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Chapter Text

Searing pain. He couldn’t even open his eyes. The blood had dried and clumped his hair, it dried on his skin, shutting his eyes closed. He had fought, tooth and nail, to the last man standing. He wasn’t standing. He lie alongside many of both his and the enemies’ men but he was convinced he was the only one still breathing. Macbeth knew this was where it ended. The witches, those devilish fiends, had told him that he had nothing to fear! Well the didn’t say that they had said he was safe till the forest moved towards his castle.
‘Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill.’

The forest has moved. The forest had closed in around him as it moved ever nearer and with it brought his inescapable demise. He was about to die. He thought it was impossible. That he was safe as they had said that ‘For none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.’ Every man was woman born! That young boy who stood before him and asked his name had been woman born and so he was slain.

Macduff was not born of women, no he was untimely ripped! Macduff. A man he had avoided as he was the only thing he feared. A man he was warned about but had believed was unable to harm him for all were woman born but no. Macduff was not woman born, he was cut out of his mother. The apparition, the ghastly things that even now, many days past, still pierced his skull and tainted the sleep he had. He was barely holding onto the unravelled scraps before. His fear of Macduff has been echoed. They had chanted his name, they had chanted to beware. ‘Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff!’

The words rang in his ears like screams on the battle fields. So close and yet tens and thousands of feet away. Like the soldiers that charged towards him, like the forest. It moved towards him.

He had ignored their warnings, buried his fear. How blind he was. How stupid.

Macduff moved towards him. Brandishing his sword which was already dripping with Macbeth’s blood. The sword smoked, the steel gleamed. Macbeth could barely see him march towards him through the blood. Again he was bling but not blind, he could see clearly his mistakes and yet the grim reaper was merely a figure. His fate crept towards him but he couldn’t see it and yet it was clearer than any day he had seen. This was a foul way to die and yet it seemed a fair punishment.

Macduff grabbed his hair, yanking him up from where he had lay on the ground. He would not kneel at Malcolm’s feet and yet here he lie. His right arm dragged along the floor and his sword lay just out of reach. The blood dripped from his head into his mouth yes and the blood dripped form his cheeks, down, down till it stained the ground he had lied on. The cuts were deep and burned but they were scratches, compared to the pain in his arm. Macduff had twisted it, shattered the bone and broke the concrete fury of the mad king. The ties that had kept his sword bound to his hand had only made the Thane of Fife more brutal in his acts of disarming him of his weapon. It lay forgotten.

Macbeth would have liked to had last words. Or even a word, but his mouth was filled with a sea of incarnadine and his breath was caught in his throat, ribs battered and bruised. His breathe was raspy, almost gone. Macduff raised his arm to bring down the final blow to end his life. The hellhound had finally come to drag him to the deepest pits of hell where the equivocator, the tailor and the farmer waited, accompanied by Beelzebub. He swore he saw the witches as he walked towards them, the three who faced the same fate as him.

Macbeth snapped out of his visions of further future, future beyond the understanding or comprehension of the human mind, beyond death. Macduff’s blade was growing ever nearer as fate knocked on the door and the King to be came towards them, watching like a hawk. Duncan stood beside him, his image blurred and partially disintegrating like a memory long forgotten. Banquo stood beside Duncan and he two looked faded, Macbeth dared not look at him for longer than a second as his blood still dropped as if his wounds were fresh, and his lady stood with her back to him. Even in the blood stained fields, she was still as beautiful as she had been alive. She should have died later.

They had come to greet him, maybe to tell him all the horrible things he had done as he descended into the fiery pits of hell, maybe, just maybe, to be the soothing balm for his hurt mind before the fatal blow and before the endless suffering of damnation.

Macduff’s sword came down.

Searing pain. His head, his face, his arm. It went dark, black without a single star or candle to lighten the endlessness. He felt himself slipping, falling, into the abyss. He felt everything end. Finality, as it were named, seemed more painful than he had once hopped for. Maybe this was God’s way of showing him all the pain he has caused. By injecting it into his body so he had to feel it. He tumbled down. Down into the nothing and felt as if pieces of him began to fade away, like a drop in the larges ocean. The smoke of his life disappearing.

He was dead. He was gone. Pieces of him were decaying and fraying away and yet, he awoke.

The sheets he lay on scratched and irritated his skin, the hay was wet and rotting and it had a pungent smell that mixed with the mold and the spring’s sweet taste. Blood was still in his mouth and he wished to spit it out but his lips were too dry to pull apart. The scars on his cheek that reached up to his forehead seethed with pain anytime he moved a muscle. He couldn’t even attempt to move his arm in fear of the pain that would shoot through him and the scream that would rip from his throat. His head ached. It made him dizzy and nauseous and he wanted nothing more for it to stop. He felt pain.

He felt eyes watching him. He opened his own.

He was alive.

Chapter Text

The door. The stairs. The cell. That’s all he needs do. Get past the door, down the stairs and then to the cell. It was raised said than done. Even now, as he stood, hesitant, sick at the thought that he would have to go down and see that monster, the idea that he could have ended his life plays over and over again in his mind. The tyrant that ruled over Scotland and made the lands become barren and bare, with his poisonous rule, lay in a prison, alive when his little ones and his dear wife were gone. Far away where he couldn’t reach them.
 
Macduff bit his hand as he tried to regain some control as rage and grief overwhelmed him. Why, oh lord, was he the one who had to go down there. For all he cared, let the bastard starve! Lennox refused, he refused to step anywhere near the dungeons and the cells as if the mad man could smell him. Ross wouldn’t do it. He said over and over that he wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t look at him. And Malcolm, well, the new crowned, rightful king of Scotland was too busy for a prisoner. Even one he ordered to be kept alive.
 
‘We’re not like him, there’s gonna be a change around here’ or whatever. Macduff had stopped listening out of rage. He hadn’t stopped him from fighting and making sure Macbeth would never, never hurt another person again. Macbeth. Curse the name. It blistered his tongue.
 
Macduff wanted to let him starve. That was if the man was alive down there. Nobody had gone to check. Maybe he does from his injuries. He could hope. Deep down he knew that Macbeth was alive down there and it was only a matter of time before he’d have to face him. Nobody else was going to do it. What if he just killed him when he got down there? Put a blade through his head. Why was he the one going to see him? He had killed…Macbeth had killed-
 
Deep breathe, in, out. He began to pace once again as the memories, the thoughts clouded his head and weighed down his heart. He picked up the tray of cold food that he was supposed to deliver to the prisoner, and he unlocked the door, pushed it open. It creaked and Macduff stared down, down at the endless stairs that didn’t go on long enough.
 
It was dead silent, and then he took the first step. It echoed. He was sure that Macbeth could hear it at the bottom of the stairs. That was if he were alive down there. Step, after step after step. And then he was down the stairs.
 
Macbeth stared back at him. His face seemed normal until he turned to fully towards him. His left cheek was completely cut up and the scar reached up to the top of his head. The man looked atrocious, almost inhuman, but there was something in his eyes that was all too human. Macduff gulped at the intensity of the state and all the wrath that he felt towards the man, simmered at the sight. He was weak, bound, broken.
 
It almost made him hate him more. How could this pure evil, murder, and tyrant, sit there looking so distraught? The man deserved all the suffering his rotten head could put him through. But he looked so confused. It was, terrifying. Macduff gulped and stood frozen as he watched Macbeth shift very slowly as if not to hurt himself.
 
He put the tray down on a chair that was thrown into the corner, conveniently. He couldn’t imagine the prisoners King Duncan would have had down there. That was if he had ever had any. King Malcolm’s rule may have been the first to not slaughter all enemy.
 
Clearing his throat, he tied to think of something to say. He didn’t want to say anything at all. He wanted to slice his head off and shove it on a spike. But no.
 
“M’Duff…”
 
His gaze snapped to the prisoner. His voice was a whisper, something fearful. It was unnatural on a creature so vile. Fear, not a cowardly fear or one of embarrassed failures. Macbeth was afraid, and he was asking for comfort in him… What trick was he playing? Had he not been cruel, enough! He bit his tongue, swallowed the venom.
 
“You’re wounds. They’ healing?” Macduff didn’t care for his health. Let the cuts fester and infect. Let his blood dry, let his skin mould, let him starve.
 
“My arm hurts.”
 
Childish. The way he spoke and the way he’s staring at him like he holds all the answers. Like a little boy who knew nothing of the world. His son looked to him and asked of the world outside their castle, his son had been pure. This man was nothing but filth. Why did he seek answers? He must know that he deserves a sentence worse than what he is facing and maybe that is why he needs answers but the look on his face, the worried brow, widened eyes and sorrow filled gaze, told a different story.
 
“Is the way with broken bones.” Macbeth’s screams echoed through his head. He broken his arm, shattered it, and did countless other things before beating the man unconscious. He had been fuelled by pure wrath. This thing before him, that sat on the dirty floor clutching his injured arm and cowering away from him, had murdered his wife and babes. All his little ones. And here he was, acting like Macduff wouldn’t cut out his heart and eat it if given the opportunity. Maybe he hit him too hard, knocked sense out of him. But he wasn’t sure how much sense the man had left in him to begin with.
 
Macbeth dipped his head, as if scolded by a parent. Oh, how easy it would be to rip that look off his face. The silence stretched out and made Macduff’s skin crawl. He grabbed the tray of cold food and slid it under the bars. The prisoner instantly looked up and rushed to the food. He scoffed it down like a starving dog. Mutt, he looked like one; filthy and matted hair, scared and broken.
 
“Thank you…”
 
“Don’t thank me,” His voice hurt from the harshness. Macbeth’s gaze snapped away from him at his words. “It’s scraps from the kitchen nobody wanted.”
 
The stairs beckoned him closer. He could leave now; he did what he was told to and now he could go back up the stairs to safety. Macbeth could rot down here, and he wouldn’t have to look at his wrecked face ever again. That was a lie of course, he’d have to come down there every time he was supposed to bring him food. Macduff made his way to the stairs. Macbeth stood up at that and moved towards the bars. He felt his heart all but fall out his body when the man was suddenly so much closer to him, looking down at him, leering like the Mad King he really was, but he tilted his head, rested it between the bars with his arms hanging out. He smiled, a soft thing, mixed with something else, something that made Macduff look away. It was too kind, too spoiled. He held his breathe. It was too much, a mirage of the man he once was. A friend. No more.
 
“Duff,”
 
Too kind. Too soft. What game was he playing? Why was he doing this?
 
“Why am I in ‘ere?”
 
Macduff’s skin boiled. The man thought he should be dead too! That was one thing they agreed upon. Tyrants deserve to die. Men that betray their king deserve to die. Macbeth should have the fate as the old Cawdor, the one who had his head cut off. Macbeth was once thought a good man, honest, loyal, valiant, and worthy. No more was he. Macbeth was nothing but a memory scorched into the brains of the good. Good men who decided to keep this cruel monster alive. “King Malcolm is generous, merciful. He spared your life.”
 
Macbeth gulped once again and pulled away from the bars, seemingly less enthusiastic to talk. Good, feel guilty-
 
“But why, what did I do?”
 
No. No! There was no way. Macbeth was playing a sick joke on him and any moment his face was going to shift into that maddened ruthlessness. Bloodthirsty and ready to go to any length to hold onto the already fleeting power he had. This was beyond cruelty to pretend to have forgotten all those atrocities he committed. He stared at Macduff like his life depended on the answer. Oh lord have mercy on his soul, how hard had he beaten him?
 
Macduff could barely breathe. He had to live with the ghost of his wife and children with him forever and that thing didn’t remember a single slither of the bloodshed. How could this have happened? He wanted to wake up from the nightmare he was having.
 
“Please. Macduff, just tell me what I did. I’ll-”
 
The stairs. He was done listening. He walked towards them, reaching like they were a lifeline. One step, then the other.
 
“Macduff please. Just tell me what I did!”
 
Leaping down the stairs, Macduff landed heavy on his feet and within a second, he was grabbing Macbeth by the collar and slamming him against the bars, once, twice, till the man screeched in pain. He saw red. Pure fire, burning like the hottest pits of hell. His hand moved up to grab Macbeth’s face, pulling it closer. Macbeth cried out as he dug his nails into the cuts on his cheek. His breath came out harsh, hoarse. How he managed to keep the self-control it took to not snap Macbeth’s head then and there was beyond him. “You want to know what you did? You killed my wife, my babes! You killed our royal father, a man who trusted you. You gutted him in his sleep. You’re an evil devil, a sinner. You should be dead!”

He yanked at Macbeth’s arm. The one that where the bone splintered into fragments. The scream that ripped out of Macbeth’s mouth could have woken Duncan. He pulled away and Macbeth fell to his knees, cowering away into the corner of the cell. He was crying, tears streaming down his face and snot dripping from his nose. The tears could be from the pain, but the way Macbeth peered at him from behind the arm he used to shield him away painted the picture of sorrow. Macduff felt disgusted. He swallowed down the bile in his throat and kicked the tray of food over, onto the dirty floor, as he went to the stairs once again. He could escape now.

“I’m sorry…please, I’m-” Macduff was gone before he could finish his sentence.

Chapter Text

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Ta

Pain. Everywhere, like an ocean. It rippled through his body, his face, his arm and his lungs. It was in the tainted air he breathed. His mouth was filled with it and it burned along his face down to his neck and along his spine. The ocean itself was painful but what hurt worst of all, was the prodding of the otherwise stillness.

His gaze snapped to Banquo. The disfigured shell of his once dear friend sat beside him on the hay filled mattress. Macbeth felt himself gulp as he stared at him. His friend didn’t look up. For the past week or so, he couldn’t keep track of time very easily, Banquo had been sitting beside him each waking moment, either calmly holding his hand on his arm, or pinching the skin that lay over his shattered bones. The bones were unwrapped and he assumed, by how Macduff had acted, that he wasn’t going to get anything to help him.

The pain was nothing compared to the despair and guilt he felt. Lost, for words, for guidance. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

It was hard to feel remorse for something that he didn’t remember doing but the sadness was eating him alive like leeches and maggots. They had gotten into his blood and weren’t going to stop till they devoured him completely. The guilt was in his dreams, in his waking life, it was in the food he ate and the breaths he took and everything was a reminder of the things he could remember. He wanted to remember. Just so that the pain numbed to a deeper sorrow that he carried in his stomach and aching body, mind, soul, instead of in his skin; fresh wounds would have been less painful, would have stung less, would have bleed him dizzy, slower.

He held his breathe as the ghost beside him, poked and prodded at his arm, he pinched the skin between his soft fingers and dug the nail into the flesh. A tear slipped down his cheek and he gulped down the lump in his throat. He just wanted it all to stop.

He closed his eyes. Maybe if he closed them for long enough or squeezed them shut tight enough then everything would be back to normal. King Duncan would be alive, he and Banquo would be out fighting together along with Duff and Ross and Lennox and-

He opened his eyes. He stared at the ghostly shape of his wife, she was warlord up in a white dress, like the one she had married him in. He had been so young then. She had been beautiful, curly dark hair that flowed in the wind. She use to smile at him, use to run her hands through his hair. He….he couldn’t even remember her name.

She sat by the cell door, looking out of the bars with a small smile on her face, he didn’t know what she was looking at, maybe up the stairs, at the door to freedom.

He turned back to Banquo who had thankfully stopped digging his nails into his arm and instead was resting his head on his shoulder. Macbeth was almost too scared to look down at him in case he sours again and pinches his skin between his soft fingers. He relaxed after a while, resting his head against the wall behind him. Banquo relaxed next to him, moving closer beside him. It was nice, peaceful, despite the fear that raced through him, fear of the pain that would engulf his senses if the figure sat calmly decided that was enough peace for him.

He thought back to his Banquo had looked. Alive, he had been so- His golden hair use to flow in the wind when the raced their horses. He was a fighter, a warrior just like Macbeth was and he was brave too. He was braver then Macbeth had ever been. He was righteous, but in a comforting sort of way, where he could ask his friend for help and he’d be confident that the man would help, would know what to do. He would guide their way with his light.

His wife stood from where she sat by the door and joined them on the bed, she sat on the other side of Macbeth, cuddling close to him and beaming up to him with that eerily yet beautiful smile.

He hated the position he found himself in. He hated having two of the most important people to him, by his side and he hated the fact that they were both barley there; slipping though his fingers.

He felt sick at the pain in his stomach. He was hungry, starving. The most food he had in three days was kicked all over the floor. He had eaten the stale bread and tried to eat every drop of the soup left in the bowl but it was a drop or two. His hunger got bad that he had considered eating from the floor, but even in his desperation for food, the eyes burned his skin and the judgement and disgust he felt made every hair on his neck and arms stand on end.

He looked back to Banquo. He had stopped the pinching and the poking and the tap tap tap. He was laid beside him, resting on him, almost peacefully. He didn’t want to disturb the peace, jostle his arm and anger the resting ghost and yet his mind begged for answers.

“Banquo…”
He whispered the name, it soured on his tongue like a fruit that was once so sweet and now was filled with worms. Banquo didn’t move his head, he just let out a none existent breathe of a sigh and waited for him to continue speaking. Macbeth gulped and waited for the pain to shoot you his arm once again, when he had angered the ghost enough by breathing too loudly.

“Why must you haunt me?”
The cell was cold before but now it was chilling his spin, his blood froze in his veins. Banquo turned his head to him and looked at him with a sympathetic look, and yet it was a cold as the room.

“You killed him.”

My wife spoke for him, her echoing voice ringing my ears and her singsong tone made my skin crawl. The slit throat stopped his own truths from being told. Even in death he was silenced. Blood, long ago dried and matter to his skin, dripped from his neck.

The agonising pain returned.

____________________________________

Banquo slept so peacefully, fading into the bed, like he wasn’t really there. He remained awake, riddled with guilt and frustration and confusion.

Why why why?

His wife was humming a tune. He stared at her. He felt numb; he wanted Banquo to wake up. But he might as well use this time alone with her to his advantage.

“Can you, can you stay on this side of me?”
Macbeth was tired of the pain in his arm, he was tired of being afraid of Banquo’s touch. She merely smiled and nodded. Feeling the exhaustion pull at him, he crawled beside Banquo in the bed, and then his wife beside him. That’s how it was, him alone with the two ghosts that wouldn’t leave him. He wondered why Macduff took no notice of them.

Sleep didn’t come to take him to a safer place, a place without guilt or pain or worry, but he did lie beside his wife and his best friend until he heard the castle walls shake with the footsteps of the Merciful king and his less so forgiving men.

Chapter Text

Chatter: quiet and hopeful conversation shared among friends, family even, marking their aspirations for the following years under the rule of the great King. Donalbain, King Malcolm’s brother had returned from Ireland, safe and sound. Macduff watched the two interact as he sipped his cup of mead. He didn’t want the cup; he didn’t know why he had it. Drinking would only pull him under into the sea of emptiness that preceded to lap at his feet and rise each passing moment he spent alone, watching the joyous relief on the young king and prince’s faces. They deserved the peace, the love. Macduff just ached for…for something.

Every inch of the palace was decorated with holly, bright greens and reds and a wreath above the fireplace. The scent of the feast they had eaten just an hour before still filled his nose. Candles burned and the wax dripped down the edges of the mantlepiece. Macduff himself adorned a garland of greens around his head that he had almost forgotten was there. They had made them the evening before while the castle was filled with song and dance. King Malcolm even wore a soft yellow one on top of his crown; awkwardly placed but it made the king’s mirth and humble kindness seep into the rest of the kingdom. The young lad was so much like his father. Macduff considered approaching the king, but quickly changed his mind with a sip of mead.

The kingdom was at peace since, before Macduff could even remember. He wasn’t a very old man, not yet, it seemed, but he could feel the cold creep into his bones and the aches that came along with it. Standing mere inches from the grand fire, the heat wrapped around him, consumed him, but it did not chase off the frost that seized his blood and turned it solid. He watched the fire, thanked the lord for the lack of war, lack of chaos that once before surrounded his life. From birth he was a warrior and now it was peaceful and Macduff, he merely felt homesick. The whispers of his wife’s soft voice made his ears sting and the giggles of his children rang out as they sat by the fire, listening to dear King Duncan tell tales of his battles won, long forgotten. 

Gaze drifting to the decorations covering the large dining area of Dunsinane castle, a small smile pulled at his lips as he reflected on previous years. The snow always fell heavily, and the fire always raged in the great hall where they gathered to tell stories of the fights long past. Macduff remembered back when he was a young lad, when he had first met the little boy that later became the villainous king. He had been so small and meek, but his laugh had lit up the dark halls of the castle and chased the shadows away like a candle in the deepest cave, a star in the pitch black sky. When Duncan told his stories to them it was hard not to laugh at his impressions and voices. The dark-haired boy, barely six, took his hand and they ran to sit at the King’s feet to hear his tales of war.

From the start it had been just the two of them, until the royal family grew. The five of them, it had become. The five thanes that Duncan had held most dear. Ross told them stories so filled with joy that they were all in stitches by the end, Lennox intervened with his comments to add an insight while Duncan sat calmly reminiscing the battles and adventures the five shared with him once they returned. Banquo always had a joke to tell, the man had a way of calming any row and brightening it with his never-ending warmth. And Macbeth, as Macduff remembered so clearly, once again lit up the darkest shadows of the large castle with his contagious laughter, like the brightest star in the dark night. Macbeth had grabbed his shoulder back then and handed him another glass.

‘Drink up Duff! The night has only just started’

The group only grew as time went on, Cawdor and Angus, Menteith and Caithness, Malcolm and Donalbain, little Fleance and his own children to whom he made Macbeth godfather to.

He shook the thoughts from his head, tears burning his eyes. They were too much, too new for him to bear. Too much when that tyrant still slept in the darkness of the castle.

Tyrant. It was his fault, and his fault alone, that Macbeth was not the man carrying the guilt of his actions. Macduff, hero of Scotland, slayer of the mad king, as the simple man called him for they knew nothing, hit him too hard and now he carried none of the weight or the burden of the deaths he caused.

Macbeth’s name once blistered his tongue but now, it made it heavy like lead. He had told the man that upon his death he would be treated as they treated all rarer monsters, hung up, painted and under those images of his cruelty would read ‘Here may you see the Tyrant.’ He was right, in a way, the common often portrayed him as the monster, he was in their depictions, but those that knew him would never dream of laughing at such images. Mockery of the Mad King was to mock the devil himself. It left a sickness in the stomach that didn’t disappear unless one prayed to God on his knees.

The name was not spoken. It was Malcolm who had said his name last and after that it was not spoken again nor was he even mentioned in passing. None of them wanted to even think about all that he had done. Even if it meant barely speaking of those they lost to his villainy.

Macduff gulped. He hadn’t spoken the names of his wife or babes since he learnt of their passing. He felt ashamed, but he couldn’t bear speaking their names in the castle where their killer slept, unaware of his pains.

Tears pricked at his eyes. No. It was too painful. How could a man that had held his children, watched them grow, command their execution? He slaughtered his children! Macbeth could never know how it feels! Macbeth had no children of his own, no child, no-

The rain poured and his body ached, but they remained in the forest. Training had been relentless, and everyone had returned to their sleeping quarters, but not him, and not Macbeth. He stared at the man from where he sat, water pooling down his back. ‘Maybe we should retire for the night, Beth, the rain is-’

‘…One more round, huh?’

Came the reply, Macduff frowned and stared at the flooded and muddy earth. This was unlike him. His friend was a wise soldier and knew his limits in battle. Spending any time in the heavy rain when it was freezing and quickly becoming night was a foolish thing to do. Macduff raised his eyes to the man, drenched in both sweat and rainwater. He gulped at the look in the man's eyes. The coldness, hollowness, chilled his bones far greater than the rain or winds ever could. He never forgot that look on his dearest friend’s face. Standing up with his sword in hand, he prepared for one last round of sparing.

They fought for what felt like hours. Macbeth was a ruthless warrior in battle, unstoppable and determined, and Macduff knew that, but whatever it was that plagued his mind in that moment made him weak. With one sharp kick to the stomach, Macbeth crumpled to the muddy floor. Sucking in ragged breaths, his friend peered at him through flooding eyes. Guilt rushed through him, and he approached him swiftly, to which, Macbeth’s gaze sharpened like the blade tossed to his side. He was so young, then, and the sharpened glare looked unnatural written on his face. The apology on his tongue dissolved and instead Macduff held out his hand for his friend to take. When he was on his feet once again, he gave the lad (he was still a lad then, not the cruel tyrant, not the merciless king, not the man who took his everything) a nod as an attempt at an apology which his friend all but ignored. Macduff watched him stagger to the tree trunk to sit with his cloak of newfound misery.

He took the seat beside him, thankful, strangely, for the rain that pooled down his cheeks as he looked up into the heavens and at the sparkling stars. Macbeth sniffled. He had assumed it was from the cold, until he glanced at the man, tearing his eyes away from the beauty above. It was difficult to tell the difference between his tears and the rain, but the choked sobbed noises were evidence enough. To say he was startled was an understatement. Macbeth clung at his stomach and for a moment he thought the younger man was crying due to pain which would have been shocking for the strong man even despite his young age, but the words Macbeth uttered had made his heart stop.

‘I lost him, Duff’

Macduff followed his gaze to the ground, just past his feet. He didn’t know exactly what the other man meant but by Macbeth’s reaction, dread was beginning to set in.

‘He was just a baby – I…!’

The sound that wretched from his friend’s throat was indescribable. Macbeth, realising what he had done quickly covered his mouth, but it did little to muffle his wails and did nothing to stop his body painfully shaking. The older man was almost shocked completely that he was able to croak out more words of jumbled attempts at apologises through the heavy crying; he was almost in hysterics and Macduff might have told him to pull himself together if it weren’t for the sickening feeling deep inside him. He stared dumbfounded at Macbeth for a moment as he watched him violently shake from both the sobs and the freezing rain. His hair was soaked through and so was the younger man’s and his heart quickened deafeningly – louder than even the pouring rain. Lunging forward, not even thinking it through, he dragged the others body close against his and held him as his cries became even more loud despite both his hands covering his mouth and his face being pressed against Macduff’s chest. He held Macbeth for God knows how long before he pulled away. It didn’t matter, his best friend was grieving, his son, his baby. And after losing their first…

Macbeth spoke again, it was so hard to hear him, understand him but he did his best to listen through the gasps and hiccups.

‘She, she blames me like it's my fault, l-like I wanted this!’

Shaking his head slightly, Macduff rubbed the other man’s back to try and soothe him enough to help him stop the crying. He tried his best to find words to help, to ease but for a long time he came up short. After a moment of reflection, Macduff found his voice again.

‘She’s grieving, Beth. Grief makes foes out of friends, but she needs you.’

The sobbing quietened but didn’t stop completely.

‘I… I know how it feels.’

Macbeth looked up at him instantly at his words, his face blotched with red, with a look of shock not too unlike the one Macduff knew he must’ve had when Macbeth first mentioned the loss. With a sigh, Macduff continued.

‘I can’t lie to you and say it gets easier, it doesn’t. But you do move on and I know how it sounds Beth, but…after a loss, you try again and then if that doesn’t work you try again. And, well, you’re always welcome in Fife, the little ones adore you.’

He left out the unspoken words of failure. But Macbeth seemed to be reassured enough and stood up, offering the other a hand. With a quick apology, Macbeth turned away towards the castle where the king and their fellow Thanes were feasting. They never mentioned it again, never acknowledged it, but Macduff knew,

knows that he didn’t heal.

Macbeth did know the way it hurt, knew them better than anyone else in the large halls of Dunsinane, which made it all the more unbearable that he would inflict such a boundless pain onto him. Macbeth had all but been a part of his family and he-

Macbeth had run and hidden from him,full of guilt or fear or madness, but when he faced the man, when they had fought until their cuts were countless and their breaths hoarse, when he was finally presented with the punishment he deserved, the man had said those words that chilled his blood and made his hair stand on end.

‘Get thee back; my soul is too much charged with the blood of thine already.’  

It was in those words that Macduff knew, in his beaten and broken plague of life, in his heart of blades and iron, that the man he once called his dearest of all friends, had died long ago. When he had lost that friend for certain, he was never sure. 

He had known his children by name from the moment they took their first breath. He had been to every birthday, every Christmas, and in every joy borrowed, every grief shared, they were a family. Blood had been spilt and that family would never, ever be whole again. 

Till the end of his days, Macduff would be haunted by the ghosts of his family. 

And the ghost of the man who they welcomed in, who lay in the cold, dark cell as a shell of a human being. His soul was long gone. Up to heaven or down to hell. 

Another breath, another sip of mead that had long ago gone cold. Macduff was alone. Even with his fellow friends and Thanes six feet away from him. The chatter was too loud, too distant, like a scream from underwater. The waves lapped at his feet and it was rising to his knees and soon, he was sure, he’d drown in the pools.

The world around him swayed with the tides and for once Macduff felt he’d rather be in a deep forest or even the endless stretches of barren land than by the sea that swallowed him up. His heart began to spill over and the scent of salt was unbearable. 

One more sip of mead and the ocean reached his chest. Did Macbeth know, or think, or even care, in his madness and tyranny, that the blood of his family will cling to his skin and reek for all of recorded time, to the last syllable. Macduff hoped from deep within him, from the darkest corners of his mind and memories, that Macbeth’s pain would never end. He hoped that the grief they had once shared would crush him into dust.

Macbeth’s family were gone. Long gone it seemed. His and Macduff’s alike.

It was late autumn when Macbeth arrived in Fife for the holiday season. His grin was exceptionally bright as he made his way through the lands towards the Macduff castle and through the gates. His servants had been preparing the food for hours as the family waited with ill-refrained excitement for the arrival of their dear guest. Macduff, of course, was eager to see his dear friend after such a long absence but it seemed that his young son was bursting with joys, enraptured with the delights of stories and gifts that his almost uncle was bound to bring for him. The young boy had been calling and singing all morning and Macduff couldn’t hold back his own awed smile at him, even if his mother had to scorn him multiple times for his loud mouth at the table. 

His daughter had been asking about Macbeth for many moons, about when he’d return and when she’d be able to show him her drawings. The poor chickens went on and on about him and they did not yet understand the concept of the responsibility that fell on the young thane. Someday they’ll come to know, when he and Macbeth and their fellow Thanes become wrinkled and grey, but Macduff saw that time as far, far distant.

Even his dear lady was full of her own anxiety at seeing their friend and in preparation for his arrival, had commanded the servants to prepare his favourite dish of Fife; everytime the Thane visited he always asked for the same meal, lamb stew.

Macduff had kissed his wife that morning and promised with the deepest sincerity that the weeks to follow till Christmas would be filled with countless joys and that she needn't worry. Macbeth’s presence in Fife and in their home always brought good tidings and always would. Even the mention of his name brought grins to the faces of his girl and boy. 

It was too early to decorate the grand castle with garlands and holly but with Macbeth’s arrival, it would be a much easier job as he always hung the higher decorations. 

Swiftly, the morning passed and by the early afternoon, Macbeth was standing at the gates with his smile brighter than a candle, as bright, Macduff considered, as a star. It was at a feverish haste that Macbeth was let past the gates and within seconds, the young Macduffs were scampering over to him. The boy leapt at the thane and the girl wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. To his defence, Macbeth only stumbled slightly as the two children bombarded him with hugs and questions.

‘Where have you been? Did you miss us? Were you at war?’ 

Macduff didn’t miss the way the smile on his friend's face wavered at the last question. He had needed a break for a long time, and he finally had it. Away from the battle, away from the death, away from the grief. 

The loss of a friend does something to a man, it writes itself legibly on their face for decades to come, but the loss of a child…that was a deeper gash, one that never fully healed. Macduff knew the way it ached, and for that there was no remedy. But he’d be there for his friend when he needed him. 

‘Give the poor man a moment to breathe, you two!’ Called his wife as she walked alongside him towards their guest. Macbeth had pulled the young boy into his arms and had started spinning him around in the air before planting him safely on the ground in front of his mother and father. 

‘It’s quite alright,’ he said, addressing the lady before giving him a sincere and warm nod. He turned back to the little ones standing expectantly in front of him. ‘Don’t worry I didn't forget you two!’ he exclaimed with a high voice. 

He often forgot how young Macbeth was when they were on the fields of dried blood and carcesses and  his face was painted red. But in the yellow glow of the autumn afternoon, he looked barely beyond twenty. Even his robes hang loose about him, like he was only just growing into them. He was only a boy, really. A boy who had slain more enemies than most men ever do in their lives. 

Macbeth produced from his pocket two gifts tied in bows, one green for the lad and one yellow for the lass. The children’s eyes grew wild as they were presented with their gifts. The lad tore open his to reveal a hand carved toy swallow-bird. It was beautiful but sturdy enough for the boisterous child. He grinned at the gift in his childlike admiration and held it up to the light while his sister unwrapped hers to reveal a small wooden horse. He looked up at the thane with astonishment and for a minute, he couldn’t say a word. In that time, Macbeth knelt down beside him and gently took the toy from his hands before moving it through the air like a bird. They all stared in amused quiet as the toy moved and Macbeth danced around us with it before returning to one knee in front of the lad, offering it out to him. Surging forward, Macbeth almost toppled over from the power of the hug he received. The little lass joined in before showing Macbeth how she could make the horse trot. 

The sun was beginning to set and there was a chill in the air so the pretty chickens took Macbeth’s hands and led him rather hastily towards the castle doors. He let himself be tugged along while throwing an amused glance back at Macduff and his lady and a content laugh echoed through the halls. 

Finally in the grand hall, the children let Macbeth have two seconds of peace and Macduff was properly able to greet him.

‘My dear friend, how was the trip down?’

‘Long,’ Macbeth joked as he watched the children play with a soft smile pulling at his lips. He turned to Macduff with eyes glazed over, and he brought his arm up to squeeze the younger Thane’s shoulder. 

‘The ride was peaceful, not too cold, though I am very glad to have arrived.’

‘We are glad you are here Macbeth, I hope next time your wife will be well enough to join us.’

Macbeth stilled at the lady’s words and for a moment, Macduff thought the young man was going to speak but instead, he nodded and gave Lady Macduff a small smile. She left with a gentle pat on his back and a chaste kiss to her husband. It was just him and his friend for a peaceful second.

‘Beth-’

His head shot up and he was looking at me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes as he nodded and quickly made excuses to go find the two little ones. That was fine with Macduff, there was always later for them to talk. If Macduff was being honest, he hadn’t known what he was going to say anyways. Grief was a tricky subject among soldiers, warriors, so used to it. But this kind of grief was different. A kind not even Macduff knew how to speak of. He watched Macbeth and his children play in the grand hall with the bird and the horse for hours. The man never complained once about chasing the young ones around the castle till the sun began to sink.

The night spiralled on and the children tired themselves out with the games they played with their visitor. The late darkness seeped in and the blanket full of stars once again wrapped around the world. Macbeth chuckled as he carried the exhausted boy in his arms up to his room. Macduff had carried his little girl to bed long ago and he had followed his friend and son up to the room but he waited in the doorway, undetected. 

‘Tell me a story, Macbeth, please!’  The boy begged as he pulled at the man’s sleeve. He was met with an exaggerated huff as the man flopped into the bed beside him. 

‘Are you even going to be able to stay awake through this story?’

The boy nodded enthusiastically and another chuckle escaped the young man’s mouth. 

‘Alright, I’ve got one for you, I-’

The man was cut off by the squeak of the little one and Macduff stifled a laugh until he heard the boy’s words.

‘Is it about war?’

Of course, being thanes, the two had hundreds and thousands of stories to tell about the battles they had seen, but Macbeth was war-sick, and the thought of telling a story about battle to the boy seemed to make him grimace. 

‘No, no, this one’s about a bird, a sweet, kind, young bird.’

Macduff watched with a bright grin as Macbeth began his story for the boy with the wooden bird in hand and moved it along to his words. The boy's giggles drifted into the cold outside the castle walls and he began to fall sleepy, but before the man could get up to leave, he was grabbed again and the small blue eyes shone brightly up at him.

‘Is the war over Macbeth?’

The man stilled and Macduff watched him with his breath held as he sat back down on the bed and took the little boy's small hands in his.

‘Don’t worry about battle, dear boy. I promise you, I will protect you from all harm.’

 That seemed to soothe the little one and soon enough, the boy slept with dreams of the sky and stars but most importantly, the swallow bird that escaped the fights and bloodshed. 

Macbeth paused when he saw the other in the doorway before swiftly passing him without a word. Macduff followed him the few steps he took before the man stopped and pressed himself against the wall to catch his breath. The young lad looked much older than he was. He was just a young boy and yet he carried wounds most men couldn’t comprehend. He slowly approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder and then rested their foreheads together for a moment before he backed away to give the younger man space. 

‘Don’t give up Be-’

‘I’m not. This was only the first try, we’ll, we will try again.’

Macduff only nodded at the man's words. That was the end of it.

‘You’re always welcome here, my friend.’

Macbeth knew the pains better than anyone and yet…

And Malcolm made him spare his life, the generous king.

And Macbeth remembered nothing, thanks to him.

He was the only one that knew.

The Macbeth that slept in the prison cell was not the man who killed his friends, his king, and his kin, but rather, a man who woke up in the midst of a fire that no amount of water could put out. Not even the lapping tides at Macduff’s feet. 

The embers in the fireplace were beginning to die and when Macduff finally looked up, he saw that half of the guests had left, returned home. He gulped as he watched Lennox speaking to Ross and they laughed as if recalling a buried memory. Before he could even begin to think of what to do, the two men glanced up at him and beckoned him over with warm smiles on their faces. Macduff seemed to forget sometimes that he was still part of the living, along with his dear friends, few as they had become. Despite the guilt he felt for his negligence to the two, he couldn’t focus on a word they were saying as his mind wondered, to where, he lost track. He nodded along, smiling when he thought it was appropriate and soon, even the two loyal Thanes left, leaving Macduff and the royal highnesses. Nodding to the king in gratitude, Macduff left the grand hall to return to his duties. 

He had a tyrant to feed.

Macduff stared into his half empty glass of mead, and he couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. The wrath he felt towards the man felt misplaced now, and somehow that made him feel worse. Where can he put this unending grief?

It was in the dark and empty halls of the great Dunsinane castle that he wept, a silent thing, a plea to God perhaps, for the pain that seemed unending. He mourned the friend he lost, and all those who fell with his ruins. He screamed for the hollow shell of the man that once was, both his greatest friend and foe. A ghost among the living, that’s what Macbeth was. And him too. Haunted by ghosts; they both walked with them. 

Macduff didn’t know when he had fallen to his knees or when he had begun to lie down, but the cold stone floor was cool on his scorched cheeks and forehead. He wanted so desperately for some sign from God, as God was the only thing that could help him. He wanted to know where down the line, he had lost his friend and sealed his family's fate forever. He couldn’t place it. All he knew was that he had lost Macbeth a long time ago.

Maybe death would have been kinder.

One plate of food, one prisoner. 

The battle to make it down the stairs was always going to stab at his mind until one day he’d give in to his mind and never venture down those stairs ever again. 

The sight he was met with once beyond the stairs was something beyond words. A preacher might have described it as a man begging on his knees for the holy fathers forgiveness. To Macduff, the image before him looked more like a man, starved and half dead from cold, feeling the warmth of the sun for the first time in months.

Macbeth peered out the barred window up towards the sky. In the silence it only took Macduff a second to register the sound of the birds singing. A swallow’s song. The once fearsome tyrant was on his knees, bathing in the light of the setting sun as he peacefully - almost peaceful; his face twisted into a pained grimace with every slight jerk of his shattered arm - listened to the birds and watched them glide towards the stars and heavens watchful eyes. He didn’t even notice Macduff for several minutes and, since the man was struck by stunned horror at the sight of the praying tyrant, he made no effort to make Macbeth aware of his presence. 

Setting the tray of food down on the floor, Macbeth all but jumped out of his skin at the sound. He didn’t say a word as he took Macduff in before turning back to the window and closed his eyes. A pang of anger rippled through him at Macbeth’s calmness but it quickly dissipated when he saw how pale the man had become. He didn’t look up at him, just side glanced as if waiting for an animal to strike.

“What bird is it?” Macduff knew what bird it was. He watched the man’s face shift in recognition as he slumped against the cold, damp wall. Macbeth muttered the name of the bird and he responded only with a gruff of acknowledgment and they returned to silence. 

Macduff kicked the tray under the door; the man didn’t look up at him. Macbeth turned his head to the food in the ground before him and slowly started to pick at it. The man ate so slowly that it was almost as if Macbeth was too full to eat, but he realised after a moment that the prisoner was pacing himself so as to not throw it all up. One meal a day really wasn’t enough to sustain him, especially when some of those meals were missed. He stared at him from where he stood, half hidden by the shadows of the staircase. The light from the setting sun casted an yellow glow over the ghostlike figure. It made the paleness of his skin even more sickly. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the man, the creature. He let out a breath slowly, one he didn’t know he had been holding. And moved barely a step forward. And then paused another moment and sat himself down on the chair in the corner.

The silence was unbearable but he couldn’t stand to speak to the man. What would he say? Maybe he could figure out, for sure, if Macbeth really had forgotten what he had done. But if it was true, what then? And if he found out that Macbeth was lying, then he’d leave and never return. He’d lie to the king and tell him that the prisoner was taken by disease or overcome by infection. 

But Macduff could never lie to the king. 

“Banquo…”

Macduff’s gaze was unfocused as he looked at the floor but it sharpened at Macbeth and he fixed him with a cold stare. It seemed like the man was going to say more but by the look on Macduff’s face, he said no more. He felt hollow at the mention of their friend's name. How dare he say his name! After he slaughtered- 

He took a rapid breath in. He hadn’t mentioned Banquo. When he’d spoken of all things that Macbeth had done, the atrocities he had committed, he hadn’t mentioned Banquo. Of course the man would ask for his best friend. The words caught in his throat like a lump and he was choking on it. 

“You slaughtered him too.” Macbeth’s reaction wasn’t what he expected. The sound of Macbeth’s harsh, ragged and misery-filled intake of breath, grated at Macduff’s skin as if the sharpest blade had been dragged down his arms. But it wasn’t the hitch of breath that surprised him. It was the look of despair as if Macduff had affirmed what he already knew. How could he have known? Unless he had remembered. But then why ask? 

“I didn’t tell you that.” Macduff spoke more to himself than to the prisoner but upon looking up, Macbeth was staring off to the side, as if looking at something that Macduff couldn’t see. He nodded to himself as if hearing something Macduff couldn’t hear. It enraged him but the bitter cold turned his sharp fury to dust. 

He took the man’s appearance in, once again; he looked hardly human. There was something misbegotten written over his face. He continued to stare at things well past Macduff’s existence and into the depth of the hell he was living, if his twisted expression was anything to go by. The man sat collapsed against the wall, far away from his bedding and usual sanctuary. His back was pressed against the wall, body turned away from the window, towards the food he was eating, but he tilted his head back as if still waiting to hear the call of the birds. He clutched his arm, as he always did, since the broken wounds had seen no attention since they were inflicted. And the scars. The ugly, painted scars that deeply curled around his cheek and creeped to his forehead had started to heal, nastily, but still healing. 

All of this, and all Macbeth had to show for it was a broken arm and a few cuts. Anger was useless; there was nothing either of them could do to change anything. They were both drowning. The water had reached far above them both and Macduff was six feet under, left and forgotten and beginning to fade away to nothing. 

“What do you remember?” Macduff could barely believe the words coming out of his mouth. Why was he asking, he knew the answer. But he had doubts. His gaze moved from the ground to fix on Macbeth once again. 

“Remember of what, Duff?”

He gulped and took a moment to think before answering. Macbeth didn’t speak like the man he had come to know anymore and he didn’t know how he would have preferred it. To hear the tyrant taunt a spit or to hear the ghost of his friend mutter and whisper like a secret lost to wind.  He wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear nor what Macbeth would even say. When had his thoughts become so tangled and disoriented and why was it so hard to breathe? For a moment, he almost became used to the water in his lungs but it seems he was beginning to panic all over again. 

“Everything. Anything. What do you remember ?” Macduff dug his nails into the palms of his fists and he fought for composure. He needed to know once and for all, not spend hours, days, months, pondering if Macbeth truly did lose his memories or just that both of them had lost their minds. 

“The war.” 

Macduff’s eyes widened, but his racing thoughts were interrupted by the man’s next words.

“Against Macdonwald,” After a brief pause, Macbeth added “Cawdor, but I don’t really understand what happened to him. He's dead, I know that much but it’s all faded.” 

“What else?” His throat hurt from the gruff way he had spoken and the prisoner jumped before hissing quietly in pain. The silence stretched on forever as Macbeth collected his thoughts. Macduff was now starkly aware of the sky growing orange and darker. The light it casted over the man on his knees made him feel nauseous. 

“I remember pain, the pain in my arm and face, the blood, the- I don’t know.”

The man couldn’t finish his sentence and Macduff tore his eyes away as the tears poured down the other man's face. With a painful intake of breath, Macbeth continued on, though he wished to hear no more.

“I don’t know, I really don’t.” 

A response was impossible as Macduff watched the man curl into himself, pleading with him that he didn't know anymore but not looking at him, as if he already knew he wasn’t believed. careful not to disturb his arm, and went where he could not follow again. It was a minute or two before the man returned to whatever corner of his mind he had seeped into. 

“I remember dying… Well, I thought I had died. Now I’m sure it couldn’t have been death. But I don’t even remember how I got there. It feels more like a dream, like I’m watching someone else's life. I must have died years ago.”

Macduff let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Maybe he had been right. He had lost Macbeth the day he had gone to war against Macdonwald, the day they executed Cawdor for treason, the day Macbeth had met the witches. Maybe he had been slowly losing Macbeth for a long, long time. Was it over, would it ever be over?

“I’m haunted by a past I have not yet lived.”

 “You knew about Banquo. How?” 

“He was there, when I was dying, with my wife and King Duncan, Duncan, waiting for me.”

The slip up was enough to push Macduff over the edge. He rose from his seat and headed for the staircase without another word. But he stopped and turned back to the man he once called his friend.

“Merry Christmas.” 

Macbeth looked down at the empty tray of food in consternation. 

Turning towards the stairs, Macduff was so close towards his escape when Macbeth looked to him with an expression he hadn’t seen on him for years. It was a look so starkly different from the rest of Macbeth’s expressions that it looked alien on his dark features. It was a look, at first, of startled realisation and then it shifted into a bleeding compassion overshadowed with something he couldn’t place.  

“The boy, Fleance. Where is he?”

Macduff’s blood ran cold. 

“Somewhere…” 

Chapter Text

133 days, here, in that cell in the deep caves beneath the great castle. That was a guess, based on nothing, he had no count of the days gone by and even less recollection of how much time had passed since this existence of his began. As foretold by the weird sisters, Macbeth’s end came on the backs of impossible prophetic songs. The woods cannot uproot and move towards Dunsinane hill, and all men are woman born. Except, it seemed, Macduff. Oh, how he could laugh. It does, however, beg the question of what was in line for him. The fates had promised many roused things all warped within their cauldron of cruel recompense. Though, he felt in his soul that he was unfairly placed within this storm.

He had no place to roam, no place to go. He was trapped within these four walls and stone steps with these hellish things. Although, he was sure, they thought the same of him. He longed for freedom from this place, to fly, fly far away and to seek out what he had been bearing the painful absence of. But enough of that, the longing would only grow with each passing moment he pondered over it. He felt confined within this crib of despair and confusion. Even worse, his words were but breath into the wind. What, with the loudness of his thoughts that would drown out any other speaking. Not that he would listen, even if he could speak to him.

Whatever chill blew through the gaps in the stone merely left him numb. He’d grown use to that feeling, dull nothingness of his time here. The days are liquid, endless stream of consciousness that bears upon him is torturous, but the lack of purpose to his days, the lack of order, drove a different strain of madness through a man. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had nowhere else to run to, even if he wanted as no one could see him. Or maybe it was seeping remorse he felt that bled into his perception of the tyrant. The man to blame was dead. The man who slept on the bed of hay was nothing more than the ghost of him.

Why he was stuck beside him, he had no hopes of knowing. He would rather be here to punish Macbeth’s guilty mind then to be a constant reminder to his old friend what he had lost. Whatever pains the man had once deserved, seemingly had been knocked out of his soul along with the memories of why he was given them. The tally of his sins upon the slate of his life had been wiped clean and all that was left was dust, decay.

It was a sorry sight, however foolish a thought to have sympathy for a mad tyrant, all he could see in his sleeping face was the pitiful painting of the scorched forest once the rain came and dampened out the flames of violence. The sleeping and the dead were but images of little difference, although maybe Macbeth would be more peaceful in death than his sleep. Whatever his brain was wrought with would soon slip from his memory upon his awake. And it seemed the man was stirring. In a second, his deep brown eyes focused on his blue ones. He blinked and turned away, though Banquo wished he wouldn’t. His wrath at his old friend had melted away and he was plagued with guilt at the pain he had brought him. The tyrant would have deserved it, deserved worse, but the Tyrant was dead.

Macbeth had never been a cowardly man, a stupid one in moments, a deluded one in others, but he was not overcome by self-preservation above honour and duty. So, when he cowered from Banquo’s ghostly form, he knew it wasn’t out of trying to protect himself from harm. The dried blood on his skin itched, but his skin of course, was simply that of a phantom. An apparition that was once tasked to haunt and hurt the villain in his cage, but now was as trapped as he was.

Macbeth shifted his back against the cold stone to peer out of the window as he did every day. Between the three of them, it seemed Macbeth was coping the best with the confinement even despite both his and Lady Macbeth’s ability to move further and farther than Macbeth could.

It was lonely. He couldn’t speak a word due to the gashes in his head that severed his ability. Lady Macbeth was slipping more into nothingness as time trekked on, as did King Duncan, who remained to haunt Macbeth a mere few days before his soul moved on. But Banquo’s soul did not yet know any slither of peace and so here he remained.

Macbeth seemed only still when he was looking out into the sky. Banquo never quite knew what the man was searching for in the heavens; stars, birds, some sign from God or a prophecy from the devil painted in the moon. He’d hold his breath if he had any as he slowly moved closer as if approaching a chained beast or a skittish fawn with a broken leg. It was fair fitting.

His movements were silent, undetectable by the other man until a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He tensed, jaw locked, but he didn’t jump or even move as if waiting for some blow to come. Banquo sighed and laid his head down on his shoulder. Just for a moment, as he squeezed his eyes shut, he could almost pretend that these hellish years were just a fever dream, caused by heat or some root. Those sullen eyes on him reminded him again. Staring through him. He opened his eyes to meet them, but Macbeth flinched in an instant and hissed with the pain at jostling his arm. Banquo frowned but there was nothing he could do to soothe the man’s pain, even if he did trust him. Their eyes met again, and all Banquo could think of is how much he wished things were different.

Whatever was running through Macbeth’s mind seemed to fizzle away upon seeing Banquo’s expression. He relaxed, just a slight, and Banquo slowly wrapped an arm around him. It was quiet, silent, for a heartbeat.

“I never– I…” His words were cut off with a pained gasp as he tried to catch the words he intended to say. Banquo waited patiently but it seemed the man couldn’t find it in himself to continue. Banquo turned his head from where it lay on his old friend’s shoulder and placed a chaste kiss to his jaw, hoping in some way it would convey any ounce of emotion he felt. Macbeth turned his head to him, to look at him properly, for the first time. He had an expression painted across his face that Banquo couldn’t read. In their long time of friendship, he could always read his friend like a book, he could read all strange matters that crossed his mind, but in recent years, all he could see was blank pages and harsh lines of the madness seeping through him.

Macbeth reached up a hand to him, to his injuries, to his cheek, only for his hand to pass straight through. He stared at his hand blankly.

They were completely frozen for a moment, before Macbeth sighed with defeat, or despair, and slumped back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment but opened them again and stared at the sky. The air was delicate. Marlet’s sang.

“How shall we fill up the time?”

‘Till what?’ Banquo thought. As if reading his mind, Macbeth shook his head with a humourless breath.

“You’ll fade away soon.” After a beat, he added, “And I’ll rot.”

The night fell heavy on Dunsinane castle and the dark stretched across the prison cell like a moth eaten blanket and Macbeth was unmoving in his bed, but Banquo could not rest. Not tonight. Not even beside him. Everything was still, it was a peaceful hour, though no peace would come for either of them.

Moonlight shone in through the cracks and the small window and pooled onto Macbeth’s face, illuminating his dark hair and sharp features and the deep ugly scars that ran across his cheek and forehead. He felt a pang in his chest as he turned his gaze to the outside world. The moon seemed to glow brighter and brighter by the second, until it was blinding. Banquo felt a racing panic in his chest as his hands and arms seemed to turn to dust. Cascading to the ground like glass shards, he watched his body disintegrate into clouds of light and then burst out in a final spark before forever disappearing. It can’t be yet. It just can’t be. There was more he needed to do, so much he wished to say. He couldn’t be fading from existence already.

A silent scream escaped his lips as he slips away into nothing.

But it was too bright, light, pure as the blazing sun but so close, and so cold. He was almost freezing, feeling the frost envelope his skin like a mycelium spreading. He couldn’t open his eyes, it was too bright, too loud, like the roar of a fire in his mind. It was unbearable.

He woke up. Somewhere. Where the worm’s tunnel into the earth and the critters creep underneath the fallen leaves. A warm tranquillity spreads through him as he huffs a silent laugh of relief and joy. He had always loved the woods, and the secrets they held. The trees had old, kind, and wise eyes like the dear King Duncan and Banquo placed his hand onto the rough bark, imagining how it felt beneath his fingerprints when he was alive. Captivated by the light of the moon as it slipped through the trees, he couldn’t help a slight shudder at the memory of mere seconds ago. He spun to follow the light, only to behold the castle of Dunsinane from a great distance away. He knew in an instance where he was.

The darkened canopy of Birnam Wood, looking upon the towering castle of Dunsinane. The place where those men, sent by Macbeth, took his life. The last place he saw his son.

But why? Why was he here? Deep within the forest so far from the castle. The woods stretched, twisted, and stared down at him now. Kind eyes turned hateful. The whispering was once welcoming to Banquo but now all they did was confuse his mind like echoes in a confined darkness. He watched with morbid curiosity as the roots of the trees clawed up from the ground and moved like serpents towards him.

When the initial shock ended and the terror set in, it was already too late. He could not run as the roots coiled around his ankles, trapping him there when he tried to run. He fell to the ground hard, though it made no sound and twirled upwards, reaching into his soul to pull the remains of it on earth into the soil. The roots from the trees wrapped around his chest, suffocating him and pulled him down, as if to bury him where he should be. Where he was supposed to rest.

He fought and pulled and ripped at the vines with every ounce of strength he had in him, but it was in vain as he was pulled even deeper. The ground melted beneath him. It was pointless to scream, and yet he screamed anyways but no sound left his cracked lips, it was like fresh blood was pooling out of his wounds as the ropes tightened around him, squeezing the remaining sparks of life out of him. Agony consumed him as the vines cut into his body through his bones and skull, through his eye and into his brain. In his chest, around his heart, squeezing. He gasped for air despite no longer breathing it. He longed for the moonlight end he thought would take him. It was dark, darker than the seconds of peaceful death he had before this existence. Dirt filled his mouth and lungs and…

Was it over? He had thought that last time and he was not willing to make the same mistake again. He looked down at himself to check. No vines, no stains no, no blood. He gasped as he spun around.

Banquo slapped a hand over his mouth as he stared at the figure in the distance growing nearer and nearer. He was taller, stronger, thinner in the face and the sides. No longer a little boy. No longer his little boy.

His heart pounded in his ears, but not in his chest as he hid away from view, before following shortly after the boy, no, the young man. He watched as Fleance stopped, stopped where he had been seconds before and where his life was taken. Fleance stared at the harrowing castle of Dunsinane from where it stood in the distance.

“I’ll be there soon, Father, I promise.”

“Fleance.” He hadn’t meant to say it. Well, he didn’t know he could speak at all and yet the words left his throat, words hoarse from the screams that did not reach an ear. Fleance turned.

“Father?”