Forbidden

Paris, France. The moon is preening herself in the reflection of the Seine; the Eiffel Tower is glowing with radiance. A couple, happier than anyone could imagine, is strolling down the busy streets of Paris, consumed with love for each other.
"I can't believe it," the woman said, in a thick, Scottish accent, "here I am, in the most romantic place in the world, with the man who will have me for a wife."
"Oh, but the true honor is mine," Macbeth said, kissing his fiancée's hand, "that you would have me."

Eileen Inglis would be taking Macbeth for her husband in just a few short days. It had not taken Macbeth as long as he had thought it would to recover from Demona's treachery. The last time he'd put his trust and love in a woman, she'd turned out to be a gargoyle out for his blood, and money. Eileen, however, he somehow knew he could trust. He knew she wasn't a gargoyle under the same spell as Demona; if she'd had any magic about her in the first place, his home defense system would have alerted him. Magic aside, he knew that Eileen wasn't just an ordinary human woman; she was the woman for him. She knew his past, and loved him still. She knew his present, and loved him still. She was the one.

Three days later, we see the two being married in Macbeth manor, the whole of Paris' nightlife witness to the joining of their lives. The moon smiled down through Macbeth's enormous window as the two shared their first kiss as a married couple.

Fast-forward two years. Our couple has lived happily in Paris for two years since their marriage. We see Macbeth sitting before a blazing fire, reading a morning paper, a smoking pipe resting on his lips.
"Good morning my love." he says, sensing his wife standing in the doorway. He looks, and sees her smiling dreamily at him. Her long, blond hair was down, the morning sun making it seem as if it was made of gold.
"Good morning to you my love." she replied in her deep, sultry voice, gliding over to him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. Macbeth put his paper and pipe down and guided her around the chair to sit on his lap.

"What is it my darling?" he asked. He knew there was something, not wrong, but different. Eileen only smiled, her cheeks flushed. She picked up his big, callused hand, and put it on her stomach. Macbeth looked at his wife, mouth open in astonishment.
"We're going to have a baby." they said simultaneously.

Soon, the couple was making plans to move back to Scotland. Macbeth still had a castle there that he thought would be ideal to bring their Scottish child up in. A few months later, and Parisian doctors reveal the sex of the child...a girl.
"And a bonnie Scottish lass she'll be." Macbeth said as the couple exited the doctor's office onto the streets of Paris.
"As beautiful as her mother," he said, offering his arm.
"And as strong willed as her father," Eileen said, accepting it.

Three months later, in Scotland, we see Castle Macbeth, its windows filled with light and life once again. Also, with worry. Macbeth is pacing next to a window, the setting sun illuminating the moors outside the east-facing windows. He is in a grand hallway, pacing outside one particular door. Suddenly, the door opens, and a dumpy, older Scottish woman bustles out, carrying soiled rags in a large basin. Macbeth is about to enter, but knows better and returns to his nervous pacing. He knew she would be okay; just because it was a home birth, didn't mean that he didn't provide her with the finest physician and equipment to ensure her and the baby's safety. Still, he didn't like the painful sounds coming from that room; he wanted to be in there with her. He swore he'd never let anything happ-

"Mr. Macbeth?" the plump midwife popped her head out of the door.
Macbeth whirled around and all but sprinted to the door.
"Yes, what?" he was a nervous wreck.
"You may come in." the midwife said, ignoring his panicked look. Macbeth strode in, quickly, but smoothly, he didn't want to disturb the peace. He went and knelt by her side. Eileen was sitting up, tubes running out of her arms, all sorts of beeping equipment crowded into the room. But that wasn't what got Macbeth's attention. All he could see was his beautiful bride's flushed face, and sweet face of his baby girl. She had been crying, and was still whimpering even after her mother's soft crooning.

"She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." Macbeth said, more to himself than to Eileen. This child wasn't his first, but she was his only daughter. And she was beautiful. She was now more calm, and had stopped crying. Macbeth kissed his wife gently, and stroked her matted hair.
"Oh my angel. I love you." he said adoringly.
"I love you too." Eileen said tiredly. Her eyes were shadowed, and drooping.
"Mr. Macbeth," the midwife said, "you must leave so that they might rest."
"Yes," Macbeth said, not moving, nor looking away from his wife and child. The midwife put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her.
"Don't worry love," she smiled a round smile, "I'll not leave them."

It had been about a week after the birth of their daughter before the couple chose a name.
"I know," Eileen said, thoughtfully, cradling the babe by the fire, "Alana."
And so, Alana Macbeth grew up, a fine, yet rowdy Scottish lass. They were absolutely happy, a picture perfect family. Macbeth and Eileen both agreed that Alana should grow up not knowing about Gargoyles and the like, or her father's past.

Fast-forward three years. Macbeth and Eileen are sitting by the fire one evening, little Alana playing with a small pup they'd given her for Christmas. Eileen is suddenly overcome by a coughing fit.
"Eileen," Macbeth gets up and kneels by her chair, "my love, are you alright?"
"Oh Macbeth of course I'm alright," she smiled, giving him that look she gave him whenever he became worried over something small. Over the days, however, Eileen became more and more sick, until Macbeth decided it wasn't nothing, and took her to a doctor. However, the doctor had to say what Macbeth never wanted to hear.
"Mrs. Macbeth," he said, "you have breast cancer."

Over the months, Macbeth attempted to use every resource he had, financially, and not, to find a cure for his wife. He even considered contacting David Xanatos, but knew that in the end that would not bode well. After all of his efforts, all he could do was sit by his wife's side every day, and watch the futile efforts of the cancer treatments eat her away faster than the cancer. Day after day he watched her become weaker, and frailer. Until one day, she gathered up enough energy to speak to him.

"My love," she said, almost whispered.
"Yes my darling?" Macbeth rushed to her side, taking her hands, kneeling by her side.
"I love you," she said slowly.
"I love you too," he said, tears coming to his eyes that hadn't been there for centuries.
"Tell Alana I love her."
"No," Macbeth said, firmly, "you'll be able to tell her yourself. You'll live my love. You'll live!"
Eileen shook her head slowly, smally, as much as she could,
"Don't forget about our daughter Macbeth," she said, starting to fall asleep, "don't, forget," her eyes closed, and she was quiet. Macbeth's heart stopped for those few seconds. However, it commenced its beating when he saw that she was merely sleeping, that the equipment was still showing a pulse. His love was still alive for now.

Later that night, Eileen Macbeth passed away peacefully in her sleep. Macbeth didn't know how to handle such grief. He barely noticed his five year old daughter asking her nanny where her mommy was out in the hallway. Macbeth's heart would be frozen to all affection for quite some years after that. Upon turning seven years old, he had his daughter sent to a boarding school in England. During the years after that, he lived in his castle in Scotland alone. All of his family gone, his servants fired. Everyone, gone.

It would be nine years before Macbeth remembered his wife's dying request...