(no subject)
Lady Macbeth dreams of a city.
Her kingdom was never one for cities. Her Scotland bore settlements, thin stretches of peopled land interrupting a wide and wild country. Thanes and vassals built their dwellings with the hope of seeing as little of each other as possible. She was queen of a proud, empty nation, and had loved it for that.
She stands in the air, looking down at the city in the night. It blankets miles of hillsides, clinging to the river that splits it. She lights on the face of the water, and walks the breadth of it, afraid of the streets at first. All around her, she hears the sounds of a great population, carousing, praying, laughing, fighting, making love, sleeping. She feels it, this woman from a lonely glen, feels it like presiding over court.
Gruoch dreams of ruling such a city. What a grand thing it would be, to take this place for her own. She leaves the river behind, and ventures into the streets. No one stops her, no one speaks to her: she moves silent as a shade among these teeming people, and she sees many things.
Through the darkness, she feels a tug, which leads her to a house. She passes into it easily, and comes upon a sleeping man. He is not so mighty as her husband in build, nor so cruel in the face, and he is perhaps a little older than they are. Yet he churns with great men, and valiant women. The Lady watches them flicker across the ceiling and the wall: crook-backed usurpers and Moorish generals and brilliant daughters and fearless queens.
A battered and bloody Scot takes his place among them, like a slap to the face. Lady Macbeth stiffens, and whispers his name. Banquo, killed by the wayside. She looks on the man again, and remembers that this is her dream, not his, and strokes his temple. "Think you not on him," she murmurs, and he starts awake.
"What is this?" he cries, and she smiles.
"The thing is done. It is not of your concern."
He sits up in his bed, eyes round. "I know you, lady. How is it that I know you?"
He is a city in himself: she sees that now. A man of many parts. "You are a poet," she says, lowering herself onto the side of the bed. "You have written words about me." She sees him very clearly in the dark, and the streets below them are hushed. "What are you called?"
"Will," he answers, fully awake and curious now.
"Will," she says, tasting the word on her tongue. "It is well." She leans close in, her hair spilling over both of them. "I am not a heroine, Will. I am a queen."
His eyes are on the skin beneath her collarbone. "Lady, you are regal indeed."
She arches her back, bends her neck, lifts her chin, and feels the thrum of rule and of freedom and of the shadowed city. "I have power over this." One hand stretches and presses against Will's nightshirt. She returns to his face, and leans in to consume him.
"Your husband is a king," he says when they break apart. He fears for himself because of this. She laughs. He persists. "Will he visit me too, after this? Will he seek my head?"
She climbs atop him, her smile unbroken. "Nothing can daunt me," she growls, and the night does not continue with words.
When she wakes, it is not with any memory of having gone to sleep, and she is still in her bower with Macbeth, in Milliways. She remembers wanting to feel like a new woman, after she slept with her first man. The feeling, it seems, has finally caught up with her.
Perhaps it is only a dream. But it seems idle to question such things when they are already done.
Her kingdom was never one for cities. Her Scotland bore settlements, thin stretches of peopled land interrupting a wide and wild country. Thanes and vassals built their dwellings with the hope of seeing as little of each other as possible. She was queen of a proud, empty nation, and had loved it for that.
She stands in the air, looking down at the city in the night. It blankets miles of hillsides, clinging to the river that splits it. She lights on the face of the water, and walks the breadth of it, afraid of the streets at first. All around her, she hears the sounds of a great population, carousing, praying, laughing, fighting, making love, sleeping. She feels it, this woman from a lonely glen, feels it like presiding over court.
Gruoch dreams of ruling such a city. What a grand thing it would be, to take this place for her own. She leaves the river behind, and ventures into the streets. No one stops her, no one speaks to her: she moves silent as a shade among these teeming people, and she sees many things.
Through the darkness, she feels a tug, which leads her to a house. She passes into it easily, and comes upon a sleeping man. He is not so mighty as her husband in build, nor so cruel in the face, and he is perhaps a little older than they are. Yet he churns with great men, and valiant women. The Lady watches them flicker across the ceiling and the wall: crook-backed usurpers and Moorish generals and brilliant daughters and fearless queens.
A battered and bloody Scot takes his place among them, like a slap to the face. Lady Macbeth stiffens, and whispers his name. Banquo, killed by the wayside. She looks on the man again, and remembers that this is her dream, not his, and strokes his temple. "Think you not on him," she murmurs, and he starts awake.
"What is this?" he cries, and she smiles.
"The thing is done. It is not of your concern."
He sits up in his bed, eyes round. "I know you, lady. How is it that I know you?"
He is a city in himself: she sees that now. A man of many parts. "You are a poet," she says, lowering herself onto the side of the bed. "You have written words about me." She sees him very clearly in the dark, and the streets below them are hushed. "What are you called?"
"Will," he answers, fully awake and curious now.
"Will," she says, tasting the word on her tongue. "It is well." She leans close in, her hair spilling over both of them. "I am not a heroine, Will. I am a queen."
His eyes are on the skin beneath her collarbone. "Lady, you are regal indeed."
She arches her back, bends her neck, lifts her chin, and feels the thrum of rule and of freedom and of the shadowed city. "I have power over this." One hand stretches and presses against Will's nightshirt. She returns to his face, and leans in to consume him.
"Your husband is a king," he says when they break apart. He fears for himself because of this. She laughs. He persists. "Will he visit me too, after this? Will he seek my head?"
She climbs atop him, her smile unbroken. "Nothing can daunt me," she growls, and the night does not continue with words.
When she wakes, it is not with any memory of having gone to sleep, and she is still in her bower with Macbeth, in Milliways. She remembers wanting to feel like a new woman, after she slept with her first man. The feeling, it seems, has finally caught up with her.
Perhaps it is only a dream. But it seems idle to question such things when they are already done.