Anyway
Daggers In Men's Smiles
a macbeth thing
The sky was pitch black that night. No stars, no moon. It was as if the heavens themselves had covered their candlelit canvas of light and prosperity, soaking its beauty in the shadows.
Out in the darkness, a solitary owl screamed, its noise lost in the nocturnal haze.
"I have done the deed."
John MacTavish's voice was shaking, but not so much as his body. He trembled, leaning against the well outside of the courtyard, nearly out of reach of warm torchlight. His yes were transfixed on the blood staining his hands. The weapon of most unnatural crime? Dropped. forgotten. Its silvery shine dulled by the dark.
His head was a mess, thoughts overlapping like the currents of an agitated river, spilling truth after truth, lie after blasphemous lie. Fate's? His own? He could not tell yet.
"All hail MacTavish, thane of Glamis."
He saw the confusion in his cousin's eyes. The terror when he realized what John was doing.
"All hail MacTavish, thane of Cawdor."
He saw a crown. Bloodied, bright, beautiful... Duncan's.
His.
"All hail MacTavish, that shall be king hereafter."
No.
The thoughts rushed through his mind in the blink of an eye. The war, the witches, the prophecy... the traitorous thane of Cawdor whose title had been so conveniently thrust upon him.
Oh, God... what had he done? Who was he to alter the course of fate?
He could still hear the voices of the men who slept in the room next to the king's chambers, dreaming of a fate their monarch had already met. The sound of their dreadful cries of murder caught John with a blade in one hand and no prayers to utter, or excuses to give.
They could have walked in. They could have checked. Seen him. But they ignored fate, which had knocked on the doors of their consciousnesses, and went back to sleep with whispers of sainted words. Words MacTavish felt like repeating. Because his soul needed absolution for his heinous crime.
But the prayers died in his throat.
Now, sitting on the floor outside of the fortress, hands quivering beyond what he could control, the thane of Glamis, now thane of Cawdor also, wondered why he could not speak the words of God.
The silence that surrounded him was dreadful, encompassing all of his fears, his regrets. His only company was the sound of water echoing down the well, the occasional ripple making its way up, offering a respite to MacTavish's spiraling mind.
He appreciated the quiet. It helped him think, even if most of his thoughts were like torture at the moment.
Then, his ears caught the sound of heavy footsteps against the stone floor. Someone was walkint in his direction. Closer.
Closer.
He dared not look up, fear engulfing him for a second too long for his liking.
"John."
That voice. Calm. Steady. Cutting through his thoughts as sweetly as the chime of a bell. John MacTavish lifted his head when he felt the comforting embrace of his beloved husband.
Lord Simon MacTavish lowered himself down to John's level as if it were natural for a man his height, and pulled his thane flush against his chest, forcing him to stop looking at the evidence, to ignore the blood on his hands.
"They cried 'God bless us', and 'Amen', Simon." John murmured, eyes squeezing shut. "I listened to their fear, but I could not say it. I could not say Amen."
Lord MacTavish did not say a word for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch, and his husband to break.
"Do not overthink." His voice was of a deep baritone, but soothing. Fit for calming a wounded bird, or a man at war with his own values. One of his hands moved to tangle in MacTavish's hair, pulling him even closer in his embrace. "You did well. Stay with me."
"But why could I not say it?" John's breath hitched as he went on, eyes prickling but unable to produce any tears. The weight of Lord MacTavish's arms kept him steady, but not steady enough to bear the pain.
"I needed a blessing." He whispered, voice cracking. “But the word got stuck in my throat like it didn't belong to me anymore, Simon."
"Stop dwelling on what can no longer be ours, John." Simon's tone stayed soft, almost velvety in its gentleness, but it carried an iron thread beneath every word. "Do not gnaw on this wound. Let it close. Let me close it for you."
John opened his eyes just enough to see the glimpse of worry on his husband's face. A quiet, loyal feeling he knew he had never deserved. Not after what had happened. Perhaps not even before.
"There were voices." He murmured. "I swear to God, Simon, there were voices crying out… screaming for sleep. Telling me that I had… murdered it. As if I tore the night sky apart and stitched it back up in twisted ways. As if Glamis and Cawdor would never rest again. Because of me."
Lord MacTavish's hand slid down to touch John's cheek, thumb brushing a drying streak of blood he hadn't realized was there. Always gentle. Always the voice of reason.
"A frightened mind makes phantoms out of shadows, and daggers out of smiles." He said. "You are unraveling yourself over echoes, and nothing more. Why, my worthy thane. Breathe, and let me wash off this filthy witness from your hands."
Simon looked down at him with so much love, so much... understanding. He wrapped his fingers around John's bloodstained hands. The warmth seeping into his skin should have been comforting.
But MacTavish couldn't stop himself. The words kept spilling from his mouth, frantic and horrified and filled with a dread he could not contain in one vessel.
"It was not a single voice. It was... the whole fortress. As if the walls themselves cursed me. As if—"
"John MacTavish." Lord MacTavish's words sharpened just enough to cut through his terror, anchoring him into the present. Dark sky. Cold floor. Blood on his hands. Husband holding him close. "You hear what guilt wants you to hear. No more than that."
He lifted John's hands between them, pressing the trembling fingers tightly against his lips.
"What has been done cannot be undone. Not by us, not by anyone. You dismiss your noble strength, thinking so obsessively over this."
John MacTavish swallowed thickly, eyes quietly moving from the familial stains of crimson on his hands to the cold, hard hazel eyes of the man he loved. Of the man who put the dagger in his hands, who offered him a life whispered by three weird sisters Simon had only ever met as words on paper.
He looked at him, and felt reassurance mix in with his desperation.
"What kind of man am I?" He murmured, barely audible. The mighty embers of ambition were cool within his chest now, replaced by shame. "If every sound terrifies me now? Every crack, every breath in the dark—"
A distant pounding broke through the courtyard, cutting his words off. Someone was knocking at one of the side doors of the keep. John jolted violently, hand reaching for the bloody dagger at his feet. Lord MacTavish caught his wrists before his husband could bolt away.
"It is only a knock." His tone was firm. Final. "A door. Nothing more."
"Nothing more." John echoed weakly, though his whole body still shivered, more because of the metallic tang of iron marring the air, but also because of the cold biting at his skin. "Simon… my hands… it is almost as if… they are burning. All this blood... marking me forever. As if I'll never wash it off."
"No bloodstain lasts forever, John." Lord MacTavish murmured. "Water will take care of what your conscience refuses to forget." Then, quieter, coaxing but steady, he reached out for the dagger MacTavish still clutched in his shaky hand. "Give it to me. I shall paint the chamberlains with the king's blood, leave this as proof of their crime."
MacTavish hesitated, seeing a flash of Duncan's face, the horror etched on his features. The profound disappointment his cousin felt in that moment.
Duncan was a good man. He did not deserve any of that.
"...Take it." John dropped the weapon in Lord MacTavish's hand, looking away. His eyes were squeezed shut. "I cannot bear to look at it any longer."
His husband only nodded once, understanding. It was enough.
"Let us go inside. Clean these hands before anyone sees you like this."
MacTavish stared at his palms again. They were painted in the color of precious life, staining the lines of his skin. For a moment, he thought he saw them sink deeper into his flesh, forever marking the hands of a murderer.
When he blinked, fear beginning to take hold of him once more, the illusion was gone. Good God... gone was his mind as well, it seemed.
He took a long breath, then allowed Lord MacTavish to lift him up, clinging to his husband for dear life, knowing Simon was the only one capable of steadying him now, and forevermore.
"Will all of Great Neptune's ocean wash this blood away?" He asked aloud, gazing up at the starless sky. "And clean it from my hands?"
The pitch black expanse held no answers. This time, neither did Lord MacTavish. His only focus was to guide his thane to safety. To glory. To fate. John MacTavish remained quiet for a long time, walking alongside his husband, guilt still eating him on the inside.
"No... it won't." He whispered at last, the horror of his truth, his real truth, sinking in. "I could drown myself in the great oceanic tides, and they would turn red because of me."
Simon pulled him closer when he heard those words, playful and protective.
“If you ever come any close to drowning, John..." He said softly. "I'll be the one to pull you out. Be the sea green or red. Makes little difference to me."
Lord Simon MacTavish guided his husband with gentle insistence, his hands warm and steady. The fortress' walls loomed above them, ancient stone silhouettes emoldurated against the night, and yet his presence stood out the darkness. To John, he was a keep of ambition, of love, and devotion.
Loyal to the thane of Glamis. Now thane of Cawdor, and future king of Scotland.
"Stay close to me, sweet Johnny." Simon's voice was impossibly gentle now, coaxing John's mind to rest. "Do not look back. Not tonight."
John leaned into him, unsteady but moving, letting his husband lead him through the shadowed doors of their future. A bloodied, inevitable future that bound them together tighter than fate had ever intended.
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Well i haven't written in a long time, so i don't know how this holds, or if i managed to get macbeth's feeling right. Regardless, i'm happy to put the thought out there, good or not (i might have stayed up all night writing this lmao)
also i'm not fully back but like hi ♡
