Fools, these Mortals

Iago Chapter Ten

The world that I had painstakingly crafted was now ruined. Scheming every political move against any opponent to raise my status, establishing order and leadership that the humans needed in the heart of enemy territory. It was all collapsing before my eyes. Twelve years of hard toil and mindful labour, destroyed. Because of one boy. Even before he entered the Hall, I felt the constant pull, similar to the one in Prospero's cave. But there was no comparison between the two. Whereas at Prospero's cave, the pull at my soul barely distracted my return to the castle, but this draw could not be ignored. It was an instinctual summoning to come closer, to mould myself to its will. The more I fought to tear my gaze from the boy, the tighter it squeezed my chest. Threatening to crush my heart like a lemon to garnish a plate. To not answer its call would ensure a slow death until I could do so. Throughout the Tasting Ceremony, the boy suffocated me.

Rarely did nervousness overcome my reason, and it had little to do with the vampires issuing orders for the smooth operating for the rest of the evening. It was that boy. Wide hazel eyes absorbed every detail around him. Behind the muck, his face was beautiful symmetry. A strange visual that rarely entered the vampire court. Youth. The usual haggard faces of the miserable old men that I'd grown accustomed to dulled into the background. He alone held my attention. Strength resided in him. Though lean from hunger, his body was trained for battle. Full, clean teeth told me more than anything the boy would say to hide himself. The boy was noble. Not a single stain or tooth missing. Teeth can't lie, like the tongue. Once our eyes met, I knew this boy would threaten my position here. I had little doubt that the power this draw had over me would render me useless against the boy. To suit both this draw and to secure my position, I needed to orchestrate the boy to my side, before he could control me. Only to Othello I could submit myself to a ruler, but not to a mere child. I thrived at keeping enemies close. Friends were a needless luxury, but this boy would be neither. Yet a small part of my fears knew if the boy so much as issued a demand, I would have to obey. Besides Othello, I didn't obey anyone. Even then, it was for appearances sake.

Prospero had warned me of the magic of Illyria. Magic and Gods I had never believed in, nor ever will. Was this the island's way of ensuring I fulfilled my pledge? Was this the son of my enemy? Sebastien's boy? The last time I saw Sebastien's son was when he was nothing but a bundle of screams and snot. Hazel eyes shone through infant tears, as they did before me in the court. Those eyes were not from the Sebastien I hated, must be from his mother. Yet when the boy gave his sample for tasting, the cold-hot strike of a slice to my arm was the last proof of evidence. Even when the nearest vampire guard sniffed hungrily where I lurked with the rest of the mortal staff, I was thankful to be wearing the black leather jerkin of Sustainerhood. Blood didn't bleed through the black.

Intelligence lurked, hiding, in those hazel eyes. The boy was keeping something hidden. Like a bloodhound to a scent, I would find his secret. Why hadn't Prospero sent him to the town? Did the boy escape, get ensnared along with the other humans? Unfortunately, there had been no time to question the boy. Now that the vampires knew of his existence, he couldn't be removed from court as easily. Now the course was to glue the boy to my side. Yet, trouble came to him, as flies to dung. When Mercutio attacked the boy, my body hurled into motion before my mind could react. I could be thankful that Othello separated them before I revealed my bias, and the surprising limp within my own walk after the boy's altercation. Such an act would ruin my reputation. I never had favourites. And I had no intentions of favouring one now. Word would spread too quickly at court, making the boy a target beyond his understanding. Best keep him in the dark. We both recognised each other, that was certain. To seal away the last of my paranoia and last shred of doubt, the boy wasn't even a Goodfellow, his hand unmarked from the iron peg. The boy was purely mortal with eyes holding less trust than mine. Kirk. A common, insignificant name of no relevance to me. One that I had never been acquainted with. This had to be my godson, Sebastien. It was the only explanation. And the rough treatment of my body was another sign that Illyria's magic was taking affect, magic I had never given a second of thought to. I had to protect the boy, but for now he was safe.