A Crown of Thorns

The Taste of Ambition

I once believed power was a prize to be seized, a reward for the bold. When the witches first whispered their truths—though I did not know then what truths they were—I felt a spark, as though the gods themselves had lit a fire in my chest. "All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!" they said. And I believed. I believed because I wanted to believe. Power, to me, was a destination. A throne. A scepter. A name that would echo through the halls of history.

Lady Macbeth shared in that belief, and perhaps more fiercely than I. She saw the path laid before us, and she saw no obstacles, only opportunities. When she urged me to act—to take what was mine—I did not resist. I convinced myself it was fate. I convinced myself it was duty.

The Weight of the Crown

But once the crown rested on my head, I found it heavier than I ever imagined. Not from the expectations of the people, nor from the burden of governance, but from the silence that followed. Duncan’s blood still stained my hands, though the water ran clean. And I found no peace in the halls of Forres, nor in the chambers of Inverness. Sleep became a luxury I could not afford, for in it, I saw the faces of those I had wronged.

I believed I would find security in power, but instead I found paranoia. I could not trust the shadows. I could not trust my allies. And so I struck out—Banquo first, then Macduff’s family. Each act of cruelty was justified as necessity, but I knew, in my heart, that I was unraveling. Power did not protect me—it consumed me.

The Hollow Victory

I clung to the witches’ second prophecies like a drowning man to driftwood. "None of woman born shall harm Macbeth," they said. And I laughed. I laughed because I thought myself invincible. I told myself that I had outwitted fate, that I had shaped the world to my will.

But the world does not bend so easily. As Birnam Wood began to move, inch by inch, toward Dunsinane, I realized how foolish I had been. Words, once so powerful to me, now mocked me. The witches had not lied—but they had not told the whole truth, either. I had heard what I wanted to hear, and ignored the deeper meaning.

Even as I prepared for the final battle, I did not fear death. I feared the judgment that would follow. I feared the legacy I would leave behind.

The Measure of a Man

When Macduff confronted me, and revealed that he was not "of woman born" in the way I had understood it, I knew the end had come. But in that moment, I also understood something deeper: that power, stripped of virtue, is a hollow thing. I had killed a king, betrayed my country, and destroyed my soul—not for justice, nor for honor, but for a dream that turned to ash in my mouth.

I was not born a tyrant. I was not born a murderer. I became one. The seeds were always there, but it was ambition that watered them, and pride that let them grow. I see now that power is not a gift—it is a test. And I failed it.

The Lesson of the Fallen

If you find yourself drawn to power, beware. It is not the throne that defines a man, but the choices he makes before he ever sits upon it. I once thought power would make me immortal. I see now that it was my ambition that doomed me to be remembered not as a king, but as a cautionary tale.

I do not ask for forgiveness. I do not expect it. But I offer my story, not as a warning, but as a mirror. Look into it, and ask yourself: what are you willing to become, to hold something that slips through your fingers the tighter you grasp?

Talk to Macbeth on HoloDream — ask him what he would do differently, or what he sees when he looks back on his reign. He will not flinch from the truth.