Slavery Of The Dark Hour Literary Analysis

“Perjury of the Dark Hour” Undertones of tipsy supremacy ring out even past the immense, copious, and lustrous door separating me from the bountiful feast just a few strides away. The cordial rumbles oftimes discontinued by the forceful and festive laugh for our royal guests of worthy prestige. Although I'm stuck here, elsewhere from the divine feast with huge volumes of platters tower over me in need of sterilization. This is my task even if I long to be elsewhere, it has to be done I owe it to my Thane and his intimidating bride to make sure this celebration is flawless. Everyone has to leave more fulfilled and lively than they entered, or my hard work as a servant will be in vain. “Come forth,” Macbeth adjourned shoving the slick lustrous

Macbeth’s demeanor is off putting, he lacks assurance and looks tightly wound. Stress is devouring his whole body, his limbs trembling uncontrollably and for a short period of time he regains his composure just for a few seconds before being swept back into his shaken state. Lush red skin with streams of sweat lashing at the bright ruby blush, but stands no chance of taming the intense radiant glow. Yet he’s a host and shouldn’t be flushed rather be taking care of those intoxicated who cannot even take a step without their whole body swaying and plummeting to the ground. His behavior is not caused by drinking the fire water as he is way more self-assured and rowdy when inebriated. Something is not right here with my master, he has no reason to be worried this is a party after all but maybe that’s why he’s ordering me to do something.
Following behind like an obedient dog I pass the gateway to the empty dining room still filled with that satisfying, mouth watering aroma. The other kitchen workers and chefs are still picking up myriads of dining plates and eating utensils, which I’ll still have to clean when I return.
“Here take this and walk beside me to make sure all our guests made it to their rooms safely.” As Macbeth passed me a flaring flambeau piercing the pitch black fog of the castle.
After nearing the end of our check we hear the sharp sound of metal be unsheathed.
“Who’s there?” A

Banquo stuck out his hand towards Macbeth such as an offering, though nebulous in the veil of night it was able to break through with particle sized glints and sparkle, presumably a gemstone of some sort. Master Macbeth and commander Banquo continuously passed complements back and forward. Not engrossed in the conversation I stand there unsettled by the fact that Macbeth is holding in what’s on his mind. Confident on the outside with the immaculate posture contradictory to the gears grinding in his head, the machine seems stuck and uncooperative. Before I can proceed any further I'm sharply cut