If a handkerchief could speak. Part One.

I am now naught but a party piece of the new governor of Cyprus. Stained.  Passed around like a whore in a tavern. Devoid of dignity, pride or ownership. Yet once I was a talisman of great import. My maker poured all of her essence and power and wisdom in to me, and gave me to her son. Othello. O TO HELL. The eternally damned. The man who loved not wisely, but too well. A commander of armies, and the orchestrator of his own demise.

So many a night I endured, bound close to his straining, sweating left thigh in the heat of battle. My dark deliverer of Venice. Most unlikely of heroes. I weathered the storm of his injury, in his most pitched battle,  and plugged the slashed wound as he fought on. I bore the brunt of his blood-flow, as he bowed to the senate, fresh from battle to accept his honours. I even sensed the turn of his head, when he glimpsed that porcelain face, with the brightest of eyes. Yea, his body was wracked, and I felt it. Desdemona. Enchantress of the floating isle. Eternally damned, by his ebony gaze. I was rinsed of his crimson blood, ere I became a token for his esteem.

Fame travels. Faster than gondolas or gossip in Venice my adopted pole-staked town. Ere long,  my master was the epicure of the city. The exotic outsider. Backhanding the wealthy curled darlings of the land to win the favour of the cities dames. They flocked to his ethnic visage. Threw themselves at him like the tide. Yet, my subtle lord palmed me to Desdamon as he stepped in to his gondola, as if to bid a stark  farewell to his socialite audience. He gave them nothing, but threw her all.  I knew that searing look in his eyes, though others did not. Of all the battles he had endured, I saw that this had conquered him.

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