…Broken…
By InkInMyVeins
His body, broken and empty leaked into the earth below him, staining emerald green grass with droplets of rubies. His mind was empty; he gazed down with unseeing eyes upon the shell he had once inhabited.
"How am I here and there?" his mind whispered the words, though the air was not tainted with their sound, it could have been hours or minutes, though with time he came to understand
"by Macbeth's order my blood is spilt," Banquo pondered his former friend and grieved for his soul,
"What demons have possessed his innocent soul and tarnished it beyond repair? Who has stained his soul as easily as ink to parchment?"
His musings were peaceful and free, death had not yet torn at his soul, he knew the fight would come; his soul would be picked at as meticulously as vultures devour a rotting carcass.
His mind considered those tools of Macbeth but his heart was free of resentment, murderers are like thieves, he realised, taking what they can to survive even though the price was an innocent life.
Was he innocent though? Yes he had killed before but only on those bloodstained fields of war where a man's thirst for blood is satiated and intensified with each stroke of his gleaming blade, killed not murdered.
"But I have suffered in turn!" his mind protested fiercely. It was the truth; faces of all those lost lay draped across his shoulders, the weaker men stumbling under the pressure only to be cut down themselves.
Any man who survived the day was tormented with demons of sleep; the sounds of their own shrieking filled their ears, watching those visions of themselves killing without a single merciful thought. It was every man's greatest fear; to become a monster on the battlefield.
Banquo himself had seen the haunted look fill Macbeth's eyes time and time again and had shouldered his own fear to comfort his friend. Soothing words of nothing, he knew it was the company that let you know you weren't alone that spoke louder than words, it kept them all sane.
Then how had Macbeth's mind become so unhinged? Whose voice had whispered snake-like into his ear, tempting a desperate man's soul? A soul already tormented by its past and fearful of its future.
Macbeth had always been so, he listened far too much without understanding the words that filled his mind, he was ignorant; childlike in his knowledge. Eager to please and accepting of anything told to him. He lived as a noble, every wish and command taken care of; they only asked that he slaughter for his so called country
"It is no longer his country though" Banquo murmured bitterly to himself, "he lost Scotland the day he murdered her father"
Banquo had always stayed loyal to Scotland, he killed with mercy and in the name of his country, he was still haunted with nightmares and his soul was tarnished but he had faith in himself; he had done his duty to his homeland. He would forever be known as noble and a good man. His only regrets were those for his son, he would be the rabbit, the fox always lurking in darkness, steps as silent as the night and a hunger for his prey. He had always considered rabbits cowardly creatures, now in death; he realised they were selfish and selfless beings all at once. They hid away in the earth's womb until they could leave with promise of the little safety their lives could afford; they harmed not a soul to survive and returned to feed their family. They hid for their lives but to live was to raise their litter and flourish their species. Banquo envied their simplistic existence, they were not troubled with war or politics; both had ended his life in one way or another and both were coming for his son.
His son, Fleance was still a young man; not nearly old enough to succeed his father or to take upon the responsibility of his family. He would resent him for it, Banquo realised; his son would resent his own father's death. He could not blame him though, for a young man to be burdened with the title of Thane and to support his grieving mother and younger siblings was a curse unto itself. No man would willingly give up his years of freedom to take on the burdens of an old man, for that is what Banquo had long since come to terms with being.
He had succeeded his father, and he had sired children of his own, an heir to take over and more in case of sudden deaths. A man's responsibility was to make sure his name was carried on, his dignity left even in death. For a man's soul to be tarnished was one thing but for a man's reputation and henceforth the reputation of his descendants to be tarnished was a curse delivered straight from the halls of hell itself.
"Macbeth will not ruin me, nor my son; who is in all aspects myself and my father before me" Banquo vowed, even in death he had a fierce longing for life; only the roles had reversed, he no longer craved for his own free life; he craved for his sons.
With that he pulled himself away from his body, glancing down in sorrow at the shell of his former life, no longer regal but torn and stained. He set off to redeem his son's name, his soul was sure of his path as his mind wandered freely, floating over the lands of Scotland, his last and only home, he would watch over for all eternity.