Chapter Text
133 days, here, in that cell in the deep caves beneath the great castle. That was a guess, based on nothing, he had no count of the days gone by and even less recollection of how much time had passed since this existence of his began. As foretold by the weird sisters, Macbeth’s end came on the backs of impossible prophetic songs. The woods cannot uproot and move towards Dunsinane hill, and all men are woman born. Except, it seemed, Macduff. Oh, how he could laugh. It does, however, beg the question of what was in line for him. The fates had promised many roused things all warped within their cauldron of cruel recompense. Though, he felt in his soul that he was unfairly placed within this storm.
He had no place to roam, no place to go. He was trapped within these four walls and stone steps with these hellish things. Although, he was sure, they thought the same of him. He longed for freedom from this place, to fly, fly far away and to seek out what he had been bearing the painful absence of. But enough of that, the longing would only grow with each passing moment he pondered over it. He felt confined within this crib of despair and confusion. Even worse, his words were but breath into the wind. What, with the loudness of his thoughts that would drown out any other speaking. Not that he would listen, even if he could speak to him.
Whatever chill blew through the gaps in the stone merely left him numb. He’d grown use to that feeling, dull nothingness of his time here. The days are liquid, endless stream of consciousness that bears upon him is torturous, but the lack of purpose to his days, the lack of order, drove a different strain of madness through a man. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had nowhere else to run to, even if he wanted as no one could see him. Or maybe it was seeping remorse he felt that bled into his perception of the tyrant. The man to blame was dead. The man who slept on the bed of hay was nothing more than the ghost of him.
Why he was stuck beside him, he had no hopes of knowing. He would rather be here to punish Macbeth’s guilty mind then to be a constant reminder to his old friend what he had lost. Whatever pains the man had once deserved, seemingly had been knocked out of his soul along with the memories of why he was given them. The tally of his sins upon the slate of his life had been wiped clean and all that was left was dust, decay.
It was a sorry sight, however foolish a thought to have sympathy for a mad tyrant, all he could see in his sleeping face was the pitiful painting of the scorched forest once the rain came and dampened out the flames of violence. The sleeping and the dead were but images of little difference, although maybe Macbeth would be more peaceful in death than his sleep. Whatever his brain was wrought with would soon slip from his memory upon his awake. And it seemed the man was stirring. In a second, his deep brown eyes focused on his blue ones. He blinked and turned away, though Banquo wished he wouldn’t. His wrath at his old friend had melted away and he was plagued with guilt at the pain he had brought him. The tyrant would have deserved it, deserved worse, but the Tyrant was dead.
Macbeth had never been a cowardly man, a stupid one in moments, a deluded one in others, but he was not overcome by self-preservation above honour and duty. So, when he cowered from Banquo’s ghostly form, he knew it wasn’t out of trying to protect himself from harm. The dried blood on his skin itched, but his skin of course, was simply that of a phantom. An apparition that was once tasked to haunt and hurt the villain in his cage, but now was as trapped as he was.
Macbeth shifted his back against the cold stone to peer out of the window as he did every day. Between the three of them, it seemed Macbeth was coping the best with the confinement even despite both his and Lady Macbeth’s ability to move further and farther than Macbeth could.
It was lonely. He couldn’t speak a word due to the gashes in his head that severed his ability. Lady Macbeth was slipping more into nothingness as time trekked on, as did King Duncan, who remained to haunt Macbeth a mere few days before his soul moved on. But Banquo’s soul did not yet know any slither of peace and so here he remained.
Macbeth seemed only still when he was looking out into the sky. Banquo never quite knew what the man was searching for in the heavens; stars, birds, some sign from God or a prophecy from the devil painted in the moon. He’d hold his breath if he had any as he slowly moved closer as if approaching a chained beast or a skittish fawn with a broken leg. It was fair fitting.
His movements were silent, undetectable by the other man until a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He tensed, jaw locked, but he didn’t jump or even move as if waiting for some blow to come. Banquo sighed and laid his head down on his shoulder. Just for a moment, as he squeezed his eyes shut, he could almost pretend that these hellish years were just a fever dream, caused by heat or some root. Those sullen eyes on him reminded him again. Staring through him. He opened his eyes to meet them, but Macbeth flinched in an instant and hissed with the pain at jostling his arm. Banquo frowned but there was nothing he could do to soothe the man’s pain, even if he did trust him. Their eyes met again, and all Banquo could think of is how much he wished things were different.
Whatever was running through Macbeth’s mind seemed to fizzle away upon seeing Banquo’s expression. He relaxed, just a slight, and Banquo slowly wrapped an arm around him. It was quiet, silent, for a heartbeat.
“I never– I…” His words were cut off with a pained gasp as he tried to catch the words he intended to say. Banquo waited patiently but it seemed the man couldn’t find it in himself to continue. Banquo turned his head from where it lay on his old friend’s shoulder and placed a chaste kiss to his jaw, hoping in some way it would convey any ounce of emotion he felt. Macbeth turned his head to him, to look at him properly, for the first time. He had an expression painted across his face that Banquo couldn’t read. In their long time of friendship, he could always read his friend like a book, he could read all strange matters that crossed his mind, but in recent years, all he could see was blank pages and harsh lines of the madness seeping through him.
Macbeth reached up a hand to him, to his injuries, to his cheek, only for his hand to pass straight through. He stared at his hand blankly.
They were completely frozen for a moment, before Macbeth sighed with defeat, or despair, and slumped back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment but opened them again and stared at the sky. The air was delicate. Marlet’s sang.
“How shall we fill up the time?”
‘Till what?’ Banquo thought. As if reading his mind, Macbeth shook his head with a humourless breath.
“You’ll fade away soon.” After a beat, he added, “And I’ll rot.”
The night fell heavy on Dunsinane castle and the dark stretched across the prison cell like a moth eaten blanket and Macbeth was unmoving in his bed, but Banquo could not rest. Not tonight. Not even beside him. Everything was still, it was a peaceful hour, though no peace would come for either of them.
Moonlight shone in through the cracks and the small window and pooled onto Macbeth’s face, illuminating his dark hair and sharp features and the deep ugly scars that ran across his cheek and forehead. He felt a pang in his chest as he turned his gaze to the outside world. The moon seemed to glow brighter and brighter by the second, until it was blinding. Banquo felt a racing panic in his chest as his hands and arms seemed to turn to dust. Cascading to the ground like glass shards, he watched his body disintegrate into clouds of light and then burst out in a final spark before forever disappearing. It can’t be yet. It just can’t be. There was more he needed to do, so much he wished to say. He couldn’t be fading from existence already.
A silent scream escaped his lips as he slips away into nothing.
But it was too bright, light, pure as the blazing sun but so close, and so cold. He was almost freezing, feeling the frost envelope his skin like a mycelium spreading. He couldn’t open his eyes, it was too bright, too loud, like the roar of a fire in his mind. It was unbearable.
He woke up. Somewhere. Where the worm’s tunnel into the earth and the critters creep underneath the fallen leaves. A warm tranquillity spreads through him as he huffs a silent laugh of relief and joy. He had always loved the woods, and the secrets they held. The trees had old, kind, and wise eyes like the dear King Duncan and Banquo placed his hand onto the rough bark, imagining how it felt beneath his fingerprints when he was alive. Captivated by the light of the moon as it slipped through the trees, he couldn’t help a slight shudder at the memory of mere seconds ago. He spun to follow the light, only to behold the castle of Dunsinane from a great distance away. He knew in an instance where he was.
The darkened canopy of Birnam Wood, looking upon the towering castle of Dunsinane. The place where those men, sent by Macbeth, took his life. The last place he saw his son.
But why? Why was he here? Deep within the forest so far from the castle. The woods stretched, twisted, and stared down at him now. Kind eyes turned hateful. The whispering was once welcoming to Banquo but now all they did was confuse his mind like echoes in a confined darkness. He watched with morbid curiosity as the roots of the trees clawed up from the ground and moved like serpents towards him.
When the initial shock ended and the terror set in, it was already too late. He could not run as the roots coiled around his ankles, trapping him there when he tried to run. He fell to the ground hard, though it made no sound and twirled upwards, reaching into his soul to pull the remains of it on earth into the soil. The roots from the trees wrapped around his chest, suffocating him and pulled him down, as if to bury him where he should be. Where he was supposed to rest.
He fought and pulled and ripped at the vines with every ounce of strength he had in him, but it was in vain as he was pulled even deeper. The ground melted beneath him. It was pointless to scream, and yet he screamed anyways but no sound left his cracked lips, it was like fresh blood was pooling out of his wounds as the ropes tightened around him, squeezing the remaining sparks of life out of him. Agony consumed him as the vines cut into his body through his bones and skull, through his eye and into his brain. In his chest, around his heart, squeezing. He gasped for air despite no longer breathing it. He longed for the moonlight end he thought would take him. It was dark, darker than the seconds of peaceful death he had before this existence. Dirt filled his mouth and lungs and…
Was it over? He had thought that last time and he was not willing to make the same mistake again. He looked down at himself to check. No vines, no stains no, no blood. He gasped as he spun around.
Banquo slapped a hand over his mouth as he stared at the figure in the distance growing nearer and nearer. He was taller, stronger, thinner in the face and the sides. No longer a little boy. No longer his little boy.
His heart pounded in his ears, but not in his chest as he hid away from view, before following shortly after the boy, no, the young man. He watched as Fleance stopped, stopped where he had been seconds before and where his life was taken. Fleance stared at the harrowing castle of Dunsinane from where it stood in the distance.
“I’ll be there soon, Father, I promise.”
“Fleance.” He hadn’t meant to say it. Well, he didn’t know he could speak at all and yet the words left his throat, words hoarse from the screams that did not reach an ear. Fleance turned.
“Father?”