Chapter Text
The thing about disasters is that they often start amidst hope-filled regularities.
Cassio had been going over some usual tactics with his men when a messenger practically dragged him and every other important officer along into the great meeting hall.
He recalls catching up to Iago, who levelled him with a look that had resembled an omen, some sinister knowledge rising up angrily in his eyes. Cassio’s blue eyes tried their best to maintain high hopes. Perhaps it was nothing too serious, just some information about the change of plans in the military.
When he had reached the familiar hall with the grand mahogany table in the middle, he registered the Duke’s stormy gaze and General Othello’s harrowed stare of barely repressed despair.
Nobody dared to speak. Not even the Duke himself, and he was the one who must’ve called them there.
Cassio broke the silence first.
“My lord,” He began, with an uncertain smile that faltered before even the third word, “What news brings up all here…?”
The Duke of Venice’s eyes flashed with a flurry of emotions, clashing like men on opposing sides in a war would. A subtle twitch of his eye was the noisiest thing in the room.
“Gentlemen.” His voice rumbled with an oppressive baritone, “I bring tidings of a most heavy misfortune…”
Cassio could feel Iago’s jaw clench, teeth practically scraping in quiet violence against one another. He wondered if Iago could hear his heart threatening to burst out his labored chest right then and there.
“We lack enough resources for a complete fleet of ships.” The Duke was agonized as he told them so, but Cassio had a feeling there was much more for his expression to be so pained.
And he was absolutely right.
As the Duke nudged Othello forward, the Moor looked to them, both for comfort and to pierce them with betrayal not his own.
“The Turkish armies are said to touch Cyprus in a month’s time.”
The thin thread of silence snapped under the panicked agitation of about fifty officers in the room, as they demanded answers for this sudden turn of misfortune.
“What- Whatever do you mean by this, my lord?!” Cassio demanded- no, pleaded, frantically hoping either the Duke or the General was simply jesting, as he’d much prefer a cruel jest over a cruel turn of uncontrollable events.
The longer the two men looked morose, the more Cassio’s hopes began to die down.
“If we do not prepare ourselves from this day forth,” Othello’s voice threatened to crack as he forced the finality of the soldiers’ reality, “Cyprus, Rhodes, and Venice itself may perish alongside us in the upcoming war.”
Cassio’s knees had never felt so glass-like in all of his life.
No air entered his lungs, no vision could clear in his eyes, and no voice could pull him out of the spiral in his head.
mother
I need you
with me
help
me
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“LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT-! KEEP MARCHING, DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
The training grounds were charged with a frantic energy from this day and the many days before. The sand hardly had enough time to settle before someone was kicking it up again. The ground cracked and became uneven from the soles that gripped onto it, the swords that stabbed it, and the hands that gouged at it for purchase.
A hundred and twenty men stamped onto the earth with all of their might, and if they kept it up, the terrain might reform around them by the end of such desperation. At the front, the blond, blue-eyed darling lieutenant barked out orders, formations, reformations, holding their positions, going round and round as they measured their endurance over the passing days, in the heat, the mud, the darkness even.
“A BIT FURTHER, MEN! LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT-”
When Cassio finally registered the message about the oncoming Turks pushing their invasion unfathomably close, the first thing he wanted to do was not to punch something, drink a barrelful of ale, or even scream and shout.
Cassio wanted to just rot in bed.
He wanted to simply sink into oblivion, swaddle himself in his blankets, and pretend for a moment that he was a boy of ten years old, sleeping in a comfortable corner in the church his mother would hide him in. Maybe even dealing with his father again would be a more preferable fate than charging into war with these men, most likely just as scared as he was, and that was saying a lot, considering his family’s patriarch.
idiot, any fate is better than dealing with him again-
Iago had not taken it quite as pleadingly or harrowedly as he or any other officer did. The man looked like he had enough rage to tear the stone walls of the citadel itself and shred every other soldier there to pieces. Cassio had to take his shoulder to ground him, remind him that he could not pounce and make a bigger scene than was present lest he himself get into trouble. The sight was enough to scare the troops into following Iago’s barked out orders at the speed of flightful sparrows when it was clear that the announcement was such and that the present could not be changed, only dealt with.
Cassio dread to think of what gruesome torments Iago had put them through the past week in his rage…
“STRIKE SWIFT AND TRUE, AS ALL MEN OF THE CITADEL OUGHT TO! SWING IT WITH ALL YOUR SOUL!”
After marches, he’d instruct them to take their swords and get to know their blade, more than any man should. There was no time to
When did he become a puppet to his own self? This didn’t feel real. A work of the Devil, was this? He was distantly aware of his own throat shouting itself raw from projecting hope he did not feel, his voice clawing against the walls of his flesh and the back of his tongue, the fierce yet frantic push and pull of his limbs as he made these men stagger in their attempts to push the boundaries of their limits. The sword gripped in his hands didn’t register, only the burn in his palms did, like he’d slapped down on an anthill and let the burn of their venom seep into his skin, like the past and future had been for his whole life now.
“COME NOW, GET UP, SOLDIER!”
He may have barked it out like an order, but really, he was pleading with them. With the war so close, he couldn’t bear the thought of these men falling and never rising again, surrounded by aches of ruthless saltwater and Turkish steel buried in their backs. He dragged one of his most promising soldiers up by the arm, releasing him just as quickly, fearing his nails might’ve dug in too deep, and clapping him on the back with a encouraging expression, hoping to squeeze one more hit from the soldier.
A part of him wonders if this was his punishment for defying his father all those years ago, resisting the position of pastor that he’d come to despise thanks to him. Had he gone astray? Had he gone too far to turn back? Had God recognized the violence of sin that plagued him and thus pushed him to live this life of turmoil?
You chose this life.
Do not blame God.
You… wanted this…
Again, another hands-on spar, as he tested his men’s skill in the art of swordfighting. The man was slow, much too slow, sluggish even, compared to his best. He could not take much more. Cassio didn’t want any casualties to happen before the battle even started.
His too-soft heart feigns stumbling back, grinning as hope returned to the soldier’s eyes, cheered on by those sitting off to the sides, still winded from their training.
There’s still time, surely, no, there isn’t, two fortnights are hardly a lot of time-
Cassio cannot help but wonder if Othello had made a mistake choosing him for lieutenancy. His eyes burn with tears that were being held back by the sheer force of will behind their glossy blueness that he simply scrubs away with his sleeve and the excuse that it was simply due to all the dirt being kicked up all day.
Behind the closed doors of his assigned room, only the thick walls and high ceiling hear his sobs.
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It was a strange, dissatisfying feeling to have swimming in the already rattled recesses of his brain as he was trying very hard to doze off into Sleep’s arms. His cheeks were a bit puffed from weeping, his eyes hardly able to keep open with the itchy ache that came after a torrent of tears. His thoughts raced and crashed into one another in an ugly, rapid chaos, worry clawing and bruising the inside of his head.
Cassio was almost glad Iago wasn’t in the room with him. He’d been missing for the past few days now. Missing when he went to bed and missing still when he rose from bed. He’d find himself holding something, like a pillow or a mound he’d bunch up in his blanket. Even when it made his palms and arms sweaty, he just couldn’t stop himself. Cassio tried his best to keep to his space on the bed but his body was greedy indeed and had grown accustomed to taking up the ample, but cold space missing his fellow ensign. A part of him yearned for his presence, yet he was selfishly enjoying the lack of need to maintain propriety around him when he hardly had the energy for that at the moment.
Another part of him wondered where Iago would be if not in their sleeping quarters. Unless he really did return… oh no, had he been sleeping elsewhere because his space had been taken up? No, Iago wouldn’t give a damn about that, this was Iago. He’d just shove Cassio to one side and sink into the mattress, uncaring if he’d woken his friend up. Not to say that Iago was heartless, Cassio believed he wasn’t, surely, but there was a reason Iago’s nickname was Honest Iago…
He tended to be honest, in both the best, and worst, ways.
A dull ache resonated within his cranium. He apologized to his friend as he let the topic of him slip from his brain. He hadn’t enough energy to spare to think beyond what he could. He ought to think of something more pressing, in the here and now rather than in the there and later.
Training…
Training, training, training…
…
He’d gone through the usual motions, the usual training but pushed to about twice its ruthlessness to ensure his troops would be able to fight brave and true in the upcoming war.
He’d gone over and over, the light and swift strikes, the slower but heavier cleaves, how to parry from at least nine differing directions, including some awkward angles, assuming the Turks had men much taller or shorter than their own.
And then they’d left their swords behind to train the muscle of their limbs. Sure, ships may not have a lot of room, not so compared to a vast battlefield on land, but contrary to popular belief, there will always be considerable distance from one side of the ship to the next, more than one expects, even a soldier who’d been travelling to and from foreign coasts.
Running was always a good skill to have, even if one wasn’t in the military. You never know when you needed to flee and retreat, or charge in a blind frightful rage at your foes before you have breathed your last breath.
It wasn’t simply training the reflexes of the legs but the rest of the body as well. When one aspect grows, the others will follow suit as well, and it is up to the individual to practice all parts to as close to perfection as possible.
Climbing was another exercise they did. Hands were delicate, but they were also the conduits for a man’s power. Even his fingers alone could devastate and destroy, yet create and nurture at the same time. He pushed himself and his men to climb faster and more efficiently, over crates, nets, roughened terrain that scratched and bit at their callused hands. They’d need all the strength they could build, especially in a tumultuous and many-faced environment like the middle of the sea…
They’d done so much over the course of those days…
Why then, did he feel like he’d accomplished less than he ever did before this upcoming war? He’d been in a few battles and wars before and yet went in and came out with a relatively unscathed confidence. What had changed? Were his actions futile? Why did he feel so…hopeless?
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A sigh containing all his pains and worries cut itself loose from his body, as he sunk his head deeper and deeper into his pillow. His body was screaming from all the accumulated aches over the past few days. The worst part was that he had to pretend he totally didn’t regret that move that involved him ducking down low by bending back and stretching his thigh beyond what he was used to. Having to climb with that leg was an absolute torture not even he would inflict on his worst enemies.
Cassio looked at the moon high up in the night sky. He ought to try forcing himself to sleep, lest he faint tomorrow morning. Little sleep was better than no sleep after all.
Closing his eyes, he lies like a corpse would in his casket, trying to feel as much peace as the dead do.
It takes a while but…
…eventually, he does find sleep.
mother, if you can hear me
good night
I love you
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“Mother…!” The little boy whispered, as he ran up to her, immediately crawling into her lap and fitting just perfectly, shivering from the warmth of her embrace that shielded him from the cold of the church grounds, “Mother, I’ve found you…”
“Indeed you have…” A hand, feminine and callused cards through the boy’s fair locks, “Aren’t you going to play with your friends today, Michael? Growing boys such as yourself oft find themselves in the sun, rolling in the dirt.”
“But I want to be with you, mother.” He pressed himself against her chest, resting his ear against it, and hearing her heart steadily beating with life, for she is alive and well.
“I am not doing much, my son.” She presses a light kiss against him, “Simple verses today, for me. And beloved stories from the book of the Lord.”
“That is fine by me.” Michael curls up, shifting himself into a more comfortable position, with his small arms clinging to her like creepers upon fenceposts as he melted against her, feeling like rain collecting in the maternal crevices of a grand willow tree, with its soft array of leaves dipping close and brushing against him gently, so gently.
“I love you, mother.” He whispers to her.
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…
For a moment, there was no sound from his mother, beyond the echoes of stories flipping to the next page and the page after, and Michael tried really hard to push the disappointment rising up back down. He was a good son. He is a good son. He is a good son… right?
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…
The morning light brushes his skin, as he begins to stir but not quite awaken as a familiar voice washes over him, another stream of water come to join him and leave just as quickly as it came.
“I am sure she loves you too.”
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As expected, Cassio awakens with his arms loosely tangled in his blankets, bunched up as though a comforting presence for a child. Iago was nowhere to be found yet again. He really ought to hunt him down and get some answers out of him, though he had a feeling Iago might scoff and say, “Demand me nothing!” like the secret-hoarding rogue he was.
A tired sigh leaves him, as he registers the early morning light caressing his flesh. Invisible ropes seemed to tug at his hesitant form, tempting him to lie back down again. For the sake of his duties, he stubbornly rolls out of bed, landing in a graceless heap on the floor with a groan of accumulated exhaustion. Another day of thinking, moving, feeling-
Another day of pain.
Sketching his usual smile on his face, he forces himself to remain that same determined lieutenant that everyone was and is depending on. He had a squadron to train, to bolster, to encourage whether he liked it or not.
Grabbing a towel from his closet, Cassio leaves, but not before making his bed, appreciating the softness of the fabric and ignoring the seductive call of sleep by quickening his pace and briskly jogging to the bath houses of the palazzo.