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It was in the thick of summer, when Desdemona had first seen the Moorish general who had earned such a sterling reputation amongst the soldiers who were always in and out of Venice. It followed after a June and July of dodging a particular suitor and honing her skills of politely declining invitations.  

She did feel a bit guilty about that. There was nothing specifically wrong with Roderigo as far as she could tell, except for a certain quality of the eyes that put her off. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel pursued, and not in a particularly romantic sense. She knew her father would be happy to see her married, but she didn’t see any harm in remaining modest and considering her options for a bit longer. 

But in truth, these topics were far from her mind on the hot afternoon in which her and Othello had first occupied the same space. It would be some time still before the topics of ‘Othello’ and ‘marriage’ became linked in her mind. In the moment, all she could think was that she had never seen someone stand out so glaringly while simultaneously commanding respect as if it were as easy as breathing. Desdemona was aware that her eyes were not the only ones distracted by the assumed outsider, and yet the soldiers following him drew around him as though his essence held some magnetic quality. 

It was only later that she heard the man’s name for the first time, though not nearly as frequently as she heard his moniker. Later still until they had their first conversation, though Desdemona could hardly get more than three words out before she lost all nerve. Up close, she could nearly feel that magnetism as if it were a physical presence, beckoning her to discover what was kept within those dark eyes which laid upon her with a gentle weight. 

Somehow, they kept having conversations, growing much longer than that initial exchanging of words. The anxiety that had at first troubled her could not survive the force of her curiosity for long, less so when her questions were rewarded with such grand stories. 

And what stories they were! Had Othello not been a general, Desdemona thought he ought to be a poet of some sort, a thought which amused the Moor greatly when she expressed it to him. There was something about them, something engrossing, which first drew the thoughts of ‘Othello’ and ‘marriage’ together. Perhaps it was because no one else would tell her such stories, full of sharp tragedy and bloodshed in equal measure to hard won triumph and wondrous beauty. Perhaps it was because she could hear the undercurrent of honesty beneath the words, marking them as truth instead of empty boasts. 

But it was when the Moor’s stories began to follow her into her dreams that she knew she would accept any proposal he made. She would fall asleep only to find herself standing within some piece of Othello’s history, sometimes by his side, and on stranger nights, seeing out of his eyes. 

What a strange transformation, these dreams were! To walk over the ground of an unfamiliar homeland, constructed only of those details which the Moor had gifted her. To feel her neck heat under the sun, calluses on her hands, to run and fight and lead men into battle. She dreamt that magnetism made a home within her own breast, drawing men to follow instead of pursue her. It was a wholly unique experience, one she missed terribly once she awoke.

She did not tell Othello about the dreams. She did continue to urge more stories out of him, even when they drew mist to her eyes and made her throat heavy with sighs. Her hints grew bolder until the Moor’s quick eyes captured them, and those eyes were all she could see as he kissed her fingers, the sunlight reflecting in them like glittering stars. 

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Othello watched Desdemona flit about the room with spritely energy, debating with herself what she should take for their upcoming voyage to Cyprus. Just looking at her was rejuvenating, enough for him to let go of some of the tension he felt in his back. 

Tension that was not invisible, however, as Desdemona’s eyes turned to assess him, finding something that made her lips quirk in an apologetic smile. 

“Are you still thinking about what my father said?” She asked, dipping her head. “I’m truly sorry. I knew he wouldn’t exactly approve, but to think he’d accuse you of magic of all things…”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Othello gently assured. “Your father’s actions are not your own. And, have we not won our happiness? Your father’s opinions being what they are, he has failed to translate them into action.” 

Desdemona sighed, lifting her head. “Yes, you are probably right. Still, I wish there was no conflict at all.” 

If only that could be true, Othello thought, though he did not voice it. He did not want to dwell on offense, and wanted even less for Desdemona to. There were better times to attend to. 

And indeed, their spirits did soon lift. New love soothed any bruised feelings, and lingering thoughts evaporated from his mind like fine mist under the sun.   

It was only during the strange hours of dusk that those thoughts once again condensed in a lazy swirl as his mind grew closer to sleep. He had also, perhaps foolishly, hoped to avoid a dissolution of friendship with Brabanzio over his marriage, but he ought to have known it was inevitable. He was not unaware that he was crossing social convention by wedding Desdemona, but he had thought it possible for the daughter’s openness to be found in her father as well. 

It was an old frustration. One familiar enough that he could pick at it like a scab if so chose, though that would accomplish nothing other than wounding him further. How many times had Brabanzio let him into his home, regarded him as a trusted friend, praised him for his accomplishments? How quickly that love flew away when pressed.  

But he would rather keep Desdemona’s love over her father’s. And she had chosen him, of her own will, free from any binds of spellcraft. His mind eased as his thoughts drifted to his wife. There were some injustices unwise to linger upon, lest he lose his sleep for the remainder of his days. He knew he could face down worse trials than that if it were for the sake of her affection. 

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Iago could see the pieces falling into place as if they were drawn in by a force as inevitable as gravity. The Moor was engulfed in an angry anxiety which thirsted for proof, prepared to create certainty even where there lay only its suggestion. 

It was an anger which transformed him completely, the lines of his body seemingly shuddering around it. It suited him better than the lovestruck foolishness he had been so engaged with.   

He was sharper now, sharpened. It was Iago he was leaning on now, relying on for guidance. 

His image of Iago, at least. It was a thought that caught on him, during times where he was not putting his mind to some other task; those afterimages of himself in the minds of other people. Emilia’s Iago, Othello’s Iago, Cassio’s Iago, Roderigo’s Iago… you could combine them all and still not come away with anyone resembling who he was. 

Even as Othello had looked at him with piercing eyes, the both of them kneeling on the floor, he had not really seen him. But he had listened to him.  

Was that what it was? There was power in being listened to without being seen. 

Though obfuscated as his own image was, he knew himself at least enough to know that the reason was not so dispassionate as a simple power trip. There was something within him like rage, like black smoke in his lungs, so choking that it was a wonder it didn’t slip out of his mouth when he spoke. 

On that feeling he and the Moor were truly connected, though the proud general did not know it.  

It was simple to think of reasons for his anger. They were clear reasons, understandable ones. Reasons that could even be true. But he suspected it was simply something that lived inside of him, like an extra organ. He suspected that he was just assembled differently from other people. Made from different parts. 

Because he knew the others were not like him. They were not so constructed. They simply revealed themselves, knowingly or not, existing in the world with little revision. 

It was a strange and revolting concept to Iago. He couldn’t imagine living that way, allowing others access to mind and thoughts and heart. He couldn’t imagine what truth he would give them, even if he wanted to. 

And why would he? He hated all of them. The Moor, who had rewarded his loyal service with disregard, the inane wife Desdemona and that fool Cassio. His own wife was no better. Needling and shallow and always taking up too much space in his home, somehow grating in her mere presence. If it were not so that a person like Iago ought to be married, he would have avoided the trouble of it all together. 

It was a wonder how he could stand it. Sometimes just being around people was a grand irritation, though being alone was hardly better. Alone there was nothing to do and no one to be, and some nights it all clung to him like an inflamed second skin. People he could predict. People he could control. 

Did he need any more reason than that? He knew that he wanted to ruin the Moor, and it was the wanting that mattered. It was the wanting that filled his lungs like smoke, and the wanting was what would bring them all down together. 

That wanting would be fulfilled without him ever having to ask, still without ever being seen. There was power in that. A power that was all Iago.

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Emilia knew her husband was up to something. He always seemed to be up to something, though she knew from experience that it would be fruitless to question what. 

Most of the time it was harmless anyway. He would ask her to do something innocuous, or insult her randomly only to take it back later, all for some end she was never let in on.

It was far from the ‘honest Iago’ others saw, but she was past the point of being resentful of it. Her husband was what he was. She was past attempting some battle of attrition with him, and their house remained peaceful this way. 

She remembered when they had first gotten married, how she had felt swept away by him. He seemed to have that effect on people, though he seldom deigned to use his abilities with her anymore. But she noticed how he was with others, more than he thought she did. When he talked to someone, it was as if he was pledging himself to them. He could make you feel as though you were the sole recipient of his loyalty, that he would be honest with you above all else, that he would stay by your side against all others. 

It had been captivating, in the early days of their marriage. The attention had only waned like a darkening moon as the days went on, and now she faced far more reproach than praise. 

At first it had troubled her terribly, to the point she was so out of sorts that Desdemona began to notice. She could not bear to drag her lady into her troubles, but had accepted her comforts best she could. Emilia was younger then than she was now, though not by much, and she hadn’t understood what she had done wrong. She believed it must have been some fault of hers that made her husband’s love for her spoil so. 

She was not sure that was what she believed now, though truly, it was difficult to believe anything about Iago. It was not that his heart was hidden, but that it seemed to transform and change shape, so seamlessly as to make her doubt her own senses. 

But their house was peaceful. In truth, any passion she had possessed for her husband had long cooled as well, likely for the best. The two of them seemed more adept at cohabitating than being true lovers, but they passed the time well enough.

And Iago had never caused anyone any true harm. As far as she knew at least. Except, this new scheme put her stomach in unease, ever since she had handed off the handkerchief to him. She did not often go against her husband, but was it really necessary to involve Desdemona in this, whatever it was? She had been nothing but polite to him, despite his rudeness towards her - and she was Emilia’s mistress besides. 

She wrung her hands together, pacing around the house which was currently empty. Her husband was out. The sun was just starting to set, and she ought to be preparing for sleep. Perhaps she should make something to settle her stomach.

She knew her husband wouldn’t hurt anyone, not seriously, not permanently. If she thought this to herself enough times, she could believe it. 

She gripped her fingers in a grounding motion, one after the other. Night descended over everything, and she tried to put it all out of her mind. Her husband would be getting home soon.