Iago had no real destination in mind; indeed, he was too bemused and distraught to concentrate overmuch on where his feet were taking him... Had he been in a better frame of mind, he might have appreciated the irony of that sentiment...but that time was not now.
He reeled through Cyprus's night-dark streets unseen, never straying from the shadows that hid his villainous form from the world's eyes. One thought spun round and round in his mind, over and over, stinging him like nettles: you are a monster, a monster who struck his wife, and a monster cannot care for those he hurt beyond redemption...
He tried vainly to focus on physical pains to forget the internal ones: the throbbing ache in his foot where it had met the chair, the tearing, damp pain in his battered hands, the pounding in his head and heart...but alas, to no avail. The image of Emilia's bruised, tear-stained visage overtook all else within him, till he felt himself consumed by inopportune guilt at the dark deed. Part of him (damn that side of him, that horrid, devilish self!) chafed at the remorse (weakness, it urged), but he could not dissipate the feeling, and took a sort of self-deprecating pleasure in that: better to be weak and feel shame than to feel nothing and find himself to be even more of a monster than he had ever thought.
He walked aimlessly all night, never pausing but faltering much, until he found himself in front of the guardhouse, illuminated sparingly by the rosy rays of dawn. Shivering inexplicably, he ran shaking hands down the length of his face, staring desolately at the plain stone fortress. His wife, his broken, forsaken wife, was within...but he couldn't bring himself to see her. Not now.