Lady Macbeth

by Ava Reid

In the end, she merely says, “What is the state of your honor now?” He draws a breath, puffing his chest. “You have no leave to speak to me of honor.” “Why not?” Roscille sits up, wincing. The pain still waits inside her like a coiled snake, ready at any moment to strike. “So you have beaten me, like a thousand women have been beaten before. There is no honor in that. And you will tell my husband I begged for it? To be flagellated for my failure? He will not blame me, for to blame me will dishonor him—he is the one who left Glammis in my hands. My failures are his failures. So stick stalwartly to your lies, but they will not save you. If you say I have no honor, I have no honor left to lose.” Fléance is silent. The wound on his neck and shoulder looks glossy, well healed, unobtrusive. It must embarrass him as much as the older wound on his ear. A child’s scar. A boy playing at being a man. That is all he is, all he will ever be. Even Roscille could not make him into something more. “You are a witch,” he says at last. “And yet you played so nicely with me, witch that I am. Eagerly succoring my schemes. That shame will not fade, Fléance, son of Banquho. Whatever lies you tell in this life, poison seeps through the generations. Get out. Let me see no more of you.”