A/N: The joys of writing Macbeth fanfiction. The words are so incogruous it makes me want to laugh. This is Lady Macbeth and her descent into madness. Don't expect it to make a hell of a lot of sense. I'm not even going to attempt to write in Shakespearean english, I don't it's really important for things like this. It's a character study.
Out Damned Spot
Words are a woman's weapons, they say, sometimes; some people.
Words are the weapons of the weak.
No no no no, NO! Words are my daggers, and no less deadly, no less sharp, puncture the mind and the soul and the drive, to twist and transform, Versatility, really!
You are born swift of foot, strong of body, sharp of mind, you are set up to be a King.
A King, my love, why stop just short of your Truth, your Destiny?
You will be King (i will be Queen)
It has been Prophesized.
It has been Spoken.
(words, see? the words of a prophecy?)
It is a necessary fact.
When people are born swift of foot (to run away), strong of body (to protect oneself), sharp of mind (all the better to figure an easy way out, my dear), then they are necessarily infirm of purpose.
Cowardice and Concern collected and compounded and combined. Useless!
You refuse to give the necessary push. The will and the willed, the drive and the driven. the lack and the lacking and you.
My words (my weapons) will compensate for what you lack, half the deed and half the act. (Half the guilt is only mine)
It's my duty, earnestly, isn't it, isn't it?
Isn't it the least I could do as your servant and your partner and your friend and your wife, to tell you what you should do, what you can do and what you must do.
For your being and mine.
(I am to be Queen)
Guilt is Guilt is Blood, they say, some people, sometimes.
It runs down your hands and soaks through your expensive clothes and drip drip drips onto the marble floor. Drip drip drips down your pale (guilty) hands.
It's so garish, isn't it? So tacky, honestly!
Didn't anyone ever tell you red doesn't go well with white?
It makes the white look and dull and the red look boring. Aha. Aahahahah.
But – look – you can hardly see the white now, it's overcome by the red. There's a lot of red, isn't there? Really quite a bit of red.
(Oh, god, why is there so much blood?)
Who'd have thought that shrivelled old man had quite this much blood in him? Earnestly, who would have thought it? Weak and dull and infirm of purpose. (There is no guilt. I deny your guilt.)
His time had come! Necessity and Words and Fate and Prophecy (no?) Who are you to deny what is fate and fate and foretold and prophesized? It's written in the stars, written in those same heavens that judge and condemn to red on white on guilt on blood.
He was a sickening old man. He was Infirm of Purpose.
(One loses nothing in the pursuit of power. One loses everything in the obtaining of it.)
Words are a woman's weapons they say, sometimes, some people.
To stand behind a throne, to lodge oneself in the back of a mind, a conscience, to whisper in the ears of the Potent, the Powerful. That is true Might. That is my power. This is my power. I possess myself and my words and my power. Mine. Mine.
The blood, that's mine too. It might be someone else's originally, but it's mine now.
It is my possession and eats away at the others, the rest.
You can wash and wash and wash the blood away, and soon it'll be gone from your hands, but how is one to wash the blood from underneath your skin? (underneath your mind)
It's oozed beneath your skin now, thicker than thicker than thicker than water and creeeeping into the corners of your conciousness. It's not going to leave you now.
You can't get rid of it now.
(it is the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil)
Power and Will and Weakness and Strength and Innocence and Guilt and Love and Lust and Fear
I am the Will. The Words are my Weapons.
I am the Will. My Weapons are Words.
Stop looking at me like that.
It's not like I'm to blame for this.
Choice points at certain times.
You can't seriously be saying I'm responsible for all this.
(The Queen, my lord, is Dead)