Chapter Text
Desdemona is dead. It is too late.
Othello is perfectly aware that there are other people in the room, watching him, yet he cares not - his focus is not on any of them.
He wraps his arms around Desdemona’s lifeless body and weeps, weeping for her demise, his guilt, her faith and chastity that had existed all along. Othello holds her close, tears dripping onto her pale, marble-white skin, leaving the faintest of all marks. But there is nothing that can be done.
Desdemona is dead.
Lodovico, Gratiano, Montano and Cassio are all standing [and sitting] round, their expressions still vaguely filled with shock and horror regarding the sudden events. But they are also sympathetic, their expressions creased with sympathy as they watch Othello sob all over Desdemona. Not that it does any good. His tears and his repentance cannot do anything to salvage the situation.
Desdemona is dead.
The only person in the room looking less than sympathetic is Iago. In fact, he looks purely unsympathetic, standing there defiantly with his arms crossed, under close observation by the two officers that are holding him prisoner. His face is devoid of expression. Evidently, he doesn’t care a jot about the losses. Iago has done his work - he manipulated everyone, framed Cassio, slandered Desdemona, tricked Othello, killed Roderigo, attacked Cassio, killed Emilia…and ultimately, helped Othello kill Desdemona, although not literally by his own hand. It was through his insinuations, his hints. His lies.
Of course, Othello knows now that none of it was true. He’s internally reprimanding himself for ever suspecting his gentle Desdemona of such a crime. He now realises that she was indeed heavenly true.
But his acknowledgement of the fact cannot change anything.
Desdemona is dead.
Othello is so busy with embracing and sobbing on Desdemona that he scarcely hears Lodovico approaching him. The latter pats him on the shoulder, the brief touch a small demonstration of the amount of sympathy and empathy that he feels towards the general. That same general is completely broken.
‘Othello, you must leave this room; come with us. You are stripped of your power and command, and Cassio now rules over Cyprus,’ He pauses. Aims a glare at Iago. ‘As for this hellish villain,’ He continues. ‘We are going to give him whatever torture we can devise that is both painful, but not deadly. We are prolonging his life to let him suffer. Come, take him away.’
Lodovico and the others start to leave the room. Perhaps it’s the noise that their movement makes, perhaps it’s just sheer timing - but at that point, Othello momentarily breaks out of his trance.
He has got only one thing on his mind.
Desdemona is dead.
Which is why he has to do what he has to do.
‘Please, allow me to speak a few words before you go.’ Othello requests, standing up to face everyone. They all turn back, curious and nervous. Othello sounds dangerously calm considering the situation, and it’s difficult to tell whether he’s just going to talk or turn to violence.
‘I pray, do not look so timorous. I just want to speak a few words before you depart,’ Othello says carefully, walking closer and closer so that he’s face-to-face with Lodovico.
The diplomat nods cautiously. Then he discreetly steps backwards a pace.
Othello takes the opportunity. He’s got several different emotions attacking him inside, an amalgamation of rage, resentment, guilt, loss, sorrow…the list felt endless.
‘As you all know, I have done the state of Venice quite a bit of service, and they know it. In your letters, please speak of me exactly as you see me now - do not exaggerate or downplay the events for my benefit. Speak of me as a man who, I confess, did not love wisely, but too much; a man not easily made jealous, but being manipulated, was tricked into extreme jealousy. Describe me as a man who was not used to crying, but now, standing here, as a man whose tears fall faster than an Arabian tree dripping with its sap. I beseech you, write down all of this. Also, include how I once saw a malevolent Turk beating an innocent Venetian and undermining the state. Recall how I, upon seeing the assault, grabbed the enemy Turk by his throat…’
Othello pauses briefly, taking a few seconds to consolidate his final thoughts. But there is only one.
Desdemona is dead.
‘…I struck him down. He died instantly on impact. I did it like this…’
Without uttering another word, Othello swiftly reaches under his bed and grabs a sword.
Iago looks indifferent. Gratiano looks wary. Lodovico, Montano and Cassio look taken aback -
but none of them seem to make any move to stop him.
Othello doesn’t see any of them. He’s too lost in his own thoughts, his impending death. He swiftly holds the sword up, positions it, and is just about to finish himself off, when…
Suddenly, he feels the sword being pulled out of his hand just as he starts to bring it down. His aim distorts a little as it gets taken, and the sword ends up jabbing the other person in the arm.
Othello’s vision is still a little foggy from being so caught up in his own thoughts, but he can hear that same someone muttering faintly under their breath, their words almost becoming profanities…but not quite.
It was Cassio’s voice. Cassio had just disarmed him.