Hey! I wrote this for english class, and I thought it was actually pretty good, so I decided to post it here. W00T! So yeah, this one kind of creeps me out, just a tiny bit, if only because it wasn't supposed to be nearly so... well, yeah... anyways, the fic changed on me, and I like it better now, but it did it without my permission, and yeah... Imma gonna stop rambling now...
Disclaimer: Do I sound like Shakespeare? No? Didn't think so...
All of a sudden, He's looking down. The suddenness of the change in perspective should cause dizziness and disorientation, but none occurs. Below Him, His body falls off of MacDuff's sword.
He attempts to move, to change position in any way, but all that happens is that His awareness jerks in an indefinable way - almost to the side, almost inwards, but not quite either - and the corpse below Him remains still.
And that's really all it is, He realizes. The body below Him, the one that used to follow His unconscious commands, the one He saw reflected back at Him on His sword after a good polish, is cold. It isn't breathing, and blood continues to rush out of it at a truly astonishing rate. To tell the truth, it never really occurred to Him just how much blood there was in the human body until He watched all of His seep onto the rough stone flagstones. It occurs to Him, in a fit of unprecedented morbidness, that a similar scene must have occurred when his wife killed herself. He almost wishes he had been there to see it.
The jerk His awareness experienced was awkward and cumbersome, and He really isn't keen to try it again. He is also slowly coming to terms with the fact that He is, indeed, dead. He attempts to heave a sigh, a habit His wife had often despaired of at the beginning of their marriage, but nothing happened, and the brief moment when He tries to block out the world and what is happening to Him is shattered with the reminder. With nothing better to do with His time, for He doesn't want to try moving again, and there really is only one other thing of interest in the room now that the blood from the corpse's wound is starting to slow, He turns His attention to the only living being in the room – Macduff.
Macduff doesn't move for several moments, allowing Him to study the man in detail. He hadn't the chance nor the inclination to do so before the fight, but now it is a welcome reprieve from the gaping void surrounding His awareness where boredom, or shock, or any other number of emotions should be.
Macduff's armor is covered in grime and blood, scratched and slightly dented in several places. His sword hangs limply at his side, the parts not covered in slowly drying blood shining dully in the faint sunlight that is streaming into the room. His thick brown hair and beard are straggly and clumped, and he has a small cut on his left cheek. He is panting rather heavily, though his breathing is slowly returning to normal, and he is staring at the corpse on the floor with something akin to shocked, giddy disbelief on his face. He looks like he can't quite believe it's over.
Finally, Macduff shakes of his stillness and, with a single sweep of his blade, cleaves the head from the corpse. Then he sheathes his sword and carefully leans down, picking up the corpse's head by the hair and carrying it off. There is another curious jerk at His awareness, and He follows the maudlin sight through no desire of His own. It occurs to Him then that He is stuck hovering over his Head.
Macduff takes the head to a finely dressed man, obviously of a higher status, and begins speaking with him, brandishing the head like a trophy, swinging it round and gesturing dramatically. The men flanking the higher up all gape and laugh, and Macduff speaks of an usurper who was put in his place.
Macduff does not mention Him by name though, and He realizes that He cannot remember it. He remembers that the finely dressed man is Malcolm. He remembers that the others are Siward, Thanes, Macduff, and Ross. But He cannot remember the name of the head flying though the air by the hair. Cannot remember the name of the body lying headless somewhere in the past. And He realizes that death has made him impartial, unfeeling, and impersonal. He no longer has His name. He no longer has His identity. He suspects that even if they mentioned His name, He would not recognize it as His, no matter how obvious it may be made by context.
Malcolm addresses his new subjects, and He watches with something that could almost be sadness, but the feeling is fleeting and is gone before He fully realizes its presence. He sorts though his memories, still can't remember His name, and remembers the blood on His hands. He feels something that might have been guilt had he had a body and an identity, but a nothing is a nothing, and nothings feel nothing.
As they all disperse after many speeches and much merrymaking, He wonders how long this will last - if He will fade away to the beyond with time, or if He will have to stand sentinel over his grave for eternity. Either way, it doesn't really matter, He lost the ability to have preferences with his life, so either is fine with Him.
He wishes that He could remember His name.