I don't own Macbeth, nor the picture used. Duh.

Adaira Macbeth was scrawled on the inside cover of the book.

The wife of the man who had killed King Duncan, betrayed his friends and country, and let his ambition rip through those who stood in his way, with his thirst for vengeance and power.

Ross didn't know why he wanted to read it. She and her husband were tyrants, worthy of their unmarked graves, far from any religious structure or symbol.

Duncan. Banquo. Macduff's entire family. And how many others? How many had crossed their paths, only to end up on the wrong side of a sword?

So why? Why did he want to read it?

The candle next to his bed flickered. It would be easy to take the candle outside, set the book on fire, and watch one of the last pieces of evidence of the Macbeth's tyranny leave the world.

So why didn't he? He had been intending to do so when he had found the book in the Macbeth's old room, concealed under their bed.

They deserved to be buried in Scotland's history, covered up by those more capable to rule than they, like Duncan and Malcolm.

Seemingly of their own accord, his hands turned several pages. The book was in poor condition; the binding was frayed and undone. Several pages were gone. Some pages had been torn from the book. Some pages had been doused in ink, their words unreadable.

Morbid curiosity?

Perhaps.

21 January 1029

William succumbed to his sickness today, while I stood wailing over his cold, frail body.

He was the one I was closest to, the one I spent the most time with. He prefered me over his nurse.

We both caught the sweating sickness. I fought it off and recovered quickly, but it was too much for him. He was too young, weak, and underdeveloped.

It was my fault. I should have not allowed his nurse to let him socialize with the lesser, peasant children.

Anne. Joan. Richard. Gilbert. Edmund. And now, William. He was our final surviving child.

Eideard believes we're cursed. I'm too old to bear children anymore. Even if I was at the pinnacle of my youth, I would refuse to bring more into the world, if only to save them from a cruel fate.

Everyone from Eideard's past life before he became the Thane of Glamis has departed from this world. Everyone I have loved has gone the way of the earth.

Do I love my husband?

Perhaps things would have turned out differently had I declined his request.

08 July 1029

As of today, Eideard and I have been married thirty years.

I owe him my family's well-being and health.

Glamis is a small village without much to do. Our village hosts camp-ball tournaments. They've been a bit of a tradition for the past fifty years or so. We can get very rowdy while watching the players.

When Duncan had just made Eideard Thane of Glamis, our village hosted a large celebration, complete with a camp-ball tournament in the morning and afternoon, followed by a dance at night outside on Eideard's property.

The prior year, famine had clutched Glamis in its deadly grip. Considering my family's farm was one of the smaller farms in Glamis, we were hit especially hard. Despite the sportsmanship at the camp-ball game and the enthusiasm at the dance, everyone was hungry, in desperate need of the return of the farming season.

I always looked forward to the dances. Unfortunately, I've never been the best dancer or singer in Glamis. Although I actively participated in the events, I was never the first person the thanes, visiting lords, or nobles asked to dance.

Then, that night, Eideard asked me to dance.

I complied, surprised I was the first person he went to, but, of course, accepted, not wanting to seem rude. As we danced, he told me he'd been watching me that entire week. According to him, I was the most beautiful and intelligent woman in all of Glamis.

His eagerness and infatuation was reminiscent of a child. I don't know what it was about me he thought was so appealing.

He asked me for my hand in marriage later that week. My family was thrilled, and instantly promised I would marry him. I didn't have much of a choice, but I didn't complain.

He was rich, and more powerful than anyone in my family had ever been. Considerate. He looked after my family. They never worried about food until the day they died.

What wasn't to like?

Except now, his influence isn't as awe-inspiring as it once was. I'm no longer treated with as much respect as I first was when we were married. I'm just there. A fact; a prop.

I am restless.

Eideard is restless, too. He's always eager to go to war. On the rare occasions he is home, he paces around our room. Often, he thinks about our eldest son Edmund, killed in the

first battle he fought in. Eideard faults himself for Edmund's demise. I do as well. Before they left, I begged him to keep Edmund safe, to put Edmund's safety before his own. I overestimated him. He lacked the strength and bravery to shield Edmund from the wrath of England's army.

I resent Duncan. Perhaps if he had not sent Edmund to fight, he would still be with us, a companion to fill in for his sibling's absence.

11 August 1031

A breakthrough. An idea.

A plan.

Today, Eideard sent me a letter, as he always does after he wins a battle.

For the most part, it was normal. He won. The traitorous Thane of Cawdor had been captured. Duncan was safe.

He also mentioned a chance meeting with three witches who told him he was destined to be Thane of Cawdor, then King of Scotland.

He said Duncan had made him Thane of Cawdor, to replace Macdonwald, who had led Norway's army against Duncan.

King of Scotland. Queen of Scotland.

It's just the opportunity I've been waiting for.

In the letter, he expressed doubts of how he would become king. He doesn't lack ambition, but he doesn't want to hurt the king. He loves and is loyal to him.

Somehow, he still respects the king. Does Edmund mean nothing to him? Is Eideard more loving and loyal to the man sitting back while his subjects fight and are killed on the battlefield? Does he value the king more than his wife?

Eideard has always listened to me. I've persuaded him to take some risks, as Thane of Glamis I doubt the starry-eyed, child-like man the night of the dance would have had insight of without me.

The solution is quite simple to me. The witches say he's destined to be king? Why not help along their prophecy?

Duncan stole Edmund. Edmund can't avenge himself. As Edmund's mother, it's my duty to even the score.

Duncan will experience the bitter taste of death firsthand.

17 August 1031

Eideard is a coward. He almost ruined our-my-plan.

I delivered the extra wine to the guards at Duncan's door. Eideard only had to do two things. Kill the king, and plant the bloody daggers next to the servants.

He barely did the first thing, and failed utterly at the second task.

I should have known. Even after I had challenged and insulted his manhood and courage, his face was ashen white. He jumped at every slight noise while he prepared. I had my misgivings, but, again, rather than using my reason, I put my trust in his abilities, and it backfired. Again.

After he had done the deed, he arrived to our room, daggers in hand, blood splashed over his clothes, looking like he'd never sleep again.

I panicked at the sight of him. He was nearly unresponsive to anything I shouted at him, so I ordered him to wash himself of the king's blood and went to get rid of the daggers myself.

Eideard had not given the king a quick, bloodless death.

When I peered into the room to see the crime for myself, it became apparent that there had been a struggle. I don't know if the king woke up when Eideard entered into the room, but, regardless, Duncan was lying on the floor, bedsheets a mess.

I counted twenty-three stab wounds on him, from his stomach, face, throat, and arms. The color of his nightclothes was unrecognizable.

Crimson. His entire body was crimson.

How could anyone have so much blood in them?

I stared in morbid fascination for a while. The king's empty, open, wide eyes reminded me of William.

I planted the daggers and ran back to our room.

Eideard and I both learned blood is not as easy to wash off as we'd anticipated. We hid our clothes in our mattress. The blood wouldn't leave them, no matter how vehemently we washed them.

Although we were both exhausted, we did not fall asleep quickly. Eideard was shivering and breathing loudly for hours before he drifted off.

Early the next morning, Lennox and Macduff roused, asking us if we knew why the king did not respond to knocking on his door. Eideard led them to the king's chambers.

The wine was losing its influence on the servants, and, when they saw what Eideard had done, they panicked, professing their innocence, insisting they had no idea what had

happened. Then one of them looked at me, and I immediately knew he was going to say I had delivered extra wine to them the night prior, with my smile of false sweetness and good intentions.

I grabbed my husband's wrist and said, "They suspect us."

He drew his sword and ran them through.

The other men demanded why he had done that. Through his stuttering, he spat out that he had become overwhelmed with rage upon seeing the servant's deeds.

Macduff continued pressing him, though, so I screamed and collapsed. That took attention off of Eideard, who helped me back to our room.

But all is fine. We've gotten away with it. We're safe.

23 August 1031

Eideard was paranoid that Banquo suspected him, and hired three assassins to kill Banquo and his son while they were traveling to the dinner we hosted tonight.

The dinner, which was a disaster.

During dinner, something overtook him. After he had greeted our guests, he suddenly stared at his empty chair, insisting it was occupied, drawing the worry of the lords. I told them to carry on with their meal, then took Eideard aside. Like me, he's had difficulty sleeping for the past several days. As I told him to cast aside the images his mind conjured up on his chair, he stared behind me, unfocused, barely listening to what I was saying.

Halfway through scolding him, he grabbed my shoulders and turned me around, begging me to study the chair. The chair remained empty as he shouted at it, spit flying, voice much higher than normal.

I told him nothing was there, whispering at him to calm down. Even as I did so, he shook me, insisting he had seen something, while I told him his mind was conjuring a bizarre vision.

He refused to silence himself, though, so I slapped him.

It felt odd doing so. I doubt anyone has ever dared do that to him. At best, they'd end up with a severed hand.

When I did so, he stared at me, eyes laced with surprise and hurt.

I know him well enough, though, to know he'd never retaliate. When he failed me and Edmund, my affection for him depleted significantly. Back then, his boyish affection for me still had full effect on his heart, and he was desperate to win me back. He did all he could: flattery, verbal and written admissions of love, gift-giving, doing his best to watch over our remaining children.

It never fully worked. Although he's since ceased most of those actions, I don't doubt he holds me in higher esteem than I do him.

The lords were staring at us, dinner abandoned. I shoved Eideard back to the table, struggling to regain control of the situation. To his credit, Eideard had the sense to rebound on my claim he occasionally suffered from hallucinations. He sat down, pouring wine into glass, reassuring the lords.

I had barely relaxed when he sprung from his seat, spilling his wine glass, shrieking at nothing to leave his sight. Hardly able to keep my frustration and impatience under control, I reassured the lords once again his fit would past, although I knew the more I used that excuse, the less at ease they grew. Eideard gained briefly gained control again, sitting down, insisting he was fine. Knowing another outburst was likely to resurface, I dismissed the lords. Ross and Lennox, who have been Eideard's friends for several years, wished for his good health before departing.He did calm down once they'd left. As the servants cleaned up the remains of dinner, he decided to go seek out the witches tomorrow and ask them for guidance. I'm not sure how reliable a witch's guidance is, but I refrained from saying that.

I'm writing now by candlelight. His decision set his mind at ease; he's sleeping the most peacefully he has ever since he took Duncan's life. But still-

That cannot happen again. In the space of one dinner, he made a fool of himself.

Was this a mistake?

No, no, of course not. It was to avenge my son. It was to improve myself. I'd dreamed of being queen, of rising beyond my family's farm. And I've done it. I'm more powerful than they'll ever be.

This position is worth any sacrifice. Nothing else matters. No one else matters.

15 September 1031

Who would have thought the old man would have had so much blood in him?

The deaths of them all: the king, the servants, Banquo, the Macduffs.

When Eideard had his uncertainties and qualms about killing Duncan, I told him to find the qualities that made him such a respectable soldier within himself to carry out his grisly deed, yet I cannot carry out my own advice.

Why was the blood so hard to clean? And yet, even now, I still see the bloodstains on my hand, impossible to remove. Nothing will cleanse the stench of death from my murderous hands.

I must keep anyone from finding out. I've attracted stares from the servants, and not the stares I desired. They aren't of awe, as they were when I was coronated as queen. They stare in fear, suspicion, and worry.

But they don't know. They can't. It would simply be unfair. We went through all the trouble of cleaning up after ourselves. Fate would be too cruel to render our work into nothingness.

But Fate has never taken mercy on me.

01 October 1031

Macduff, Lennox, and other soldiers we once called friends are attacking. All of our soldiers have deserted to the other side.

Oh, the irony.

I have risen above my family, and in doing so doomed myself.

We have lost. Macduff will kill me. Not Eideard, if what the witches said carries any merit. He cannot be killed by anyone of woman born.

I'm married to the man who sent assassins after his family. There's no room in his soul for mercy or forgiveness. He'll inflict the most horrible of tortures on this frail body until it succumbs

I keep a dagger in my closet. The enemy's closing in. I'm trapped in my own castle I sacrificed everything to obtain. I have little time to act.

Oh, the irony. The irony, the irony.

Will my children welcome me?

….No. I'm not going to heaven with those beautiful, pure angels.

Ross shut the book.

Was she really driven by the loss of her children? Of course, she and her husband's actions were still inexcusable, but this new information made them more….

Human?

He was reminded off Macduff. He didn't doubt Macduff would have made their deaths as drawn-out as possible had he the opportunity.

He shut the book. Malcolm was burning almost everything he could that had the mark of the Macbeths on it. He didn't blame him.

But still, he didn't want to discard the book. He knew Scotland would be eager to shake of the chains of Macbeth's tyranny as quickly as possible. They were eager to be led into another golden age of virtue and prosperity by Malcolm.

Ross wanted to keep the book, if only to teach the youth of Scotland what to not be like.

Ross pushed the book under his bed, letting the bed's sheets fall over it.

He extinguished the candle.