AN: A short little filler for a gap at the end of act 5 of Macbeth. It was written for my latest Senior English assignment, and I recieved an A. I'm not too sure it deserved it though, if I'm honest.

-XxXaishiteruXxX

Disclaimer: I do not own Macbeth. If I did, I would be dead.

Word Count: 873

The clanging of swords echoed throughout the clearing, no other sound apparent other than the harsh drawing of breath from the two opponents. To fight a woman was not how the young nobleman, Fleance, had been taught, yet he had also been taught that one never killed in cold-blood. The last sound he had heard leaked from his father was the gurgling of his breath mingled with the blood gushing from his throat, and this altered the belief, it seemed.

Their bodies moved as one, swords striking in perfect synchronisation. Fleance was surprised. A woman in possession of swordsmanship that rivalled his own? How could this be? "My lady," he began. "How is it that thou hath skills to match mine own, yet, by appearance, ye be somewhat freshly entered into womanhood?"

"My lord, it is the belief of our household that women are given the chance to learn skills such as these, if only to further protect their existence," the mysterious lady replied. Fleance was astounded. Never before had he heard of such things, and he wasn't sure he agreed. However, as the fight progressed, Fleance found that his opponent was exceedingly well trained, so much so that he conceded defeat.

"My lady, I am afraid I cannot surpass thy skills. As thou shalt defeat me, pray tell, what is thy name?"

The woman lay down her sword in triumph and said, "My lord, Lady Guinevere is my name, yet thou ought to have given thy name before all else. Who art thou?"

"Fair Lady Guinevere, Fleance is my name and one and twenty years ago, my father's life was stolen from him by the tyrannical King of Scotland, Macbeth. At my father's pleas, I fled to the northern moors of England, and hath not heard but a word from Scotland thence."

Lady Guinevere's countenance flickered with astonishment at the news. "My Lord, why doth thou not write to a trustworthy companion in Scotland and ask if all is not well so you mayst return?" Fleance marvelled at the idea and, ashamed that he had not thought of writing to someone such as Malcolm sooner, swiftly complied.

Throughout the following week, Fleance and the fair Lady Guinevere procured lodging at a nearby inn and Fleance's heart was slowly enslaved. Never before had a woman reeled in his attention as much as the ambrosial Lady Guinevere had, yet as they talked, Fleance found himself sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of emotion so intense it was killing him. At five-and-thirty, it was high time he took a wife. However, what to offer her? It was established that Lady Guinevere had lost her family, so any dowry was out of the question. It would have to wait, he surmised. So foul and fair a feeling he had not felt.

As the enlightening week drew to a close, a response from Malcolm came: he was now a king. The response contained but eight simple words: "Return to the castle of King Malcolm, anon!" Driven by the urgent tone of the message, the son of the departed nobleman left the inn rapidly, Lady Guinevere right beside him.

Not once stopping but for fatigue and drink, the two arrived at the castle after three days. As Fleance alighted from his horse, an owl hooted overhead. "Alas!" he cried. "The hoot o' an owl means good for none! My Lady, we must make haste! To King Malcolm we must fly!" The dank and desolate feel of the castle had fear gripping Lady Guinevere so tightly that she all but soiled herself. Arriving at the King's chamber door, heart galloping in his bosom, the nobleman knocked. The door opened, and an onslaught of the stench of impending death slapped their faces with the superiority of an arrogant master.

Lady Guinevere gasped at the sight that lay before them. King Malcolm, laid out on his bed with the tendrils of death enveloped around his throat. "Fleance," the frail King croaked. "Come hither." Fleance slowly approached, kneeling beside the bed. "My good man," continued the King. "The horrors that have befallen you as a youngling are too abysmal to speak of, but our friend, Macduff hath slain the traitor. My brother, Donalbain, wishes not to be King, therefore Prince of Cumberland thou shalt be."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Fleance whispered, shaken though he was. "Would thou hadst less deserved, that the proportion both of thanks and payment might have been mine!"

The King smiled, kissed the Prince of Cumberland on the hand and stole a final breath, the hands of death tightening their grip 'til life no longer prevailed.

Now as king, Fleance found he had riches to offer Lady Guinevere if she was to be his wife. Two days before his coronation, he proposed. Guinevere zealously accepted, and the new king and queen of Scotland they became.

Twilight on the coronation day was rainy, and in a mysterious, isolated and foggy corner of the castle grounds, three witches materialised. "We three do meet again," began the first. "Not in thunder, lightning, but in rain."

"The hurlyburly's done," continued the second, "the battle's lost yet won."

"Banquo's prophecy is fulfilled," the third concluded. "His children's rule is now instilled."

-Fin.-