The letter came first. Delivered by a trembling servant, yet my hands didn't shake. I ripped it open as if the words themselves were electricity. And there it was—Macbeth's scrawled, nervous handwriting, spilling the witches' prophecy across the page:
"All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!"
My chest tightened. My pulse pounded in my ears like war drums. I read it again. Slowly. Every word. Let it sink.
My husband. Brave, loyal, timid. Too kind. And yet… fated to be king.
A thrill shot through me, almost dangerous. The witches had planted a seed. But he… he wouldn't water it. Not yet. He was too careful, too loyal, too… human.
I felt the fire of ambition in my veins. It didn't belong to me, yet it filled me completely. My husband's fate was within reach, but only if someone dared. Only if I dared.
I whispered to myself:"Glamis, thou art; and Cawdor; and shalt be what thou art promised. Yet I do fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way."
Too kind. He wouldn't act. He wouldn't strike. He would falter. Hesitate. And the crown… the crown could slip through our fingers before it even rested on his head.
I slammed the letter onto the table, my hands trembling—not from fear, but excitement. I had a plan. I would pull him forward. I would guide him. I would shape the king he must become.
And I knew it wouldn't be easy. Darkness would be required. Sacrifice. A coldness I didn't yet possess fully. But I could summon it. I would.
I raised my hands as if calling some invisible power down from the air, and I whispered the words I had rehearsed in the silence of the night:
"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, nor keep peace between the effect and it!"
I felt it. The darkness answering. Curling around my spine, filling my lungs. I let it settle into my bones. My purpose was clear. My will was steel. Nothing would stop me. Nothing would stop us.
A knock at the door brought me back. The servants. Always in the way. Always ignorant. I smiled sweetly, carefully, hiding the storm of thoughts behind calm eyes.
Macbeth arrived soon after. I could see the uncertainty in his stride before he even spoke. The letter was open in my hands; he didn't even ask. He could see. I didn't need to say a word.
He frowned slightly, concerned. Hesitant."They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge."
Yes, my love. They have more than mortal knowledge. And I intend to use it.
I stepped closer, a smile that promised danger and possibility curling across my lips.
"Glamis, thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be what thou art promised. Yet I do fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness."
He looked at me, puzzled, uncertain, and I could feel his hesitation clawing at him like the smoke from a dying fire.
I pressed my hand to his arm. The warmth of him was almost unbearable. Almost.I whispered, softly, dangerously:"Art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win."
He swallowed. I could see it. I could see the war in his chest.
I leaned closer. I let my hands trace the plans in the air, painting them, shaping them. My voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper:
"Hie thee hither, that I may pour my spirits in thine ear; and chastise with the valor of my tongue all that impedes thee from the golden round, which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem to have thee crown'd withal."
I saw it then—the flicker in his eyes. Ambition. Desire. Fire. The spark that I had waited for.
I smiled, cruelly and lovingly at once. I would push. I would prod. I would not allow hesitation.
"Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't."
I imagined the act already done. Duncan asleep, trusting, smiling, unaware. And me, smiling as well. The perfect hostess. The perfect mask. But underneath… the darkness I summoned, the darkness that belonged to no mortal.
I paced the room, letting the words shape me, shape him, shape the future.
I whispered again, almost to the walls:"False face must hide what the false heart doth know."
And I felt it, deep in my chest—the thrill of power. The certainty of fate. The crown whispering, calling, promising.
By the time I stopped moving, the room was still. The letter lay open on the table, the fire burned low, and the storm outside had quieted just enough to let the world breathe. But inside me… the storm was just beginning.
Macbeth looked at me, uncertain, hungry, questioning. I reached for his hand. I held it tight.
We would seize it. The crown. The power. The destiny.
And nothing—not fear, not conscience, not the stars themselves—would stop us.