hello again, smol macbeth fandom!

thanks so much for all your support on Come What May...i really appreciate it! thanks to KeeperOfTheBigHeroQuintessence for reviewing!

hopefully you like this story! it's gonna be pretty dark...but I'm loving writing it and i hope you guys enjoy it!

a reminder:

macbeth x skye

banquo x kniertje

lady macbeth aka gruoch is dead

four main characters are all seventeen now

malcolm is king of scotland

are we clear! awesome!

peace out!

-macbeth-

This tunic is ruining my life.

I tug at the pale yellow fabric uncomfortably as I watch Banquo and Kniertje say their wedding vows. Both of them are dressed in white tunics that fit them perfectly—but of course the tailor gave me one that was probably made for a twelve-year-old. I bet he thought that was funny. My tunic is the right length, the hemline hitting just below my knees, but the tailor had the nerve to make it fitted around the waist. It took me like five minutes to squeeze into it this morning, and I'm not sure I'll be able to get out of it.

I pull my thoughts away from my clothes and focus on my friend—my best friend. Banquo is smiling radiantly, gazing at Kniertje with an expression of rapture. He's so happy to be getting married.

Two small hands wrap suddenly around my waist, squeezing gently. I smile as Skye leans her head on my shoulder, her pregnant stomach gently brushing my back. She's eight months in, and it's easy to tell my wife is going to have a baby. Skye was kind of upset that she started showing almost immediately, but it dissipated into excitement. I'm excited too—and worried. I've been stress eating kind of a lot lately.

"…then I pronounce you husband and wife."

I yank myself out of my head as Banquo and Kniertje kiss enthusiastically and everyone cheers. My cousin is beaming, happiness written all over his no longer round face. He finally lost the chubby cheeks lost my baby fat. I still have a round face and soft skin under my chin, as well as a slightly rounded midsection—which my tunic is irritating at the moment. I need to go take this off as soon as possible.

But first I need to go tell Banquo congratulations. I hold out a hand for Skye to take and lead my wife through the crowd, finally reaching Banquo and Kniertje.

I throw my arms around my best friend, and Banquo hugs me back, squeezing tightly and nearly lifting me off my feet.

"Congratulations," I gasp, struggling against Banquo's tight grip. My cousin releases me, laughing.

"Thanks, Macbeth," he replies. "Now we're both married!"

"And I'm sure we'll both be expecting soon. When do you plan to have kids?"

"As soon as possible?" Banquo asks, glancing at Kniertje.

His wife smiles. "That's fine with me."

"As soon as possible," Banquo confirms to me. "Are you ready for the wedding feast?"

"Can I go take this off first?" I groan, tugging at my tunic again. "It's killing me."

Banquo laughs. "Yeah, of course. Call us if you need any help."

"And why would I need help?"

"I don't know, it looks pretty tight."

I shoot a glare at Banquo, but it quickly dissipates into a smile. I head back to my room in the chambers that us men are staying in and quietly lock the door. Pulling my tunic up, I struggle to get it off.

"Come on," I growl, trying to yank the tunic up over my stomach to no avail. I swear it isn't my fault—it's the tailor's. Seriously, I think he has something against me.

After at least ten minutes of trying to get out of my tunic, I sigh and let the cloth flop back down over my abdomen. Stupid thing isn't going to come off.

Suddenly, a flash of movement catches my eye. I frown and cross the room over to the window, peering out of it. A dark figure stands on the sweeping grounds of Castle Dunsinane, holding what looks like…

A staff.

For a moment, I almost think I see a faint purple glow surrounding the top of the long branch, but then I blink and the figure is gone. My eyes widen and I scan the grounds for it, but it's completely vanished. And I'm sure it wasn't just a hallucination.

But Gruoch is the only one who ever had a staff like that, and it was destroyed in the river. She was destroyed in the river.

Gruoch is dead.

Isn't she?

After several minutes of staring out the window, I realize I need to get back down to the wedding feast. I can't miss it—it's Banquo's wedding feast. I can't just skip my best friend's celebration.

First, though, I have to get this stupid tunic off. But it's so tight that I can barely move, let alone remove it. After several minutes of pulling on it, I'm lying on my bed, panting, all thoughts of mysterious figures forgotten.

I pull in my stomach and finally manage to yank the tunic up, freeing myself from the tight fabric. I gasp in air and then pull on a different, bigger yellow tunic—yellow is my favorite color.

Finally ready, I head back down to the feast. The sticky buns are abundant today, courtesy of Banquo. He specifically ordered "more sticky buns than is legal" because he knows I like them. He's a great cousin.

After the feast, Banquo and I go back to the men's chambers, and Skye and Kniertje go to the women's. My stomach is comfortably full and I'm sleepy, but I'm suddenly feeling apprehensive about the strange person I saw on the castle grounds. Who was it? Was that a magic staff? Did I really see whoever it was?

I pull Banquo into my room and lock the door, then sit him down on the bed and explain everything. His dark blue eyes get steadily wider until they're almost complete circles.

"But it can't be Gruoch," Banquo whispers. "She's dead. And how would someone get her staff? It was lost in the river, and we buried the last staffs with her."

"Yeah…" I muse, thinking. "We should check if her grave's been dug up or something. She wasn't a nice woman, but people still shouldn't be digging up her grave."

Banquo nods. "We'll check in the morning. Good night, Macbeth."

"Good night," I whisper. "And congratulations."

I lock the door behind Banquo and flop back into my bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. I don't want anything to jump out at me from the dark tonight.

The torch in the corner lights the room softly, and I know it's a fire hazard—but I'm scared. For some reason, I don't feel safe.

So I don't blow it out.

The next morning dawns gray and cloudy, though fairly warm, and Banquo and I go to check on Gruoch's grave. Sure enough, the dirt has been dug out and hastily put back in.

"I can't believe this," Banquo hisses. "Regardless of who she was, we should respect the dead."

"Do you think they got what they came for?" I ask quietly, wondering if the staffs are still in the grave.

"I hope not," Banquo replies. "Those staffs are dangerous—if someone got the ones we put in the grave, we need to find them and get it back. I don't want anyone in danger. We need to go report this to the king."

He turns to leave, but I hang back for a moment, studying the headstone. And what I see there chills me to the bone.

The date of death is gone.

I hurry to catch up with Banquo, unsure of why I don't want to tell him about that.

Later that day, Banquo, Kniertje, Skye, and I go back to Inverness. The clouds covering the sky break halfway home, and we and our horses are absolutely drenched.

When we finally make it back, I dismount and help Skye off her steed. Banquo leads the horses back to the stable and I go into the castle, going up to my bedroom. Skye and I still have separate rooms, but sometimes we'll go sleep in each other's. I do like having alone time, though, so I decided to keep mine.

I collapse on my bed—I seem to be doing that a lot lately—and bury my face in my pillow. What's going on? I'm kind of feeling a sense of impending doom.

Gruoch is gone—she died in the river. Katavid confirmed it, and he's a medic. He'd know if someone was dead or alive. And we buried the remaining staffs—except the blackwood one with the purple feathers. That one was destroyed in the river as well, and we know that because people found the feathers miles downriver. The staff is gone. Gruoch is gone.

But if whoever dug up her grave wanted to get the staffs, why were they holding the purple one? That one wasn't buried with Gruoch. And then there's the headstone—what's up with the dates on that thing? You can't just erase carvings like that.

I sigh and roll over onto my back, rubbing my temples. I'm starting to get a headache.

A soft knock comes at the door, and I recognize that it's Skye. I get up and let my wife in, putting a hand on her rounded stomach. I can feel the baby—our baby—moving, and the thought calms me down a little.

"Is something wrong?" Skye asks, giving me a peck on the cheek. "You seem worried. Banquo does too." She sits down heavily on my bed, leaning back and wrapping her arms around her baby bump.

I sigh. "I thought I saw something at Castle Dunsinane, something that looked like Gruoch holding her staff. Me and Banquo went to check on her grave, and someone had dug it up. I think they took the staffs we buried with her."

Skye's beautiful blue eyes are wide—terrified, almost. "Oh my gosh. That's…that's really not good."

"I know," I whisper. "I'm really worried. Gruoch is gone—but I think someone is trying to take her place."

Skye takes one of my hands in both of hers, giving me a slight smile. "Don't worry, Macbeth. No one can come back from the dead."

She gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves my room, closing the door behind her.

I stare out the window for several minutes, feeling relaxed until I realize something.

I never said anything about coming back from the dead.

That night, I can't sleep. I haven't blown the torch out tonight, either, and I haven't drawn the curtains around my bed—I want to be able to see all of my surroundings. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm really scared. Whatever that figure was, it wasn't a hallucination. Someone really does have Gruoch's staffs.

I try to sleep, but the wind rages loudly, dashing the rain against the windowpanes. Lightning flashes every few seconds, and thunder booms constantly in between it. No one could sleep in this kind of storm, even someone who wasn't scared out of their wits.

Sleep is just beginning to take me when I catch sight of something outside—a glint of light.

Purple light.

I leap out of bed and fling open my window, ignoring the torrential rain pouring in. Sticking my head out into the rain, I watch as the gleaming light shines brightly through the rain. It looks like it's coming from the top of a faraway hill.

Dunsinane Hill…

The light vanishes, and I remember suddenly that my head is sticking out into the rain, getting soaked. I pull it back inside and close the window, shaking the water out of my hair.

I climb back into bed and try to sleep, attempting to calm my racing heart. But I've just closed my eyes when I hear a loud bang, and my eyes fly open to see my windowpane swing out into my room. The wind whistles through it and blows the torch out.

I hear a faint scream echoing through the night, and pain shoots through the old scars on my palms.

The next morning, I drag myself down to breakfast, exhausted. I didn't sleep all night—I was too busy huddled under the covers on my bed, staring around the room in case something jumped out at me. My window is broken from the wind, so water is streaming into my room and soaking the plush rugs.

I pull up a chair in the dining hall and promptly begin stress eating anything I can find—fruit, empire biscuits, bacon, sticky buns. This is not going to help me in any way, but it's all I can think to do at this point.

Banquo sits down next to me and takes a slice of pear off my overfilled plate. "Hey, Macbeth. What's wrong?"

"How did you know?" I mumble as I stuff another sticky bun into my mouth.

"You only eat this much if you're seriously worried. It's kind of obvious, really. Here, I'll stress eat with you."

Translation: I'll take three-quarters of your breakfast and eat all of it even if it makes me sick, just so you don't do the same to yourself. Silly Banquo. Although he regularly saves me from overindulgence, so I guess that's good.

"Seriously, Macbeth," Banquo insists. "Tell me what's wrong."

I sigh as I cram the last sticky bun into my mouth. "I'm really worried about the staffs. And I…I didn't tell you this, but I looked over the headstone when we went to go check out Gruoch's grave. The date of death is gone, Banquo."

Banquo takes it in stride, then asks, "Anything else?"

"Last night I saw a bright flash of purple light out by Dunsinane Hill. The wind flung my window open and broke it, and the torch went out. Then I heard a scream, and my scars started to hurt. I couldn't sleep the rest of the night."

Banquo grabs my left hand—the one with the scar that got infected for a short time—and examines it. "It doesn't look any different—but you would notice if it did, since you're a medic now."

"You believe me, right?" I ask quizzically.

"Of course!" Banquo exclaims. "I just wish there was a logical explanation for this."

"Yeah," I whisper. "Me too."

Suddenly, a servant—my favorite one, Siward—pokes his head into the dining room. "Lord Macbeth, a message from Castle Dunsinane has just been delivered."

"Go ahead," I tell him with a nod.

Siward takes a deep breath. "All the royalty and nobility of Scotland are required to be at Castle Dunsinane by sunset tonight, dressed in their finest attire—"

I swear I'm not wearing that stupid tunic again.

"—or that which is appropriate for the king's funeral."

If I had water in my mouth, I would have spewed it all over the table. "What?!"

But Malcolm was made king only a year and a half ago. He's young and healthy and a good ruler. There's no way he can just be dead.

"The king was found murdered in his chambers this morning," Siward says tonelessly. "Donalbain will be crowned the sunrise following the burial. He asks that all come to honor his brother."

"We'll come," I whisper. "Thank you, Siward."

The servant inclines his head. "Of course, Lord Macbeth."

He turns and leaves, and I put my hands to my temples, feeling the familiar headache coming on. I can't think straight. King Malcolm has been murdered?

"This has to have something to do with the staffs," Banquo whispers. "There's no way it was a coincidence. That scream you heard—I bet it was Malcolm."

"But how could I have heard it?" I ask. "I was here at Inverness. He was all the way in Dunsinane."

"If there's magic at work, anything could happen," Banquo says. "I can't believe Malcolm's dead—he was such a good king, just like his father. Who would want to kill him?"

"I…I don't know," I whisper. "I would have said Gruoch, but she's gone. It has to be the person who dug up her staffs, whoever they are."

"Definitely," Banquo agrees. "But…something just feels so wrong about this whole situation. Like something that shouldn't have happened has happened anyway—something involving magic. I think the staffs are a lot more powerful than we originally thought."

"Yeah," I say worriedly. "Maybe we can look for evidence at Castle Dunsinane, see if there's any signs of magic. You want to come with me to the tailor to get new clothes?"

Banquo and I set off to the tailor's room, which is spacious and filled with fabric of all colors. When I open the door, a small bell rings, and the tailor comes out to greet us. He's a small, skinny young man whose name I think is Caelan.

"Hello, Lord Macbeth, Lord Banquo!" he says brightly. "What can I do for you?"

"We need something nice to wear to the king's funeral," I tell Caelan. "Dark gray, probably, with just a little bit of trim. And please—no belts. And no fitting it in the waist."

"Request granted, my dear thane!" Caelan exclaims. "If you'll just step up on this stool…"

I do so, and the tailor begins pulling out gray fabric, muttering to himself. He cuts the fabric to the correct size and studies it, then drapes it over me. I suck in my stomach and try not to breathe as Caelan stitches the fabric together.

After several minutes of me taking quick, short breaths and trying not to move too much, Caelan exclaims, "Done! See how that feels on you!"

I relax, and I immediately feel the newly sewn seams straining. Maybe I shouldn't have sucked in my stomach—it makes the final product so tight. But I feel kind of bad, so I tell him it's great and let Banquo take his turn. My cousin, of course, comes away with a perfectly fitted tunic. Maybe it's more my fault than Caelan's that I keep getting too-tight tunics.

"Here, lads, hand your tunics to me and I'll trim them for you," Caelan offers, holding out his hands. "You need to look as noble as possible for the funeral."

Banquo has to assist me in pulling my tunic off. Caelan apologizes profusely and sews me a new one, this one much looser and trimmed with silver ribbon. I drop several gold coins into his hand and the tailor thanks me, then ushers us out the door.

Banquo and I go to retrieve our wives, and we all climb onto our horses to ride to Dunsinane. The dirt road has turned to mud, and the rain is still pouring down. We're completely soaked by the time we arrive at the castle.

Donalbain, dressed in dark gray robes, greets us at the door of Castle Dunsinane. His eyes are red and swollen—he's been crying. Poor guy, losing his father and brother only eighteen months apart.

I help Skye down from our horse, and my pregnant wife stumbles as she steps onto the ground.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly, putting a hand on her stomach. It's become a habit.

"Of course," Skye assures me as we walk into the castle, finally out of the rain. "The baby just kicked. I think it's probably getting cramped in there—it won't be long until he's here. At least, I hope it's a he. I've always wanted a son."

"Whatever the baby is, you'll love it," I tell her. "You're going to be a wonderful mother."

"I'm just looking forward to fitting in my armor again," Skye groans, glancing down at her stomach, which has her dress stretched tightly over it. "I definitely prefer that to this stupid formal attire."

I laugh. I know exactly how she feels.

We dump our stuff in our chambers—I can't believe we're already back at Castle Dunsinane—and then go to the funeral. It's long and sad and there are a lot of crying women. And crying men, but it's mostly Donalbain. He's only a year or two older than me—he's probably terrified about ruling Scotland.

Malcolm's coffin is lowered into the ground next to King Duncan's, widening the royal family's plot. Heaps of pine branches are placed on the mound of fresh dirt, since it's winter and there aren't any flowers yet. The headstone is set at the end of the grave, and the crowd dissipates in stunned silence.

How can our king be dead? He was so young. Such a good ruler. Malcolm stood for everything Scotland is.

How can he be dead after all we fought for?

The next morning, we stand in the great hall of Castle Dunsinane for Donalbain's coronation, listening to the church bells toll for Malcolm. Hopefully Donalbain will be just as good a king as his brother was.

But the bells ring for much longer than they should, and Banquo and I glance at each other in confusion. Kniertje and Skye are whispering to each other, and a murmur swells in the crowd.

Then a servant bursts into the room, panting and clutching his chest. He scrambles up onto the platform that Donalbain is supposed to be crowned on, staring out at the crowd with terrified eyes.

"The king!" he gasps. "The king is dead!"

"We know that, you idiot!" calls the captain of the guard. "Now get off that platform!"

"No—not Malcolm!" the servant wails. "Donalbain! He's dead—murdered in his chambers! King Donalbain of Scotland is dead!"

The servant sinks to his knees, and the captain of the guard lets out a bellow of fury. Malcolm and Donalbain's mother, the queen consort, begins to wail.

And the great hall erupts into chaos.