Hello, ModernDayBard here! Welcome to the seventh and final chapter of Upon this Blasted Heath, my Macbeth fanfic. Thank you so much for coming along this journey with me! The first part of this chapter will start out with the lines from a scene in the play, but that does not last, given the events that have transpired.
Remember: I don't own Macbeth (plot, dialogue, or characters), and anything in bold and italics are words that are either Shakespeare's or part of the prologue of Regent University's production of this show. However, the words with which I narrate and the new direction this story takes are completely my own.
A day's journey hence, at Macbeth' castle in Iverness, his wife was rereading the last missive her husband had sent. He'd sent a letter with the runner sent from camp before the last attack, and the words it contained lit a dark fire of ambition in the raven-haired woman's heart. She read it aloud yet again, savoring the promise it contained as her husband told of his encounter with the twisted hags.
"They met me in the day of success, and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it came missives from the king, who all-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor,' by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou might'st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell."
Taking the written words literally, she tucked the letter beneath the neckline of her gown, the safest place she could think of, speaking aloud to the empty air as she pictured her husband—Thane of Glamis, and now Cawdor. "Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be what thou art promised." Yet as she thought, obstacles rose up in her mind. "Yet do I fear your nature; it is too full o' th' milk of human kindness. Hie thee hither that I may pour my spirits in thine ear and chastise thee with the valor of my tongue—"
Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of one of their servants. Frowning, she demanded of the young man, "What is your tidings?"
"The king comes here tonight," he reported, coming to attention.
Lady Macbeth frowned in confused disbelief. "Thou'rt mad to say it. Is not thy master with him, who, were't so, would've informed for preparation?" Surely, surely her lord would not have failed to give notice if the king was coming.
"So please you," the poor boy made so bold as to reply, "it is true: our Thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more than would make up his message." The servant had hoped that mentioning the messenger's state would serve as proof of his veracity.
Indeed, it seemed to be so, for the lady of the castle dismissed the servant with orders to, "give him tending. He brings great news." As the servant left to do her bidding, the wife of Glamis began to weave her dark schemes aloud, delighted at the opportunity that fate itself seemed to have handed the couple.
"Come you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood. Stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose! Come to my woman's breasts, and take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers. Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry "Hold, hold!"
Thunderous footsteps interrupted her invocation, announcing the arrival of her lord and husband. The raven-haired woman turned an excited predator's smile to the bald man, calling down, "Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor, greater than both by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present, and I feel now the future i' the instant."
Macbeth, still in his battle-garb, made no move to change to his court dress, nor did he respond to her call, her elation. "My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight," he said at last, but for all the world, his tone spoke of heaviness, as if he could not see the chance before him.
"And when goes hence?" his lady asked, hoping to stir her husband to action.
"Tomorrow, as he purposes, and I am to accompany him to Dunsinane. Thou, my dear'st heart, may join with us, and welcome be in the king's home."
Lady Macbeth felt her next words die in her throat. For what purpose were they invited to the royal stronghold? Her lord may have been kinsman to the king, but never had such an invitation been given them before. Perhaps Macbeth had performed beyond expectation in the battle? Whatever the reason, their plan must come to fruition before the royal party's departure.
"He shalt not leave this house, for those who lay such greatness before you have delivered him into our hands."
"Speak not such treacherous things!" Glamis's wife took an involuntary step back at Macbeth's shout, and in her surprise, she almost missed his next words, spoken in a weakened, broken voice. "How could you conceive to betray a man who has lost his only children—and named me his heir?"
"The timing then is all the better," the lady pressed, embracing her husband, inviting him to join her in her plot. "Play this grief evermore, and no suspicion will fall upon you when his crown shall pass to you. This glory is yours by right of prophecy—"
"I bade thee to speak no more!" The black-haired woman stared in shock at her lord, who never before had offered her such resistance. What had happened in this latest war to cause this general to fight at home, the place before he'd always let her have sway? "The twisted hags may have predicted my rise, but all my advances have come without stir. In time, this one shall as well. One who would seize the crown with a rebel's bloody hand deserves it not, and many men already lost to this world would suit the title better. Yet still mine uncle has given me his trust and named me Prince of Cumberland. What else will come will come in time, meanwhiles I were best to study how to deserve and use them."
"What of Banquo? For it was foretold by your same prophets that his issue and not your own should follow you to the throne—"
"Indeed they shall. Or have you yet forgotten our daughter and his son are close in age? Why should my closest friend and trusted right-hand be not, indeed, the father of kings as was foretold to him?"
Lady Macbeth stared into the eyes of her lord and husband—Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, and now Prince of Cumberland, heir to the throne of Scotland. Never before had he shown such inner strength, such—dare she say—nobility? At once she remembered the strong, confident general she'd first met when he courted her. Whatever had happened between his letter and arrival had changed him, reminded him of something he'd once possessed, or once strove for.
Dark and murderous thoughts subsided, giving way to wonder and inner musings. *Am I content to give sway to him in this matter, when greatness hangs so close? But if I fight him in this, what will I lose? Perhaps, rising to power in the way he intends will better protect from enemies. My lord is yet young, Duncan, old. The crown may soon be his—especially if grief takes its toll on the king, as it is want to do—and when it comes, long may it rest upon him.* Thus decided, she took the proffered arm as they went to their chamber to prepare for their royal guest, and coming journey. At the doorway, Macbeth hesitated, taking Macdonwald's secret weapon from where he'd stashed it in his belt after their furious encounter. For a second he scowled at the rebel's strange device, before dropping it and decisively treading it underfoot.
Away upon the withered heath, in the weathered haunt of the twisted sisters, the three inhuman figures crouched and hissed as the scene in Iverness unfolded on the screen before them. How could this be? They'd planted royal hopes in an ambitious but politically ignorant general, as they had many times before, but the age-old story refused to unfold. The death of the king's children and Macbeth's sudden rise had been unexpected yet welcome developments, but instead of spurring the Thane on to his own downfall, they strengthened a previously unseen penchant for nobility. They'd even failed to turn him against his own friend, as he chose instead to fulfill their supposed prophecies.
This had never happened yet before. Whenever they had followed the same pattern, under orders of Hecate, their master, ambition led to murder, then paranoia—never this accursed patience! How could this have hidden within a man who, by all exterior proofs, would never have made a worthy heir or king?
The twisted sisters would have cursed Fate—had they believed in such a thing as 'Fate'—for, of course, this would happen the one time they acted before orders came, in their malicious fervor to further their mysterious master's will.
They knew full well the greatness and consequences of his wrath; the technology that sustained them being of his design and under his remote control. Even if he did not kill them for meddling in matters that did not concern them, he could make them howl in pain for days on end.
The screen above them flickered to life, and at the tone that announced communication from their master, the hags crouched down, cowering from the inevitable...
In the king's chamber at Iverness, far from the sound of the monstrous screams, Duncan tossed in restless slumber. Safe as his person may have been in his kinsman's home, not even blood and loyalty could protect the king from the troubled dreams that plagued his mind nightly.
The dream began the same as it had every night since the terrible day. In full court dress, the king strode determinably through the halls of Dunsinane, dread and fear filling him as he searched desperately. Just ahead of him, he could hear the twins—not as he had last seen them, nearly full-grown and talking of battles, strategies, and politics; but their voices as children, dim echoes of the past. At times they would speak in low, serious tones to each other, other times high, childish laughter would echo through venerable stone halls. Only once could he hear a word clearly; once, he thought he heard the shade of his young son call out, "Father!" in a playful tone—one he had not heard Malcolm use in many a year. He was trying to find them, trying to catch up, to see them again, but his court dress so restricted movement that he couldn't reach the corners before they'd turned the next. And still, the echoes of their voices never faded, calling him onward.
This was the dream that'd plagued him since first he learned of his loss, never changing, only increasing his grief at the thought of letting his beloved children slip away yet again, night after night.
But this night was different. This night, Duncan was determined to see his children one last time, however old (or young) they appeared. As if the inner desire to be a father overcame the dream's constraints, and his garments shifted from his constricting court dress to a simpler garb, akin to what he used to wear when he would play with the twins in their early, early years.
*When did I stop spending time with them as children, and only seeing them in the role of my heirs? Did they know how much I loved them? When did last I tell them?*
Tormented as he was by his thoughts, at least his gait was less restricted, and he was able to lengthen his stride and quicken his pace. At last, he rounded a final corner and found himself in the chamber that'd once served as the twin's playroom. For a moment, he stood in the door way, just looking at the two small forms in front of him. They could be no older than four or five, working together to build something with a simple set of blocks. They sat with their backs to him, and he stared at them silently, taking in the fiery red hair they'd inherited from the queen, their mother; remembering as he saw yet again how much smaller than his sister Malcolm had been at that age.
He took one step towards them, and they turned to face him, beaming at him, their innocent delight reflected in their grey eyes. They stood and ran to him, calling out, "Father!"
He knelt to meet them, catching them in the embrace he'd thought to never feel again. He knew not how long he held them, clutching them tightly as if they were a lifeline to a happier time. A sob caught in his throat, and he shades of his children seemed to feel it. They leaned back to see his face without squirming out of his arms, regarding him solemnly, and young Donalbain put out a hand, wiping away a tear her father hand not noticed had spilled out. "It's alright, father," she assured him in her young voice.
"I am so sorry," Duncan, choked out as he looked from one child to the other. "I made you leave behind your childhood to soon. I treated you, expected you to be my heirs and not my children. Did ever I tell you when you did something right? Or was all my breath and time spent finding fault? Did ever I tell you—did ever I tell you how much I loved you?"
Unexpectedly, the twins laughed and embraced him again. "It's alright, father," Donalbain repeated, whispering in the old king's ear.
Her brother spoke next, and at his words, Duncan hoped beyond hope that this was more than just a dream, that somehow, he really was hearing his children.
"Your actions showed us much, even when your words did not. We knew, father. We knew."
Thank you again for sticking with me through this crazy and depressing story, and I hope you feel the end was worth your time. I had a great time writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it! And yes, i know in the play that it says Macbeth has no children, I did shift that detail a bit. I hope it didn't throw too many people off.
If you like it, or if you see something that I can improve on in the future, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!