Betwixt Thrice Sin'd, At Wit's End

A wild night from the deepest dark, many names had been called, yet now its time for them.

First Witch:  
"All hail, Macbeth! now Thane of the dead!"

Second Witch:  
"All hail, Hamlet! lost to madness, Prince no more!"

Third Witch:  
"All hail, Othello! undone by his own hand, undone forevermore!"

A tightened grip on the bloody dagger, empty eyeballs of a skull clasped and now the cracked scimitar is drawn. Their eyes beheld each other firm, as though but a single breath might yield them license to unshackle their next intent. "Who art this miscreant, who doth break the tense with such ill manner?". Without pause, this was all that reached their ears,

"What is't thou dost, for the sake of thy pride, envy, and sloth? Hast thou not learned from the wreckage of thy past, which did ruin many that crossed thy path? Doth thou destroy, simply for the power to do so, and return not to repent thy wrongs? Is this not why thou art here with me, in this forsaken place?"

All of them, in one voice, united, did cry;

"Who art thou?"

First Witch:  
"The sinner of the primal cause, who had will, though lesser than fate, yet still accounted,"

Second Witch:  
"Unlike these noble souls, this base visitor of a future yet unseen,"

Third Witch:  
"Who hath unfolded a tale untold, is here."

All witches, crying united,

"Hail to thee, sinner Spes!"

Now, there was none to envy, nor aught to crave ambition for, but only to reckon what strange course didst unfold before them.

Hamlet:  
"Now this situation be but fraud! In the midst of darkness, we hear a name that ne'er hath crossed mine ear, and yet it dares to stand beside me, with two of these noblemen at mine side. What courage, what knowledge doth will thee to be here?"

Macbeth:  
"Not so far from me, yet near enough that my dagger couldst reach thee, as soon as mine eye doth meet thy flesh. Yet thou stand’st in security, thy shadow not even shown. Thou present’st thy notions unto us—what dost thou bear here and now?"

Spes:  
"Thou art seated upon the throne of a great lesson and legacy, yet a squandered life that might have been most wondrous. Now thou art here, not knowing that death hath brought thee to this place. Perchance thou think’st this to be a requiem in a dream, but nay, ’tis not; thou hast become that which thou wert fated to become. Now, fear not, for since thy life hath ended, thou shalt witness thy tragic descendants."

Othello:  
"Our descendants? I bore no offspring! What, prithee, hath I missed?"

Spes:  
"Not thine own son nor daughter, but the mind thou didst invade through thy life’s tale, as it unrolled by a mighty quill. Thou hast blackened a heart, mine own most of all, and made me romanticize such a life of thine, which hath led me unto a far greater darkness."

Hamlet:  
"And dost thou lay blame upon us for thy folly? Even after our death, thou comest here to hold us to account for the travails of thy life? Who art thou to dare stand 'gainst us? Now thou hast said I am not the sole bearer of a throne—those men must’ve been fit in their lives for a kingdom or a belief held true to their hearts. Yet, a failure art thou, come hither to torment or redeem us. Strike first ere we clash, or take thy salvation and depart!"

Macbeth:  
"I see thy point, young Spes, thou art likely to be of us. Yet thou art crafted with more simplicity. A heart that cannot slay a king for a throne, yet yearns for one—now comest thou upon our path to meet us. To learn what is the ambiguity that doth separate thy failure from our tragedy. What maketh thee an ordinary man and us a noble legend? Searching for meaning whilst thou dost believe thy life hath none-"

Spes:  
"Enough, Macbeth! Keep thy molestful gaze from me! I am not here to present mine own self, but my tale, that I may pass through this cursed place and return unto the waking world. I am so far depraved by thy fate, that mine own soul lies shattered, a wreckage of ambition, envying thine, yet bound in sloth. Speak no more, or I shall take mine own life, to awaken what is lost, to see once more beyond these shadowed veils, in the opening of mine own eyes! Hold these words now, and fashion what thou wilt, until this darkened place doth swallow all."

As he pulls out a spindle, a measuring rod and scissor his voice slowly softens, through acceptance,

"Yet, in truth, it is done, is it not? I long no more for vengeance nor ambition's sway. Let me go forth, and let mine eyes behold not the torment, but the opening of a new path... one beyond these hollow words, beyond this futile strife. I accept, for what else remains but to yield to fate's cruel hand?"

First Witch:  
"All hail to Spes, crown of the reliant!"

Second Witch:  
"All hail to Spes, hand of the reposer!"

Third Witch:  
"All hail to Spes, eyes of the unheard!"

All witches at once:
"All hail to one, not a lamb nor the stormbringer, yet the untouchable, perfect, and real one—what Spes doth believe in!"

Othello:
"What mighty name is this? What puissant power doth it command?"

Just as Othello's words did cease,  
Spes, with solemn grace, did extend unto the noblemen the tools. And from within his grasp, a dagger did he draw, its blade, inscribed with letters few, "Surrenderance to one."

Spes:  
"I've wrought what my will hath wrought, now to thee I bend, and surrender to thy consent, as my soul hath no more to lend for mine fate."

Hamlet:  
"What madness is this? What folly dost thou submit to? Speak! What dost thou yield, and to whom dost thou bow?"

Macbeth:  
"Thy sacrifice is true, and unto thee a path unknown, may thy soul find peace beyond the lids of thine eyes. As yon Yorick's skull in Hamlet’s grasp doth linger, let thy wisdom, few breaths, to the four-winged plant be given. So that we might find delight, through the emptiness of Yorick’s gapped mouth, and in its hollow, hear the whispers of a life."

Spes nods, a knowing smile upon his lips, as if the weight of truth had found its rest within him. With steady hand, he brings the dagger to his breast, and in that fleeting moment, a life forsaken by fate. He bleeds—twenty-two seconds, no more, no less— the crimson river flows, yet not a word escapes. And as the final breath departs, his body falls, to the depths of disillusion, where time doth cease. Leaving naught but the stillness of a tale untold for three noblemen.

In the blink of an eye, his eyes, once closed, now flutter open to a sun, a fiery orb demanding yet another day, as if the very heavens called him forth. He, a vessel of words, poised for a new dawn. A day where ink shall spill again, upon the page, to write the fate of another, an infant soul soon to be born from the very fingertips of his existence. Thus, cycle begins once more, until now that is unwritten, yet eternal.

Yazar

Mustafa Umut Horoz