009 - Flowers
Title: Violets
Author: demandmenothing
Fandom: Othello
Characters: Iago / OCs
Prompt: 042. Flowers.
Word Count: 1,425
Rating: G
Summary: Iago from his early days: manipulative, Machiavellian, good with kids :D
Warnings: Um... heavy use of archaic English?
Disclaimer: Iago is kinda-sorta-obviously a creation of the Bard.
How far from the summers in Venice, where the heat made everything rank and foul with a rising stink from the canals and oftentimes an encroaching plague, was July in Tuscany. There were blue skies and balmy days and green hills. All of which came as quite a shock to the system when you were used to the other extreme.
Two such displaced individuals were currently walking along the outskirts of Florence.
“We are of a make meant for water, are we not, Iago? Better suited to the ebb and flow of tides such as bear aloft our city than the exchange of seasons. Give me one ounce of silt from the bottom of the Grand Canal and I’d trade these cursed hills,” one of them said wistfully. He had a rust colored beard and the sort of build well suited to soldiering. “And what sun. The heat shall be my death.”
His friend rolled his eyes, enjoying the sunlight far too much to let the other’s complaints ruin the day for him. “The same sun that shines here shines down on Venice, so be you content and quiet. If you shall die, then so be it. But think you not of such a fate, eh? For what shall I tell the general? Good and true and noble Rosario died from heat? He that hath seen a thousand battles and stared down foes from a dozen lands, both Christian and heathen, hath been slain by gentle Helios? What a man art thou.”
The other soldier - Rosario - made a face, but withdrew into a sulky silence.
There were people working in the fields; tending flocks and seeing to orchards, and other country-type pursuits that mystified and amused a pair of boys who were born and bred within city walls. There were children playing, too, among the fields.
Two children, in fact, had been watching them for a time before approaching cautiously. They were apparently determined to accompany the soldiers on their walk.
A girl and a boy. The boy was dirty-faced, and his clothes were covered in stains. The little girl had a round face and wide, intelligent eyes. Her hair was mousy brown, and crowned with a shoddy-looking wreath of daisies. Nevertheless, a queen could not have worn her crown with more pride and dignity. There was a bouquet of violets in her hand, which she clutched tightly in her fist. The two were undoubtedly related, the girl probably being the older of the siblings, as she stood several inches taller than her brother.
“You have not the look of Florentines about you, nor do you wear their livery…” She announced, and though the two soldiers were several heads higher than her, one could nevertheless get the impression that she was looking down on them. It was the sort of air that made them chuckle lightly.
It was Rosario who answered. “We are but soldiers. Come from Venice.”
This time, the boy spoke. “You travel with the delegation lead by that Venetian general they speak of in town. The moor! You follow the moor!”
“Aye, we do.”
Both children’s’ eyes lit up. The girl spoke, positively bubbling over with excitement. “How looks he? How doth he? Is he savage? We’ve never seen a moor. Speaks he with strange accents? Hath he pointed teeth, and black skin indeed? Are there many moors in Venice? How many others have you seen?”
“Or killed,” the boy quipped, “Have you killed moors? Or Turks, or Greeks, or Spaniards, or Englishmen? How many?”
The two soldiers exchanged a look. Rosario shrugged. It was Iago who spoke, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. “If every question that thou asks were an arrow loosed from the bow, we two would be every inch of us shot through.”
The boy made like he was aiming carefully with an imaginary bow and twinged loose such a missile in Rosario’s direction. The man clutched at his chest, hit square in the chest with an arrow that wasn’t there, and staggered back. The children giggled.
“Oh,” Iago intoned pitifully. “My friend is dead. Thou has slain him true. Ah, but see! He lives again, to avenge his slaying.” Rosario feigned recovering and made a lunge for the boy, scooping him up and holding him up triumphantly. He gave the kid a good shake, which made him laugh.
“Iago, I’ve found a prize. What say you? We’ll take him back to Venice?” Rosario winked at his captive and tucked the boy under his arm like he’d carry a sack. “How like you that?”
“Then do!” The girl interrupted. “We’ve no need for him here. My lady mother doth like of me more, and I have oft heard her talking with my farther. They’d barter away my wretched brother as they would a lamb, if they could but find a willing buyer.”
Her brother scowled and pointedly ignored her. “And what would you do with me in Venice, signors?”
“Well,” Iago said, grinning, “If we are to treat boys like lambs, than methinks we shall have to eat him. Tuscan children can be an excellent good dish if served with proper salting.”
The girl smirked. “Is it because Venetians are too rank with swamp water to make for a meal?”
Iago laughed. “I pray thee, ‘tis true. I like of thy wit, little maid.”
She adjusted her daisy crown proudly. “And I of thine, good soldier.” She looked him up and down and canted her head. “What are you called? Hast thou a wife? And children? Hast thou long been a soldier? How many summers have you seen? What call you your friend?”
The soldier sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “Ah, more questions. Seek’st thou now to slay me?” But he ticked her inquiries off on his fingers, “Iago, I have, I hath not, I’ve served for seven years, twenty and one, and Rosario.”
She nodded. “But now,” the girl said, in mock-solemn tones. “My noble parents will need to see my brother well, though I would just as soon see him parted with, for they need hands to tend the sheep.”
“And the rest of me!” The boy objected.
“No. Only hands. For there’s nothing of use in thy head, and thy mouth is only good for gobbling food.”
The boy stuck out his tongue, and Rosario threw him over his shoulder, making the child shriek and giggle. “Mm. We’ll not part with him for nothing, for he would make a suitable trophy indeed.”
A muffled voice added: “And I’d rather see Venice than endure thee more!”
The girl rolled her eyes, but sighed. She offered her fistful of violets, handling them reverently as if each one was a precious stone.
“A fine price!” Iago announced, and took the flowers in one hand. Rosario put down the boy, who ran to his sister’s side and stuck out his tongue. She grasped one dirty hand around the collar of his shirt, and he tried to shake her off.
“And so goodbye. Farewell, soldiers of Venice, farewell!” The last few words she called off before scampering away with the boy once more.
Iago and Rosario watched them go. They continued walking a while longer before Iago handed over half of their respectful booty: seven small violets of fourteen. His friend grinned faintly before tucking them into his pocket.
Iago did the same, but twirled one between his fingers as they walked in silence back toward the walls of the city.
“Such pointless tokens,” he mused, brushing the head of the flower with his thumb. “What attraction hath maids, such as that went yonder from us hence, to such blushing buds, I wonder?”
Rosario shrugged, eyes on the flower between his friend’s fingers. “Merely a quality of the sex, is it not? As men and boys will fight and are to conflict drawn, women have their pursuits.”
“Observe,” Iago murmured musingly, “Maids do oft covet such treasures, hold them in their hands and do think upon their lovelorn swains and reciteth thus: ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ and in doing so, they rip each pretty petal from its stead” the soldier demonstrated, and Rosario laughed.
“Perhaps that too is another attribute of womanhood?” He shook his head. “But art thou thyself becoming womanish? What nonsense is in thy head.”
“’Tis why I so like of them.” Iago tossed what was now only a crumpled stem and handful of petals over his shoulder. “Even with the purest thoughts of love and tender affections, they will butcher something beautiful.”
Author: demandmenothing
Fandom: Othello
Characters: Iago / OCs
Prompt: 042. Flowers.
Word Count: 1,425
Rating: G
Summary: Iago from his early days: manipulative, Machiavellian, good with kids :D
Warnings: Um... heavy use of archaic English?
Disclaimer: Iago is kinda-sorta-obviously a creation of the Bard.
How far from the summers in Venice, where the heat made everything rank and foul with a rising stink from the canals and oftentimes an encroaching plague, was July in Tuscany. There were blue skies and balmy days and green hills. All of which came as quite a shock to the system when you were used to the other extreme.
Two such displaced individuals were currently walking along the outskirts of Florence.
“We are of a make meant for water, are we not, Iago? Better suited to the ebb and flow of tides such as bear aloft our city than the exchange of seasons. Give me one ounce of silt from the bottom of the Grand Canal and I’d trade these cursed hills,” one of them said wistfully. He had a rust colored beard and the sort of build well suited to soldiering. “And what sun. The heat shall be my death.”
His friend rolled his eyes, enjoying the sunlight far too much to let the other’s complaints ruin the day for him. “The same sun that shines here shines down on Venice, so be you content and quiet. If you shall die, then so be it. But think you not of such a fate, eh? For what shall I tell the general? Good and true and noble Rosario died from heat? He that hath seen a thousand battles and stared down foes from a dozen lands, both Christian and heathen, hath been slain by gentle Helios? What a man art thou.”
The other soldier - Rosario - made a face, but withdrew into a sulky silence.
There were people working in the fields; tending flocks and seeing to orchards, and other country-type pursuits that mystified and amused a pair of boys who were born and bred within city walls. There were children playing, too, among the fields.
Two children, in fact, had been watching them for a time before approaching cautiously. They were apparently determined to accompany the soldiers on their walk.
A girl and a boy. The boy was dirty-faced, and his clothes were covered in stains. The little girl had a round face and wide, intelligent eyes. Her hair was mousy brown, and crowned with a shoddy-looking wreath of daisies. Nevertheless, a queen could not have worn her crown with more pride and dignity. There was a bouquet of violets in her hand, which she clutched tightly in her fist. The two were undoubtedly related, the girl probably being the older of the siblings, as she stood several inches taller than her brother.
“You have not the look of Florentines about you, nor do you wear their livery…” She announced, and though the two soldiers were several heads higher than her, one could nevertheless get the impression that she was looking down on them. It was the sort of air that made them chuckle lightly.
It was Rosario who answered. “We are but soldiers. Come from Venice.”
This time, the boy spoke. “You travel with the delegation lead by that Venetian general they speak of in town. The moor! You follow the moor!”
“Aye, we do.”
Both children’s’ eyes lit up. The girl spoke, positively bubbling over with excitement. “How looks he? How doth he? Is he savage? We’ve never seen a moor. Speaks he with strange accents? Hath he pointed teeth, and black skin indeed? Are there many moors in Venice? How many others have you seen?”
“Or killed,” the boy quipped, “Have you killed moors? Or Turks, or Greeks, or Spaniards, or Englishmen? How many?”
The two soldiers exchanged a look. Rosario shrugged. It was Iago who spoke, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. “If every question that thou asks were an arrow loosed from the bow, we two would be every inch of us shot through.”
The boy made like he was aiming carefully with an imaginary bow and twinged loose such a missile in Rosario’s direction. The man clutched at his chest, hit square in the chest with an arrow that wasn’t there, and staggered back. The children giggled.
“Oh,” Iago intoned pitifully. “My friend is dead. Thou has slain him true. Ah, but see! He lives again, to avenge his slaying.” Rosario feigned recovering and made a lunge for the boy, scooping him up and holding him up triumphantly. He gave the kid a good shake, which made him laugh.
“Iago, I’ve found a prize. What say you? We’ll take him back to Venice?” Rosario winked at his captive and tucked the boy under his arm like he’d carry a sack. “How like you that?”
“Then do!” The girl interrupted. “We’ve no need for him here. My lady mother doth like of me more, and I have oft heard her talking with my farther. They’d barter away my wretched brother as they would a lamb, if they could but find a willing buyer.”
Her brother scowled and pointedly ignored her. “And what would you do with me in Venice, signors?”
“Well,” Iago said, grinning, “If we are to treat boys like lambs, than methinks we shall have to eat him. Tuscan children can be an excellent good dish if served with proper salting.”
The girl smirked. “Is it because Venetians are too rank with swamp water to make for a meal?”
Iago laughed. “I pray thee, ‘tis true. I like of thy wit, little maid.”
She adjusted her daisy crown proudly. “And I of thine, good soldier.” She looked him up and down and canted her head. “What are you called? Hast thou a wife? And children? Hast thou long been a soldier? How many summers have you seen? What call you your friend?”
The soldier sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “Ah, more questions. Seek’st thou now to slay me?” But he ticked her inquiries off on his fingers, “Iago, I have, I hath not, I’ve served for seven years, twenty and one, and Rosario.”
She nodded. “But now,” the girl said, in mock-solemn tones. “My noble parents will need to see my brother well, though I would just as soon see him parted with, for they need hands to tend the sheep.”
“And the rest of me!” The boy objected.
“No. Only hands. For there’s nothing of use in thy head, and thy mouth is only good for gobbling food.”
The boy stuck out his tongue, and Rosario threw him over his shoulder, making the child shriek and giggle. “Mm. We’ll not part with him for nothing, for he would make a suitable trophy indeed.”
A muffled voice added: “And I’d rather see Venice than endure thee more!”
The girl rolled her eyes, but sighed. She offered her fistful of violets, handling them reverently as if each one was a precious stone.
“A fine price!” Iago announced, and took the flowers in one hand. Rosario put down the boy, who ran to his sister’s side and stuck out his tongue. She grasped one dirty hand around the collar of his shirt, and he tried to shake her off.
“And so goodbye. Farewell, soldiers of Venice, farewell!” The last few words she called off before scampering away with the boy once more.
Iago and Rosario watched them go. They continued walking a while longer before Iago handed over half of their respectful booty: seven small violets of fourteen. His friend grinned faintly before tucking them into his pocket.
Iago did the same, but twirled one between his fingers as they walked in silence back toward the walls of the city.
“Such pointless tokens,” he mused, brushing the head of the flower with his thumb. “What attraction hath maids, such as that went yonder from us hence, to such blushing buds, I wonder?”
Rosario shrugged, eyes on the flower between his friend’s fingers. “Merely a quality of the sex, is it not? As men and boys will fight and are to conflict drawn, women have their pursuits.”
“Observe,” Iago murmured musingly, “Maids do oft covet such treasures, hold them in their hands and do think upon their lovelorn swains and reciteth thus: ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ and in doing so, they rip each pretty petal from its stead” the soldier demonstrated, and Rosario laughed.
“Perhaps that too is another attribute of womanhood?” He shook his head. “But art thou thyself becoming womanish? What nonsense is in thy head.”
“’Tis why I so like of them.” Iago tossed what was now only a crumpled stem and handful of petals over his shoulder. “Even with the purest thoughts of love and tender affections, they will butcher something beautiful.”