Infinite Regressor Banquo

The stale, slightly sour tang of cardboard filled my mouth. I opened my mouth to spit it out but nothing was there. 

"Beer?" I looked around me and saw a great expanse of dead grass and soil stretching towards a valley in the horizon. The clanging of swords and the cries of soldiers drunk in battle echoed from there. I had returned to the battlefield. Or at least the outskirts of it.

My hands trembled as the image of Duncan lying in a pool of crimson resurfaced in my mind. The coppery scent of blood filled my nostrils and made me nauseous. With all my knowledge of the future, I had only managed to get myself killed even quicker…

My head began to spin and I had to sit down on the ground to steady myself. Why did I feel hungover again?

The steel sword at my side detached from its scabbard and fell to the grass for a second before morphing into a tall lady with beautiful red-black hair and sharp eyes. 

"What, Lady Macbeth?" My voice came out in a sort of childish squeal but my head hurt too much to be embarrassed.

Frowning, the woman's face distorted and her features reassembled to form a familiar, grotesque face. Her fingers became spindly and claw-like as her back shrunk and rounded into a hunch. Her maroon gown and cloak remained the same. "I can look nice too, you know."

I made a disgruntled, guttural groan from the pit of my throat, as I lifted my fingers to the back of my neck to feel for a slash wound that wasn't there. Wonder if my armour and daggers were going to transform into the other two witches too?

"Have some hangover soup," she croaked not unkindly, thrusting a small metal tin with a lid at me. Lifting the lid, I glanced at the murky green liquid steaming with the smell of cologne sprayed onto stinky laundry.

"Is that a finger…?"

"Must have gotten it mixed up with the potions again." She awkwardly grabbed the tin back and hid it in the folds of her cloak.

"Why do I feel so drunk? And why am I not with Macbeth? Is the battle not won?" The questions that had been building up in my throat tumbled out at once.

"The beer is how we do the regression. Hecate didn't let us give you the good strong stuff. You wouldn't be able to tell, but she's a total alcoholic. Also, we forgot to tell you but you start out a little earlier each time you regress. Do you really want to fight in the war each time, though? We were thinking of giving you some rest, but I suppose it's up to you…"

The information washed over my mind like waves on the shore, allowing me to process not much. I lay down on the grass in silence for a second, listening to the battlecries in the distance. One sounded a little too familiar.

"Here is fine." I replied at last. Something came to mind. "Hey, you're not speaking in that voice anymore."

"Huh?" Her brows furrowed.

"The FAIR IS FOUL AND FOUL IS FAIR voice."

In an expression I couldn't quite read, the hag gazed at me for a second before a sound of rushing wind and thunder filled my ears. As the sounds of swordfight drew louder and closer, the scenery around me began to transform into that of the battlefield. The witch's silhouette seemed to dissolve into the melting scenery, but by now, such sorcery was hardly surprising.

"I gave you a hint, you know," the croaky voice whispered into my ear, "to help you in this round. Don't tell the others or they'll be furious."

"What?" I shakily got to my feet. "What hint?"

Before I could receive a reply, I was standing in the battlefield watching Macbeth's silent back in front of me as he knelt to slide a dead soldier's eyelids shut.