cowards would have rejoiced at the man in front in her. the great hero, the new thane of cawdor is nothing but a half willed man of glass, hers to SHATTER. he speaks of power, of magic — witches? has the apparitions she had once dreamed so vividly of come true ? was this their sign? tonight, would her children, her lineage, be forever known as the kings and queens of scotland ? if she could lick the old king's blood from her own fingers, the delight of a deed done, SHE WOULD. it was lord's mistake to have made her a woman ( or was it pity? would she not be the conqueror of them all if the lord had unsexed her as she so heavily wished? )
alas, her husband is no conqueror. no man. he is but a SHEEP, covered in flesh, that she revolts in seeing his presence around her. angers in it, that he would never wish to TAKE WHAT SHOULD BE THEIRS. what she wants, what she begs for ? why is she, conqueress of her own, left to play the fiddle of him, such a weakling. her dramatic sigh is drawn out before she sets down the hairbrush, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. ❝ bless the lord, for he has given me a fool in the place of a husband. ❞ she turns around quickly, fingernails pressing into her palms, the physical being of such betrayal at this cowardice. ❝ — SLIT HIS THROAT, cut the serpent from the head, and let your crest cover the walls instead of his. what would your son say at this? do you wish for me to stand there, and tell him, that his father is a WEAKLING ? a mere shadow ? ❞