Okay, this is definitely the longest chapter thus far. Well done, Jess. XD
Emilia's sleep was fraught with nightmares and fearsome visions, and in slumber she wept and moaned as if she were still recoiling under the savage blows of her husband. She dreamt that with each time he struck her, she dwindled in size until she was no larger than a mouse, and then he, towering over her, raised his boot over her head, leaving her to watch it come down in horror.
There were three or four separate nightmares, each of them little more than a variance of what had actually happened that night. In one frightening fantasy, Emilia witnessed what she supposed to be her own death. He has killed his wife! My lord's ancient has murdered his wife! Desdemona screamed as she fled the scene, weeping and wringing her hands.
However, the last dream was of an oddly different sort. Emilia saw Iago extend his hand to her kindly, gently, and she took it. What a good wife you are! the dream-Iago praised her, in manner much more free and open than the true Iago might even dare to think upon. He smiled, an unashamed smile that was handsome on his countenance. I am fortunate, that I have a wife who, of her own accord, sacrifices so much of herself for such an undeserving spirit... You make me happy, go out of way to please me-in faith, you are the most blameless wife a man ever could possess.
Emilia was about to answer him when suddenly her next breath of air filled her nose with an unexpected herbal fragrance, causing her to cough and awaken from the highly implausible dream. Her head ached a little, in lingering reverberations of the events of the night before. What had happened? As Emilia slowly sat upright in the bed, finding not her husband beside her, the cruel memories flooded back. Emilia shut her eyes and firmly told herself that nothing had happened. They would never again address the events of last night. Some part of her knew it to be wrong, forgiving and forgetting the horrific transgression so simply, but it would do no good to demand apology, and to tell anyone else would endanger the honor of both husband and wife. Perhaps if neither of them referred to the incident ever again, it would simply cease to exist. Certainly Iago did not hate her so much; what had happened last night could only be fleeting, feverish, unhappy mischance.
"Hmph. Fanciful folly," Emilia scoffed to herself when the worst of last night's illusions came to mind. "Forsooth, no sweet-smelling rose is my Iago, but heaven forfend he should murder me. Mere twaddle, indeed! The man has a heart, though he dare not show it. Why, Desdemona might as well be murdered by her loving husband the Moor, before I ever by mine."
She was about to rise from the bed when she noticed the poultice beside her; it had been the possessor of those aromatic perfumes that had brought her from sleep to the world of the waking. Lifting her eyes she saw that there was also a chair, battered and broken, in the very corner where she herself had lain, in like condition. Emilia frowned, her heart quickening its pace. Had somebody found her, lying in bed, a bruise upon her cheek and the remnants of blood withal? Had her husband been found out and rebuked for his misuse? He was not here. She began to worry for him. Emilia took up the poultice and examined it.
Why...it was Iago's kerchief. Had someone taken it from him in haste to treat her injury? Where was he? Emilia had fallen asleep without removing her outer layers of clothing, and she found that there were still spots of blood on her bodice. She set the stained bodice aside to wash at a later time and donned a fresh one. Did her face look alright? She stepped over to the looking glass, and finding that, at a glance, she did not look terribly as though she had been beaten, she rushed from the room clutching her husband's handkerchief, anxious to know of his whereabouts.