Fools, these Mortals

Iago Chapter Twenty-Three

Oberon's battle cry was the signal for his warriors to dive at a sprint into the earth as he flung his spear straight for my chest. Dodging at the last possible moment after decades of battle experience, my pulse deafened me momentarily from the battle as the spear missed my flesh. A moment later, fae shot out of the earth in front of our defensive line, their weapons sharp as they stabbed; on reflex I pulled my iron sword to meet the warrior bearing down on me. Engaging head on, the humans struck at any given opportunity as the vampires jumped ahead, pouncing onto the exposed necks of the fae. Breaking naturally to signal combat against the enemy, muscle memory soon kicked in to defend myself from the relentless blows of the fae warriors from numerous angles. Diverting and swinging defensively. No matter the hard-earned experience I gained from combat, my strength wasn't the same to match the pace my enemy had set our fighting tempo. Swinging a wide arc in a desperate attempt to separate us, I dived through mingled bodies. Fighting off random slashes of weapons and forcing my body to contort in various shapes to deflect more attacks. My lungs begged for more air, sawing through my throat to relief. In brief spare glances, even Othello was struggling against his opponents. The fatal slices to his body had already caused the crystal poison to damage his flesh, causing black to spread through the vampire's bloodstream. Yet Othello didn't fall.

No one was more worthy to kill Othello than me, but I couldn't risk his soul. Instead, against my desires of the last near twelve years, I protected the vampire. We fought side by side as we did before, and some shade of my mortal Othello came through, taking swings at my exposed sides, whilst I ducked to defend his back. We were our own composers of synchronised death. If it weren't for the pull that squeezed my heart to an inferno, I would've used this moment to seize my revenge within my own creation of chaos. Desdemona only lay ahead and if could manoeuvre her to be within striking distance, Othello may react on instinct. Suddenly, the noose around my heart squeezed in warning, cutting off my air. Something was happening to the boy. The pull echoed the boy's pain, seizing fast at my arm and bruised along my spine causing my sword arm to drop.

I cursed Kirk for stealing my vendetta. Roaring my outrage, I dug to the last reserves of energy and swung at sparce unsuspecting fae warriors, attempting to ease the noose by getting closer to the borderline to appease this curse. Why should I pacify a vow that I made to an enemy that sentenced me here?

Using momentum, my sword arm quickly numbed to the excessive use in disarming the enemy. With one last parry and strike, I caved my iron sword into the fae, screaming as the iron burned through their shoulder. But there were too many of them and soon I would tire. Whatever was happening to Kirk was sucking all my energy from my core, deep within. More so than any feeding or bloodletting. Unnatural tiredness caked my mind and dulled my eyes to the fights before me.

A shattered feminine scream pierced through my battle dulled ears; my eyes listened out for the voice of Desdemona on the field. Slashing and dodging with skilful guile out of range of the shungite weapons. Fresh hot blood pounded through my legs to reach Desdemona before one of the fae warriors could sneak on her slender, delicate... Focus. Swinging to deflect the black crystal sword, the enemy crumbled as I plunged my own into their gut, slicing the warrior in two. Ignoring the temptatious crackle of energy between our hands touching, I pulled Desdemona through the fray. Reconveying with the smaller force holding ground further up the boggy marsh. I couldn't have Desdemona die; only Othello could take her life.

Scouting an eye through the flying weapons, pale ghouls of the vampire peasants lingered at the forest edge, waiting for the opportunity to snatch the humans' dead blood. There were hardly any mortal men left in the fray. Having taken the sacrificial position of defending their masters from the lethal shungite, there was nothing left to do. No special tactic or ploy. And I had caused such death, but no guilt remained. Only frustration that I couldn't find my chance to orchestrate Othello to strike Desdemona. Not when I didn't have any remaining energy to lift my own arms.

"Retreat now." Othello's commands mirrored that of his former self and I almost obeyed, until the corrupting black of the crystal marred his skin. Destroying my friend's former face to be even more unrecognisable. The shungite stained his warm parlour to an inky black, and the sickness trailed through his face, permanently marking him. If I didn't end this now, Othello's soul would be damned if he didn't escape. I needed to finish what I started.

Leaving the safety of retreating numbers, I cut my way through the fae battalion to meet their King of Shadows. Spinning on my heel, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Oberon, manoeuvring like a savage with his spear, dispatching vampire after vampire. Killer of the undead. His eyes closed off the rest and saw me. Thunder crackled and rain shattered through the atmosphere. Drenching Illyrian soil in its rainy tears tainted by the mingling of different blood. Oberon's gravitational pull sucked all fresh air, leaving barren miasma in its place. From the echoed splashing and diminishing smacks of weapons, the fight was lost.

Looking past Oberon, the pull vibrated my heart to get to Kirk, as some fae warriors diverted from Oberon's main force. I had to survive this, and if Illyrian was a god of his word, he would intervene. In my first battle of giving a make believe deity a semblance of influence over my actions, I believed. A devasting assault crumbled my knees to buckle at such an intense attack as Oberon met my iron sword. It wasn't a fair fight, nor did I expect it to be. Black spots threatened to sentence me to the subconscious dark. Through the sticky mud, the rain matted my meager leather and fogged the fleeing figure of Othello from my view.

"Iago!" a call howled through the wind and rain.

Impatience had won and I had lost. The face of the boy smiled gleefully in the little space left for cohesive thought. Gazing up, I watched as Oberon's larger stride leisurely stalked closer. The tip of his shungite spear kissed through my beard to my neck. Ice shattered my remaining strength, knowing I was seeing my end. My tongue had got the better of me and now I would pay for it. Grasping handfuls of slippery mud, I held onto the wet earth for some connection that I was still alive. Not caring that I was covered in grime and bog, I needed to live to see to Othello's salvation.

"Say her name again," Oberon's whisper managed to filter past the pour. His massive figure all but vibrated with tension and power unimaginable. Breathing hard, the fae monarch trembled to keep still.

I chuckled humourlessly through my bloodied mouth and gave into Oberon's demand. "Titania." The clenched golden fist blurred in front of my face until the climatic impact. Shapes and colours bled into each other, and double silhouettes rolled thick and heavy against my stomach.

From some deprived, sick corner of my mind an uncontrollable laugh chortled through my pained and battered body. "Is that all the strength you possess?" I asked. "No wonder you couldn't finish Sycorax when you had the chance." By Oberon's hesitation to strike again, I had cut a nerve deeper than my sword could manage.

"What do you know of Sycorax, mortal?" Oberon struck out to squeeze my throat, yet it was nothing compared to the noose around my heart, neglecting my vow.

"Who'd you think Prospero had confided in all these years?" Giggling more from the lack of air supplying my logical thoughts, it took time for words to form my answer. "Everyone is cursed by their vows, by Illyrian's mercy," I conceded, finding permission for myself to call on the foreign god's spirit to grant some form of mercy, to spare my life.

"One day, your tongue will be your failing, and you would wish never to speak again," Oberon growled.

My sense of humour was rewarded with another hit. Harder than the first, swaying drunkenly in the mud. The questionable suckling sounds grew louder. As if multiple mouths were gorging on the juiciest fruit in close distance. Othello's battalion had been defeated. My unfocused eyes scattered across the dark night; uncountable bodies of both sides laid too; they littered the ground. I was alone with only my mortal dead for company. In one last act of defiance, I spat spiteful sour bile and blood at Oberon's mudded feet.

"Illyrian, save me and I will keep my vows," I mumbled against the drenched mud, my once clean image and reputation was now destroyed. The last coherent image was of Oberon, wielding his spear against my skull as he had so promised, chaining me into darkness.