Just to break up the fanficcishness (yes, it's a word...don't look at me like that) of this journal, my last creative assignment for Shakespearean Mythmaking. It's a soliloquy - Lady Macbeth's thoughts on the character of King Lear (although, I s'pose it's just a more literary or scholarly version of fanfic, hmm...).
Thy heavy burden.
Soliloquy: Lady Macbeth on the protagonist, King Lear
Who art thou, Lear, to be king? Lear, who makes
Such foolish demands upon the affections
Of his own children; he who would implore –
Nay, beg – of them declarations of love,
False though they may be. Methinks that if my
Husband, good Macbeth, were to sire an heir,
He would not plead of that child. Nay: he would
Never cease to expound his own love for
Thine dear offspring: thine blood.
But nor for thou, Lear: no. Why, thou art a
Child thyself! And yet: a king. What is this:
This madness that such a man as thou, Lear,
Is crowned king? A man of such foolish pride,
And of puerile mind – a man so absorbed
In his own machinations – as to give
Away his kingdom? Give away!
As though it were nought! Dost thou not knowest
What a privilege it is to rule one’s
People? To be honoured, revered: a God,
Divine amongst mere mortals? No –
Thou knowest not of the honour which thou
Shuns. And yet, the strength of thy rule remains
True. The bond of ruling royalty passes,
Unquestioningly, to the fruit of thy
Loins. It matters not that the fruit is rotten,
Eaten away by the cruel worm of self
Interest: a worm that will spread nought but poison
Through these lands. What then, for a man such as my husband –
Good, honourable Macbeth, Thane of Cawdor.
He, who would sacrifice his very life
For the honour of fair Scotland.
I pray thee, Lear: wouldst thou do the same? Wouldst
Thou bear thy haggard form to the very
Depths of Hades for the protection of
Thy loyal subjects? Wouldst thou gladly bow
Before the gods, and let thy own divine
Blood run a red river from thy limbs for
The nation; thy memory; thy honour?
No. Not thou, Lear. Thou appears to mine eyes
As a doddering old fool, unlike fair
Macbeth. Why, if ‘t were thee who was king of
Scotland in place of Duncan, Macbeth would
But have to pour sweet words into thine ear,
And not the fatal poison: thou would renege
Thy claim on the throne at the merest hint
Of falsified love! O, my lord Macbeth!
How cruel is fate that she hath cursed thee so!
To implant in thee the passion, the drive
With which to rule and yet, to stifle thy
Plans by mere virtue of thy blood? Blood! ‘T is
Nought, but it is all. O! ‘T is too cruel a
Fate for a man such as my lord! Yes, Lear:
Thou dost deserve thy new madness. Is it
Not penance for thy deeds? Is it not the
Firm hand of justice, bearing down upon
Thy frail shoulder?
Yes, Lear: what of the abandonment of
Thy fair child, Cordelia? And of thy fair
Kingdom, too, to the wretches, Regan and
Goneril. Yes: methinks ‘t is madness which thou must
Now bear to thy grave –
Thy heavy burden.