My dearest wife,
I have missed you dearly during these last couple of months and I inscribe this letter to tell you that I am fine and able-bodied and hath survived and won the battle against the Norwegians. Many of my partners in war have been killed in battle, but they have died with dignity and pride, but from somewhere I some how feel a sense of guilt with in. My friends (that hath survived), fellow Thanes of Scotland, and even King Duncan himself, hath praised my endeavors greatly. As a reward for my courage, bravery and success in the battle, I hath been honored with the title of Thane of Cawdor of which I cannot believe. Our dear friend, King Duncan, approaches our home tonight, bringing with him celebration of the joyful successes.
However, the news I send is not only of elation, but also of worry and apprehension of the events that followed.
My friend Banquo and I journeyed on a heath through a dark, sinister and tempestuous night, with rain beating down on our skin, and thunder crashing down from above. As I continued my everlasting journey closer to you, three mysterious witches, performing dark and evil rituals were all gathered around an enormous cauldron, disturbed Banquo and myself. As we approached, they continued brewing a concoction unknown to us. As we unhurriedly neared them, they seemed to be revealing much knowledge of myself that even I did not know, they foresaw me becoming Thane of Cawdor, to which I now am. The witches chanted 'All hail, Macbeth! Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor, thou shalt be king hereafter'. They then announced my winning of the battle, which was deeply correct but surely something they could of not known. The final prediction was that...