ACT III SCENE III
The dropped napkin fluttered gently in the air.
Emilia watched as the white linen dropped onto the rough stone floor. No one but her was watching, just a small insignificant handkerchief on the floor mustn’t have disturbed anyone else.
Truly, careless. The lot of them, really.
Othello took Desdemona’s arm, her small hand fitting so perfectly in the large crook of his arm. Emilia suppressed the well of emotion that welled up inside her as they left together, Desdemona’s smile carving its gracious form into her mind forever.
She stooped down to pick up the handkerchief, tracing a finger over the sweet embroidered strawberries that coated the edges. The swirling green leaves felt like sandpaper under her fingers. How bittersweet, seeing them arm-in-arm.
She began to walk away, heading back to Desdemona’s chambers, handkerchief in tow. The heels of her shoes clacked on the stone, the sound echoing in the nearly empty space.a door sounded somewhere, but she ignored it, deep in thought.
“Emilia!”
Her husband’s nasally tone came from behind her.
Zounds, it wasn’t his voice she wanted to hear right now…
“How now, wife!” His arm took its wrongful place in hers, and she pulled away, scowling. His query continued, unfortunately. “What do you here alone?”
“Do not you chide,” Emilia huffed, rubbing her fingers along the sweet berries again. Iago saw her, his beady eyes perking up and growing excited.
“Good wench, give that here!” He exclaimed, reaching for it. Emilia kept it -and herself- out of his reach, walking ahead and rounding the corner to the stairway.
“What will you do with ‘t, thou didst bid me to filch it many a time.” She said cautiously, tucking it close to her chest. The kerchief smelled of lilac, and rose-water. Her hand tightened around it, wanting to keep it close to her chest-
“Why, what is that to you?” Iago huffed, crossing his arms and leaning on the stone walls.
“If it be for some course of corruption, thou shall not have’t.” Emilia said, tucking it into her sleeve. Iago scowled, huffing off to wherever it was he went when he didn’t get what he wanted.
She shook her head, and continued up the stairs, hand trailing on the bannister.
Desdemona’s chambers weren’t awfully small, but they were definitely bigger than Emilia’s own; which sat in a room off to the side. She headed there, making sure everything was still in its order on the way through.
She sat on the edge of her bed, breathing deeply. The handkerchief in her sleeve weighed her arm down to the stone floor, the secret found within worming it’s way to the front of her mind.
Am I allowed that, to look to her like this…?
She wondered silently, kicking her shoes off and crawling further onto the bed. It wasn’t enough, for Emilia to see her happy met, no. Of course not. T’was wrong, though she was awfully nice to look at…
Cursing her thoughts, she brought the offending object out of her sleeve.
Such a small curse, hers. As small as the berries embroidered on the napkin she’d just now taken from whatever harm Iago intended to use it for. Glad for that, she was. She smoothed it out, Lady Desdemona’s kerchief pressed between her palms. The smell of roses drifted into her nose, and she breathed deeply, satisfied. This, here, was her lady, the sweet scent of delicate pink flowers. Her lady, on the soft linen of this here kerchief- The feel of it on her fingertips nearly made tears spring to her eyes.
They were so close, so close. Friends, not just lady and lady-maid, but friends, real friends.
Emilia’s hand in hers was a comfort her lady oft sought for, and though married, Emilia found pleasure in a night well-spent at Desdemona’s side, the lady sleeping better at her side then at Lord Othello’s-
Emilia sat up, scrambling to tuck the handkerchief under her pillow.
These thoughts, however wondrous, must remain fleeting, she told herself sternly. There would be no thoughts about her lady’s dark, curling hair, or her soft, sweet face. No, not today.
She banished the thoughts from her mind, the heavy door opening in the main room.
“Emilia?” Her lady’s voice called hesitantly.
She smiled, slipping her shoes back on.
“I’m here, my lady.”
~~~
ACT V SCENE II
Emilia sits there, hand on her side. The blood on her gown spilled through her fingers. The only thing she can see is Desdemona.
She’s so pale, she’s so pale and still and there was something wrong with her, and she’s not moving, her chest isn’t rising and her eyelids, how delicate they are, how delicate and soft but so still, god, she’s so still-
Emilia feels a tear drag itself over her cheek. It’s not easy to move, but she pulls herself over to the strangled Lady anyway, the trail of dripping blood on the stone floor never escaping her notice. She was dying, but her lady-
Desdemona’s eyelids fluttered.
Emilia shook her gently, hoping that the inevitable wasn’t true. Hoping that her lady’s bosom would move, that her fingers would grace Emilia’s cheek in that soft, gentle way she’d always done, the way Emilia loved so…
The blood pouring through her fingers quickened, Emilia gripping the wound tightly. “My lady?” She asked softly, eyes blurring on Desdemona’s pale face. She was so peaceful, sleeping there… so still, a stretched-out corporeal version of the smile that had burned itself into Emilia’s memory just days before brushed onto her lips. The Lady, beautiful even in death.
Emilia brushed a tendril of hair off of Desdemona’s forehead, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold skin.
What had he done? The Lord Othello had proclaimed her unfaithful and Desdemona knew not why, nought could be found in her chamber nor Michael Cassio’s that proved the rumors true- then if not true then why did Desdemona lay here, pale and cold and still, on the floor of her wedding chambers, hands splayed limply at her sides?
There is nothing to keep Emilia from closing her eyes, nothing that keeps her from looking away- the sight is already engraved into the blackness beyond her sight. Desdemona, sprawled in the dragged, dirty blankets of her marital bed. There is something obscene about it; sheer horror in Desdemona’s slack, open legs. The shock of her dark hair strewn, bunched and torn.
Her silence.
In the space of one heartbeat, Emilia wanted to point and shout, Look at what you have done.
And the next, if a curtain could have closed off around Desdemona, Emilia would have fallen to her knees and cried out in gratitude.
“What did thy song bode, my Lady?” Emilia whispered, her voice cracking. “Canst thou hear me?”
Desdemona’s fingers were stiff, not yet cold as she intertwined their hands, things unseen and unspoken hidden between their palms.
Emilia stretched out beside her, as she had so many a night before, and as her lashes fluttered closed, she pressed her lips to her Lady’s cheek, a reverent kiss to a tragic goodbye.
~~~
ACT VI SCENE I
The next thing Emilia remembers is her Lady’s face, staring down at her. Shielded by dark curls, Desdemona’s nightgown is pulled loose at the collar, the pale column of her neck ringed ‘round with bruising. Emilia tries not to stare, and fails.
“My dear Emilia,” her lady whispered softly. She blinked, feeling the crust that had stuck to her eyelashes. Her throat wasn’t working; nothing worked and-
“Emilia. My- is this- canst thou hear me?” Desdemona’s hand came to rest on her stomach, softly, her fingers shaking. She couldn’t move her head- she-
“By my love, sweet, I beg of thee…” Her lady whispered, her voice trailing off at the end. Emilia tried to move, anything, to let Desdemona know that she was there- Desdemona laid down beside her instead, head resting on her shoulder. “Thy slumber has been too long.”
My love, sweet…
Emilia slowly felt tears rise up in her throat- her side hurt, the wound ached, and yet Desdemona’s hand on her chest was the only thing she could think of- her neck turned, her chin touching her Lady’s forehead.
These words from her Lady, whispered so close and in such manner… Desdemona’s chest, rising and falling, falling and rising- Emilia could think of nothing more sweet, nothing more comforting than her lady, in this moment.
“Sleep’s hands have not taken thee, Emilia?” Desdemona whispered. Her breath was warm on Emilia’s neck. What a relief, breath. To breathe, to live. To be close and hold each other close-
“No, my lady,” she croaked out. Something wet soaked her sleeve, and she huffed, pressing her lips to Desdemona’s forehead. Her lady sobbed, gripping Emilia’s nightgown tight.
“And art thee well, my sweet emilia?” she whispered through the tears, a smile growing on her face as she stared up at her handmaiden, Emilia faintly smiling back as she shifted, bringing her hand up to meet Desdemonda’s, over her wound.
“Now that my eyes lay hold of you,” Emilia breathed, “I am well enough indeed.”
~~~