Work Text:
Act 4, Scene 1.1
Inside of Macbeth‘s chambers at night
Macbeth sleeps upon his four poster bed after having fallen unconscious due to excessively indulging in pints of ale. His breath is uneven and he is tossing and turning, until his face tightens as his nightmares come to haunt him.
Within Macbeth‘s mind
Macbeth stands in the middle of a battlefield. Steel rings against steel. There, he sees himself, victorious in fighting for both glory and the prosperity of his kingdom. Macbeth reaches out, but then the vision dissolves.
Now, he sees himself kneeling before King Duncan, who smiles upon him, warm and trusting. Finally, the scene melts away once more.
Darkness, his own chambers. And there stands Banquo before him, with the same knowing eyes gazing calmly at Macbeth. Banquo wears the same look which he once reserved only for Macbeth, but now it makes Macbeth recoil and step back.
MACBETH:
"Don’t—!… Do not look at me like that!"
Banquo does not move and his face remains gentle, but his voice is colder.
BANQUO:
"You know what you have done, my dear Macbeth. You have damned the same land you once bled for. Murdered you king—…murdered me. And now you managed to sink lower still. Now, that you wish to slaughter Macduff‘s innocent family, his guiltless children—"
MACBETH (in a sharp, almost panicked voice):
"Stop! Silence, at once!"
Banquo closes his eyes in response, and sighs in disappointment rather than anger.
MACBETH (harsh and defensive):
"I know what I did. I chose it! Look at me now! I have all that I desired. I am untouchable. And there is nothing you abominable shadow can do to change my destiny!"
Macbeth waits, expecting Banquo—no, the shadow, to vanish. But Banquo remains, and his gaze softens into something solemn. No, worse. Into pity. It makes Macbeth‘s voice drop into something tired and weary.
MACBETH:
"Why are you here? To torment me? It won’t change anything now. Nothing will come of this."
BANQUO (quietly):
"Nothing? Is this truly who you wished to be? A cruel man crowned in blood, surrounded by fear, hate and darkness?"
MACBETH (in a bitter tone):
"Cruel? I am merely securing my legacy. As it should have been mine from the very beginning. Duncan and his line were kind, naive… and weak. Too gentle for a crown. While I alone have the will to do what must be done."
BANQUO:
"Securing? You dress your fear in noble words, yet it reeks all the same. You speak of legacy, yet you fear it slipping through your fingers. You fear that it shall not bear your name, but mine."
Macbeth stiffens, his hands curling into fists.
MACBETH (fierce and desperate):
"That prophecy is a lie—a trick! The witches sought to plague me with doubt. I have taken fate into my own hands. I have made myself king!"
Banquo steps closer now, though his feet make no sound upon the ground.
BANQUO (softly):
"And yet you tremble."
Macbeth falters, just for a moment.
MACBETH (quickly, too quickly):
"I do not—!"
BANQUO (in a gentle, almost kind tone):
"You see daggers where there are none. You hear voices in the silence. You cannot close your eyes without summoning the dead. Tell me, my king… is this what safety feels like?"
Macbeth turns away sharply, his breath unsteady, his composure cracking.
MACBETH (insistent):
"I am safe! The witches promised it. No man born of woman shall harm me. No force shall move against me until the forest itself rises. I am beyond their reach!"
BANQUO:
"Then why do you reach for your blade even now?"
Macbeth freezes. His hand, indeed, has drifted to the hilt at his side.
BANQUO:
"You are not safe, Macbeth. You stand upon the edge of ruin and call it solid ground."
MACBETH (angrily):
"Enough! You speak in riddles like they do—twisting truth into poison. I will not be undone by ghosts—by whispers—by you!"
Banquo’s face changes—not much, only enough for Macbeth to see it. The same look as before, the one that once meant trust. Now Macbeth can hardly bear to meet it.
BANQUO (quietly):
"I do not seek to undo you. You have done that yourself."
A long silence follows.
BANQUO (his tone almost sorrowful):
"You were once a man I could stand beside without fear. Now even your own shadow recoils from you."
MACBETH (his voice breaking):
"You know nothing of what it cost—of what I have sacrificed—"
BANQUO:
"I know enough to see what remains."
Macbeth turns back toward him, desperate now, something raw breaking through his anger—something dangerously close to grief.
MACBETH:
"And what remains, then? Speak it plainly if you dare!"
Banquo meets his gaze steadily.
BANQUO:
"A man who has gained a crown…and lost himself."
The words seem to echo, lingering heavier than any blade. Macbeth stares at him, as though struck. For a moment, Macbeth looks as he once did—uncertain, human. His breath falters. The anger in his eyes flickers, then dims.
MACBETH (hoarse, barely above a whisper):
"Banquo."
The name feels foreign on his tongue and yet painfully familiar all at once. Banquo does not answer at first. He simply watches him, as though waiting—hoping—for something Macbeth himself does not yet understand. Macbeth takes a step forward, hesitant like a man approaching something fragile, something already half-lost.
MACBETH:
"You should not be here."
BANQUO (softly):
"And yet…you called me."
Macbeth shakes his head, though the denial lacks any strength.
MACBETH:
"No. I would not summon this—to see you thus—to be reminded—"
His voice breaks. He turns away, but not before the flint of tears betrays him.
MACBETH:
"You look at me as though I am still worth mourning."
Banquo holds his gaze for a long moment, and whatever distance had rested in his face seems to fall away.
BANQUO:
"Would you have me look upon you with hatred instead?"
Macbeth lets out a bitter, hollow laugh.
MACBETH:
"It would be easier."
A silence falls between them, heavy and intimate. There is nothing but the two of them, suspended in this fragile moment.
MACBETH (quietly):
"I thought…when I took the crown…it would quiet the hunger. That it would make me whole."
He looks at Banquo again, and now there is only something raw and aching.
MACBETH:
"But all it has done…is leave me with ghosts."
Banquo steps closer and Macbeth does not retreat.
BANQUO:
"You are not haunted by ghosts, Macbeth…You are haunted by what you chose to bury."
Macbeths lips tremble.
MACBETH:
"And what is left for me now?"
For the first time, there is no defiance in him. No crown. No king. Just a man who is unraveling. Banquo studies him, and slowly—so slowly—he lifts a hand. For a fleeting moment, it hovers between them. Then, gently, he cups Macbeths cheek. Macbeth inhales sharply, as though the touch burns, and yet he leans into it all the same, his eyes fluttering shut. Banquo‘s thumb brushes faintly against his skin.
BANQUO (soft, almost breaking):
"You know the answer."
Macbeth shakes his head, a tear slipping free despite himself.
MACBETH:
"No…do not leave me with riddles. Not you."
Macbeth‘s hand rises, as if to grasp Banquo‘s wrist, to hold him there. But he hesitates, trembling softly.
MACBETH:
"Stay."
And it is not a command. Not this time. Banquo‘s gaze softens, something like sorrow passing through it.
BANQUO:
"I cannot."
The words are gentle. Final. And Macbeth‘s composure shatters.
MACBETH:
"I have given everything—everything for this crown—and still it is not enough! If there is any mercy left in this world, then do not leave me to face it alone!"
His voice cracks fully, his desperation laid bare.
MACBETH:
"I would undo it—if I could—I would—"
Macbeth‘s voice falters, because even now, the truth catches in his throat. Banquo watches him, and there is no judgement left. Only grief.
BANQUO:
"I know."
The dream begins to dissolve once more, shadows creeping in at the edges. Macbeth‘s eyes widen.
MACBETH:
"No—no! Not yet—!"
This time, Macbeth does reach for him, gripping Banquo‘s arm. But his hand fazes through, as though trying to hold onto mist. Banquo‘s hand lingers at his cheek for a moment longer.
BANQUO (a soft whisper):
"Remember who you were."
And then—he is gone.
The warmth vanishes. The space is empty. Macbeth stands alone, and for a moment he does not move. Then, the silence crashes upon him. His knees give way, and he collapses, his breath hitching as though the air itself has turned against him.
MACBETH (broken, and to no one):
"…Banquo."
No answer comes. Only the hollow echo of a name, and the weight of all that cannot be undone.
Soon, Macbeth will wake again, and fate will take its course.
Exeunt.