Chapter Text
“Watch your flank!”
Baron Zeppeli slams the flat of his wooden sword against Jonathan’s back. Jonathan lets his body flow with the impact, before rapidly twisting back and jabbing his own sword towards the Baron’s neck. The Baron freezes in place. His Adam’s apple bobs an inch away from the blunt tip of Jonathan’s sword. He breaks out in laughter.
“Good! Very good, Jojo!” Baron Zeppeli slaps Jonathan proudly on the back. “You still need to be careful about turning your back to your opponent, but you’re doing better and better.”
“Thanks, Baron.” Jonathan grins, wiping the sweat off his forehead.
George approaches the training ground, his royal robes swirling majestically behind him. He gently claps Jonathan’s victory. “Well done, Jonathan. Now if only we could get you as enthused about your etiquette lessons as your swordplay.”
“Father!” Jonathan flushes a little, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I know you’re right. A true gentleman takes etiquette seriously. I’ll try harder to make you proud, father.”
George pats Jonathan’s back affectionately. “You already make me proud.” Jonathan flushes again, this time with pleasure, and George continues. “I wished to speak with you about your upcoming birthday.”
“Oh.” Jonathan shuffles his boots in the dirt.
“As you know, it is our family’s tradition to hold a grand, three day-long ceremony to celebrate the crown prince’s coming of age. This will be your formal introduction to the nobility and the gentry. You’ll be graduating from the academy soon, and you’ll be taking on more and more responsibilities as my heir.”
“I know, father,” Jonathan says with grim determination.
“And, as part of your coming of age, you will also need a suitable wife. A partner to stand by you through all the challenges that you will face, who will support you in your political and military career ahead.”
“I know,” Jonathan says in a small voice.
“And someone who will love and cherish you. Who will be your family, and the other half of you.” George squeezes Jonathan’s shoulder. “As your mother was for me.”
Jonathan grasps his father’s wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze back.
George pulls himself out of his fond memories and continues. “This is not a light decision, Jonathan. Which is why our family has never believed in marriages of political convenience. The tides of politics shift day to day, but your wife will be yours for as long as you both shall live. Only you can choose the right person for you.”
“Then, I have a request, father,” Jonathan says hesitantly. “I know it’s tradition to have a ball every evening during the ceremony, but…for mine, could we please make them masquerade balls?”
“A…masquerade?” George blinks.
“Yes, where all the girls wear a mask, so I can’t tell who they are. I don’t want my decision to be influenced by who her family is. I want to choose her for her, for her character, her inner strength. That’s the only way I can find the one for me.”
George is quiet for several seconds, but then his gentle face breaks into a large smile. “My son,” he says, his voice thick with pride, “you’re every inch the romantic as me. A masquerade it will be then!” He gives Jonathan a fond hug, before heading back inside the castle, shaking his head amusedly and muttering to himself. “A masquerade! Such ideas young people have these days.”
Baron Zeppeli rejoins Jonathan’s side and nudges him teasingly in the elbow. “So, three days of having your ass kissed by powdered nobles, and three evenings of dancing and flirting with beautiful girls. What a dream come true, eh, Jojo?”
“None of that sounds like a dream come true.” Jonathan swallows back a childish pout. “You know how much I hate politicking. And...dancing, and…and flirting? I’ve never...” He trails off with a blush.
Baron Zeppeli claps his back again, warmly paternal. “I can’t help you with the powdered nobles, but I do know a thing or two about beautiful women. Here’s my advice for you.”
“Please don’t tell me to ‘smoulder’ at them again,” Jonathan jokes.
“My patented Zeppeli smoulder has never failed!” Baron Zeppeli shouts defensively. Then in a softer, more serious voice, he adds: “Just follow your heart, Jojo. It’ll know better than you.”
Before Jonathan can get sentimental, the moment is interrupted by two screeching children chasing each other into the courtyard.
“Cuz! Cuz!” Joseph launches himself at Jonathan’s leg. Caesar follows, slamming into Joseph’s back.
“What are you rascals up to now?” Jonathan bends down to tickle the boys, much to their delight.
“We’re playing The Ripper! You’re it!”
“Yeah! You have to chase us and then we’ll fight back and kill you cause we’re heroes!” Caesar explains, brandishing his toy wooden sword.
“I’m the hero,” Joseph corrects. He points at Caesar. “You’re the maiden that The Ripper is chasing.”
“Nu-uh! I was the maiden last time, it’s your turn!”
“Nu-uh!”
“Ya-huh!”
“I don’t know how I feel about this game,” Jonathan mutters, a little disturbed that the infamous serial killer haunting the Capital has become a children’s game. For months now, the monster has terrorized the citizens, snatching young women and tearing them to pieces for his sadistic enjoyment.
“Loosen up, Jojo,” Baron Zeppeli laughs. He pets his grandson Caesar on the head. “It’s good for the kids to make fun of it. It degrades him, makes him a boogeyman instead of a legend.”
“I suppose,” Jonathan relents.
“Here, I’ll be the maiden.” Baron Zeppeli twirls his majestic mustache. “Oh nooo! It’s The Ripper! Won’t some big, strong heroes come save me? Ooo!”
Jonathan screws up his face and roars. “I’m going to rip you apart! Roooar!”
Joseph and Caesar screech as Jonathan pretends to chase Baron Zeppeli around the courtyard. They wave their toy swords and bat at Jonathan’s legs until he falls to the ground dramatically, twitching in his death throes. Joseph climbs on top of Jonathan’s chest, proclaiming victory. The boys dance and cheer. Jonathan laughs and laughs and forgets all about the impending ceremony.
***
Time passes quickly, and before long, the day has arrived. The entire Capital is decked out in banners and ribbons. The shining Joestar palace, carved into the mountain ridge that cradles the Capital, overlooks the bright and colorful city.
Endless delegations of nobles and gentry stream through the streets, hoisting their family coats of arms above their processions of carriages. They wind through the long stone path that leads from the base of the mountain up to the imposing palace gates.
Jonathan sits stonily next to his father in the throne room, greeting every delegation as they arrive. It has been hours, exchanging formal pleasantries, graciously accepting the luxurious gifts, weathering the flirtatious attentions of the girls as they are introduced by their parents. Hours, and still no end in sight. Jonathan’s butt is going numb. There’s an itchy spot that he’s been trying to subtly scratch for at least an hour.
The nobles practically fall over themselves trying to curry his favor.
“I am honored to bestow upon the Crown Prince this humble gift of a hundred horses, bred by the khans of the eastern steppes from their finest stallions, rumoured to fly on an easterly wind!”
“I am honored to bestow upon the Crown Prince this even humbler gift of two hundred cattle, fed at the teats of the god-cows of the southern plains, their milk is rumoured to give god-like prowess in battle!”
“And I am honored to bestow—”
Jonathan slowly slumps into his seat, like a blob of pudding. The girls don’t make life any easier for him either.
“The Crown Prince is so handsome, so gentlemanly, the epitome of knightly virtue,” one young Lady swoons, batting her lashes at him. She shoots him a look that is clearly meant to be alluring, but reminds Jonathan of the time he had come down with an awful case of constipation.
“I have written the Crown Prince a poem to honor him,” says another, as she unrolls a giant parchment scroll that falls all the way down to the floor. She clears her throat. “The Crown Prince is like, a gargoyle, watchful and brave; like, mother’s milk, after a long, hard day—”
“Thank you Lady Christina,” George interrupts loudly, sparing his son from a long and painful death by humiliation.
The herald clears his throat to announce yet another noble delegation. “Introducing The Right Honorable The Viscount Pendleton, his daughter, The Right Honorable Erina Pendleton, and his ward, the, uh, Dio Brando.” A quiet murmur goes through the court at the lack of a title. A commoner in their midst.
Jonathan sits up a little straighter. Lord Pendleton and his daughter bow and curtsy with all the proper respect. Beside them, the boy called Dio Brando also bows. But when he lifts his eyes, they lock onto Jonathan’s and Jonathan feels a jolt run through him, pinning him in place. The boy’s eyes burn into his with an intense disdain. It is only for a moment. Then he looks away, and Jonathan feels himself fall back into his seat as though his strings had been cut.
He knows this boy. He was in Jonathan’s year at the academy, though they had never spoken. Dio had been surrounded by gossip and rumors even then: Lord Pendleton’s strange ward—the first commoner to attend the academy in its prestigious, centuries-long history—daring to rub shoulders with noble blood. And then of course he had proven all their conjecture right when, a year ago, he had been expelled for unscrupulous behavior. It had been quite the scandal. Some thought that Lord Pendleton would never recover from the disgrace.
Jonathan has always admired Lord Pendleton for fostering a commoner’s child. He’s glad to see the Pendletons here, proving their detractors wrong. He recites his usual greeting, but a little more forcefully than normal, just to emphasize to the court that the Pendletons are welcome here. Erina Pendleton smiles at him softly. Jonathan tries to catch Dio’s eye again, if only to know whether he’d been imagining that stab of contempt in those eyes. But Dio doesn’t look up again. A few moments later, the Pendletons are gone, and the herald announces the next delegation.
Jonathan sighs and prepares himself for another few hours in this stone seat, wishing for a cushion. That itchy spot is driving him mad.
***
Thankfully, the introductions are over by lunch time. Unthankfully, Jonathan is then forced to spend the rest of the afternoon being reintroduced to the most important nobles, as they mingle about in the banquet hall. Jonathan’s aunt, the Princess Lisa Lisa, follows him about, whispering information about each noble and their family and their lands to Jonathan, which go in one ear and right out the other.
At one point, Jonathan spots Dio on the edges of the circling nobles, but neither he nor the Pendletons are reintroduced to Jonathan. Soon, between trying to remember Lord Hucklebottom’s many military accolades and the names of Lady Dingleberry's twelve cats, he forgets about the Pendletons altogether.
At the end of the evening’s grand banquet, after a fight had nearly broken out as several dukes jostled to give the best, most sycophantic toast, the musicians start up the music. Jonathan gets passed between a dozen noble girls vying to dance with him. And if he’s not dancing, he’s being swamped by a dozen suitors while trying to drink a cup of water. At one point he’s certain a nobleman literally chucks his daughter into his lap. He is so exhausted by the whole affair that he finally excuses himself to the gentlemen’s room, where he takes a very ungentlemanly dive out of the window just to get away.
Jonathan pulls himself out of the bush he’d fallen head-first in and nods at a passing guard as though this is just part of his daily routine. He strides across the large, ornate courtyard, away from the banquet hall.
There’s a secret little nook behind the large hedge maze that Jonathan often likes to go to when he needs to be alone. It’s hidden from view by the tall rows of hedges that make up the walls of the maze. There’s nothing there but a few cozy benches and stone chess tables, but it’s got a great view of the distant mountain ridges.
The far side of the courtyard is indeed nearly abandoned in the encroaching dusk, but to Jonathan’s surprise (and slight dismay), there is a girl there, looking bored, and playing with the chess pieces by herself. She’s clearly come from the ball; a dark, lacy mask covers the upper half of her face. She is dressed in a stunning, if modest, dress, cinched in at her narrow, corseted waist, and fanning out around her in a thousand shades of glimmering blue. Her golden hair flows freely down her back.
For a moment, Jonathan considers turning right around and finding another spot to be alone. But there is something about the girl that makes him pause. Maybe it’s the subtle slump in her shoulders, her downcast eyes, or the way she purses her lips as she absently moves the chess pieces on the table. She looks lonely, he thinks. Jonathan approaches her.
“Good evening my lady, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says, his palms open disarmingly when she startles at his presence. “I was just looking for a place to sit for a bit. Do you mind if I join you?”
The girl stares at him for a beat without moving. Then she jerks her head in a quick nod, and looks away.
Jonathan sits awkwardly on a bench near her, turned away so they can both put on the pretense of privacy. He stares out at the distant mountain tops. It’s peacefully quiet for a time.
“I like it out here,” Jonathan says after a while, just to fill the space. “Sometimes things just get to be too much. But I don’t feel it here. It all feels a world away.”
Jonathan turns to look at the girl, and catches her staring at him. She doesn’t look away. Her eyes are so intense that it almost makes him blush. He fidgets with a splinter in the wooden bench and keeps talking, afraid of the silence and her wordless intensity. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name?”
The girl shakes her head.
“Yeah,” Jonathan says with a weak laugh. “Smart. I guess that’d defeat the purpose, huh? So, uh, what are you doing out here?”
The girl looks away uncomfortably. She clears her throat a few times, as though her voice is unused to talking. When she speaks, she speaks in a breathy whisper, so quiet that Jonathan has to lean in to hear her.
“I like being alone.” She clears her throat again, and says, in another breathy whisper, “Your pardon, Prince Jonathan. I recently recovered from a flu and have yet to regain my voice.”
“Oh! That’s okay, I understand. I hope you’re feeling better.”
She nods, and they lapse back into silence for a while. Then Jonathan says, “I like being alone too. It feels...I don’t know, easier. Like I can just be me. Like I don’t have to weigh my words all the time and watch how I’m standing or how I’m eating or how far out I stick my pinky finger when I’m drinking a cup of tea, with everybody watching and judging me.”
“Do you always whine to strangers like this?” The girl says.
It’s so rude that Jonathan feels like he’s just been slapped in the face. He says hotly, “Pardon me, my lady! I didn’t realize I was disturbing your peace with my feelings. I’ll just excuse myself then.”
The girl makes an incredibly unladylike snort. “Forgive me, Crown Prince,” she says, though she sounds anything but apologetic. “You are not what I expected.”
“How so?” Jonathan asks warily, half-way to standing up from the bench and walking away.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve.”
You wear your heart on your sleeve, Queen Mary had once told him, when he was very young indeed. It’s not a bad thing, my love, she’d assured him, when he’d started to cry. It’s who you are. My Jojo.
“It’s who I am,” Jonathan says now, unashamed. “I apologize if I’m not the gallant knight or stoic soldier you were expecting.”
She props up her chin with one hand, watching him with a smirk. “You’re too scrawny to be a knight.”
“I am not!” Jonathan is about to tell her all about how he’d hit his growth spurt recently and still has a ways to go, but the smirk on her face grows wider and the realization suddenly strikes him that she may be...flirting?
He panics. He has no idea how to flirt.
“Well, it’s just,” he stammers. Does he compliment her? No, no, he should insult her. That’s clearly the way to go. “I mean, you’re not, you’re not exactly the epitome of ladyness. My lady.”
He instantly feels guilty for insulting a lady. When she turns her face away and her shoulders begin to shake, his heart plummets. He must be the scum of the earth to make a gentlewoman cry! He’s about to stammer out a hundred apologies when she turns around again, and he realizes that she had been stifling laughter rather than tears.
“May King George be blessed with a very long life,” she says, “because his only son is a complete imbecile.”
“I am not an imbecile,” Jonathan insists hotly. He stands up from the bench, having had enough of being insulted for one night.
He’s about to excuse himself, when she continues: “Then you should have said yes to Marchioness Miranda’s offer to stay at her summer palace rather than Count Victor’s offer.”
Jonathan turns around, perplexed. She’s referring to his conversations with the nobles from this afternoon. “But Count Victor is a closer friend of my father’s.”
“Precisely why you should focus on improving relations with the Marchioness. Not to mention her lands border our fair-weather allies to the north. She is an important strategic piece.” The girl moves a piece on the chessboard. She glances up at him. Her eyes gleam with a dangerous kind of amusement. “If you’re not an imbecile, Prince, then come prove it to me.”
Jonathan watches her long, slender fingers tap against the chessboard carved into the stone tabletop. He considers walking away. But her eyes are teasing and full of challenge, and Jonathan has never been one to turn down a challenge.
He sits down across from her. “If I play with you, then you have to tell me what else you think I should have done differently today.”
“You are asking me to insult you? With pleasure, your Highness.”
The sun slips below the horizon as they play. Jonathan loses track of time. True to her word, she recounts to him all the mistakes that she had observed him make that day, everything from minor breaches of etiquette to strategic, long-term missteps.
It depresses him to know that there’s so much that had gone over his head, but to his surprise, she also offers him solutions to fix his errors over the next two days: lavish this noble with attention, offer that noble a boon; be publicly effusive with this one, conspire privately with that one. She manages to insult Jonathan at least six more times while she’s at it, but he can’t even be mad. She has a shrewd mind for politics, and he is grateful for the help, no matter how patronizing.
She is also a very good chess player. He shouldn’t be surprised, given how well she seems to understand political strategies that he can’t even fathom. She is also merciless, pouncing on his every mistake. At last, after a valiant struggle, she pins his lonesome king with her queen.
“Checkmate,” she says, her breathy voice tinged with smug satisfaction.
“That was a great game,” Jonathan says, not at all angry about the defeat. He watches her pluck his king piece and twirl it between her graceful fingers, like a cat toying with its captured prey. “And you really helped me a lot. Seriously. Thank you.”
She gives him a mocking, seated curtsy. “Best run back to the ball, Prince Jonathan, before your paramours start wailing to the skies.”
“Will you come with me?” Jonathan stands and extends his hand.
Her brow scrunches, but it’s hard to tell her expression beneath the mask. She doesn’t take his hand. “I told you, I like being alone.”
Jonathan looks at the lights of the banquet hall. Looks back at her. “I like being alone too. Maybe we can be alone together.” He extends his hand again, with a bow that he tries to make a little bit teasing, like her curtsy had been. “May I have this dance, my lady?”
She considers him for several long seconds. For a moment, Jonathan is convinced she will laugh in his face and make him feel like a fool. But then her hand is in his, and she lets him help her up within the confines of her flowing dress. Jonathan leads her to a clearing a few steps away, her hand on his elbow, formal as can be, like they’re playing at being adults.
He bows to her again and she curtsies. She wobbles a little, unsteady in her heels, and Jonathan tries not to find it endearingly cute.
He places one hand gently on her back, savoring the firmness of her body beneath his touch. He takes her other hand in his. They step in tune to the music, hesitant at first, learning each other. But soon they fall in to step together, easily, as though their bodies were made to move in sync together, the same beat carved into the contours of their hearts.
He twirls her, marveling at her long, golden locks that perfectly frame her face. The lacy black mask seems to accentuate her beauty rather than hide it. And her eyes, in that intense, molten gold, mock him and tease him and bore right into the heart of him.
In the distance, the music crescendos and Jonathan dips her. Her long lashes flutter against her cheek as she lets herself fall back, the whole weight of her body entrusted to his steady hand. Her back curves in a sinuous arch, her full lips open in a tiny gasp, and Jonathan feels his heart clench painfully with want.
The music fades. Whatever magic had held them together goes with it, and she pulls back from his touch, suddenly looking shy for the first time since he’d met her. She looks past him into the distance, where the sun has sunk completely beneath the dark horizon.
“I have to go.” She curtsies to him, more sure on her feet now with a bit of practice. “Please excuse me, Prince Jonathan.”
“You can call me Jojo,” he blurts out. He flushes with embarrassment and hopes she can’t see it in the dark. “I mean, if you want to. It’s just a nickname my friends call me. You don’t have to or anything, it’s not a command—”
She presses one finger to his lips. It’s wildly inappropriate, etiquette-wise, and his heart stutters in his chest.
“Jojo,” she whispers, in that husky, breathy voice. Her finger presses harder into the plushness of his lip, sharp nail against soft flesh, and he struggles against the desire to place a kiss against the tip.
“What about you? May I have your name?” He places one palm hesitantly against her cheek. His thumb smooths the ridge of her high cheekbone, lifting the bottom of her mask. She bats his hand away, with an edge of real panic. Before he can react, she has pulled away from him, her entire face a mask of polite composure.
“Good night, ‘Jojo’.” She turns to go. Jonathan misses the pressure of her finger immediately, the attention of her intense gaze.
“Wait, wait.” Jonathan catches up to her but has no idea what to say to make her stay. Baron Zeppeli’s signature smoulder floats up to the forefront of his mind. He squints his eyes and purses his lips the way the Baron had shown him.
The girl stares at him for several seconds. She looks a little concerned. Then she goes back to walking away.
“Wait,” Jonathan tries again, “you’re heading back to the palace, aren’t you? The palace is huge. Let me walk you back. Which wing is your family staying in?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I insist,” Jonathan says, jogging to catch up to her side again. “The palace security is very good, of course. It’s not like the Ripper or anyone else could sneak in. But it must still be frightening to walk alone through an unfamiliar place at night, and the grounds are very large.”
“I am not afraid of the dark,” she says annoyedly.
“I’m sure you’re not, but I’m afraid a gentleman just can’t let a lady walk alone at night.”
“I said I wish to be alone now.” She seems to grow more agitated by the second.
“Please, I insist.”
She’s silent for several seconds as they walk side-by-side, and Jonathan thinks that she’s finally acquiesced. He’s considering whether to offer his elbow to her, or whether he feels reckless enough to (gasp) reach for her hand, when she turns to him, mischief in her eyes. She says: “Then I suppose you’ll have to catch me, Jojo,” and suddenly takes off in a run.
For a girl who’s wearing heels and probably forty pounds of fabric, she is remarkably fast. She’d still be no match for Jonathan in a straight race, but she sprints into the entrance of the hedge maze and vanishes into its labyrinthine depths. Jonathan shouts for her, running down one path only to hit a dead end, circling back, and then going the wrong way again. He swears he can hear her taunting him in his head, that darkly amused gleam in her eyes.
He gets lost in the hedge maze for an embarrassingly long time. When he finally stumbles out the exit, she is long gone. He heaves a sigh. She hadn’t told him her name. What if he can’t find her again tomorrow, in the sea of suitors? For the first time, he regrets this whole masquerade idea.
“Cuz! Hey cuz!” Joseph runs out of nowhere, glomping onto his leg. “I found you!”
“Joseph! What are you doing out here all alone?” Jonathan squats down to give his little cousin a hug.
“I’m not alone, Caesar’s with me! He’s just slow!”
Caesar runs up to them, out of breath. “I’m usually faster than you. I just ate too much chocolate cake.”
“Nah, you’re a slow-poke.” Joseph sticks out his tongue.
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
“Boys, what are you doing out here?” Jonathan interrupts.
“Looking for you, cuz!” Joseph exclaims proudly. “Uncle George is looking for you. I said I’d find you, and I did!”
“Nu-uh,” Caesar shouts indignantly. “It was my idea to look here! I found him.”
“Nope, you were too slow, I found him.”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Did not!”
“Boys,” Jonathan sighs, rubbing his temples to hold back a headache. “You both found me. You did great. Let’s go back now, okay?”
“Yeah!” Joseph swings from Jonathan’s hand as he leads both boys back towards the banquet hall.
“Wait, wait, what’s that?” Caesar runs back to the exit of the maze, and picks up a white handkerchief that he brings back to Jonathan. “Didya drop that?”
Jonathan takes the handkerchief from Caesar, willing his hopeful heart to calm. He unfolds it carefully. There, sewn into the corner of the silk in tidy black thread, is the name: ‘Erina Pendleton’.
“Erina Pendleton,” Jonathan breathes, soft and reverent, recalling the girl with long golden tresses who’d arrived with her father and his ward. She had seemed gentle and kind.
Jonathan chuckles. What a woefully wrong first impression! The Erina Pendleton he’d met tonight had been many things: intelligent, sharp-witted, playful and sarcastic (and most certainly very, very beautiful). But gentle and kind? Hardly!
Jonathan tucks the handkerchief in his pocket. Erina Pendleton. Now that he knows who she is, he’ll be able to look for her tomorrow. Feeling buoyed by the discovery, he swings his arms with the boys clinging on, letting them holler at the tops of their lungs, and jogs back towards the banquet hall.