Two figures stand at the foot of the grand marble steps, staring up at the elaborate entrance. They do not look at each other. Almost hidden by the vast pillars, the exquisite wooden door stands as a testament to the passage of time and craftsmanship, weathered by the years, its rich oak surface deep and steadfast. Delicate gilded hinges swirl, entwining with burnished vines: intricately curling into flowing tendrils, before encasing the door’s edges. The knocker, a traditional lion’s head, stares out wisely, simultaneously warning them off and enticing them in. The rounded golden doorknob glows softly in synchronicity with the drifting dawn.
The shorter of the two stands rigidly upright, as if at attention. The other, taller and larger in stature, flips his cloak behind him indifferently before heading assuredly up the glistening white steps. The shorter man casts his eyes downward, trailing behind his companion and pausing occasionally to glance backward and sideways uneasily.
The caped figure vanishes into the solid wooden door.
The more diminutive character arrives at the top step, stopping to read the gold-leaf plaque embedded in the wall: The Great and Auspicious Library of Living Tales. He cocks his head questioningly, glimpses backward—contemplating whether to follow or run. Curiosity overtakes his rational mind, and he too slips through the imposing door of the building.
Inside, he dives behind the nearest bookshelf, his head peeking around the side, watching for his companion. He spies him, then cautiously skulks to the next case. The cape turns, rolling his eyes in semi-amusement before gesturing his head to the reading room. The stalker removes himself from behind the books and, as indifferently as he can muster, follows the man. Sauntering, almost.
As they reach the door, the shorter man scurries to open it, bowing as the taller marches through before entering himself and carefully closing the door behind them. They both halt, scanning the walls—bookshelves reaching upwards into a vast atrium, with carefully placed spines facing outward, buzzing with the spark of potential knowledge.
The silence is abruptly shattered by the whizzing sound of flapping wings. Two antique books soar upward and circle mid-air before nosediving like cormorants toward the startled men. Each lands elegantly at their respective feet. Simultaneously, they bend down to pick up their book, almost knocking heads as they do.
The older man strolls to the vast wooden table in the center of the room and positions himself superciliously on a high-backed throne, plopping the tome in front of him. Its title reads, Iago: A Villain’s Destiny. He raises his eyebrows, catching eyes with the other man, a wry smile passing his lips. Impressive, he thinks, but does not speak.
Iago follows suit, placing his book carefully on the table and pulling up a high-backed chair on the opposite side of the table. He reads the letters curiously: The King’s Evil: Claudius’s Reign. Enthralling, he rolls his eyes. Not daring to look up, he begins to read.
Thoughtfully, he strokes his stubbly chin as he learns of the poisoned ear fiasco, his leg tapping involuntarily.
“I am not what I am,” he contemplates the murder technique. A novice’s blunder, he concludes. Never shouldst thou taint thine own hand. Content in his own supremacy, he glances up at the king hunched before him and grimaces sardonically.
The King, taking this for approval, signals acknowledgment and delves back into the tale before him. He exhales audibly as he learns of Iago’s narrative manipulation:
“The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, is not more ugly to the thing that helps it than is my deed to my most painted word.”
Engrossed in the mastery, he continues to read, turning the pages delicately so as not to damage a single syllable.
Iago snatches a glance, his heart bloated with fulfillment as he watches the nobleman learn of his perfect brilliance. He continues to read. Snickering loudly, he cannot help himself as he encounters the curtain-draped fate of the foolish sycophant. Imbecile.
The king glares at him. Iago rescues himself, scoffing into a coughing fit. He reconciles his composure, bowing his head in seeming reverence. The king, satisfied in the charade, continues to read.
Positioning his hand strategically over his mouth, Iago continues the story. No after eye, he thinks as he hears of the play within a play. How couldst thou be so readily deceived? He smirks to himself, content in the knowledge that he would have been much more collected—and indeed had been in a similar situation.
With his head leaning further into his book, Claudius gasps at the genius of the handkerchief. I had to contend with all the knaves and simpletons of the time, he surmises resentfully. A newfound respect for his shorter acquaintance begins to build.
Each reaches the last page of the other’s story simultaneously. Claudius clasps his hands together as he hears Iago’s final testament.
“Demand me nothing; what you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word.”
The outwitter outwitted them all.
“O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt.”
Iago smiles contentedly. Fool, he thinks, looking up at the king, before nodding curtly and sauntering out of the room.
The king stares at the book, contemplating his own demise.
- Canva Creation
- This is my own work and has not been generated in whole or in part by AI
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