7 March; 6 Duncan

I hath won honor for myself and for the good King Duncan in glorious combat against the traitor Macdonwald. It seemed Macdonwald intended to make his last stand at the western seaboard. He had fortified his army on higher ground near the port. It was clear he sought to evacuate his remaining forces by boat and had positioned a small contingent upon the hill to ensure the success of the withdrawal. The rain which soaked the ground the night before made difficult the routing of Macdonwald’s forces. The boots of our soldiers found no purchase in the muddy hill slope, and the residual fog obscured anything farther than a blade’s length away. We advanced up the hill in a shield line, and I slew many men today. 

I pity them, somewhat, those young kerns throwing themselves against our lines like wasps unto a bear, each hoping that their limp bodies would do more than feed the ravens. They martyred themselves to the scoundrel Macdonwald, perhaps out of genuine loyalty—God help them if so—or merely having been cowed by the traitor. Methinks the latter is a more forgivable offense, though it is said that hellfire ne’er spares traitors… The kerns’ charge tactics brought disorder to our lines as, even in death, the momentum of their bodies toppled our frontline into the next column of soldiers, and so forth. It would take the total depletion of their regiment for us to take the hill. 

My encounter with Macdonwald came entirely by chance. I found the man and ran him through like I would any common soldier. I only realized his identity upon the cries of his troops for their fallen commander. Thus, the honorable ranks of Duncan’s armies, under the command of myself and Banquo, expunged Macdonwald’s rebellion.

After the battle was won, I returned to claim Macdonwald’s head, though my search was briefly interrupted by a foolish Norweyan charge up the hill. Suffice to say, they were pulverized. I pray that the Norways have been similarly repelled at Fife.

Banquo and I opted to journey back to Forres ahead of the main army, and I would like to reach Forres before the sun yields its place in the sky. Besides, these crusted gloves make writing an arduous task. I shall write no further. 

Macbeth, Thane of Glamis

--

8 March; 6 Duncan

Banquo and I saw an unusual sight yesterday. 

Shortly after I penned my previous entry, we encountered three beings whose features stretched the definition of being human. I could discern neither their sex nor even their species, their strange features confounding any attempt at identification. Though neither Banquo nor I recall ever making their acquaintance, they seemed to know a great deal about us. They also professed precognition of our fates. According to the sisters, mine was to claim Cawdor and eventually the entire kingdom as my domain. Banquo’s was to father kings. Needless to say, I have committed every word to memory.

I have seen highway prophets before. Invariably, they’re mere charlatans who employ some clever artifice to part wayward travelers with their money. Malformed orbs of crystal, odious candles, ‘tis a pathetic profession, indeed. One cannot blame me for seeing the mysterious disappearance of the witches as nothing more than a sophisticated parlor trick to top off the act.

Yet Cawdor is mine! It seems the kingdom overflows with treachery, but how could three witches know the Thane of Cawdor would break the king’s trust? They possess no titles, no connection to the king’s inner circle (none that I know of, anyway—perhaps this is something that warrants investigation), absolutely no earthly means to predict Cawdor’s treachery. The supernatural is clearly at play, yet I know not the nature of their terrible power. As Banquo said to me, such predictions can lead to ruin. For all the good they have promised, these capricious beings have placed a tremendous burden upon my psyche. I think it best I consult my wife on this matter.

Macbeth, Thane of Glamis and Cawdor

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April 23; interregnum

Considering my pending investment, I think it would be prescient to compile these entries for posterity. I have entrusted these letters to my beautiful wife to be released upon my death (I reckon her youthfulness and lack of battle wounds will keep her in this world long after I have passed into the next). 

Duncan’s death is a specter I cannot shake. The knife that hath slit his throat haunts me. A thousand curses upon the Weird Sisters for what they hath done to me! I cannot blame my wife, for she too is a victim of the machinations of the witches, whose terrible powers have compelled my hand and led to the demise of a king so wise and so great as Duncan. His virtues were innumerable: temperance, valor, wisdom—why must he leave the world? Yet, perhaps his death was for the best. The kingdom hath been ruled by his bloodline so long, a change in leadership will surely revitalize it just as the scorching of old trees greens the forest. Malcolm and Donalbain’s voluntary forfeiture of the throne is expedient to that end. I must applaud the altruistic actions of the former Prince of Cumberland in stepping aside so that the glorious renaissance of our great Scotland may commence. 

The passings of Duncan’s attendants were also quite unfortunate, but ultimately for the greater good. Bless them both for their sacrifice.

Why do mine actions rob me of God-given respite and plunge me into eternal alertness? The skin of my hands cracks and crumbles—is the skin of my palms evacuating from my cursed body, or merely desiccated by lye? The white feather of the quill is stained crimson by my hand, though at least this blood is mine own. O, the knife! The knife! This chimeric quill takes on such an awful visage, turning the act of writing into the carving of wounds in paper-thin skin. The dark ink then fills the gashes with necrosis. Perhaps these fearful conjurings will cease if I requisition a more cheerful color of ink. 

The nature of my deed makes consultation with priest or physician difficult. Despite this, there is clarity to be found in Biblical verse. Had Jesus not pled for the Lord to spare him the cup? Regret is a bitter fluid better eschewed, yet I must partake in it for the good of the many; I must first descend to hell to ascend to the throne.

Enough writing. Scone awaits.

Macbeth, Thane of Glamis and Cawdor

--

September 2; 2 Macbeth

Prophesy is a fickle beast. Here, I sit, sovereign to all around me, penning these entries in a seat that gleams with gold and the furs of rare beasts. The witches, it seems, have spoken true. But what of Banquo? I’m sure that he has dedicated thought to the prophesy just as much as I have, and the actions he shall undertake to fulfill his end of it are of great concern. Indeed, I sense a great distance between him and I. I must act proactively lest I find myself untimely ousted. 

But the prophesy ne’er spoke of Banquo grasping the crown, only his children. “Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none” was how the witches put it. Didst they speak of young Fleance? That boy whose stature is half of mine own, whose voice hath yet to undergo deepening? By the time he reaches fighting age, I shall have ruled this great kingdom for decades. Banquo does not strike me as traitorous, but his zeal for justice still poses a threat. If only he didst not query for his own fortune! All of this headache could have been avoided. 

And because of Banquo’s actions with the witches, poor Fleance must have his life extinguished, too. Banquo’s bloodline must be put beneath the ground. The burden Banquo and Fleance have placed upon my conscience is something that must be eliminated if I am to effectively reign o’er this kingdom. 

Alas, I cannot live my life glancing over my shoulder. Agents have been commissioned to dispatch them.

His Majesty Macbeth, King of Scotland and the Northern Isles

--

September 3; 2 Macbeth

I thought Banquo’s demise would loosen the vice clamping my conscience, yet instead it has tightened it further. His body lies in an unmarked grave, yet it is as if he stands here now, following me, tracing my every footstep with the goal of driving me mad. He dares take a seat—my seat—at the feast. It is as if, even in my mind, he intends to usurp my place at the table and steal my throne.

No, he hath already stolen my throne! His ghost has hijacked my mind, pulling at its strings. My words are not my words, my actions not mine either. I’d rather him stand before me corporeal and run me through than have him enact this foul coup within my head. Banquo’s youthful spawn, Fleance, still roams this world, adding earthly threat to the spiritual. 

Why must fate set me upon this dark path?

His Majesty Macbeth, King of Scotland and the Northern Isles

--

September 5; 2 Macbeth

Within my castle, there are dozens of advisors and wise men, nobles who I had taken into my greatest confidence at the beginning of my reign. Yet, I sense the seeds of treachery in all of them. I suspect my exchequer is embezzling and that my advisors speak ill of me behind closed doors. I have on retainer the assassins who killed Banquo. They stand ready to enforce my will in the shadows, and they have been quite successful at doing so. However, I am compelled to satisfy their avarice in perpetuity, lest they turn their bloody instruments upon their employer. Their hunger for wealth has put the kingdom into fiscal ruin and sentenced the countryside to famine. But what else could’st I do to avoid poison in my drink or knives in my back? 

I have found myself placing greater confidence in the witches than any member of my royal court. Of them all, it is only the witches who speak true. They hath spoken true about Cawdor and the coronation, two extraordinary events that have since come to pass just as they had foretold—I know their words ring true. Hence, I sought out their counsel yesterday and have had it confirmed that I shall not be slain by anyone of woman born. Yet they also spoke of Macduff. “Beware Macduff!” that ethereal helm cried. The nature of this warning confounds me, for he, too, is born of woman. Still, methinks it would be wise to purge him and his lineage all the same. 

His Majesty Macbeth, King of Scotland and the Northern Isles

--

September 6; 2 Macbeth

My assassins hath a dubious record. I can’st deny their efficacy in disposing of the potentially traitorous advisors, yet they always seem to fail their most essential assignments. First t’was the boy Fleance, and now Macduff, who now seeks to bring upon me the hordes of England. Why do my assassins fail me so? Their repeated failures put me in a state of great distress, and I regret not commissioning men more skilled in their bloody art.

Alas, their incompetencies have made exigent the fortification of Dunsinane. In the commotion I hath lost my golden ink and have thus reverted to this ferrous color. Very well, its color fazes me no more—it seems nothing does. I feel anaethetized to the pains of this world—even to the death of my wife. This crown is all I have left, and these traitors shall not take it from me so long as Birnam maintains distance from Dunsinane.

His Majesty Macbeth, King of Scotland and the Northern Isles

--

September 6; 2 interregnum

BIRNAM IS HERE. MAY THERE BE MERCY ON ME FOR MY SINS.

Macbeth