the difficulties of deciphering scratches, symbols, on parchment into meanings and images in her mind. But when the currently challenging verse has been sounded out, its beauty interpreted and the romance translated, she looks up from the page to speak. "Good morrow, my lord," as soft as Horatio's footsteps.

[truant_horatio]

He looks over at her and smiles. "Good morrow, my Lady."

[allsweetflowers]

"And how art thou, 'pon this good morrow?" She does not seem very reluctant to set aside the book, or to have good company to distract from the difficult words.