Author: EccentrikPirate PM
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster.... Certain of his fate, loves not his wronger: But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves"...easier said than done.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Tragedy - Words: 1,239 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 3 - Published: 04-22-09 - id: 5012034
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Part 1: Love
"O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:
But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!"
- William Shakespeare's Othello (3. 3. 165-171)
She stared at him, mouth agape and eyes wide, the night he professed his ardent love for her. She said nothing, her figure a statue while his knees trembled and teeth chattered noisily. He thought he was a master of thinking on his feet but he could create no appropriate response to this silence. He ran a nervous hand through disheveled hair. Nervous. She made him nervous. She was the only creature to ever do that to him and he loved this reaction to her presence as much as he did loathe it.
She blinked once and breath suddenly returned to her, yet still she did not speak.
He swallowed once, then twice, and allowed his eyes to wander longingly—and lustfully—over chaste beauty. Eyes of crystal she had, and her hair naturally fell in perfect ringlets. His finger twitched at his newest urge to tangle both his hands in that silken mane. Her pale, blemish less skin nearly glowed in the moonlight. He unconsciously licked his lips as he measured hers so full and luscious (and the same could be said for the swell of her bosom in that dress).
He loved her. He loved her and wished to shout it a thousand times over. He wished to sing her name in the same way the songbirds did outside his window each morning. He loved her, and needed her. He so desperately craved to have her warm body laying beside him on cold nights. He wished so greatly for her to return the same love he possessed for her. He wanted her—her love, her breath, her skin—to be his forever. His body ached with the need to touch her, to inhale her intoxicating scent, to hear her speak his name…
"Iago…" she rasped. He leaned forward, closer to her, instinctively to hear the barely audible whisper of her next words, "you are a good friend…"
He had heard enough.
With inhuman speed he had an arm around her waist, another cupped her chin and he vigorously kissed the lips no other had claimed before him. She did not struggle nor resist when he tightened his hold on her, or when he pressed his body so firmly against hers, or as he smeared himself all over her mouth. So for several long and very blissful moments they kissed—undisturbed by any human intruder or their own good sense.
Her delicate fingers curled around the fabric of his collar. His fingers magically weaved themselves into her soft hair. He could feel her creamy flesh even through her dress and all his clothes. For only the shortest of moments did her lips willingly welcome his; at the moment when her defenses were the most weak and her curiosity for him at its height. He smiled against her mouth. The kiss had been returned. Victory was his. He had won his love.
Then with unsuspected and urgent force she pushed him away, breaking apart their passionate seal with haste. She retreated from his cradling arms, wiping away the taste of his kiss from her lips as though he were a poison. She insisted to him how a pair such as they could never be.
After all, did he not have a wife and she her virtue?
Her heart was not in those words. He did not believe her. She loved him. His hopes had been confirmed in the way she refused to meet his eye with every one of her calm protests. They had been confirmed in the way her face had reddened and her chest fluttered with shallow breaths as she danced so unsuccessfully around his most important question: "do you not love me?"
She tried to leave—still refusing to look the man that stole a kiss from her in his eye. He, however, would not be defeated so easily and took hold of her fragile arms to keep her still. He pleaded, begged, demanded that she admit her love for him and not abandon him like this. She'd say he had a wife and demand to be set free. He'd reply in a low tone how that did not matter to him—and to himself thought of how easily a silly thing like that could be taken care of. She'd still insist no, and he would attempt to woo her with the news of his impending promotion. They would be well off. Her father would no doubt approve of his only daughters choice in this man (this potential widower?). They would be in love. Did that not matter most of all? He declared his most undying and devoted and passionate love to her. Yet continuously did she deny the prospect of a secret affair—adultery was a sin!—or to even save themselves for each other, to wait until he had things settled (she did not want to think of what that meant for his wife; humiliation and abandonment?) to be married. Even that was still evil and sinful in her mind.
He growled at her unwillingness to compromise, to even admit the truth so obvious to him.
"Iago…you are a good friend…" she meekly repeated, frightened by his fury. But something in her voice cooled his rage. He did not wish to make his love afraid.
He released her, shoulders slumping in crushed hope. For a moment she looked upon him with pity—her fear having almost completely subsided with his submission. He sighed. She reached up to touch his cheek, to lift his eyes from his feet but froze. He was married. They were not. This meeting was in secret. His proposal to her—everything—it was simply wrong. She would not betray her fellow woman. She would not become the mistress for any man. Not for all the world.
She left swiftly—while his head was still bent. Never did he hear her confirm or deny his suspicions. Her verbal response he did not need. He recognized the reflection of his love in her eyes—if only for the briefest of seconds, in the tiniest of flickers. He felt it in her kiss. He sensed it in the gentle hand that nearly caressed his cheek.
Again his tongue slithered an unconscious track over his lips—he could still taste her there—and a grinned. He had to remind himself that this was not defeat, only a minor setback. He would win her yet. He was sure of it. He loved her to fiercely to have to be crushed so easily. Either he would win Desdemona's love or no man would.
In the process of writing a research paper on Othello-- focusing mainly on Iago-- and have read many an essay on theories of Iago's motives for everything and his character prior to the start of the play. So I figured, since I really was rooting for him the whole time, I'd write my own little take. This is only the first half but I still hope somebody out there enjoyed it =).