Chapter 3, the Performance
I don't own Macbeth, or else thinks would be really different.
This is violent and descriptive. If you don't want to read descriptions of mindless carnage, stop after the magic words.
....
The actors were ready for their first performance. It was three days late, but they could perform well enough that it was worth waiting for. At least, it was to those who didn't whole-heartedly hate the play.
Mac and Gruoch waited in a dark corner backstage. The spell was ready for the right time to begin. All the ingredients were laid out, the fire was lit. Gruoch knew the magic words by heart. And Mac, to borrow the words of his fictional father, had "bound up every corporeal agent to the deed." They waited in silence, listening to the damned play.
There was no more excitement or nervousness in this for them. Only a hollow ache. It was almost regret, but not really. They were past that. All of their emotion had gone away, bled out with the blood of countless actors.
On stage, the play wore on. "The weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, thus do go about, about! Thrice to thine, thrice to mine, thrice again to make up nine. Peace! The charms wound up." The little chant was a mind-game to Mac. He would pretend that the words bound him to the task ahead, leaving him no opportunity to back out.
To Gruoch, it was a signal to begin the spell. She began to mix the ingredients in a small pot over the flames. The spell didn't call for exact amounts, so she just threw in a hand-full of everything. Then she was done. She wiped her hands on her dress, and spoke the magic words:
ceathach casgair buidseachd.
Mac drew a battered old sword and stepped from the shadows. Almost immediately, a stage hand noticed him and came running over. The man started babbling at him, telling him he couldn't be here, to be quiet and follow him. The charm's wound up, Mac thought, as the point of his sword slipped under the man's ribs and out his back. For an instant they both froze, standing still in a strange kind of wonder. Then Mac pulled the sword back out. The stagehand screamed in agony, clutching uselessly at the wound. Blood gushed from his chest and back, spilling across the floor and props, and Mac. He fell to the floor, letting out a strangled moan as he died.
A woman's shriek shattered the bloody solitude that had built around Mac and his victim. An actress was screaming at the gruesome sight like there was no tomorrow, and in fact, there might not be. Stagehands and actors fled the scene, while security gaurds came running toward him with their guns drawn, yelling. Mac raced to the nearest gaurd, cutting his hand off halfway between the wrist and elbow. The man screamed as blood sprayed from the severed arm, completely defenseless. Mac slashed across the gaurd's belly, and his guts spilled out with the rushing waterfall of blood. The gaurd sank to his knees, taking another gaurd's shot at Mac, who circled behind him and plunged the sword into his heart. The other gaurd gasped in pain, his lifeblood shooting out in a crimson stream to join the smoking pools on the floor.
The next gaurd was too close behind the second to escape, and had his throat cut before he could step back. He did, however, manage to get one shot off, hitting Mac in the shoulder. But he couldn't stop. The charm's wound up. As the third gaurd fell backwards, the fourth was stabbed in the gut, screaming and falling forward, then Mac beheaded him. The other gaurds were beginning to run. Mac gave chase, cutting down two more with slashes to their backs, but eventually gave up the chase because those farther away were shooting as they ran. If he was killed, they couldn't finish the spell.
During the chaos, the curtains had been opened revealing the carnage backstage to a now panicking audiance. The people lost control and swarmed to the exits, trampling each other and blocking the doors in their haste to escape. The actors were torn between rushing past Mac to the backstage entrance, or trying their luck with the audience. Running onto the stage, Mac caught the actor playing Macduff on the edge of his sword, slashing him open and leaving him writhing in agony on the floor, then Ross tried to cut backstage and escape, but Mac caught him and stabbed him in the chest. He died without a word.
In the corner backstage, Gruoch watched the fire anxiously. She didn't watch the slaughter, but she heard the screaming, the death cries, the sound of bodies hitting the floor, and the constant rain of blood. The fire began to flicker blue. It was almost done. "Just a little more!" she called to her brother.
Mac turned to his sister's hiding place briefly. He saw the smoke rising become a bluish silver color. Then he felt a tug at his sword, and the hilt was torn from his grasp. He looked up to find the blade, red with blood, held at his throat by the actor playing Macbeth.
"Just one more!" Gruoch cried backstage, "Just one!"
Mac found himself wondering if his father, the real Macbeth, was watching as this fake MacBeth held Macbeth junior at swordpoint. Which Macbeth will walk away? he thought with a grin. Only one more, he thought. He reached for the dagger tucked in his belt.
Killing your father? asked a little voice in his head. Mac paused, dagger drawn. Fake Macbeth pressed the edge of the blade hard against his throat. Mac threw the knife into the audiance, and heard a scream. It was done.
From backstage, a thick silver-blue fog rolled up out of thin air, and strange whisperings could be heard. The audiance hushed, everyone stood frozen. The magic fog filled the theatre, seeming to stifle all sound and movement. Then it was gone.
The silence however remained. Everybody looked around. No one moved.
"Mother?" voice asked backstage, "Father?"
What was left of the scenery collapsed in response. The curse was still there. So were their parents. They had failed.
Backstage, Gruoch cried silently. All that bloodshed for nothing. It wasn't fair. It was evil.
Were they evil?
Mac stood still. More blood spilled down his bloodsoaked shirt, this time his own. There was a deep gash at one side of his throat, bleeding heavily. Fake Macbeth dropped the sword and stepped backwords in shock. He hadn't planned on hurting anyone. Mac picked up the weapon and walked way, still bleeding. Gruoch followed him. Neither spoke.
Mac would be fine. It was harder than that to kill a demon. Gruoch would find another spell.
Soon, they would return the the bloodsoaked slaughter house they had made of the theatre.
I don't own Macbeth, or else thinks would be really different.
This is violent and descriptive. If you don't want to read descriptions of mindless carnage, stop after the magic words.
....
The actors were ready for their first performance. It was three days late, but they could perform well enough that it was worth waiting for. At least, it was to those who didn't whole-heartedly hate the play.
Mac and Gruoch waited in a dark corner backstage. The spell was ready for the right time to begin. All the ingredients were laid out, the fire was lit. Gruoch knew the magic words by heart. And Mac, to borrow the words of his fictional father, had "bound up every corporeal agent to the deed." They waited in silence, listening to the damned play.
There was no more excitement or nervousness in this for them. Only a hollow ache. It was almost regret, but not really. They were past that. All of their emotion had gone away, bled out with the blood of countless actors.
On stage, the play wore on. "The weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, thus do go about, about! Thrice to thine, thrice to mine, thrice again to make up nine. Peace! The charms wound up." The little chant was a mind-game to Mac. He would pretend that the words bound him to the task ahead, leaving him no opportunity to back out.
To Gruoch, it was a signal to begin the spell. She began to mix the ingredients in a small pot over the flames. The spell didn't call for exact amounts, so she just threw in a hand-full of everything. Then she was done. She wiped her hands on her dress, and spoke the magic words:
ceathach casgair buidseachd.
Mac drew a battered old sword and stepped from the shadows. Almost immediately, a stage hand noticed him and came running over. The man started babbling at him, telling him he couldn't be here, to be quiet and follow him. The charm's wound up, Mac thought, as the point of his sword slipped under the man's ribs and out his back. For an instant they both froze, standing still in a strange kind of wonder. Then Mac pulled the sword back out. The stagehand screamed in agony, clutching uselessly at the wound. Blood gushed from his chest and back, spilling across the floor and props, and Mac. He fell to the floor, letting out a strangled moan as he died.
A woman's shriek shattered the bloody solitude that had built around Mac and his victim. An actress was screaming at the gruesome sight like there was no tomorrow, and in fact, there might not be. Stagehands and actors fled the scene, while security gaurds came running toward him with their guns drawn, yelling. Mac raced to the nearest gaurd, cutting his hand off halfway between the wrist and elbow. The man screamed as blood sprayed from the severed arm, completely defenseless. Mac slashed across the gaurd's belly, and his guts spilled out with the rushing waterfall of blood. The gaurd sank to his knees, taking another gaurd's shot at Mac, who circled behind him and plunged the sword into his heart. The other gaurd gasped in pain, his lifeblood shooting out in a crimson stream to join the smoking pools on the floor.
The next gaurd was too close behind the second to escape, and had his throat cut before he could step back. He did, however, manage to get one shot off, hitting Mac in the shoulder. But he couldn't stop. The charm's wound up. As the third gaurd fell backwards, the fourth was stabbed in the gut, screaming and falling forward, then Mac beheaded him. The other gaurds were beginning to run. Mac gave chase, cutting down two more with slashes to their backs, but eventually gave up the chase because those farther away were shooting as they ran. If he was killed, they couldn't finish the spell.
During the chaos, the curtains had been opened revealing the carnage backstage to a now panicking audiance. The people lost control and swarmed to the exits, trampling each other and blocking the doors in their haste to escape. The actors were torn between rushing past Mac to the backstage entrance, or trying their luck with the audience. Running onto the stage, Mac caught the actor playing Macduff on the edge of his sword, slashing him open and leaving him writhing in agony on the floor, then Ross tried to cut backstage and escape, but Mac caught him and stabbed him in the chest. He died without a word.
In the corner backstage, Gruoch watched the fire anxiously. She didn't watch the slaughter, but she heard the screaming, the death cries, the sound of bodies hitting the floor, and the constant rain of blood. The fire began to flicker blue. It was almost done. "Just a little more!" she called to her brother.
Mac turned to his sister's hiding place briefly. He saw the smoke rising become a bluish silver color. Then he felt a tug at his sword, and the hilt was torn from his grasp. He looked up to find the blade, red with blood, held at his throat by the actor playing Macbeth.
"Just one more!" Gruoch cried backstage, "Just one!"
Mac found himself wondering if his father, the real Macbeth, was watching as this fake MacBeth held Macbeth junior at swordpoint. Which Macbeth will walk away? he thought with a grin. Only one more, he thought. He reached for the dagger tucked in his belt.
Killing your father? asked a little voice in his head. Mac paused, dagger drawn. Fake Macbeth pressed the edge of the blade hard against his throat. Mac threw the knife into the audiance, and heard a scream. It was done.
From backstage, a thick silver-blue fog rolled up out of thin air, and strange whisperings could be heard. The audiance hushed, everyone stood frozen. The magic fog filled the theatre, seeming to stifle all sound and movement. Then it was gone.
The silence however remained. Everybody looked around. No one moved.
"Mother?" voice asked backstage, "Father?"
What was left of the scenery collapsed in response. The curse was still there. So were their parents. They had failed.
Backstage, Gruoch cried silently. All that bloodshed for nothing. It wasn't fair. It was evil.
Were they evil?
Mac stood still. More blood spilled down his bloodsoaked shirt, this time his own. There was a deep gash at one side of his throat, bleeding heavily. Fake Macbeth dropped the sword and stepped backwords in shock. He hadn't planned on hurting anyone. Mac picked up the weapon and walked way, still bleeding. Gruoch followed him. Neither spoke.
Mac would be fine. It was harder than that to kill a demon. Gruoch would find another spell.
Soon, they would return the the bloodsoaked slaughter house they had made of the theatre.