"O treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!

Thou mayst revenge--O slave!"

Fleance stared into the fire, remembering his father's last words before he died. He would never forget the look of terror and contorted pain on the man's face as he was struck down. Three cloaked figures were around him, dealing merciless blows to his head. Even now, the boy could still hear the horrifying cracks that echoed with every strike.

Why didn't he do any thing? Why didn't he help his father? Perhaps if he did, Banquo would have been alive and standing today. But instead, he had just stood in the distance like a helpless idiot, watching with horror as his father was killed.

He shivered, scooting closer to the fire. His poor father, dieing in such a way! Doubtlessly, Macbeth was behind this. True to his words, Fleance will kill that treacherous man. That man that dared to call himself the best friend of Banquo. Fleance closed his eyes, willing away the memory of the past. Slowly, his expression of anger faded from his face.

Silence engulfed him as he finally reached a sense of calamity. He snapped his eyes back open, greeted with the star-lit sky. The stars in Ireland were so different from the ones in Scotland. In Scotland, Fleance didn't even bare to look at the sky. They were dull and soulless, as if they lost their shine, their light. They signified dark times, he realized. Now, however, the stars were shining brightly, twinkling with hope and future.

Creak.

Fleance sat up, eyes wary. The noise definitely wasn't the one of firewood. He glanced around, trying to figure out the source of the sound. Slowly, he reached for the hilt of the sword his father entrusted to him. Cold sweat rolled down the side of his face as he anticipated the enemy approaching. What was behind him just may be those assassins, hotly pursuing his trail...

There was a rustle behind him. In a flash, he drew his sword, turning to face his opponent--only to find a rabbit scurrying away into the distance. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a wild animal.

Cold metal suddenly pressed against his neck, cutting into his skin. Fleance tensed, mind numb. His hands trembled, almost letting go of his own sword. He swallowed, resisting the urge to turn around. This was it. This was really it. He was going to die, right here, right now. Killed by some unknown assassin, without even avenging his father.

"Don't move," the voice behind him whispered. It was low and scratchy, as if the stranger hadn't talked for a while. "Drop the sword and place your hands behind you."

Fleance obeyed, letting the sword drop to the ground with a dull thud. His mind raced, trying to find a way to escape. He barely noticed when ropes were wound around his wrists, holding them in place.

"Turn around," the stranger commanded again.

"The boy did as so, pivoting his left foot. The blade was removed from his neck, but Fleance knew that his capturer wouldn't hesitate to chop his head off if he made some sort of brash decision. He eyed the sword on the floor. What were the chances that he could reach his sword before he gets stabbed?

"Who are you? State your name, villain!"

Fleance blinked. Wait, did he just say what he thought he just heard? No, he was pretty sure that he kept his mouth shut the whole time. Then, did the stranger just call him a villain? The last time he had checked, a killer wasn't supposed to call his prey a 'villain'. He studied the stranger carefully. He was slightly taller than Fleance, but he couldn't see any of his other features. They were covered by a dark, hooded cloak.

"I am Fleance, son of Banquo," the boy stated. "I'm not a villain, sir. I think it is the other way around."

This time, he only received silence as an answer. Seizing the opportunity, Fleance kicked his opponent, rushing towards his sword. He uprooted the sword into the soil with bound hands, slipping the rope around the blade as he tried to cut them loose. He glanced nervously behind him--the stranger was already recovering from the blow. He cursed, willing to be untied.

He heard the last strand snapped, just as the other approached him. He threw the ropes to the ground, raising his sword. His opponent, however, instead of dealing a blow, dropped his sword, raising his hands in air.

Fleance didn't care. Armed with adrenaline, he rushed towards the defenseless man. He didn't falter, swinging down his heavy blade. The man sidestepped easily, leaving the boy tumbling onto the ground.

"Ugh," Fleance groaned, rubbing his forehead. He had fallen head-first, ending up with a mouthful of dirt. He stumbled back up, trying to clear his brain. The sound of laughter reached his ears.

"Fleance, son of Banquo! Such good swordsmanship!"

Blood boiling at the mockery, said boy turned, only to meet the face of Donalbain, son of the late king of Scotland. The purple hood was now discarded in a distance, revealing flaming hair and piercing green eyes. The younger son was fifteen years old, just two years younger than Malcolm, his older brother. Fleance did a double-take. Donalbain was in the wilderness of Ireland. What did this mean? He knew that Duncan, the old king, was also killed by Macbeth. Was the evil man also after his sons?

"Prince Donalbain!" He exclaimed, all grudges forgotten as he rushed over to his side. "What are you doing in the woods? Shouldn't you be at a royal banquet in the king's castle?"

"The king's a coward," Donalbain spat. "He was afraid that if he took me in, he would face the wrath of Scotland. Seriously, I should have followed Malcolm into England. I heard that that he is living well under the protection of the King of England... What are you doing here, boy?"

"My father, Banquo, is dead," Fleance replied. "He was killed by Macbeth's henchmen, I'm sure of it. I fled here to avoid any pursuers and to hone my sword-fighting skills. I hope to avenge my father's death in the future, but as you saw, I can't wield a blade for my life."

A shadow flitted across Donalbain's face as he stood around the fire in contemplation. After a moment of silence, he sat down, signaling for the younger boy to do so as well. He sat across from the brooding teen, making no move to interrupt his thinking. Fleance glanced into Donalbain's face, but it yielded no clues to the windows of his thoughts. At last, he spoke.

"I don't know a lot about swordsmanship either, but I'm willing to teach you what I can."

At those words, Fleance nearly leaped for joy. He managed to control himself, but not completely. He fidgeted, not able to sit still. Donalbain gave him a weird look that seemed to ask, "Are you having a seizure, or are you just crazy?"

"Thank you!" The boy smiled, reaching for the hilt of the sword at his side--only to notice that it wasn't there.

Surprised, he glanced around, spotting the discarded sword in the distance. He stood to get it, only to realize that it may not be the right time to do so, judging the seriousness of the situation. He blushed, sitting back down. He, however, wasn't the only one embarrassed. He looked across to Donalbain, just to notice he was scowling madly at him.

"Don't get me wrong," the older boy muttered. "I want revenge for my father's death too. It's not just for you."

"Really?" Fleance asked. "Therefore... you're teaching me to wield a sword, so that we can kill Macbeth together?"

"Something like that. Should we start now?"

There was a glint in his eye. Donalbain stood up, and drew his sword, pointing it at the boy. He walked to where the other sword was lying, picking it up. He handed it to Fleance, smiling a little. The smaller boy grinned back, eagerly taking his sword as he grasped it tightly in his hands. Legs spread to give even balance, he looked at his opponent with determination.

"Well, let's go!" Fleance responded.

With Donalbain having the upper hand, the two lunged at each other. Two swords met in thin air with a metal ring. However, the older boy was obviously overpowering Fleance. He struggled, sword shaking from the power he placed into the sword. Suddenly, Donalbain stepped back. The episode earlier was almost repeated, if Fleance didn't regain his balance, turning around. Using his momentum, he swung his sword, clashing it against the other again.

"You learn quickly," the redheaded teen noted. "But that sword is too big for you."

"Huh, really? What do you recommend, then?"

Caught off guard, Donalbain drew his blade back from the check of swords as Fleance fell forward again. In the blink of an eye, the younger boy was on the floor, the sword pointed at his back. He sighed, his tense body sliding to the ground in defeat.

"That wasn't fair," he complained. "You talked. And the weight of the sword dragged me down."

"Do you think that you and Macbeth will fight a silent battle?" Donalbain countered. "It's better to be prepared; I am simply training you. However, about the sword..."

"Should I look for another one suitable for me?"

"I doubt you will find one. In my opinion, if you to train enough to wield that sword, you will have enough strength to defeat Macbeth."

Hearing those words, fire rekindled within Fleance's eyes. Renewed with strength and vigor, he picked his sword back up. This time, he swung it with speed, knocking the sword out of his supposed teacher's hands. He glanced at his arm--ouch, it was going to hurt tomorrow. Today, however, he would definitely defeat Donalbain.

"Hey, that wasn't fair, either. The fight was over!" Donalbain glared, taking a defensive position.

"Wouldn't Macbeth do that, at the brink of his death?" Fleance taunted, striking with his sword.

--oo-oo-oo--

"Hey, Donalba--I mean, William! Wait up!"

Light feet landed against the brick walkway, creating soft footsteps. A redhead turned around, facing the approaching figure. He wore an annoyed expression with a hint of concealed amusement. He glanced at his brunette companion as he skidded to a quick stop in front of him, catching his breath with his hands placed on his knees.

"Gee," Fleance panted, finally glancing up. "Why do you like such complicated names? I mean, first Donalba--I mean, you know. First, that name. Now, it's William. And you won't even let me call you Will! I think Will is much cooler, it reminds me of a dignified pirate determined to save himself or something."

Donalbain ignored the pirate comment, choosing only to answer the boy's first question. "I think that long names show sophistication and class. Besides, William is a better name, compared with Sky. Really, Sky. What kind of name is that? Did you take after the first thing that you see?"

"Actually, I think it's unique," Fleance replied, grinning.

The two boys were currently in a city bordering Ireland, working under false names for food and shelter. It was the older of the two that came up with the idea of false names, just in case the king of Ireland found them once again and kicked them out of his country. True to his predicament, the king was indeed in the small community. Soldiers patrolled every street, stony and silent. However, this did not bother the boys at all. At least, it didn't bother Fleance.

"Why do you think the king's here?" The son of Banquo wondered, crossing his hands behind his head.

"Probably hiding from violence in the main city," Donalbain muttered.

They crossed the busy city square, trying not to bump into anyone. However, it proved an impossible task as the tiny area was overpopulated by merchants, soldiers, mother and children alike. As they passed through the sea of people, Fleance felt as if his eardrums were going to explode from the amount of noise.

"Have you seen this boy?" A voice asked, catching the attention of the small brunette. He whirled around, only to collide into a mini oil painting of some sort. He took a step backwards, creating some distance to make out what was in the small frames. It was a portrait of some kind, of a boy in his mid-teens with bright, apple-red hair and a scowling expression that shadowed over his green eyes.

Hm, Fleance blinked. Where did he see that expression before?

Realization dawned over him as he recognized the portrait of his companion, Donalbain. He tore away from the stranger, not noticing as the man tried to follow him, only to get lost in the crowd. He dashed through the streets, trying to catch sight of the usually standing-out red-head. He muttered a strand of curses under his breath, realizing that he had lost his friend while the stranger interviewed him.

"William!" He cried, hoping that the other would hear. "William, come out or I'll chop you into pieces!"

When he received no answer, Fleance turned around, running through the streets again. Why was someone looking for Donalbain? Could it be Macbeth, trying to finish his job? What was the need? Donalbain wouldn't step back to Scotland again, and he wasn't even a threat for the throne. Why would they go after Donalbain? Did Macbeth suspect the conspiracy between Fleance and the other boy?

A flash of red. Eyes alert, Fleance glanced back at the area where he spotted it. Through the thick crowd, Fleance saw the flaming hair of Donalbain. He ran towards it, squeezing between the gaps of people. Keeping an eye on his non-moving target, the boy drew closer to Donalbain. Fleance could now see the back of his friend's shirt, a shade of dark green.

"Excuse me," he mumbled to two fairly... plump ladies with giant dresses. Either they were simply ignoring him, or they were deaf. Fleance scowled, running out of patience. He had to get through the two middle-aged women to tell Donalbain the news of the inquiring man. The older boy was simply ten feet away, but due to the noise of the crowd, there was no way that Fleance's voice would reach him.

He had no other choice. He took a few steps back, preparing to use his speed to break through the barrier. A second later, he was dashing with lightning speed, aiming for the small gap between the ladies' dresses. With a yell of triumph, he broke through. Now, he had to tell his friend of the stranger...

He stumbled, tripping upon endless laces and frills. His hand reached out, trying to grab any type of support. They landed on green fabric, pulling onto it tightly. A surprised Donalbain turned around, glaring at whoever dared to touch him. The expression faded, however, when he realized who it was.

"Fleance, where did you go? I was searching for you."

"This guy in the streets stopped me," Fleance answered, still holding onto Donalbain for support. "He was asking about you, so I searched everywhere for you. Seriously, I think Macbeth's men are after you again... Anyway, let's go!"

Fleance glanced back up, intending to point to the path ahead. Instead, what he saw caused his heart to stop dead.

The man from earlier stood, smiling down at the two of them. In one hand, he held the small portrait of the redhead, and in the other, he held a sword. Fleance froze, staring with wordless horror. Donalbain, not sensing the distress, pulled his friend forward, giving an introduction.

"Fleance, meet William," he said. "He is a messenger from my brother."

"Oh? So Prince Malcolm is safe in England?"

"No. William says that Macbeth is already dead."

A/N: This was for a 10th grade Macbeth creative writing project. Read, laugh, and flame. Alright, I'll be hiding now...